on board the ship (the _Pluton_), that whole pieces of plank were seen
flying from her off side ere she could escape. The French ships generally
approached the British van with more caution, with the exception of
some, among them being the _Ville de Paris_. De Grasse, in order to
prolong the individual encounter as much as possible, counterbraced his
after-yards to retard his ship’s way through the water along the British
line; and so the French flagship was detained a considerable time abreast
of the _Resolution_, _Prudent_, _Canada_, and _Alfred_ in succession, as
the _Ville de Paris_ slowly forged ahead and fired upon them.
“During this short but tremendous conflict between the respective
combatants, nothing whatever could be seen of them for upwards of twenty
minutes, save De Grasse’s white flag gracefully floating above the
immense volume of smoke, or the pendants of the other ships.
“In the afternoon the French made a second attack on our line. It
commenced at fifty minutes past two, and was principally directed against
the centre and rear, the morning attack having convinced them that the
British van was not to be assailed with impunity. Never, perhaps, was a
superior enemy so completely foiled as de Grasse was on this occasion.”
Hood used all the means in his power to make good the advantage that he
had gained, as we are further told:
“Sir Samuel Hood not only secured his fleet from any assault by sea, but
also took measures to prevent the enemy from molesting it from the land,
where it was infinitely more vulnerable: for could they have thrown up
any batteries on the hill situated above Green Point, his position would
have been no longer tenable. To prevent such an attempt on the part of
the enemy, he landed the troops that accompanied the fleet in Frigate
Bay, where they took post on the eminence that commanded the narrow neck,
which continues the southern point of St. Christopher’s with the main
island.”
[Illustration: THE FIRST FIGHT IN FRIGATE BAY, ST. KITTS
_Admiral Sir Samuel Hood’s squadron of 22 ships (at anchor) beating off
De Grasse’s opening attack, with 38 ships (shown coming into the bay
under full sail) at 2.30 p.m. on January 25th, 1782._
_Drawn by N. Pocock, “from a sketch made by a gentleman who happened at
the time to be on a visit at a friend’s, on a height between Basse Terre
and Old Road.”_]
The troops made an effort to join hands with the garrison on Brimstone
Hill as soon as possible after they had landed. They advanced rapidly,
and in their first fight with the French covering force met with some
success. Driving in the enemy’s outlying detachments, they advanced
some way towards the French main position. Then the situation altered.
De Bouillé himself, at the head of 4000 men, came on the scene. General
Prescott, the British army officer in charge of the relief operations,
had with him only 1,500 men, the soldiers from Antigua. He had refused
to take the two battalions of marines (each of 500 men) which Hood had
had prepared for service on shore and had urged him to take as well.
Hopelessly outnumbered General Prescott had to fall back. In the end he
was compelled to evacuate his camp near the sea and re-embark all his
soldiers on board the fleet. That meant the doom of Brimstone Hill, and
the colony of St. Kitts with it.
The garrison under Governor Shirley and Brigadier Fraser—comprising the
1st Battalion of the Royals, and the flank companies of the 15th Foot and
a detachment of Royal Artillery, with a handful of local militiamen—from
a thousand to twelve hundred men in all, still held out, doing their
best. As long as they held out Hood made up his mind to stay where he
was. Rodney was overdue now with his promised reinforcement from England,
a dozen ships of the line. If Rodney arrived while the British flag was
still flying in the island and could join hands with Hood, there was yet
a chance of checkmating the enemy and of saving St. Kitts. But could
Brimstone Hill hold out? It was more than doubtful.
The place was naturally an impregnable fortress, but the fortifications
had been badly placed. The garrison were not numerous enough to line the
walls. They had no heavy guns mounted, and the enemy were day after day
bombarding them with a pitiless fire that closed in on them more and
more, and became fiercer and more deadly and destructive every hour.
* * * * *
It is an ugly story—the tale of the fortifications of Brimstone Hill.
