Holbrooke's Tide

by Chris Durbin

  ‘Helm a-lee quartermaster,’ called Holbrooke. ‘Mister Lynton. Stand by the larboard battery.’

  Kestrel butted her way through the eye of the wind, and her bowsprit cleared the merchantman’s taffrail by less than fifty feet.

  ‘Hold your fire Mister Lynton. The frigate will be your next mark as we clear the merchantman.’

  He was privately happy to spare the merchantman any further destruction; she’d done Kestrel a valuable service in being the fixed point around which his manoeuvres pivoted. Now Kestrel was where Holbrooke wanted her to be. She was hardening onto the wind as she cleared the wrecked West Indiaman and there was Sauvage, heading the wrong way and with the responsibility of protecting this valuable wreck to muddle her captain’s thinking.

  ‘Fire as you bear,’ shouted Holbrooke. He knew that eight six-pounders could achieve little against a frigate of Sauvage’s size, but there she was and clearly not expecting the little sloop to appear on this side of the merchantman – to windward – parting the gunsmoke and heading west as the wind veered further towards the north. Holbrooke could sense the French captain’s indecision. He didn’t know how badly the merchantman was hit and if he didn’t render assistance and she foundered …. Well, de Kersaint would have something to say about it. And after all, in the grand scheme of things a little sloop was worth nothing against the riches that lay in the merchantman’s hold, the white gold – sugar – that could replenish the French King’s war-chest. If Sauvage’s captain realized that the commander of this British sloop was the same man who had harried them through the Caicos Passage, then his decision might have been different, but he couldn’t possibly know that. Holbrooke had a bad moment when he saw the frigate turn into the wind. Was he going to pursue Kestrel? But then he saw her topsail backed; she was lying-to so that her captain could speak to the merchantman, and every minute Kestrel was moving further away.

  ◆◆◆

  3: The Admiralty Secretary

  Wednesday, Twenty-First of December 1757.

  The Admiralty, Whitehall.

  The coach from Portsmouth deposited Holbrooke at Charing Cross. Although he’d visited London a few times – with his father as a child and on two fraught occasions when he and Carlisle had pleaded their case for Medina’s fitting-out at the Navy Board in Seething Lane – he’d never been to the Admiralty and he had only a hazy idea of its location. Anxious to avoid any embarrassment, he’d asked Lynton, who’d grown up in and around London, for directions.

  ‘The coach will run up King’s Street, which they’re calling Whitehall nowadays. You’ll see the Admiralty behind a brick wall on your left after you pass Horse Guards and a hundred yards before you reach Charing Cross. When you leave the coach, you can walk back down King’s Street and enter the Admiralty through the gate.’ He looked affectionately at his captain, ‘and look out for pick-pockets, sir. London isn’t Jamaica, nor Portsmouth. They’ll have the shirt off your back before you can turn around.’ Lynton had no illusions about Holbrooke’s street-sense. A childhood in rural Wickham and the rest of his short life at the naval academy or at sea was no preparation for the vices of the great metropolis.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to be told at the Admiralty,’ Holbrooke replied. ‘I expect that we’ll be staying here for a few months while the master attendant has his way with us. It’s probably just professional jealousy, but he’s determined on a package of work for Kestrel, regardless of the refit at Port Royal. As for taking in stores, assuming it goes ahead, the work on the steering gear and the mizzen won’t stop us, but if they do shift the magazine then that’ll certainly require us to disembark the powder. Probably the hold will have to be rummaged as well, so don’t take on any more powder or stores until we know our fate.’

  ‘You’ll remember to ask about the lieutenant’s board while you’re in London, sir? If we’re going to be in the yard’s hands for a while, I’d like to try my luck.’

  ‘Luck will have nothing to do with it, Charles. You’re ready for the board, and you have Captain Carlisle’s recommendation as well as mine. You’ll pass without a doubt.’

