Fusiliers (28 page)

Or How the Fusiliers Became Sea Dogs

The appearance of two French frigates a little after 5 a.m. on 5 August 1778 was enough to trigger an orgy of self-destruction. The ships stood round the northern tip of Conanicut Island, which lay like a barrier across the water from the British base at Newport on Rhode Island. For several days the defenders had awaited the battle with Admiral d’Estaing’s squadron, knowing that the motley collection of little vessels under their own ensign would soon be pounded to matchwood by the enemy’s two-and three-deckers.

As the French ships turned south, a British frigate, the
Cerberus
, slipped its cables, made sail and tried to run about four miles down to the safety of Newport harbour. It was a futile attempt. Seeing that the French were gaining on her, and fearing his vessel could soon become their prize, the
Cerberus’s
captain ordered her steered to port and deliberately run aground. Torches were kindled and the frigate fired. At about 8 a.m. it blew up. The masters of some smaller vessels took similar action and one by one the columns of smoke winding up into the Atlantic sky multiplied as the
Juno, Orpheus, Lark
and
Pigot
were all deliberately destroyed.

When the
Lark
went up, with seventy-six barrels of gunpowder on board, the explosion was calamitous. Tons of wood, stores and cordage went up into the air, showering glowing fragments across the western side of Rhode Island. Gunners in the Windmill Hill redoubt quickly smothered the sizzling embers that fell about them, lest they touch off their own powder.

Captain Frederick Mackenzie watched it all, ‘a most mortifying
sight … to see so many fine frigates destroyed in so short a time, without any loss to the enemy’. The morning’s events rattled nerves as well as windows, since the inhabitants of Newport had for weeks been dreading the prospect of a siege.

The Island, occupied by the British, was a little under fourteen miles long. Its northern end was separated by narrow channels (plied by ferries in happier times) from Providence, the nearest enemy town, and the backcountry of the province. Conanicut Island, lying parallel with it, sheltered Newport from the full force of ocean storms, but offered a convenient jumping off point to the French, who had brought regiments of troops and siege guns with them too.

Mackenzie, as one of the small staff at headquarters, had an important role concerting the defensive plan for the British garrison, a force of 5,000 troops under Major General Robert Pigot, veteran of Bunker Hill. Since they could not defend the Island in its entirety, they planned to abandon their positions at the northern end, and fall back to defensive fieldworks around Newport itself. Above all, they were anxious that the four British and one Hessian regiment defending against American landings in the north should not be cut off. Mackenzie wrote witheringly of the foreign troops that ‘they are not inspired by the high sense of national and personal honour which is characteristic of British troops’.

While preparing for the last stand, Mackenzie and his superiors were sanguine about the possibilities of resistance. Most of the British cannon were field guns, 6-and 12-pounders, unable to dent warships or smash down besieging batteries. The works and redoubts positioned around the town were made of packed earth with a ditch and abatises – tree trunks with sharpened branches – scattered in front. If the French, whose engineers were the masters of siegecraft, brought 24pounders to bear on such walls they would soon be blown away. Mackenzie reckoned that once such a bombardment started they could not count on holding out for more than twelve days. ‘We are all extremely anxious’, he wrote, ‘for some account from Lord Howe or a sight of his fleet.’

With the prospect of impending disaster, many civilians left Newport. Mrs Mac and George, Mackenzie’s three-year-old boy who had been born in Boston, joined this exodus, adopting a life under canvas on a hillside considered safe from bombardment somewhat to the south of town. Some of the married 23rd Fusiliers officers had
shipped their wives and children home during the siege of Boston or while the army was at Halifax. Not so Fred Mackenzie, whose desire to keep the family together now produced an anxious reckoning.

The predicament that these people found themselves in arose entirely from France’s entry into the war. From the Caribbean to the Channel Islands or Coromandel Coast, French fleets had begun a worldwide onslaught against British interests. The Spanish and Dutch were set to join in too, producing a combination that was simply too much for the Lords of the Admiralty to defend against.