Strong entrenchments had been planned a year before, and heavy guns sent
out from England to be mounted on the ramparts. But the local authorities
had not troubled to follow the plans, and what fortifications had been
built had been run up incompletely and carelessly. The guns specially
sent out from Woolwich for the works—brass 24-pounders and 13-inch
mortars—had never been mounted at all. They had, as a fact, been left
lying at the foot of the hill near the seashore, just as they had been
landed, together with their gun carriages and every kind of equipment
complete, besides tons of shot and shell. For over a year the local
authorities had paid no heed to the repeated requests of the governor,
and the general in command of the garrison in the island, to provide
the labour and appliances indispensable for transporting the guns and
material to the top of Brimstone Hill. Rodney himself during the previous
summer had repeatedly urged the island local authorities, as a matter of
public safety, to do their duty in the matter, but all had been in vain.
The result was that de Bouillé and his army had on landing seized the
guns and their ammunition, all lying there ready to hand. The French, in
fact, had formed out of them the very siege train by means of which they
were now able to batter down the weak fortifications on the hill above.
The garrison, on the other hand, had only the few light 3-pounder and
6-pounder field pieces belonging to the Royal Artillery, with which to
reply.
With the heavy guns provided from England in position, Brimstone Hill
might well have held out till Rodney and his reinforcements had arrived
and joined Hood, when the enemy must have paid dearly for their attempt.
And, at the same time, without the English garrison guns at his disposal,
de Bouillé would have been harmless. By an extraordinary coincidence the
ship carrying the French siege train for St. Kitts had been wrecked on
its way, and the second ship, carrying the French siege ammunition, had
been captured by Hood. The French had actually no other siege artillery
or ammunition nearer than in the gun park on shore at Martinique.
Rodney, indeed, on learning the facts of the case at St. Kitts after
his arrival, did not hesitate to write to England and to make other
serious imputations on the loyalty of the colonials all through the whole
business. “The inhabitants of Basseterre in St. Christopher’s,” he wrote,
“suffered the enemy to land without firing a single gun, though they had
three good batteries which might have done good service and destroyed
many of the enemy, and certainly prevented their landing at Basseterre.”
“Nor during all the time that Hood was lying off the capital, in Frigate
Bay,” added Rodney, “did a single inhabitant come on board or afford the
least intelligence.”
The disaffection at St. Kitts, unfortunately, was no isolated case, as
Rodney reported in the same dispatch. Actual treason, indeed, was rife
among the white populations throughout the British West Indies, except in
loyal Jamaica and at Antigua. The planter-militia forces in the various
islands were worse than useless. “Barbados,” wrote Rodney, “is in no
state of defence, and their legislature will not raise a penny to repair
the fortifications.... They wish to be taken, but the rogues shall be
disappointed while I remain here!” Dominica fell into the enemy’s hands
through the vilest treachery. There the garrison of the principal fort
defending the island, near Roseau, the capital, were made drunk by the
colonials, who at the same time plugged up the touch-holes of their
cannon and rendered the soldiers’ muskets useless by putting sand into
the gun locks; after which they signalled to a French expeditionary
column, which had secretly been assisted ashore that same night, to
advance and take possession.
* * * * *
At sea, meanwhile, off Frigate Bay, de Grasse watched and waited,
contenting himself with “observing” Hood from just outside gunshot range
of the British fleet. During the three weeks between the 26th of January
and the 13th of February, Hood’s men were, as the Admiral described,
“under arms night and day,” but doing their duty all the time, as Hood
put it, “with a cheerfulness and good humour which charmed me.” This
was in spite of much privation. They were deficient in provisions and
stores, having had but little time to take in anything at Antigua—short
of water and “practically without bread, living on yams and country flour
to eke out their own.” Powder and shot, too, were short in some of the
ships. None of the fleet, indeed, had had an opportunity of replenishing
magazines since they arrived in the West Indies after the fighting in the
Chesapeake in the previous September.
“The enemy’s fleet made frequent demonstrations of attacking us, but
never came near enough to engage. On the 12th February their fleet
amounted to thirty-two ships of the line, a strong reinforcement from
France having joined, which not only supplied the place of their
disabled ships, but contributed to swell their numbers. On the 13th the
Comte de Grasse despaired of being able to assail with any prospect of
success our little fleet of twenty-two ships, and prudently anchored off
Nevis.”