  The coach rattled up the London road at a good speed and only started to slow as they approached Putney Bridge. Once over the river, the coachman had to fight his way through the throng, using his whip where his voice didn’t carry enough weight. The crowd was mostly composed of semi-rustic folk living on the borders of the capital, but as they moved into the heart of London, they became progressively more urban, farmer’s smocks giving way to breeches and stockings, and hay carts were replaced by smart city boxes and increasing numbers of coaches. As they crawled up Whitehall Holbrooke saw Horse Guards Parade on the left, an easily identifiable landmark. Then he saw a long brick wall, and behind it, he caught a glimpse of the Admiralty, where his fate would be decided. He hadn’t confided in Lynton, but he foresaw any number of dangers waiting for him behind those doors. Neither he nor Lynton were confirmed in their ranks, and an Admiralty that was always watching the political winds could undoubtedly decide that they had more deserving officers for these plum appointments, or at least officers with more political or family backing. The master attendant at Portsmouth’s desire to take the sloop in hand just exacerbated the dangers. If only Kestrel were needed at sea early in the New Year, there would be barely any time for changes. A few idle months at Portsmouth offered too many opportunities for the Admiralty to interfere.

  Finally, the steaming horses came to a halt at Charing Cross, breaking Holbrooke’s train of thought and requiring him to focus on the next part of his journey.

  ‘Now sir, just be careful of your dunnage in London,’ said the coachman. ‘There’s cut-purses and worse that’ll be away with it before you’ve rested it on the ground. Where be your lodgings, your honour?’ he asked, working hard for his tip. ‘I can fetch you a porter.’

  Without waiting for Holbrooke’s reply, he whistled to an old seaman, who came hobbling forward on bowed legs. The man hardly looked strong enough to carry Holbrooke’s overnight case but was evidently willing.

  ‘The Royal Oak on the Strand, opposite Somerset House,’ Holbrooke ordered and gave the man tuppence, tucking his purse back into the band of his breeches.

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ the old man said, knuckling his forehead. ‘Ye’ll be for the Admiralty, I don’t doubt. Just ‘ee look out for the slip-gibbets that hang around there, they’ll have your purse out of your breeches quicker than the wind. You tuck it in deep now sir,’ he said with a look of real concern.

  Holbrooke was starting to become irritated with all this well-meaning advice and was inclined to believe it was exaggerated. How could anyone remove his purse without him knowing? But despite himself, he kept a tight hold on his sword and money and pushed his way through the crowds of people milling around this, the centre of power for the growing nation and empire. He followed the brick wall, and behind it, he saw the big U-shaped structure, just as Lynton had described, three tall stories of red brick and Portland stone with a classical portico of four imposing columns at the base of the U, facing a cobbled courtyard. He was unaccountably nervous. His commander’s uniform sat uneasily on his shoulders, and he was having difficulty in imagining that anyone would be fooled by it. He was bidden to meet Vice Admiral John Forbes, one of the Lords Commissioners, to be given his orders. He feared the worst and the combined effect of the eight-hour coach journey, the lateness of the day, the anxiety for his possessions and the feeling of being an imposter made him light-headed. He could do with a strong coffee or better still, a glass of Serviteur’s rum punch.

  ◆◆◆

  In this frame of mind Holbrooke would have walked right past the gate into the Admiralty courtyard if an officious porter hadn’t called out.

  ‘For the Admiralty, sir? I thought so. You looked right distracted there, and I wouldn’t want you to miss your time.’

  It was clear that this man, also, required a tip, and Holbrooke parted with another tuppence in response to the man’s
shameless palm-upwards gesture.

  ‘Now sir, I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself, and I can see how this is your first time between these gates,’ he said, patronisingly. ‘Sixpence is the normal gratuity for the porter, sir.’ He stood immovable in front of Holbrooke. London will be expensive, he concluded, as he exchanged the two copper coins for a bright silver one.