British troops had been at Rhode Island since late 1776. They were sent there by General Howe both because the Navy preferred the look of it, as a base, to New York, and because the commander-in-chief harboured ideas of how troops advancing from such a base might thrust into New England, alarming the enemy or pushing towards Burgoyne’s expedition.

At the start of 1777 Lieutenant General Earl Percy found himself in command. It was his sense of the impossibility of plunging into the New England hornet’s nest with just a few thousand redcoats that brought a simmering conflict between himself and Howe to the boil. Percy effectively resigned and went back to England, but incurred the King’s displeasure for giving up his mission. It blighted Percy’s career.

Without a commander willing or able to use Rhode Island as a raiding base, from which to pin down American troops all around, its only purpose was as a naval anchorage and supply centre. Using 5,000 troops to secure such a depot was profligate to say the least. With France’s entry into the war, the ease of access from the high seas, the very thing that had appealed to Admiral Howe, turned Rhode Island from an asset into a distinct liability.

This reversal in strategic fortunes was signalled with terrible clarity by Admiral d’Estaing on 8 August. At 3 p.m. the Count ordered eight ships of the line, headed by his flagship
Languedoc
, to head north between Conanicut Island and the mouth of Newport harbour. The
Languedoc
was a monster, bristling with eighty heavy cannon. As these ships ran up the strait between the two islands, all manner of British batteries opened up.

Watchers on shore every now and then saw a great ripple of fire along the
Languedoc
’s two decks, followed moments later by the thundering peal of a broadside. But d’Estaing was less concerned at that moment with doing damage than engaging in reconnaissance,
taking a look at his objective, keeping his line close to the Conanicut shore so an hour and a half’s burning of gunpowder by the two sides produced little damage. The French admiral had, however, demonstrated the power at his disposal, deepening the despondency among those who remained in town.

D’Estaing’s little cruise had another effect: it triggered the pull-back of British troops from the north of the Island into their defensive works and announced the siege was under way in earnest. As soon as the British had gone from their outlying positions, American regiments began to cross.

A joint plan was moving to its decisive phase. There were about 10,000 American troops moving down the island. A further 4,000 French would be employed on land, giving the attackers a near threefold superiority.

Down in Newport, Mackenzie supervised the burning of some houses outside the British works. General Pigot did not want his artillery’s fields of fire obstructed. The lone member of the 23rd Fusiliers prepared for a fight at close quarters, little suspecting that the rest of his regiment was on its way to help.

Having awaited the arrival of a reinforcement of several ships under his successor, Lord Howe had sailed from New York on 1 August. His vessels were older and less heavily armed than d’Estaing’s, but he felt it vital to draw the French away from Rhode Island and was ready to give battle if he had to.

Howe’s flagship, the
Eagle
, was a 64, and among the diverse officers who crowded the admiral’s stateroom for dinner each evening was Lieutenant Colonel Nisbet Balfour of the 23rd. The regiment itself had been split into parcels of men aboard each of Howe’s larger ships. The largest were aboard the
Cornwall
(under the direction of Thomas Mecan, once more fighting fit), the
Saint
Albans
and the
Nonsuch
. They were all two-deckers, but only the
Cornwall
mounted 74 guns in the modern style, the remainder being older vessels like the
Eagle
.

Among the other ships making up Howe’s force was the
Isis
, a large frigate or small battleship, according to one’s prejudice, of 50 guns under the command of Captain Raynor. Lionel Smythe’s light company had piled on board at New York on 29 July and pitched into the cramped quarters below decks.

Isis
displaced about 1,000 tons and its hull was 150 feet long. It had
sailed with a full complement of 350 men, who squeezed themselves into two gun decks and the orlop. The heady air of patriotic outrage triggered by the appearance of d’Estaing’s fleet had brought sailors volunteering from the merchantmen or transports, so the
matelots
who sailed under Captain Raynor included a sizeable reinforcement from the
Philippa, Betsy, Bowman, Thames
and
Echo
. These men had to be melded quickly by the gun captains or bosuns into an effective crew.