The end came for the Brimstone Hill garrison on the 13th of February.
Further resistance was hopeless, and there seemed no prospect of relief
reaching them. The ramparts had been beaten down; their ammunition
was exhausted, most of their guns were disabled. De Bouillé summoned
the place, announcing his intention of storming the works. Unable to
offer more resistance the garrison surrendered, on terms that were
complimentary to the very gallant resistance that they had made.
Hood, at his anchorage in Frigate Bay, learned the unwelcome news by
a flag of truce from the French camp near Basseterre next morning,
Wednesday, the 14th of February. It meant that he must now look out for
himself. The situation had changed to one of very serious danger for
him. Not only was there de Grasse outside, with a fleet that was being
reinforced almost daily with fresh ships from Martinique, but there
was also the French army on shore. They had already begun throwing
up batteries in which they were mounting the same heavy long range
English guns by means of which they had reduced Brimstone Hill. The
shot and shell from these would speedily render further continuance at
the anchorage impossible. The enemy, moreover, had found an excellent
position for their purpose on a lofty bluff whence they could sweep the
anchorage from end to end.
De Grasse’s fleet numbered ten ships more than Hood had; and most of the
recent arrivals were 80-gun ships.
De Grasse’s withdrawal to Nevis for a few hours in order to refit his
fleet out of some storeships that had just arrived from France gave Hood
his chance. The French Admiral made sure that in the circumstances there
was no possibility of the British fleet escaping complete destruction.
Off Nevis he could keep the English fleet in sight, and only a couple
of hours sail from him. Hood seemed, as it were, between the upper and
nether millstones: between the French fleet in overpowering force on one
side, and the batteries on shore on the other, which also, as de Grasse
knew, were to be ready to open fire next day.
* * * * *
Once more, though, it was to be the old story of the slip between the cup
and the lip. Hood essayed one desperate chance, and won it. He proved
himself a good deal more than a match for de Grasse and de Bouillé on
shore combined.
The British Admiral lost no time over his preparations. He had made up
his mind what to do within an hour of receiving the news of the fall of
Brimstone Hill. And then he acted forthwith.
At noon on the 14th Hood signalled for a lieutenant from every ship to
come on board the flagship _Barfleur_. Certain special instructions
were given out, and the officers were directed to come on board for
further orders after dark—at nine o’clock that night. In accordance
with the admiral’s instructions, at four in the afternoon every ship
ostentatiously lowered top-gallant yards, making things snug for the
night to all appearances, to spectators at a distance. Immediately it
was dark, as quickly as possible stream-anchors were got in, and every
preparation was rapidly made for putting to sea. These left every ship
riding with only one anchor down, the small bower. At nine o’clock,
as had been ordered also, top-gallant yards were quietly rehoisted
and crossed on board every ship. Then the officers told to return for
further orders, pulled silently off to the _Barfleur_ again and reported
everything ready.
Each officer on arriving was requested to go down to the _Barfleur’s_
cabin. Hood was there, and he saw each one set his watch exactly by
the flagship’s clock. Then all were ordered to return on board their
respective ships. As the hands of the officers’ watches pointed to
eleven, every ship was to cut her cable, come to sail at once, and
get under way in line of battle ahead, every ship moving out to sea
independently, steering to the westward, keeping on a given line of
bearing. On no account must there be any noise—no hailing, no signalling
whatever. Not a match must be struck on board, and all lights must be
screened.
Not a single mishap, not one mistake, from all accounts, marred the
execution of the bold manœuvre.
It was a black and moonless night. As six bells—eleven o’clock—clanged
out on board the _Barfleur_, the other ships each struck six bells. The
next moment a couple of heavy blows with an axe chopped the bower cable
through on board every ship. Then, simultaneously, sails were let fall
silently from the yards everywhere, and were swiftly and silently sheeted
home. At once now, in unison, the whole fleet began to forge ahead,
moving all together through the water. To aid in deceiving the enemy as
to what was happening, lighted ship’s lanterns were left behind, lashed
to poles set up on the casks that had served as cable buoys, making it
appear from a very short distance off as though the fleet were still
there, riding at anchor in the roads.
