by Chris Durbin
I’ll be damned if I don’t invite whoever I want to my cabin, Holbrooke thought, ignoring the tense atmosphere. His coffee in hand, he gathered his officers around a chart of the southern North Sea.
‘I’ve been deliberately vague about our mission, but you all at least know that we’re heading for Emden,’ he looked up to read agreement on the faces of all four men. ‘Well, you should know that Emden is held by the French and is being used to supply their army of occupation in Hanover by sea. Our mission is first to study the Ems estuary,’ and he pointed to the passage that led from the open sea either side of the island of Borkum, up the estuary into the salt lagoon called the Dollart that stood before the ancient walled city of Emden. ‘Having completed that, we’re to occupy ourselves in annoying the trade that’s bringing supplies for the French into Emden until Commodore Holmes should arrive to establish a regular blockade. However, he’ll be cruising off the Elbe and Weser before he comes west to the Ems, so I don’t expect him until March. When he does arrive, we’ll then turn ourselves over to his command ...’
‘Then, sir,’ interrupted Deschamps, rather rudely, ‘until Mister Holmes arrives, he won’t share in any of our prizes, will he?’ He stared hard at his captain. He had a curiously aggressive look that Holbrooke suddenly realised was his only expression when talking to others, whether they were his superior officers or the sloop’s people.
With an effort, Holbrooke contained his disgust. Prize money was essential to all sea officers, but there were certain decencies to be observed, and it would have reflected better upon the first lieutenant’s character and motivations if he’d confined his comments to the matter of their mission until that was clear. Without any other income besides his pay, Holbrooke relied upon prize money to uphold the dignity of his new rank, but he was determined that the chasing of prizes would be subsidiary to the task that their Lordships had entrusted to him.
‘Of course, Mister Deschamps. I believe we all know the rules for prizes when we’re under Admiralty orders,’ he said briskly, giving no opportunity for the first lieutenant to continue. If Deschamps knew that he was being checked, he didn’t show it. Treganoc displayed his first emotion since entering the cabin, looking sideways at Deschamps with a surprised frown.
Holbrooke continued, preferring to ignore this extraordinary intervention. They spoke of sandbars and tides, the routes that supply ships would take and the possibility of shore batteries. Fairview and Treganoc followed attentively and made intelligent comments while Deschamps withdrew into a studied aloofness. Perhaps he’d realised that his captain was less than pleased with him.
‘Then gentlemen, I won’t keep you from your duties any further,’ said Holbrooke, ending the meeting.
◆◆◆
‘Your first lieutenant is an interesting character,’ said Chalmers, tentatively, as he sat with Holbrooke in the cabin, enjoying a sherry. Serviteur had been dismissed, and the cabin door was fastened; the low tones of the chaplain would be overheard by nobody. And yet it was a difficult subject to introduce, even though it was clear to Chalmers that Holbrooke would have raised it himself, in time. The two men had been through a lot together. They’d been side-by-side as muskets and cannon had swept the decks of Fury and Medina, and they’d faced down a determined assassination attempt in Kingston. They were as close as two men of their ages and backgrounds could be. Nevertheless, it pushed at the very limits of their relationship – and it broke clean through the boundaries of naval convention – to discuss the merits of one of the ship’s officers, particularly when that officer was the second-in-command. And yet Chalmers held a curious position in Kestrel; he had no real duties – although he held divine service on Sundays – and yet he was entered on the ship’s books. In truth, he could best be described as a passenger, albeit one who was paid and victualled as an able seaman.
‘He certainly is,’ replied Holbrooke in equally confidential tones. ‘I’m hoping he’ll settle in over the next few days, but I find myself pining for Charles Lynton.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, and be assured I’ll respect any confidences, how did a man of his temperament – I think that’s the right word, temperament – manage to get himself appointed over the head of Lynton, whom I’m very sure we could have kept until there was a convenient time for him to sit his examination?’
‘It’s a mystery that I haven’t had time to solve. Both Admiral Forbes and the Mister Clevland had some incentive to find him a ship, and they’d certainly discussed it before I arrived. I can only assume that he has influential friends or family. It appeared to be more than a mere desire to accommodate someone; the sense that I had was that there was a political need for this appointment.’
