by Chris Durbin
Portsmouth harbour offered a superb view of Britain’s wartime naval preparations. Perhaps twenty ships and many smaller vessels were in sight, and over the battery at Gosport, to the right of the houses and gin shops at Portsmouth Point, he could see the masts of the fleet at anchor on the sandy patch of shallower water at Spithead. Beyond, at St. Helen’s, he could just make out a further group of ships. And for each of these ships, at least one boat was underway, running under sail into the harbour or to the landing stages between the Round Tower and Southsea Castle. Up the harbour to the north towards Fareham Creek he could see the prison hulks in their neat rows, moored head and stern as though in line-of-battle, but the illusion was spoiled by the lack of masts. They were already filling up with captured seamen, almost all French. Perhaps some of them were the crews of the frigates and merchantmen that he had a hand in capturing, in the Mediterranean and more recently the Caribbean. Those places with their warm sea and brilliant sunshine seemed like a different world to Portsmouth Harbour on a gloomy December evening. It was always cold here, even at the height of summer.
More cheerfully, to the right he could see Dorsetshire, a third-rate of seventy guns, fresh off the stocks and launched only a week before. The dockyard had been working double tides to get her ready to join the fleet. The sheer-hulk was alongside dropping her lower masts into place even as the light faded, and there was a positive swarm of smaller boats, all engaged in the complex business of fitting out a ship-of-the-line. Over the water, the massive bulk of Haslar Naval Hospital rose from the low land that made up the Gosport peninsula. It was said to be the largest brick building in the world, and from Holbrooke’s vantage point, with the setting sun just peeping below the low clouds, it certainly looked as though it could be.
◆◆◆
Holbrooke climbed the few steps up the ship’s side to the twitter of the pipes, the salute to a ship’s captain, and only to a ship’s captain. He hadn’t yet heard it often enough for it to become mere routine. Lynton was waiting for him on the deck, with the master’s mate, the midshipmen and the warrant officers, all in solemn array to greet their returning leader. It was impossible at moments like this to forget that the ship belonged to him. His to take to fame and glory, but also his to bring to ruin and disgrace. His ship, his destiny. The ceremony of piping the side reinforced this in a way that no words on paper could ever achieve.
‘Good evening Mister Lynton,’ Holbrooke said as the pipes ended. ‘I’ll see all the officers in my cabin in ten minutes, if you please, but perhaps you’d join me now before they arrive?’
They walked off the main deck and down into the great cabin. If there was any advantage to these flush-deck sloops, it was that the cabin was uncluttered with guns, all sixteen of which were mounted on the upper deck. It meant that the cabin had a low deckhead – there was no question of Holbrooke standing upright – but it was a surprisingly large space. The other advantage that the cabin boasted was the presence of Jacques Serviteur, a freed French domestic slave – at some time a major-domo of a great plantation house, no less – from the island of Saint Domingue. Serviteur had volunteered for service in Medina when his fragile fishing boat was on the point of sinking and had happily moved with Holbrooke into Kestrel. He had made the great cabin an orderly haven of tranquillity, even when they’d been battling Atlantic gales on the way from the warm Caribbean.
Holbrooke and Lynton sat at a small occasional table under the stern windows. With the wind in the south-west and a flood tide, they had an excellent view of Dorsetshire and the grey stone walls of Portchester Castle beyond with the chalk ridge of Portsdown Hill rising in the background.
‘Well, Charles, I know our immediate future. Some of it’s good and some you may think not so good.’
Lynton looked blankly at his captain. That faint emphasis on the word you had warned him to be ready for bad news, and he had a very good idea what it would be.
‘Kestrel is for the North Sea. We sail on Tuesday, stored for three months,’ Holbrooke knew no better way of breaking the news, ‘but you won’t be with us, I regret to say. In a way their Lordships are doing you a favour. Your orders will come tomorrow, for the receiving ship as an acting lieutenant so that you can present yourself for examination.’
