Invasion

'Get us free, quick as y' like, Mr. Purchet. Stoppers and doubling— anything as'll see us under canvas again.'

He looked out at the broader battle scene. Actaeon was beset by four large sloops and nearly hidden by towering clouds of powder-smoke but gun-flashes regularly stabbed through from her and, as Kydd watched, a mast on one of the sloops descended and the damaged vessel fell away.

The enemy did not seem inclined to pay attention to the two vessels locked together so they had a chance. The Royal Marines took charge of prisoners while the entire seaman complement of Teazer swarmed over the rigging aloft, passing stoppers that joined the severed ends of ropes and adding relieving tackles to weakened sections.

When it was complete Kydd sent Hallum to limp back in the prize while he considered the state of Teazer. At a pinch they could keep to the wind, particularly running large as the flotilla was doing, but effectively they had lost all except one of the larboard guns and were open to the weather and small-arms fire along that side. And they had numbers away as prize-crew.

Kydd watched the receding battle. He had been shaken by the savagery of the fighting, the desperate flinging of their force into the midst of the armada. And the French were far from running: they were staying together to brute it through and add this huge number of invasion craft to their concentrations.

There was no alternative but to do his duty. With Kydd warily keeping an eye on the makeshift repairs aloft, Teazer set out after them but well before they were able to overhaul the rear the enemy entered Calais roads and the unassailable shelter of the fortress batteries.

Regrouping beyond the treacherous offshore ground of the Ridens de la Rade the flying squadron hove to; it seemed that the Franco-Batavian flotilla had indeed won precious miles from Dunkirk towards their eventual destination, Boulogne, and all the squadron could now do was to leave a pair of watching cutters and return to the Downs.

Yet within the hour there was movement: incredibly the flotilla was putting out once more. It was no feint: the canny Dutch commander had merely added to their number by drawing in those who had sheltered in the port earlier. Now nearly a hundred sail were issuing out, steadily heading south-west.

It was an audacious and cynical move: they had no doubt reasoned that while the English were occupied in their butchery of the unfortunates, there would be left many more to plough on regardless and make their destination. The simple outworking of time and numbers would ensure that by far the majority survived.

It was still before noon when heavy guns thundered out from the great citadel and no less than five forts. Falling back but warily pacing with them out to seaward, the squadron waited until the strung-out flotilla was clear of the port and its defences, then one by one selected a victim and once more sailed in to close with the enemy.

Teazer was no longer in the best shape for another deadly action but the stakes were extreme. Therefore, with torn sails and trailing ropes, she set her bowsprit resolutely at the foe—three of the flat-bottomed bateaux canonnieres, equipped with a stern ramp to take on even field guns and horses. These were therefore of prime value to Bonaparte and worth any sacrifice.

At this point, with fewer sandbanks, the immense sea cavalcade huddled close inshore. It seemed incongruous to join battle before the mussel beds and lowly dunes, and with no larboard guns Teazer must work some miracle to come inside them to fight.

But as she made her approach guns opened up—guns that had no right to be there. Shot tore up the sea all around and two heavy thumps told of hits—but from where?

Through his telescope Kydd saw troops of horse artillery cantering up, unlimbering their field guns on the crest of the dunes and blazing away. It was an intelligent use of the immense military machine being assembled but it would only serve while they were close in with the land. Beyond the range of the fortress on the heights of Cap Blanc Nez there were devilish offshore hazards, which the French called 'The Barrier,' that would force the armada miles out to sea.

The guns ashore fell silent as the range widened and the predators closed in. It was close, vicious and bloody work—the invasion flotilla must be stopped and nothing would be spared. The first bateau dug in its steering oar and slewed around at Teazer—a field artillery piece was tied down with ropes on its clumsy foredeck but when it fired, the ball reduced Teazer's quarterdeck rail to flying splinters, and ended the life of the lively and willing Philipon, an able seaman who had been with them since the Channel Islands.

It was an heroic act by the Frenchman for they could not reload the piece: they must wait while Teazer stood off and destroyed them—except that her own guns on that side were useless. The two vessels faced each other defiantly but impotently until Kydd took his ship under the stern of the other and crushed the little craft with a single broadside.

The next bateau sheered away cravenly inshore, taking the ground a full mile out in a shuddering stop, the shock canting the long vessel's bow skyward. Tumbling over the side in a panic-stricken flight the crew stumbled away.

A chaloupe appeared from the smoke, her eighteen-pounders opening on Teazer as soon as she appeared. The shots went wild and it disappeared as quickly as did the bateau they had been ready to engage.

The din and acrid reek of powder-smoke drove in on Kydd— where was the next target? For a short time he could see Locust hammering away frantically at two chaloupes assaulting her but there was nothing Kydd could do for them and smoke drifted across to hide the scene.

An unknown vessel lay stopped ahead, only a single mast left standing. Men swarmed over the wreckage like ants—was it Bruiser? They had to take their chances for Kydd's duty was to engage the flotilla and there inshore was another bateau canonniere—but beyond lay the dour heights of Cap Gris Nez.

As if to mark the invisible boundary that had been crossed, a plume of water shot up—and another, and more as the ball skipped towards them. It was from the heavy guns on the dark heights of the iconic headland, and the mass of sails quickly converged on its deep-water flanks—it was now all but over.

Held off by the formidable ring of iron, the flying squadron stayed out of range but kept with the armada as it rounded the cape and, with the last of the tide, passed into the safety of the harbours of Ambleteuse and Wimereux, their goal of Boulogne just six miles further on.