Chapter 14: A Narrow Escape

HM frigate Syren was once again on the prowl. The night before, Anson had taken his ship through the narrow passage between the Dutch islands of Ameland and Terschelling. By daybreak they were amidst the shallows, sailing under doubly reefed topsails only and with the lead going constantly. By afternoon they caught their first prey off Harlingen, an almost new brigantine sailing with a cargo of wheat. With this prize in their wake, they felt their way south, surprising a small ketch coming out of Hindelopen. The boat was not worth a prize crew. Anson had sent the Dutch crew ashore in their dinghy and set fire to the vessel after transferring her cargo of ales to the brigantine.

For safety reasons, they had anchored south of the Bree Sand shallows during the night before following the Vlieter channel between Bree Sand and Vogel Sand. Here, just east of the Island Texel, they had come upon another small merchantman, a schooner brig with a cargo of naval stores, much prized in a Britain cut off from their usual source in the Baltic lands. Turpentine, pitch, hemp, and sailcloth would fetch a good price.

With the wind blowing steadily from a western quarter, the small convoy had then headed north to make the narrow passage between Texel and Vlieland. The channel turned to north-west, forcing the ships to run as close to the wind as possible. This was compounded by less than 5 fathoms of water in the passage at the shallowest point, leaving them little steering way.

Anson had done his best, planning the final dash to safety for the high tide. They would pass the shallows at high water but with the ebb tide setting in, giving them the best chance. They were approaching the bend in the channel when the masthead sang out.

"Ship ho! Full rigged ship bearing due North!"

"Mr. Carling!" Anson snapped, but Carling was already on his way to the fore mast, telescope slung over his shoulder.

"Signal to prizes! Keep up!" Anson commanded.

Whatever the ship was, chances were she was not British. Further, it was more than likely that the upcoming ship had superior firepower. The Dutch did not have any full-rigged merchantmen in these waters, but there was a ship-of-the-line, the Eendracht of 74 guns, of which Anson had read in the reports. She had only 1.500 tons and shipped 24-pounders on her main deck, but her broadside would hurl over 850 pounds of iron at Syren, compared with the measly 280 pounds of the small frigate's broadside. Her sides would easily withstand the 12-pounders Syren shipped, whilst her 24-pounder shot would rip right through Syren's frail timbers.

"It's a two-decker, sir!" Carling hailed from the foremast. "She's sailing hard to the wind down The Sloot, sir. She's less than 5 miles off now."

"All hands make sail!" Anson commanded. "Clear ship for action!"

This was a purely symbolic gesture. If the two-decker managed to cut them off from the open sea, there was only surrender for them. The better chance was to increase sail. At 1.500 tons, the Eendracht could not have much of a draught, he reasoned. For the Dutch inshore waters, this was perfect. But she would be a terrible ship close to the wind, in fact drifting to leeward like a haystack. That was their chance.

"Signal to the prizes: Make more sail, pass to windward. Rendezvous at Sheerness."

The prizes with their fore-and-aft rigging could lie even closer to the wind. It was better to let them lead whilst Syren would at least distract the oncoming behemoth.

With the additional sails, Syren was lying over quite a bit, but she was also making better speed. Already, the brigantine was passing them being the superior sailor, and the schooner was not far behind. Anson could now make up the Eendracht through his glass. She was lying over from the press of her sails, eager to stop the bottle neck before the British could escape. Gauging the progress of his own ship, Anson breathed a little sigh of relief. They would reach the outlet between the islands perhaps a half mile before the two-decker, enough to be safe, for there would be no chance for the Dutchman to bring his broadside to bear. Yet, the situation was anything but clear. A small shift of the wind to North would trap Syren whilst giving the Eendracht an almost full wind.