Smythe had thirty-five Fusiliers with him, comprising a lieutenant, serjeant, two corporals and thirty-one rank and file. Among the latter was Robert Mason, the company drummer (or bugler). The throwing together of disparate men on Howe’s fleet hardly seemed to matter, one Fusilier noting that they were ‘in the highest spirits, anxiously wishing for an opportunity to signalise themselves in the service of their country against its ancient and perfidious enemy’.

Sailing towards their rendezvous with the French, the Light Bobs had to practise climbing the shrouds with weapons and ammunition. It was in the tops, the platforms on the frigate’s masts, that many of these lubbers would be expected to take their place in battle, ready to act as snipers. Whatever the terrors of racing up, clinging on for grim life as the ship pitched and rolled with the sea, escaping New York had at least removed the soldiers from a stultifying heat.

Even once they were under way, the decks were roasting hot. There was a general expectation that such crazy weather would have to be broken by storms and lightning. Howe’s squadron had arrived off Newport on 9 August, forcing d’Estaing to put to sea and prepare for action. It took days of manoeuvre for the fleets to form their battle lines but on 12 August barometers plunged and trouble arrived.

At 4 a.m. the
Isis
was rocked by ‘heavy gales and a heavy sea’. Dawn appeared little more than a glimmer of light, since driving rain and driving winds continued unabated for hours. The ships had closed up on the Admiral’s orders just before the storm hit, trying to keep their stations in the line of battle. Captain Raynor trimmed his sails to give him control over
Isis
without keeping so much out that the canvas would get ripped to shreds or the masts brought down. Through the driving squall they could see
Raisonnable
about one mile to windward, signalling distress with its flags. It was a matter of clinging on for several hours until the storm abated.

When the gale finally blew itself out, the two sides took stock of the damage. Howe’s squadron had escaped in a more or less seaworthy
state. But d’Estaing had suffered disaster. Just a few days after weathering the pinpricks of British artillery at Newport, the
Languedoc
had been completely dismasted by the storm. ‘It appears’, wrote a German private within the British lines at Newport, ‘as if the powers of heaven watched over the English.’

The storm damage made it essential for the French to avoid a fleet action. Instead, the British attempted to cut out some of the enemy’s choice ships, making prizes of them. The
Renown
attacked the crippled
Languedoc
, tacking back and forth across the enemy’s stern, bringing a full broadside to bear, raking the length of the Frenchman’s decks.
Languedoc
’s captain had cut clear the fallen rigging, leaving three stumps of masts, and used a yard to jury-rig two small sail so that he might have some sort of control over his wallowing ship. The punishment went on for a couple of hours, with cannon balls smashing through the gilded woodwork of
Languedoc
’s stern. D’Estaing was sufficiently worried at the prospect of being boarded that he started dumping his confidential papers into the sea. Timidity on the part of
Renown
’s captain, and the arrival of French reinforcements, saved the French flagship from capture.

Captain Raynor of the
Isis
, on the other hand, could certainly not be accused of lacking aggression. When one of the enemy’s 74s appeared three miles behind him, he declined to take flight, despite the obvious inferiority of his own armament. Allowing the enemy, coming up from astern, to get nearer and nearer, Raynor ordered ‘clear for action’. The Fusiliers scampered up to their tops or lined points on the deck where they might pot their Frenchman. If the 74 could be overpowered and taken there would be a vast sum of prize money and the captain’s name would be made for life.

By 3 p.m., the Frenchman, César, was one mile to leeward of
Isis
, the French colours were broken out and a gun fired to signal the start of the fight. The two ships manoeuvred an hour longer, before César ran fast towards its enemy. As the French vessel caught up, its crew gave three cheers. The
Isis
turned slightly to face the César’s bow and gave its first broadside.

When the French responded, they fired into Isis’s rigging. Their captain wanted to cripple his prey before moving in to smash her up with close-range broadsides and take her. Usually the rigging was attacked with chain or bar shot, which used a pair of balls connected together to yaw madly through the air, taking down lines or ripping sails. The masts
themselves, though, had to be cut down with round shot.