  The porter, all smiles and deference now, showed him into the waiting room where there were four other sea officers. He recognised none of them, and they made no moves to introduce themselves. Judging by their reticence, they were probably supplicants, pleading for a ship. If they had no employment when the navy was still expanding for the new war, then there was likely to be some good reason, a flaw in their service record, a misdemeanour that they hoped had been forgotten or some disagreement with influential people. Holbrooke left them to their dark thoughts. The comfortable leather chairs with deep wings and hoods against the bitter draughts had all been taken, but Holbrooke’s new best friend found him a seat in the corner and brought a clean blanket from some inner sanctum. His cloak covered his upper part, but thin woollen breeches and silk stockings were no defence against a London winter, and he submitted to the porter tucking the blanket around his legs. He noticed that his fellows were similarly tucked up against the bitter cold, each choosing comfort over elegance.

  ‘Your name sir?’

  ‘Commander Holbrooke. Admiral Forbes is expecting me.’

  The clock in the corner ticked away the minutes and the winter evening grew darker until all outside the windows was lost in the gloom. A different porter shuffled in at intervals to tend the meagre fire and to trim the candles. One by one the other sea officers were called. Casting off their dishonourable blankets and adjusting their swords, looking even more nervous than Holbrooke, they hobbled away on legs stiffened by inaction. He saw them go in, but he saw none of them come out again. Perhaps there was a separate door for disappointed officers to leave by, or maybe they’d been swallowed up by the very building that surrounded them. With a start, Holbrooke realised that he’d been drifting off.

  This will never do, he thought, pushing himself out of his chair. I’ve nothing to fear, I bring news of a victory, and I command a good prize that is my own. He threw the blanket aside and as the now sole inhabitant of the waiting room he paced up and down as though he was on his own quarterdeck.

  To hell with them. If they think I’m concerned, well they’re probably right, but I won’t appear an invalid when I meet the admiral, he decided as he strode from the fireplace to the door and back again, his hands clasped behind his back under his cloak.

  ‘Mister Holbrooke,’ he barely heard the soft call of the porter. ‘The secretary will see you now.’

  That was a surprise; he hadn’t expected to see the Admiralty Secretary. Holbrooke followed through the door, up a set of stairs and a short way along a corridor where the porter, without knocking, pushed open a door and ushered Holbrooke inside. He found himself in the office of the most influential naval person after Anson himself. John Clevland had been the secretary to the Admiralty Board since 1751. It was he who decided which letters the members of the board needed to see, he controlled the First Lord’s diary and recommended courses of action to the board. If Anson dominated the strategy and the political levers that kept the navy functioning, it was nevertheless Clevland who sat at the centre of the web of information. When a captain wrote to the Admiralty, unless he was a peer himself, he addressed his letter to Clevland. Any reply would be signed by Clevland. If the secretary was unimpressed by an officer, then his chances of a ship or of promotion were negligible. He had far more real power than the members of the board because they came and went year by year, and in any case, were only present in the Admiralty for a few hours on two or three days each week. However, the secretary was permanent, the political winds hardly affecting him at all. Clevland himself had been in post as joint or sole secretary for nine years already, and he was only the sixth holder of the position since the revered Samuel Pepys three-quarters of a century ago. Holbrooke hadn’t expected to meet him, but he recognised the importance of this unexpected opportunity.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Mister Holbrooke,’ said Clevland rising and offering his hand. ‘I do hope you’ll excuse me intercepting you before your call on Admiral Forbes. He’ll be ready for you in ten minutes. Meanwhile, I’d be glad of the opportunity to meet you.’

  ‘With pleasure, sir,’ replied Holbrooke, unsure of just how to address this important person.

  ‘Then please take a seat. I gather this is your first visit to the Admiralty.’

  Holbrooke understood that this information could only have come from the porter. Evidently, Clevland had a robust system of gathering information about his visitors. He’d have to remember that for future visits; if there were any.

  Clevland fingered a letter before him that Holbrooke recognised as his own report of Kestrel’s proceedings since leaving the Caribbean. Having left the Jamaica Station as soon as he passed into the Atlantic without any orders to return, his letters – his reports of proceedings – were addressed to this same Clevland. But Holbrooke still wondered how, with some three hundred ships in commission, the secretary had the time to concern himself with his small sloop. The answer, of course, was that he only really had to involve himself with flag officers and those few ships that were sailing under Admiralty orders. The rest, the ships-of-the-line that made up the fighting squadrons and the frigates that acted as their eyes and ears ordinarily submitted their letters and reports through their squadron commanders. Often it was the sloops that reported directly to the Admiralty, being of little use in a squadron where their light build and small armament just made them easy targets. That gave their Lordships, as advised by the secretary, the opportunity to assess these commanders – and they were often very young – before making the almost-irrevocable step of posting them as captains. Many commanders fell by the wayside in this the most critical event in their careers.