Yet, whilst Anson was carefully watching the enemy and his own ship's progress, he relaxed more and more. He noticed that the ebb tide was also favouring them, giving them extra speed over the ground. Then, when they had to turn to north-west to round the Eier Land sand spit, Syren's guns could bear on the approaching enemy for a brief spell. With the maximum elevation against the tilted deck, the broadside bellowed out Syren's defiance. Anson watched the fall of the shots through his glass and he thought he could see two hits, but of course those made no impression on the big ship.

It did not matter. With the prizes ahead of her, Syren made the dash to the open sea and to safety. Anson allowed himself a satisfied smile.

"Mr. Carling, kindly have the guns run in and secured. Once the bulkheads have been raised again, we can splice the main brace!"

The men broke out in a cheer. To "splice the main brace" meant an extra ration of grog for the crew. Anson felt that they had deserved it. He himself would enjoy a glass of French brandy to settle his nerves after their narrow escape. He forced his mind away from the "what if" thinking. The two prizes with their valuable cargoes would easily sell for £5,000 apiece, likely adding £2,500 to his own already considerable funds. If his luck held, the command of Syren would make him a rather wealthy man.

Instead of Elizabeth Maynard, Vice Admiral Sir John Brent was waiting for Anson at Sheerness when they dropped anchor with their two prizes. The anchor had not even reached the ground when the gig was already lowered into the water and Anson climbed down awkwardly. Under Mr. Horner's encouragement, the gig's crew bent to the oars and in no time they hooked onto the flagship's chains.

"Ah, Captain Anson! I see that you've had luck again?"

"Yes, Sir John. A brigantine laden with ale and grains, and a schooner with dockyard supplies."

"Splendid, my dear Captain. Would you care for a tea or coffee whilst I give my attention to your reports?"

"A tea would be welcome, Sir John."

Brent nodded towards his steward who disappeared immediately. A few minutes later, Anson was sipping a hot tea with fresh milk and sugar. As always, Brent read carefully, his half glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Peering over them, he fixated Anson.

"That 74, Eendracht, what do you make of her?"

"Shallow draught, Sir John. Sails like a wet haystack close to the wind. A well trained crew as far as I could make out. We were lucky."

"So I believe, Captain. No more incursions inshore until we can deal with that 74."

"Aye-aye, Sir John."

"You say that you hit her with your broadside?"

"I believe I saw splinters flying, Sir John."

"So you did, Captain. The Dutch won't like that, will they?"

"I should think no, Sir John."

"Next time, they'll be after you even more, don't you think?"

"Again, Sir John, that is likely."

"Where d'ye think that 74 lies in wait then?"

Anson thought about his answer. "Den Helder is a possibility, Sir John. They could also lie at Enkhuizen, at the mouth of the Zuider Zee, but that would place them to leeward of any attack on the islands. If I were to command her, I'd be staying at Den Helder. It's the only real port that does not fall dry at low tide."

Brent tipped his nose. "My thinking, too, Captain. The Dutchman is sitting pretty there, and he won't show his nose out in the open sea if there's a single Royal Navy sail in the offing. But how would he react if a small man-of-war, say a 32-gun frigate, was trying to slip by Den Helder?"

"He'd go after her, Sir John."

"Exactly, Captain. Let's have a look at those maps now. Flags! A map of the Dutch coast!"

A minute later, they bent over the map. Brent pointed at Den Helder.

"So that's where he lies in wait, and if you chanced to sail down the Mars Deep, he'd go after you sure as a gun. Of course, you'd go about trying to escape where you already did, between Texel and Vlieland, and he'd be chasing you hoping for a chance to use his bow chasers. Once past this Vogel Zand sandbank, his retreat could be cut off, say by a big frigate of ours coming up this De Balk channel south of Vogel Zand. Another of our ships could head him off in the Vlieter channel. I'm thinking of Hyperion. She's not much bigger, being over thirty years old, but she's shipping 32-pounders on her main deck. With three of ours, the Dutchman might just strike. If not, he'll be outgunned."

Anson could not help but make a short grimace thinking of Hyperion with her bible-thumping captain. Brent caught it and grinned.