The receiving ship! This was worse than Lynton had imagined. Apart from the unpleasantness of it all – keeping under confinement all the men whom the impress service had collected before they could be drafted to ships – he knew that many good officers had been forgotten once they were sent on this duty. Of course, he must pass the lieutenant’s examination, but he’d hoped to be able to that at some occasion when Kestrel had a few days at anchor at some port within reach of London. His despair was written on his face.
‘I can only say that I’ll do everything in my power to get you a ship when you’ve passed, which could be in just a few weeks,’ said Holbrooke looking miserable. They’d come through a lot together, from messmates in the early days in Fury to the two-man command team in Kestrel when they outwitted the French frigates in the Atlantic. But both men recognised that this was the way of the navy. Despite Holbrooke’s protestations, they knew that it was unlikely that they’d serve together again.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Lynton, straightening his back, ‘and if I don’t get another chance, I’d like you to know what a pleasure it’s been serving with you.’
◆◆◆
They were saved from an embarrassing few minutes by a knock at the door. The remaining officers came in, each instinctively ducking as they passed under the low lintel. They were few in number; a master’s mate – Kestrel only had one – two midshipmen, the gunner and the carpenter. Holbrooke had no sailing master yet, and no marine lieutenant.
‘Where’s the bosun?’ he asked. The absence of Jackson was immediately noticeable; the man dominated every room by his sheer physical presence and his unquenchable delight in his warranted status.
‘Bosun went ashore after dinner, sir, to talk to the master attendant,’ replied the carpenter. ‘He’s in a tearing hurry to get those backstays replaced, in case we have to sail sharpish like.’
‘Well, I can talk to him when he returns. Meanwhile, I expect our sailing orders to arrive tomorrow, along with a sailing master and I’m sad to tell you, a replacement lieutenant. Mister Lynton is to be examined for his lieutenancy and I’m sure we wish him all success.’
Serviteur had heard the private conversation between Holbrooke and Lynton; nothing was a secret from the captain’s steward in a tiny ship like Kestrel. He’d raided the galley for the hot water that the cook was preparing for his mess’s tea and had made a rum punch in the true West Indian style. He brought out the glasses on the only piece of silver plate that Kestrel possessed – a battered tray that belonged to the gunroom – and produced the punch at just the right moment to prevent the meeting becoming gloomy. Everyone present had been in the Caribbean only a few weeks before. They’d shared memories of a different life, where the tropical breezes and warm sunshine brought smiling faces and fresh fruits. Aye, and deadly sickness and promotion when the thinned ranks above them needed filling. The aroma of the punch warmed the atmosphere and their faces, and they toasted Charles Lynton’s future success in the potent liquor.
‘Then that’s all settled, gentlemen. The men will work double tides to get the stores aboard and the rigging repaired, but there’ll be four hours leave to each watch on Saturday and Sunday. Every man of them has prize money to be paid, so I don’t anticipate any stragglers while we’re under sailing orders. We’ll sail on the morning tide on Tuesday.’
‘Sir, the bosun’s boat is hooking on, he has a gentleman with him,’ said Serviteur in a low, confidential tone.
‘Thank you, Serviteur,’ Holbrooke replied, thinking once again what a prize he had in this strange black servant. He’d produced hot coffee at the right moment, rum punch when the mood needed lifting, and now he was able to deliver this message unobtrusively.
‘Gentlem
en, we’ll leave it there, and please let me know by eight bells if you foresee any difficulties. I’ll see the bosun separately, and his mysterious civilian.’
◆◆◆
As the last of the officers left, Jackson entered the cabin alone. He looked pleased with himself.
‘Well Jackson, have you found your backstays already? Has the master attendant loosened his miser’s grasp without me having to part with too much gold?’
‘Not yet, sir, but I have high hopes for tomorrow. However, I have something better for you,’ with a self-satisfied air that sat strangely on that rugged face, he held open the door and let in the mystery civilian.
‘Good afternoon, George, how do you do?’ said his father, William Holbrooke, as he eased himself into the cabin. ‘I found this young fellow berating my good friends in the rigging store and begged a seat in his boat, and here I am!’
