Chesapeake Bay Naval Battle – Thomas Graves
Thomas Graves. The proud admiral of the British Empire—and its shameful defeated commander.
In the early days of the rebellion in the American colonies, countless British admirals fell to the American rebels or Caribbean pirates. Amid the economic panic that struck before any proper systems were in place, the ensuing chaos claimed the lives of numerous British captains and admirals. They died suddenly from blind grapeshot fired by pirates while sailing without escorts, or from infections because doctors arrived too late, or because they lacked proper medicines and slowly wasted away from mere scratches.
Graves had suffered the same fate. But he was stronger than the other admirals. He endured the high fever for weeks after having shrapnel removed from his calf. As a result, he limped, lost sensation in his toes, and his left hand trembled uncontrollably—but he survived.
Having clawed his way back from the brink, Graves—the marked man of defeat—was thrown back into suppressing the American rebels.
"Why are they heading this way?"
"Ahead of us, there are over a hundred small brigs in sight. They must be rebels' pirate ships that got swept here while we were mopping them up."
"I'd like to engage, but rescuing Cornwallis's army is the priority."
Recent small-scale skirmishes had whittled away at them, pushing the British Virginia front all the way back to Yorktown. Whether by misfortune or fortune, Cornwallis's army had retreated so swiftly that the rebels hadn't fully encircled Yorktown yet—but that didn't make the situation optimistic.
New York headquarters had ordered Cornwallis to attack, but his army had suffered too many defeats. Cornwallis's redcoats invariably won large-scale open-field battles, true to their name. But in the guerrilla skirmishes that followed, they were constantly ambushed and fleeing for their lives.
Veteran soldiers honed on the battlefield fell to French volunteer sharpshooters, and cannons were destroyed by cavalry squads of two or three. Cornwallis's army had lost dozens of small engagements this month alone. The troops had learned defeat. What remained was little more than a mob of invalids huddled together by the fear of being shot by militiamen the moment they deserted.
Soldiers could only march if at least a hundred comrades were by their side. This inefficiency led to the complete isolation of the Virginia front. Politicians and generals back home decried their "defeatist attitude," but the local NCOs and officers let the complaints slide with stoic indifference. An army that had learned defeat lacked even the will to pull the trigger.
The officers and NCOs of Cornwallis's army—who had tasted defeat alongside their men—couldn't bring themselves to berate their comrades in shared misery. New York high command, fed up, finally ordered a "reorganization" of Cornwallis's forces. That was why Admiral Graves had come to Yorktown.
"Cornwallis's army is in worse shape than I imagined. I expected cheers, if not outright enthusiasm."
Graves's squadron had brought two-thirds of New York's naval strength to boost morale. But Cornwallis's men merely glanced at the friendly ships of the line like opium-addled elders and silently awaited embarkation.
"Get back to New York fast. We don't have full control of these waters yet."
Simply floating a ship cost money, and moving it affected the war situation. The British had no leisure to linger in waters where sea control was uncertain.
"S-Sir. We should engage. Please look for yourself through the telescope."
But the lookout insisted again. Graves bristled briefly at the man's impertinence but handed over the telescope, assuming it was urgent.
"Over there, at Fisherman's Island."
"That's... impossible to ignore."
Before his eyes lay over a hundred American supply sloops and sixty frigates flying Spanish colors. But they didn't look like proper escorts. The frigates were packed to the brim, their waterlines sunk to the maximum, with only a third of their gunports manned. To Admiral Graves, the Spanish frigates looked less like warships and more like laden supply vessels.
Graves pondered. Was it right to evacuate Cornwallis and his 7,500 British troops? Or to seize supplies that could feed an expeditionary force for two years?
Just then, the Spanish frigates spotted the British and opened suppressive fire. Firing one shot every five minutes made it clear the enemy supply crews were low on combat prowess. In ambiguous waters, it would have been a 100% bait—but this was American territory. Madmen operating 2,200 privateers might well supply themselves this way.
"Admiral. The ships from other sectors chasing pirates have shifted to line abreast as well. If we engage, the enemy will see our vessels filling the southern horizon."
"Insolent fools, issuing orders to the commander-in-chief. Hmph... no choice, then. Form line abreast. Sink just the lead ship with concentrated fire, capture the rest intact. They'll all be ours—minimize damage."
"Aye, Admiral."
At the admiral's command, Graves's ships turned their tillers. His flagship twisted into line abreast as well.