The masterly _ruse_ succeeded to the full. The watch on board the English
fleet could see the lights of some of de Grasse’s ships away to seaward.
They themselves, one and all, entirely unobserved, passed out in the
darkness. Not a trace of Hood’s twenty-two ships was visible when de
Grasse came on deck on board his flagship, the _Ville de Paris_, next
morning.
They met Rodney at sea a few days later;—and then, in due course Rodney
and Hood together smote the French once for all for that war, in the
great battle of “The Glorious Twelfth of April,” 1782.[10]
VIII
THE PAGEANT OF THE _DONEGAL_:—A MEMORY OF ’98
Joy! joy! the day is come at last, the day of hope and pride—
And see! our crackling bonfires light old Bann’s rejoicing tide,
And gladsome bell and bugle-horn from Newry’s captured towers,
Hark! how they tell the Saxon swine this land is ours—is OURS!
Come, trample down their robber rule, and smite its venal spawn,
Their foreign laws, their foreign Church, their ermine and their lawn,
With all the specious fry of fraud that robbed us of our own;
And plant our ancient laws again beneath our lineal throne!
The name Donegal has a significance to the Royal Navy that is all its
own. It was designated by the Admiralty as a county cruiser name, for one
of the ships of the _Kent_ and _Monmouth_ group; but there is more than
that behind the name. _Donegal_ lettered on the stern of a man-of-war
has its own traditions—associations of a yet wider interest to the
British fleet. The name, as a fact, owes its appearance on the Navy List
to a very special occasion. H.M.S. _Donegal_, in its origin, is only
incidentally connected with County Donegal. The cruiser through her name
stands, in fact, to remind the world that the Royal Navy does not “fear
to speak of ’98.”
It is quite a little drama how this particular man-of-war name first
came to make its appearance on the roll of the British fleet; and in
that form, perhaps, one may most effectively tell the story—as a sort
of pageant, bringing the details forward in, as it were, a series of
tableaux.
* * * * *
First we have the opening scene, in bustling Paris, in the month of
August, 1798, something after this fashion:
The Marseillaise is pealing! the crowds are mad with joy,
With flags and failtë fêting the gallant Paris Boy,
Who leads the bright procession of Frenchmen gay and bold?,
The Students of the Quarter, the Latin Quarter Old;—
They’re girt with dainty rapiers, they’re gloved with gloves of white,
The knightly Gallic Swordsmen who love the People’s Right!
They bear in bright procession a pledge from France’s shore,
The busts of Hoche and Humbert beneath the Tricolour!
Then we have a September scene far away. We are now among the wild,
unkempt kerns and peasants of County Donegal, in their villages and rude
moorland huts of turf and boulders, dotted among the lonely valleys
far away amid the bare, desolate, wind-swept uplands and bleak, gaunt,
long-backed ridges, shrouded for half the year in rolling grey mists from
off the ocean, that range along the coasts of North-Western Ireland.
Everywhere the men are hard at work, seated in groups round their peat
fires, all actively engaged in pointing pikes and grinding axes, lashing
scythe-blades to short poles, and putting a fresh edge to ugly crooked
knives; crooning to themselves the while over their toil:—
Oh, the Frinch are on the say,
Says the Shan Van Voght—
Oh, the Frinch are on the say,
Says the Shan Van Voght—
The Frinch are in the Bay,
They’ll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Voght.
Again we are on the coast; by Donegal Bay. It is the morning of Friday,
the 12th of October, ’98, between seven and eight o’clock. Eager-faced,
excited watchers line the crags of Bloody Foreland. From the wide, flat
expanse of sea below comes up on the wind the dull, heavy, throbbing
sound of a distant cannonade. It has been getting nearer since daybreak.