Holbrooke was amazed. He’d hoped that he’d be able to see his father before Kestrel sailed, perhaps to surprise him at his Christmas feast in the cottage on the river Meon above Wickham, but he hadn’t dreamed that his father would appear in his own cabin without any notice.
‘I’ll leave you, sir,’ said Jackson. ‘I can pick up the news from Mister Lynton.’ He left the cabin, quietly closing the door behind him.
Father and son looked at each other wordlessly for a few moments. William was bursting with pride at the promotion of his son. It was less than two years ago that Captain Carlisle had written to his old mentor and shipmate to warn him that his son, George, was on a slippery slope that would likely end in his dismissal from the ship, and as an inevitable consequence, the end of his naval career. But in the intervening time, George Holbrooke had turned himself around. He’d become something of a local hero in absentia, having taken part in several successful actions and achieved promotion to lieutenant ahead of his time. It was only today that Holbrooke senior had heard the amazing news that his son had been promoted again and was now in command of this fine sloop-of-war, not dissimilar in size to the old Wolf, a brig-sloop that he’d served in with Carlisle so many years ago. He could hardly believe that George was a commander! He’d immediately walked into Wickham where he caught a cart that took him the four miles down to Fareham creek, hailing a wherry to take him to the academy knowing that any letters for him would be waiting there. Sure enough, there was a letter and an invitation to come out to the sloop as soon as he was able, written in hope rather than in expectation because George Holbrooke knew that the academy would be closed for Christmas. All the students would be dispersed to their families, and the staff would have gone home.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I expect you missed dinner, so I’ve prepared an early supper for you. Will Mister Holbrooke,’ he motioned towards the older man, ‘be joining you?’
Holbrooke senior looked in astonishment at the massive frame of the black servant Serviteur. Holbrooke junior was inwardly amused because that was everyone’s reaction on first seeing Jacques Serviteur at his work. He looked the most unlikely servant imaginable, with more the air of the mayor of a small town or a successful merchant.
‘Will you stay father?’ asked Holbrooke, looking suddenly very vulnerable, hoping with all his strength that his father would agree.
‘Certainly, George, certainly. I expect you can arrange a boat for me to Fareham Creek later.’
‘Sir, I thought I might make up a cot in the master’s cabin, as it’s empty for now, if you agree?’ said Serviteur.
George Holbrooke looked at his father.
‘I’d be delighted to stay the night, and I can be underway in the morning,’ said William.
‘Then that’s settled. The sailing master joins us tomorrow, so you have your own cabin until then.’
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6: The Cottage on the River
Sunday, Twenty-Fifth of December 1757.
Meon Cottage, Wickham.
The thin ice cracked noisily as Kestrel’s boat nudged towards the landing place beside the tidal mill at the head of Fareham Creek. The midwinter sun must have risen but there was no sign of it behind the ominous clouds, and it offered only a meagre and spectral illumination, distorting distances and giving the water an unearthly hue. Cams Mansion was visible behind the winter-bare trees, where the rooks soared and squabbled under the portentous sky.
Holbrooke often lapsed into silent fits of contemplation, and when he wasn’t pondering his profession or his own temperamental shortcomings, he considered the harmony that was to be found in the natural world. Here at the head of the creek, the tiny Wallington Brook paid its tribute of fresh water to Portsmouth Harbour and thence into the vast ocean that caresses the shores of all the world. Did the fingerling brown trout, the elusive brook lampreys and the little crayfish that he remembered from his childhood know that this was the boundary of their world? Did they know that to pass into the salt water was to enter another realm, a forbidden country? Certainly a few of the trout knew, and they profited from the rich feeding at sea – their very own Eden – to return in a year to the place of their birth and to spawn a new generation. The Hampshire poachers knew them; sea-trout they were called, or peal a little further along the coast, and they were fine eating when they could be snagged from under the alder roots where they waited out the short winter days. But for the lamprey and the crayfish, the salt sea meant death. He watched a flight of oystercatchers wheeling silently overhead as they searched for the new hunting grounds that were being laid bare as the tide receded. Their smart black-and-white plumage and long reddish-orange bills made a pleasing contrast against the leaden sky; then, as if on command, they turned together and showed their white underside and merged with the grey overcast sky, lost in the silence. There’d be snow before the forenoon was over. Holbrooke shook off the feeling of dislocation from his surroundings; it was only natural after a year in the Caribbean, he told himself.
