Julian Stockwin - Invasion

It was, however, not in the interests of the service to keep a fine ship at idleness and Teazer 's orders duly came. They were short and to the point: a cruise eastwards from Alderney along the north coast of the Contentin peninsula, past the port of Cherbourg and as far as its natural conclusion at Pointe de Barfleur.

All the east-west coastal traffic from northern France must proceed that way and a Royal Navy presence athwart its passage would effectively bring it to a halt. Kydd would be sharing the task with lesser fry—a gun-brig and a cutter.

It was gratifying to have the master, Dowse, and their local pilot, Queripel, back in earnest conclave as they deliberated over their mission. Saumarez insisted that all non-native naval vessels in his command carry a permanent local pilot, as well as the usual ship's master. Given the treacherous nature of the waters of the area, Kydd had quickly seen the wisdom in this requirement.

"Mr. Queripel," he said, "y'r opinion of this coast, sir."

"Not easy, sir, not a-tall," the man replied carefully. "Th' charts, they doesn't tell the half of it."

"How so?"

"All along this seaboard," he said, indicating the whole north-facing coast, "steep-to an' bold mostly, but deceitful, sir, very deceitful. See here, Cap Lévi. Coast trends away t' the nor'-east an' you'd think to weather the cape a cable or two clear, but that would be to y'r error, sir. Straight to th' north, a good two mile out—a wicked long rocky shoal below the waves a-waiting for ye."

Queripel continued, "An' that's not all. Should the tidal stream meet wi' a contrary wind, why, then ye gets the Raz du Cap Lévi, a dangerous race as can set any good ship t' hazard."

"Aye, y' tides," Kydd murmured.

"Tides? Why, y' same Cap Lévi at spring tides sees a east-going stream o' eight hours but a west-going f'r four hours only at a fierce rate o' knots. An' with y' Saint-Pierre shell bank roilin' an' shiftin' down where no man's eye c'n see, an' your Basse de Happetout, why it'll—"

"Thank 'ee, Mr. Queripel," Kydd said. "It's my intention to stay as close with the land as will make it a sore puzzle f'r the Frenchies to think to pass us by," he added firmly. The whole coastline, though, seemed to be wilfully arranged as a snare and trap for English sailors. "Your best charts, Mr. Dowse—an' don't spare the expense in their getting." The illicit French productions to which he was referring could be purchased ashore—at a price.

The next morning when Teazer weighed for the north an air of expectancy was abroad. It was a hard life in a small ship on such a coast but there would be much satisfaction in action against the enemy—and the chance of prizes.

Laying Guernsey abeam, Teazer shaped course to clear the Casquets to starboard where the helm went over and they eased to the south-westerly for the long coastwise patrol to the east. The forbidding rocks, with their characteristic three-part lighthouse, were left astern, and the bare green of Alderney, the most northerly of the Channel Islands, came into view.

With a fair wind on her quarter Teazer showed her breeding. One of the myriad uninhabited islands was coming up, distinctive with its generous frosting of bird droppings. Kydd drew out his watch and calculated their progress. A cast of the log confirmed it—eleven knots and a half.

Past Alderney there was clear water for the eight miles to the north-west tip of France but almost immediately Kydd felt Teazer dip and sway as the notorious Alderney Race surging from the south took her full on the beam, the waves tumbling on themselves in their hurry to emerge into the Channel proper.

The dark mass of land ahead was France. Kydd's duty was clear: to take, burn, sink or destroy by any means the forces that so threatened England; no consideration of prizes or personal ambition must stand in the way. "Keep your eyes open, there!" he roared up at the foretop lookout. Cap de la Hague was approaching fast in the fair wind but once round the larger mass of the peninsula, the wind under the land would drop and the ship would take longer to respond to anything they came up with.

"Th' Grunes, sir," Queripel warned, as they neared the rocky outliers.

"To clear 'em?" Kydd grunted. It would not do to stay safely distant out to sea while the French crept along furtively close inshore.

"I'd not be happy under a mile, Mr. Kydd," Queripel answered.

With an offshore wind and a favourable tide they could take risks. "Let's have it eight cables," Kydd said. The French chart had La Petite and La Grande Grunes at no more than seven. Queripel said nothing.

They approached the bleak shore, and as they eased to sail along it the lookout hailed to point out something in the sea.

It was a wide and lazy surface eddy over some sinister submarine hazard that they wouldn't have noticed had the water not been so calm.

An accusing glance from Queripel told Kydd that these were the Grunes and he turned to the first lieutenant. "Mr. Hallum, we're going coastal now. The people to their stations, if y' please."

With the boats in their davits free of their gripes and ready for lowering, a hand on the fo'c'sle with lead-line ready coiled, the watch-of-the-hands alert and in no doubt about their duties for emergency manoeuvres, there was little more they could do to alleviate the deadly danger they were in by sailing so close.

Two or three miles ahead the first anchorage of note was marked. Queripel mumbled that it was a contemptible place with a sizeable rock awash the very entrance, but Kydd would not leave anything to chance.

The south-westerly that had been so briskly bearing them from Alderney had now died to a gentle breeze in the lee of the cliffs and Teazer moved along at little more than walking pace. All depended on what they saw when they passed the headland. In the small bay anything might be at anchor, prey or predator, but they could not meet every hidden inlet closed up at battle quarters: they must trust to quick reactions and correct judgements.

The bay was innocent of any vessel, merely a sweep of sandy beach between two nondescript headlands set amid an appalling sprawl of rocks scarring the sea out to a dismaying distance. The visibility was good and the winds safely offshore—but what would it be to cruise here in adverse weather, Kydd wondered. Around the far headland the coast fell back; it would stay trending away to the east-south-east until the port of Cherbourg, ten miles further on and mercifully less set about with reefs and hazards. They remained under easy sail—there was no point in haste: the patrol was for a period of days on station and then they would return.

Teazer settled to routine, the age-old and comfortable rhythms of the sea that the Royal Navy had evolved to a fine art. "Hands to supper" was piped, as eight bells signalled the start of the first dogwatch. In noisy conviviality the grog tub was brought up and the spirit mixed for issue to all messes before their evening meal.

Kydd kept the deck out of sheer contentment. Cherbourg came into view; over there, one of Napoleon's arsenals was dedicated to the crushing of England and yet, he reflected, Teazer was sailing by unchallenged with a merry crew enjoying their evening.

The port was well defended by fortifications, which Kydd had no intention of provoking. He knew that small English cutters of shallow draught were lying off the harbour and that their sole purpose was to keep watch on significant movements there. If necessary they could alert Saumarez's heavy frigates within half a day.

Kydd kept well away and, towards dusk, had made the far side of the port. Earlier he had noted a cryptic marking on the French chart that had piqued his interest: Pointe du Brick and within, a tiny bay, Anse du Brick. "Brick" was French for "brig" and—who knew?—it might have a more subtle meaning. He intended to anchor for the night close in, under full view of the enemy shore, thereby retaining his clamping hold on the coast.