The Patriot's Fate (29 page)

On the quarterdeck Bompart and Maistral were standing as mute observers. Neither Commodore nor Captain were particularly skilled in such intricate seamanship, and appeared quite content to give those that were a free rein. They had, however, insisted that the work be carried out immediately. Dawn might not be far away and such a delicate procedure was very much more dangerous during the dark hours, but morning was likely to reveal a British fleet close at hand, and no time could be wasted. Crowley and the other Irishmen were amid the larboard gangway team and stood fingering the line expectantly as they waited for the call to begin.

It came in the form of a shrill note blown from the boatswain’s silver call. On hearing the sound the four men at the cap falls began to haul on their lines. The lantern described a wide arc as the spar was slowly raised upright. At the maintop it was gingerly guided through the lubber’s hole and held in position while the lines were removed and reattached. All waited while the work was done, and held their breath when the ship heaved unexpectedly to larboard. But in time the new fixings were ready, and one of the maintop team called down to the boatswain.

The first part was over, now all that was needed was to guide the spar up the lower mast. Both gangway teams took up the slack; the boatswain blew on his call once more and began to count as the men on the gangways heaved the spar skywards.

“Un, Deux, Trois… Tribord!
” The unexpected shout stopped everyone instantly. The mast was leaning too far over; the boatswain on the quarterdeck held one arm in the air and pointed in an accusing fashion at the masthead. All waited while the men with the guiding lines made subtle adjustments until, apparently satisfied, the boatswain sounded his call again. The spar rose further, and was now more than half way through its journey. Crowley could see that it was far too light and short to do the job properly. It might, however, be suitable for mounting a small square sail, and would provide a suitable anchorage for stays. Then the call was heard for the last time: the mast was now as high as it would go.

Men on the maintop started to set the lower housing, while those who had been guiding secured their lines to keep the upper mast stable long enough for proper shrouds to be mounted. Once fully rigged, a replacement yard could be set up. It would be an arduous and time consuming task that may well stretch on beyond the dawn, and
Hoche
was by no means out of peril. But the main danger at least had passed; it seemed that some of their former luck was returning and they could hope to meet the next storm, or the British for that matter, on slightly better terms.

* * *

The storm’s cessation was no less welcome to those in
Scylla.
There were no major repairs to carry out, but all bad weather is disruptive. The men were tired, and the knowledge that an enemy force was near did not sit easy with any of them. By three bells in the morning watch there was finally light enough to see the true position. The French lay in two loosely formed parallel lines off the starboard bow; there appeared to be one ship less; although, as this was the first time they had been viewed from a close vantage point, that might be an illusion. The north-northwesterly wind had fallen and the fleet was making slow progress towards the southwest: it was the only course they could steer with any hope of escape. The flagship had clearly sustained serious damage aloft and was now under a jury rig that would prevent her coming closer to the wind. Meanwhile
Foudroyant
and
Melampus,
in clear sight off
Scylla
‘s starboard beam, effectively blocked any move the French might make in that direction, and the remainder of Sir John Warren’s ships could just be made out to the east, where they were closing fast on the enemy’s stern. If the wind held, the British might be within long range in an hour or so, and it would be only a short while longer before they brought their broadside guns to bear.

Banks closed his glass with a purposeful air, but continued to study the enemy fleet. It did not do to anticipate one’s commodore, but Banks guessed that Sir John would order a general chase. The first two French frigates were slightly ahead, while the rest seemed to be holding back to protect their flagship, much in the way a swarm of bees might defend their queen, and it would seem probable that they would remain in that defensive position should the British choose to launch an all out attack. That was the instinctive reaction after all, and would probably be the choice of most commanders; although, in this instance, Banks felt they would be making a very big mistake.

Most if not all of the French frigates would be carrying troops, and even without those packed inside the flagship, their number must be substantial. The French
raison d’être
lay not in fighting the British but delivering an invasion army; a force of any size landing in Ireland would be better than none at all. It might not even need the full weight of the fleet’s cargo to kindle a revolutionary fire large enough to deem the whole project a success. If Banks were the French commander he would order all the accompanying frigates to make off, using their superior speed, and then do what he could to delay Warren’s ships from following. With luck the frigates would get as far as the Irish mainland, and may well be able to disembark their men and supplies before the British found them. It would be the sensible course, and would ensure the project was not a total failure, albeit at the sacrifice of one seventy-four.

He glanced back to starboard where
Foudroyant
was beating as close to the wind as she would lie. The old liner was roughly eight miles from the nearest Frenchman and making heavy weather of it, forcing
Scylla
to hold back in order to keep pace. Beyond, and perhaps a mile further to leeward, was
Canada,
Warren’s flagship. It would be later still before she came to grips with the enemy; in fact the best that could be said of her position was that it gave the British commander a grandstand view of the action.
Scylla
was far better placed and had speed in hand to act, but, as a mere frigate, could do little to stop the French unsupported. The bulk of at least one two-decker would be needed, unless
Scylla
was used as nothing more than a sacrifice: a sprat to catch a mackerel.
 

And it was then, as he stood on his quarterdeck and considered the situation, that Banks first became aware of a curious and disquieting feeling of impending doom. Instinctively he knew that Warren was not going to release the ships to pursue as best they could. This would be a more considered action, one where personal judgement would not be required. And
Scylla
, perfectly positioned as she was, seemed the ideal candidate to carry out a major part in the proceedings, and would inevitably come out the worst.