‘I see, or at least I believe I do. I’ve heard him talk of his father who is an MP, but I didn’t hear what borough he’s been returned for. And yet it’s a mystery to me how the navy continues to function when the Admiralty’s ability to officer its ships is constrained by these political and family considerations. How on earth do the professional captains that we see in most ships rise to the top?’
‘Now that would be a conversation to be had with Anson or Clevland, but I doubt whether you’d get an honest answer for fear of shaking the system’s foundations. I believe that most promotions are made because of naval interest rather than family or political interest. For sea officers, their own reputation is to some extent dependent upon the performance of their followers and those whose interests they promote. If I plead the case for Mister X to be given a ship, and am successful, then my reputation is mortgaged against his performance. I’m therefore cautious in the use of what little influence that I have. I hoard it and only spend it where I’m convinced that it’ll make a healthy interest. That’s how most promotions are made, and it’s how a captain builds a following of men whom he trusts. However, their Lordships must also work the arithmetic of votes in the House, otherwise the navy’s budget will suffer. Therefore, a percentage of promotions are the result of family or political interest, and there is little certainty of the quality of those appointees. The art, or perhaps the science, is to keep the two in balance so that the appointments that are made for anything other than naval interest are small enough to have only a negligible impact on the performance of the navy as a whole. In fact, Anson is famous for resisting political influence in appointments, but even he must bend to a certain extent.’
‘Then you believe Deschamps’ appointment is one of those few, a result of political interest?’
‘I fear that it’s so. Admiral Forbes was visibly uncomfortable in forcing him upon me, and he’d hardly have been embarrassed if it was naval interest that motivated him. He’d have told me who was backing Deschamps in the certain knowledge that I’d understand the necessity.’
The two men sat in companionable silence, turning the implications of this discussion over in their minds. Eventually, Chalmers turned to Holbrooke and raised his glass.
‘Then I can only conclude that you impressed both the admiral and the secretary with your ability. Because otherwise, they would surely not have foisted such a man upon you, but rather he’d be in a first-rate where his meagre abilities could be unnoticed among the plethora of lieutenants. A glass of sherry with you, sir.’
Holbrooke drank his sherry in silence. If only he could believe the chaplain’s interpretation of events. If only…
◆◆◆
9: Behold Emden!
Sunday, First of January 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. Off Borkum.
The master lowered his telescope. ‘That’s Borkum, sir,’ he said, pointing to a faint smudge that just interrupted the horizon fine on the larboard bow. ‘Rottum will appear soon…, there! Two points on the starboard bow. Rottum’s lower-lying than Borkum and it’s very easy to miss until it’s almost too late. We’re heading fairly into the Western Ems Estuary now.’
He called over his shoulder, ‘southeast’s your course, quartermaster.’
Fairview had made a
good landfall after two days without sight of land. He’d spent hours calculating the effect of the tide and the ship’s leeway and had brought the sloop to within a mile or two of their intended destination, and his satisfaction showed in his demeanour. He usually deferred to the first lieutenant, who had a bullying manner when he could get away with it, but this morning he didn’t even look at him, as Deschamps came bleary-eyed and dishevelled onto the quarterdeck.
Holbrooke knew that without Fairview’s navigation skills, he’d have been forced to grope cautiously towards the land, sounding as he went and perhaps with one of the ship’s boats leading the way. It was an undignified way for a King’s ship to approach a foreign coastline, but with the constant cloud cover, they hadn’t been able to get a sight of the sun since they left Portsmouth. If this was a typical example of the new master’s dead-reckoning skills, then Kestrel was in good hands indeed.
‘We should start sounding when Borkum is six points on our bow, sir.’
‘Very well, Mister Fairview, make it so.’
‘Mister Pritchard will be recording the soundings and taking the bearings,’ said Fairview as he pointed to Holbrooke’s clerk who had just erected a deal table abaft the tiller and was arranging his pen and his notebook. His inkhorn was attached to his buttonhole, and a boat’s compass lay on the table before him. Holbrooke had no idea that his clerk knew how to take bearings, but the master evidently thought him competent.