‘Oars,’ called the coxswain in a low voice. Holbrooke noted absently that he, also, was affected by the atmosphere. Dawson had judged the right moment to stop rowing so that the momentum of the boat would carry it against the resistance of the ice and the ebb tide. The starboard bow just kissed the wooden piles of the jetty, the impact barely noticeable to the passenger in the stern. The bow oar took a turn of his painter around a handy post while the coxswain made the stern fast.
‘There you go, sir. I’ll be back at eight bells in the afternoon, and we’ll follow the tide back to the old sloop. We’ll have you back on board before the light fails.’
Dawson was a garrulous man, perhaps too talkative for a captain’s coxswain, but he was a good seaman, an expert boatman and reliable. Holbrooke was inclined to suffer his talkative nature for the sake of efficiency. This faintly patronising tone was new, though, as if he was talking to a youngster or an invalid who couldn’t look after himself. Perhaps it was a real concern that his captain was being delivered ashore into the hands of God-knows-what sort of people.
‘And there’s your carriage, sir, if I’m not mistaken.’
That brought Holbrooke’s idea of Dawson back to reality. Only a seaman could describe the King’s Head’s dog-cart as a carriage, and only a wildly optimistic seaman at that would mistake Samuel, the inn’s ancient ostler, for a coachman. No coaches ran through Wickham on Christmas day, and this was the best transport that the senior Holbrooke could arrange. With a resigned sigh, Holbrooke threw his bag into the back and stepped up beside Samuel. There was no cracking of the whip, no loud exhortation to the horse, but seemingly of its own volition both horse and cart turned laboriously around in the mill yard, the broken tiles and fragments of flint crunching under the wheels. They crossed wordlessly over the Wallington Brook, the wheels of the tidal mill under the timber road locked into immobility in this pre-dawn interval of sleepy minds and unwilling limbs. Having shaken off the creek and the brook, they set off north on the Alton road, and the sleeping mill neither noticed nor cared.
◆◆◆
‘Back from
the wars are we, sir?’ asked Samuel once they were well clear of civilisation.
‘That’s right, Samuel,’ replied Holbrooke, hoping to halt the conversation before it began. When he last saw the inn’s dog cart it had a rearward facing passenger seat, but that had been removed, presumably to improve the cargo-carrying capacity, so he had no choice but to sit beside the driver. The cold was seeping through his cloak, and his woollen mittens hardly slowed the insidious chill.
‘I knew you when you was a nipper, had to chase you away from the inn many a time. Light on your feet you were in those days,’ and he made a sound which could have been a laugh.
Holbrooke’s attempt to stifle the conversation failed, he realised, at the point where he addressed the ostler by name. That was all the encouragement that the man needed. He sighed inwardly.
‘Aye, Samuel, I remember.’ He also remembered the times when Samuel hadn’t spotted him, when he and the other boys helped themselves freely from the apple and pear trees in the inn’s garden.
Samuel lapsed into a few moments silence, as though he was framing his next subject, plucking up his courage.
‘I was with Admiral Byng at Cape Passaro, you know,’ said Samuel, tentatively, ‘in the Mediterranean,’ in case Holbrooke was unsure. ‘Afterguard I was, hauled the mizzen sheets under the admiral’s very nose. I wasn’t nothin’ but a landsman, signed on for the bounty and lived to regret it. They discharged me when the old Barfleur got home and I ran all the way back to Wickham,’ he laughed at the memory, a surprisingly jolly sound in the stillness, far removed in quality from his first attempt. ‘I vowed never to go to Portsmouth again; nasty, dangerous place, full of the press. Never went back for me prize money neither.’