"Captain Norton was relieved of his command two weeks ago. Captain Melrose replaced him." Anson exhaled and Brent smiled at him. "Yes, quite a stroke of luck. I hear that he made a nuisance of himself in front of a Member of Parliament. I'm glad to be shot of him. I shall also send in Clyde. She's a big frigate and ships 24-pounders. Besides, she's gone up against a ship-of-the-line before."

Anson knew the story. After the indecisive battle off Cape Finisterre, the badly damaged L'Alceste, 80, had fled for Rochefort only to be intercepted by HMS Clyde, 44, under Sir Anthony Carter. The 80-gun ship was lying deep with her pumps going, and the big frigate out-manoeuvred and out-gunned her, even crossing her stern repeatedly. Carter was almost killed by a musket shot, but the L'Alceste had to strike. She was HMS Asia now, and Carter was made a full Knight of the Bath for that feat.

Still, the situation was different. Eendracht had not been in battle, and her crew would be better than the French crew to begin with. He said nothing, though. Brent did not need lessons from a two-year captain.

"I shall discuss the plan with the captains involved. It were best if you joined the squadron after the revictualling. That will also afford me with a worthy partner at whist," Brent added with a smile. Then he peered at Anson over the half glasses. "I hear that you are getting married, Captain?"

Anson cleared his throat. "Yes, Sir John. I am engaged to Miss Elizabeth Maynard. We plan to marry at the first opportunity."

"I'm afraid that such an opportunity may not come before we bring this matter to a close, Captain."

"I understand, Sir John," Anson replied stoically.

"It's a hard duty, Captain. I cannot help that. I trust that you will join us at cards tonight?"

"Of course, Sir John."

"At the Rodney, at 6 o' clock, landlubber time. You know it?"

"I dined there with my parents and my bride, Sir John.

"Very well. We shall weigh anchor in five days. You can sail with us. That will leave you enough time for refitting."

"Aye-aye, Sir John," Anson replied, taking his cue and his leave.

On the way back to his ship, Anson mused over Brent's plan. On the surface it looked easy enough, but compounded by the complicated tides between the islands and sandbanks, it would be a small wonder if everything went as planned.

Colonel James Maynard, Justice of the Peace for Salcombe, closed the session. The hapless accused, a fisherman over from Dartmouth, had been caught by Witmarsh's Lady Jane three days ago with a contraband cargo of French wines. Now it was off to Tavistock Prison for him and his crew. A year ago, this would have been a source of great satisfaction for Maynard, and he would have gloated over the success for days. Now he felt like the mythical Greek king whose food turned to ashes in his mouth. There was no satisfaction for Maynard anymore.

A half year ago, he had lost his only child. On the evening following Elizabeth's disappearance, he had searched her room for clues, and he had found her hidden diaries. Reading them in reverse order, he first found out how Carrick had frightened her on the eve of her wedding, how he had cruelly pinched her as a prelude of what was to come. In helpless rage, Maynard had quaffed a bottle of brandy, for he could not touch Dalmere's son. His father's position was too powerful.

The next evening, after sobering up, he continued the reading, and the further he progressed, the more he felt a burning shame. In the privacy of her room, Elizabeth had listed all his deeds, his thoughtless remarks at her expense, his lack of respect and caring.

One sentence in particular made him cringe.

"He cares little for me, just as he cared little for my poor mother. Had he not gone to gamble with his officers that fateful day, he could have defended her honour and her life, instead of avenging her terrible sufferings."

His guilt over his wife's death washed over him again, as it had over a decade before, for it was true that he left his wife for an evening of entertainment at the regimental quarters. That in spite of the discomfort she felt whenever she had to be alone in their house.

He also read the passages where Elizabeth marvelled over the attention paid to her by Captain Anson, by the respect he showed to her, and by the patience with which he waited for her to express her mind. Maynard realised how much the attention of Anson meant to his daughter.