It now comes nearer and nearer still; and by degrees, from the direction
of Tory Island, on the horizon over yonder, where a grey rolling cloud of
powder-smoke lies heavy over the sea, two squadrons of men-of-war, two
straggling lines of ships, most of them firing fiercely, come dimly into
view. One is assuredly the long-looked-for French—Commodore Bompart’s
squadron from Brest, bringing three thousand French soldiers and Wolfe
and Matthew Tone. They were to have landed at Lough Swilly yesterday
and raised the country-side. The other is the English fleet—a British
squadron that has followed round from Cawsand Bay under press of sail
to look after M. Bompart. They picked up news of him off the Fastnet
and Achill Island, and pushed on here. On the previous day at noon—as we
learn later on—off Malin Head in a stiff north-westerly gale, the British
look-outs sighted the French squadron; and they have been working to
bring Monsieur Bompart to battle ever since.
It looks likely to go hard with the French. At the last moment a mishap
checked their attempt to give the British the go-by. Their best ship, the
_Hoche_, a fine 80-gun two-decker, and M. Bompart’s own flagship, got
disabled in a squall last night. Her maintopmast carried away, bringing
down with it the main and mizen top-gallant masts and tearing a gaping
rent in the mainsail. So Sir John Borlase Warren, the British Commodore,
has been able to get level with his enemy, on whom he is now tacking
to bring the fight to close quarters, in conditions where his superior
force—three line-of-battle ships and five frigates to one line-of-battle
ship, eight frigates, and a schooner—ought to decide M. Bompart’s fate
before dinner-time.
Eleven o’clock. The inevitable has happened. The Frenchmen have been
overpowered at all points and broken up. The French Commodore is now only
holding out as long as possible _pour l’honneur du pavillon_. In the
centre of the battle, a dismantled wreck, with the scuppers running blood
at every heave of the vessel on the swell, lies M. Bompart’s flagship,
the hapless _Hoche_. Three British ships together—a sixty-four and two
frigates—are pouring broadside after broadside into her without ceasing
for a moment.
Wolfe Tone, the story goes, was on board the _Hoche_, and refused at
the outset a chance that was offered him to get away by a boat to the
_Biche_, a fast-sailing schooner then about to make off, or to one of
the French frigates, by which means alone it was possible for him to
escape. “The action is hopeless,” said the French officers to him on the
quarter-deck; “with the odds against us it can only have one end. We
shall be prisoners of war; but what will become of you?” “No!” replied
Tone. “Shall it be said that I fled when the French were fighting the
battle of my country? No; I shall stand by the ship.” He went below and
took charge of a division of guns in one of the batteries.
The end, as the watchers on land soon see, comes swiftly. Further
resistance would be murder. Beaten to a standstill, riddled like a sieve,
with twenty-five guns disabled, more than half her men put _hors de
combat_, her lower masts shot through and every moment threatening to go
over the side, her rudder smashed to splinters, with five feet of water
in the hold—down perforce has to come the _Hoche’s_ tricolor. So the
battle ends.
[Illustration: OUR FIRST _DONEGAL_
_The captured French line of battle ship “Hoche,” being towed by the
“Doris,” 36, Lord Ranelagh, into Lough Swilly. Drawn by N. Pocock, from a
sketch made from the “Robust” by Captain R. Williams of the Marines._]
It is just twenty minutes past eleven. Three other French ships,
overtaken at their first attempt at flight, have already surrendered. The
rest are making off, scattering over the horizon with British frigates
in pursuit, to be run down and taken in the end—all of them except
two.[11]
The fourth tableau rings down on the piece. The last scene closes some
weeks later in the quiet waters of the Hamoaze off Devonport Dockyard,
whither the _Hoche_ was taken round, with the arrival of an Admiralty
messenger at the Port Admiral’s office. He brings in his dispatch wallet
an official memorandum that “My Lords have been pleased to direct Sir J.
B. Warren’s prize to be registered in the List of the Navy by the name of
the _Donegal_.”
In this way it was that the name Donegal came originally into the Royal
Navy for a man-of-war, and the battle of October, ’98, off the coast of
Donegal is our present cruiser’s principal bond of connection with the
county.
* * * * *