"Admiral, the wind is making the flags hard to see. relaying orders to the other ships will take time."
"As long as the salvo is— What?"
Graves recalled the defeats of the past five years. In those American sea battles, large and small, he had alternated between victories and losses. What he gained was the archetype of victory and defeat. Victories came as overwhelming routs or hard-fought draws. Defeats as crushing disasters or narrow margins after even fights.
Anyone could say that, but sensing the omens was another matter. Through experience, Graves won big when he could and lost small when he couldn't. In drawn-out even battles, he focused on escape—his record showed more losses, but exchange ratios were even. When total defeat loomed, he fled, risks be damned. That kept him in the admiral's seat despite the defeats.
And now, he sensed the aura of total annihilation—not mere defeat.
Land to the rear, Chesapeake Bay to the north. The bay's shallow depths—too deep for British ships of the line. The James and Elizabeth Rivers were the same. Paths existed, but maneuverability? No.
The only open sea for British ships of the line? Right here. Right now. Precisely the span of their line abreast formation.
"Admiral, the fleet is in line abreast. Awaiting gunnery orders."
"No."
"Pardon?"
"This isn't the time to fire. All hands! Break line abreast and retreat to the Atlantic!"
"Change flags! Retreat! Disengage line abreast and retreat!"
The signalman felt a mental puzzlement at the order but his body obeyed. But the wind did not. The southwest gale whipped the flags, making them hard to read from afar. Only after repeated signals did the other ships grasp Admiral Graves's command.
Having finally understood after several observations, the other ships turned their tillers to break formation—but ahead of them, blocking the Atlantic exit, lay over a thousand ships flying French, Spanish, and American colors.
* Rewind time briefly. French Atlantic Admiral Pierre, with 93 ships of the line and 100 frigates for the maritime blockade of Britain, had sailed north from Saint-Domingue—modern Haiti. En route, he linked up with Spanish warships and half-regularized massive privateer squadrons.
110 ships of the line, 340 frigates, and around 1,800 small privateer craft. The Franco-Spanish-American allied fleet. Most of the large ships were French, the mediums Spanish, the smalls American.
France's navy was already formidable. Spain had plenty of low-grade frigates for colonial trade. America, lacking a proper navy, scaled up privateers to over 2,200 vessels.
Normally, shipyard limits would make such a privateer force impossible for America. But they captured enemy merchantmen and converted them into privateers. Thus assembled, the grand armada converged on the American mid-Atlantic, Chesapeake Bay.
"Charleston seems successfully lured."
Admiral Pierre peered north through his telescope while passing the empty waters off Charleston—modern South Carolina. At the northern edge, ships of the line chased over a hundred American small craft with cannon fire.
"New York goes without saying. So far, the plan holds."
Before heading to Chesapeake Bay, the alliance had devised a final operation to end the American theater: lure every British ship on the East Coast into the bay and crush them.
Madness, per the plan's outline. Step one—luring British ships into the bay's shallows—was insane. Though the bay's 6-meter depths blocked pursuit by ships of the line, the small privateers would sink under even light fire. Maintaining perfect speed to bait without being hit was the crux.
Even if lured in, escape routes were iffy. The James River to Richmond was considered but scrapped due to inevitable losses from indiscriminate fire in narrowing sections.
The night before execution, the escape route was set: abandon ships, land at Smithfield, and flee to Richmond on foot. Brutally crude.
And the crude plan succeeded.
"Scout report: Our bait force landed safely at Smithfield and fled to Richmond. The enemy is tangled at the James River mouth. They'll need at least three hours to sortie."
"Excellent. Wind?"
"Southwest, fair for Fisherman's Island."
"Heaven aids us."
Admiral Pierre raised flags, sending 66 frigates and 150 sloops into Chesapeake Bay. He waited east of Cape Henry. About two hours later, gunfire echoed from the northeast.
The allied fleet dressed ranks and entered the bay. Up front: around 1,000 cutters and sloops in tight wedge formation, slowly generating a current.
The high-firepower ships of the line and frigates rode the artificial current and tailwind at a blistering 10 knots—18.5 km/h—sealing the bay's entrance.
What the blockade saw: 75 tangled British ships of the line and 36 frigates at the James River mouth, forming line abreast against allied mediums and smalls for a broadside. But the allied heavies had flanked their sterns and bows in enfilading line abreast, perfectly positioned to rake their hulls.