He looked about, as if desperate to share the terrible thought that now seemed so blatantly obvious. Sir John had every reason to not be confident of catching the entire fleet from astern. In fact it was highly likely that the leading French ships would slip clean away. In which case it could only be a matter of time before
Scylla
was ordered in to stop them and, despite her size, she must necessarily go alone.

Single-handed they would have to run amok amongst the enemy, causing as much damage as possible in the hope of slowing the leading ships down. It might not take long, twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, just sufficient to allow the rest of the British fleet to catch up. But in that time his ship would probably be pounded into a wreck, and he could even be forced to strike.

Banks actually closed his eyes as he considered the proposition. One ship to stop many; it was an appalling thought, albeit peculiarly similar to the role he had loftily decided would be right for the French flagship. Then he cursed himself for the fool he was, and grudgingly recognised the difference between theory and practice.

“The French are manoeuvring,” Caulfield said softly. The first lieutenant had been standing next to him for all of the watch but had said nothing as the dawn revealed the two opposing fleets. King and Fraiser were also nearby, and equally silent: there had been no comments or trite remarks from any of them. All had been in action together before. Each understood that sober and considered judgement was particularly important at this stage, and would be all but impossible amidst an atmosphere filled with excited chatter and unnecessary speculation. Banks was reasonably sure that Caulfield had only spoken now because his captain was apparently focusing on the British liner, and he was quietly thankful that he had such a team supporting him. But despite their quiet concern, had any of his fellow officers realised the invidious position that
Scylla
now found herself? He thought not, and rather envied them their ignorance.
 

He turned back to the enemy squadron. Caulfield was right: there were signals flying back and forth, while some of the far column of frigates were increasing sail and altering course. Maybe he had been wrong, maybe the French commander had ordered them off and was going to fight a rearguard action. Or perhaps they were intending to form one single line of battle.

Banks thought not; that was battleship tactics, and all but one of the French ships were frigates. But a line of battle was also easier to stop, especially when there was at least one ship in an ideal position to throw herself in front of the enemy’s van. He glanced across at
Foudroyant
, still determinedly stubbing the waves and making scant forward progress. She might be able to join in the action later, but was too slow for any dramatic opening moves. Too slow to take the first or second ship, engage them in battle and hang on determinedly like a single dog might to a raging bull. Too slow to bring the bulk of a battleship just where it was needed most. Too slow by half, he told himself bitterly; that job would fall to a frigate. Frigates were faster and far more expendable.

“Signal from the flagship,” the midshipman’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Our number…”

Banks waited while the expected order was received, and the men about him began to take in what he had foreseen some while ago. He supposed it was a reasonable enough solution. After all, were the leading frigates allowed to escape it would hardly be a complete victory. They might even get clean away, and actually land some troops in the manner he had predicted; should that be permitted, the action against the other ships, however victorious, might still be seen as a defeat.
 

But if he were successful, if he and his ship delayed the enemy long enough to see their total destruction, that must be an end to the matter. The French would have been stopped and there could be no further chance of invasion. Nine French taken for the loss of one: yes he could understand the wisdom in that. It would in fact be a very good result indeed, one sure to win the public’s approval and probably a further honour for Sir John. And even if
Scylla
, his own precious
Scylla,
even if she were the ship to be lost, and his people, the officers and men he knew so well, were those about to be killed, even then he could not argue with the plan nor the logic it contained. It was suicide of course, but still made perfect sense.

Chapter Thirteen
 

Crowley thought he had never been so tired. Despite the easing of the storm, rigging the jury topmast had taken both energy and concentration; now he felt as if the life had been sucked from him. To make matters worse, he wondered if it had been really worth all the effort. The ship might be more easily controlled and the lee shore could certainly be avoided, but as dawn broke it became increasingly clear that the accursed Royal Navy was not to leave them be. From their position on
Hoche
‘s leeward gangway he and MacArthur could clearly make out the untidy straggle of ships that currently dogged their tail. More were approaching on their larboard quarter, and there was a frigate, a rather ponderous liner and something substantial beyond, off their larboard bow. The French ships still outnumbered them, even allowing for the
Résolue
that had sprung a leak and fallen behind during the night, but he could see at least two British warships that were every bit as large as the
Hoche
, and Crowley had no illusions as to the relative merits of each nation’s navy.

From the quarterdeck came a babble of orders, and men began to haul the yards round as the ship changed course.
 

“We’re turning a point or so to the west,” MacArthur commented.

Crowley nodded. It must take them about as near to the wind as the old girl could manage with her butchered rig, but he doubted if the alteration was worth the making. The nearest land was hardly a danger now, and their speed, such as it was, would be reduced still further. Commodore Bompart was on the quarterdeck, along with Captain Maistral and Wolfe Tone. They seemed to be having some sort of argument: at one point the Irish devil even stomped away for a moment or two and stood with his hands behind his back glaring at the oncoming British. But he returned soon enough, and shortly afterwards there were more orders, and a second batch of signals made to the other ships of the squadron. The French had already formed a somewhat irregular line-of-battle, and Crowley wondered vaguely what miracles the all wise commanders had conjured up to see them clear of this mess.