  ‘You did well to avoid getting involved in the French convoy, Mister Holbrooke. The dispatches were much more important than a few prizes, and evidently they had a strong escort. This de Kersaint appears to be a capable officer, despite his defeat to Forrest off Cape François. By the way, the news of Forrest’s action is being spread throughout the kingdom. You must know that the administration is under huge pressure in parliament and this is the first real naval victory. It was vital that we received it as speedily as possible.’

  Holbrooke had heard that Clevland, in addition to his paid position, was the Member for Saltash in the West Country, a rock-solid naval borough. He’d know only too well the effect of good news from the war, where the tidings had so far been bad: the loss of Minorca last year, the French invasion of Hanover this year and a string of setbacks in the Americas. Good news from the navy was particularly useful, as that service gobbled up the lion’s share of the budget. He nodded in understanding, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘But there is one thing that puzzles me, Mister Holbrooke. I gather that your sloop,’ he turned over the letter, ‘yes, Kestrel, was a recent prize taken from a Dutch pirate. I preferred her old name Torenvalk by the way, but I suppose a commander-in-chief can be allowed the leeway to rename his prizes. But I’m digressing. Admiral Cotes doesn’t say much about the circumstances of her capture or why, if I may be so indelicate, he gave her to such a young man as yourself.’

  Clevland paused, watching Holbrooke appraisingly and apparently waiting for a response. If he was in any way embarrassed, he didn’t show it; perhaps he’d been this way many times before with young unknowns promoted in far away stations on the strength of unsubstantiated achievements.

  Holbrooke realised that this was no casual question. This very powerful man was questioning his fitness for his rank and his right to command Kestrel. It was an inflexion point in his career. Although Admiral Cotes in Jamaica had given him a commission for Kestrel and had promoted him to
commander, both the commission and promotion were provisional, awaiting confirmation by the Admiralty Board. And it was the secretary – this man who was quizzing him so adroitly – who would advise the board. He braced himself. It would do no good to appear too submissive to this man, but on the other hand, he mustn’t offend him. Best by far to give a factual account and let his deeds speak for themselves.

  ‘Torenvalk and her consort attacked Medina in the Caicos Passage to the north of Cape François. I captured Torenvalk and so disabled her consort that she was obliged to run to the west into the Old Bahama Strait…’

  ‘One moment, Mister Holbrooke. You use the first-person singular pronoun,’ said Clevland pedantically, ‘but surely Captain Carlisle commanded Medina. Do I misunderstand you?’

  Holbrooke looked confused for a moment as he tried to remember what was meant by the first-person singular pronoun. He hadn’t heard that expression since the naval academy, but it came back quickly enough. Of course, Clevland was referring to Holbrooke’s use of the word I which implied that Holbrooke had himself taken Torenvalk. There was much that the secretary didn’t know.

  ‘Captain Carlisle was injured in the opening phase of the engagement with the Dutchmen, sir. I assumed command as we were on the point of being boarded, repulsed the Dutchmen and completed their destruction. Perhaps I’m too bold in taking credit for the action.’

  ‘Not at all Mister Holbrooke,’ replied Clevland with the hint of a smile. ‘It’s a pity that Admiral Cotes didn’t make that clear. Then, having brought Medina and Torenvalk back to Jamaica, Medina sailed again with Commodore Forrest, and you ably seconded Captain Carlisle during the action off Cape François?’

  ‘Again sir, the facts are a little different.’ Holbrooke was finding it difficult to tread that fine line between stiff boastfulness and soft self-deprecation, and he was fighting his own irritation that threatened to become evident.