Chapter 793: Hotham's Countermeasure
A staff officer delivered the fleet's casualty report to Hotham.
Outside the officers' quarters, the faint groans of wounded sailors could still be heard, despite repeated stern orders from the officers for them to remain silent.
Hotham irritably tossed the casualty report aside.
He didn't need to read it; he had personally participated in the entire day's battle and was perfectly clear on the losses.
The French fleet had launched a total of five attacks, damaging one third-rate ship and two fourth-rate ships.
Indeed, the damaged third-rate ship was the Theseus, the one he was aboard.
Although it only suffered two barrel-sized holes on the bow's upper deck, which had little impact on combat effectiveness, French cannon fire had resulted in sixteen sailor casualties.
The situation with the two fourth-rate ships was similar; their hull damage wasn't severe—the Rough-Finned Shark's lost stern sail was the most serious—but the many sailor casualties would heavily impact morale.
Of course, he had automatically disregarded the losses of the Cruiser squadron, which had initially provoked the French fleet only to be beaten back.
Hotham and his senior officers continued their meeting until two in the morning, still unable to devise any effective countermeasures, only dispatching two ships to establish contact with Lord Hood's main fleet.
The next day.
A scene similar to the previous day unfolded once more.
The nimble French Steam Warships repeatedly charged forward, "biting" at the massive British Battleships, then swiftly turned to evade, reorganized their formation, and charged again...
They continued this pattern of repeated harassment until the sun began to set, only then blowing their whistles and sailing away.
However, after yesterday's practice, the French sailors had evidently become more proficient in their tactics, allowing them to launch a total of six attacks and damage four British warships.
In the conference room of the Theseus, Hotham was practically going mad.
Despite being able to sink the small French ships with a single broadside, he couldn't lay a hand on them, forced to endure the humiliating attacks.
The Rough-Finned Shark, in particular. Today, due to its slow maneuvers, it again became the target of concentrated French attacks. A large section of its aft starboard side was blown open, and several cannons tumbled into the sea through the breach.
"General, I believe my ship needs to return to Gibraltar for repairs," the captain of the Rough-Finned Shark whispered. "I'm concerned the stern's superstructure won't hold and might collapse..."
Hotham frowned and shook his head. "The French are likely resupplying at a port on the north side of Corsica. If the Rough-Finned Shark is discovered by them after leaving the squadron, it will be extremely dangerous."
Lieutenant Colonel Smith, standing nearby, declared angrily, "General, we should seek to go on the offensive. If we can find a single opportunity, we can annihilate those French Cruisers!"
"That's precisely what the French want," Colonel Harriet, across from him, immediately countered. "As soon as we pursue those smoke-belching ships, the French transport fleet will immediately sail out of the Port of Marseille to resupply Genoa."
Someone muttered softly, "And we can't catch them either..."
Lieutenant Colonel Smith exclaimed loudly, "Then we can't just stay here indefinitely; the French Cruisers will be back tomorrow!"
The others all nodded instinctively. "Yes, we cannot continue to take these passive blows."
"We have to come up with a plan!"
"Transport fleet?" Hotham repeated the two words, then suddenly raised a hand to signal for silence. "We'll leave here tomorrow at dawn."
"General, but what about the Port of Genoa..."
Hotham smiled. "We'll sail towards Marseille, allowing us to intercept the French transport ships en route.
"After that, we'll maintain maneuverability in the waters between Marseille and Genoa, to avoid harassment from French Cruisers."
In an era without airplanes or radar, finding a randomly maneuvering fleet on the open sea was an extremely difficult task.
For the French to locate the Genoa squadron, they would have to disperse a large number of warships.
By the time they discovered the British fleet's whereabouts, and then gathered their warships to organize an attack, several days would have passed.
Hotham knew well that time was on his side.
Even if Lord Hood didn't return with the main fleet, the battle at the Port of Genoa would conclude in a little over ten days.
He simply needed to find a way to drag out the situation for ten days.
Hotham himself, however, failed to notice that he had unconsciously shifted his focus to merely stalling for time, rather than defeating the French fleet.
After all, he commanded nine Battleships, while the enemy was merely a group of Cruisers, or even Frigates...
The next morning, when the French Steam Warship squadron arrived south of the Port of Genoa, they found the British fleet was gone.
Brigadier General Dichayera immediately dispatched Frigates to search the surrounding 20 nautical mile area, confirming the British had departed.
Standing on the foredeck of the Tunisia, he couldn't help but sigh. "It seems the British are even less patient than I imagined."
He signaled to a staff officer nearby. "Immediately contact Marseille and inform them that the blockade here in Genoa has been lifted."
"Yes, General."
The steam Frigate Cape Parrot, running at full power, delivered the good news to Marseille in just one day.
The first batch of three transport ships, already prepared, immediately departed the port, setting sail for Genoa.
However, on the second day after entering the French Riviera waters, the transport ships encountered British galleys.
Before long, Hotham's Genoa squadron, a massive, monstrous silhouette, appeared in the eastern shipping lane.
The transport ships hastily turned to flee, but due to their heavy cargo, their speeds were extremely slow. Ultimately, only one successfully returned to Marseille, while the other two were captured by the British fleet.
On board the Tunisia, Brigadier General Dichayera's face was ashen.
He hadn't expected the British, despite leaving the Port of Genoa, to be patrolling the French Riviera waters.
Given the transport ships' speed, it would likely be difficult to find a gap to slip through.
The captain of the Cape Parrot, standing nearby, suggested, "General, should we proceed to Marseille to escort them?"
Before Brigadier General Dichayera could reply, he shook his head.
Their own Steam Warships were only good at harassment; they couldn't be used for escort duty at all.
British Battleships could easily withstand the attacks of these smaller ships and sink all the transport vessels—for a third-rate ship, sinking a transport ship was a matter of a few broadsides.
Brigadier General Dichayera gripped the deck railing tightly. In just over ten days, General Dumouriez's logistical supplies would be depleted.
Although he had repelled the British fleet, he hadn't anticipated that the British would resort to such a shameless delaying tactic.
Just then, a timid voice spoke from behind him. "General, um, I might have a way to deliver supplies to Genoa..."
Dichayera turned, seeing a non-commissioned officer in his early twenties.
He strained to recall, then said, "Henry Demuville? Are you the senior sailor in charge of the main sail?"
"That's me." Demuville bowed slightly, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "It's an honor you remember my name."
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