Holbrooke looked down at the guns. Matross, the master gunner, his mates and the quarter-gunners had been checking the six-pounders since the first tentative light of dawn had brought a grey illumination to the deck. They were there now, easing the tackles and running the guns back and forth on their wooden trucks.
‘Mister Deschamps, beat to quarters if you please. You may open the port-lids but don’t run out the guns yet.’
Kestrel carried all sixteen of her broadside guns on the upper deck, the ten in the waist had open ports and the four on the quarterdeck and two on the fo’c’sle were furnished with port-lids. If the master-attendant at Portsmouth had been granted a month with Kestrel in his hands, those ten open ports would have been fitted with port-lids, and she’d have been a much drier ship. Perhaps there would be time for that when they returned, and for the other modifications that would make Kestrel more like a British sloop-of-war than the Dutch privateer that she’d been only a few months before.
The marine drummer – possibly the youngest person on board except for the boys – had been shivering in the lee of the mainmast for the past hour, under the pitiless eye of the corporal. His drum-roll sounded hesitant to start – probably his hands were numb with cold – but he picked up the rhythm, and the stirring beat brought Kestrel’s crew hurrying to their stations. With only a hundred-and-twenty-five complement, twenty-five of whom were marines, most of the men went straight to the guns, with just a few standing by the tacks and sheets. The marines had already formed up in the waist, two ranks of scarlet-clad figures, their muskets by their side, with the sergeant inspecting them critically. Holbrooke was unsure how a missing tunic button could be relevant when the men may be fighting for their lives in an hour, but that was the marines’ way, and it seemed to work.
When the drum-roll finished, Holbrooke realised that the leadsman, balanced easily in the starboard main-chains with a turn of small-stuff securing him to the shrouds, had already started calling the soundings in a sing-song voice, like a London street-hawker.
‘By the deep, eight,’ he called. Eight fathoms, more-or-less, that was plenty of water.
The master was still studying the land to starboard. Had he heard the leadsman? Holbrooke thought he probably had.
‘By the mark, seven,’ came the next call. The water was shoaling slightly, as was to be expected. Kestrel was well into the western channel.
‘What bottom?’ asked the master. So, he had been listening. The eight-pound hand-lead had a hollow in its lower extremity, and that hollow was stuffed with sticky tallow to collect a sample of the sea bed each time a cast was made.
‘Soft mud and broken shells,’ replied the leadsman. ‘No sand.’
‘Then we’re right in the channel,’ said the master. ‘The river brings down mud from inland and deposits it in the centre of the passage, while the sides are sandier, being better scoured by the tide. I was looking for buoys, sir, the estuary was well marked when I came here before, but it appears that the French, or perhaps the Dutch, have removed them all.’
Holbrooke was impressed. The master had apparently gained a considerable amount of useful knowledge from just one previous visit. Of course, he could be bluffing, in which case it was as well that the tide was flooding.
‘Very well, Mister Fairview. I’m not surprised at the buoys, if Emden is being re-supplied by the Dutch, then they’ll know the channel well, but they probably expect that we don’t.’
‘There are two shallow patches that we need to avoid at low water, but with this height of tide, we’re quite safe in the centre of the channel right up to the lagoon before Emden. To starboard is Groningen, the eastern of the Dutch provinces and to larboard is East Frisia.’
‘Then keep us in the centre of the channel, Mister Fairview.’
Holbrooke remembered that the first lieutenant hadn’t reported the ship at quarters.
‘Mister Deschamps. Are we not at quarters yet?’
‘This past ten minutes…, sir,’ he replied.
Now, was that a hint of surliness in his response? thought Holbrooke. If it was, the first lieutenant’s attitude toward his captain would need to be corrected, but not now, not in front of the ship’s company. He must know that he should report the ship at quarters without delay. However, Holbrooke saw that he wasn’t the only one to notice the first lieutenant’s response; Treganoc was staring hard at Deschamps, and even the quartermaster looked embarrassed. Yes, he’d have to take a firm hand with his new first lieutenant. But not now.
‘Mister Varley. See that the masthead keeps a good lookout for sails and set another man at the fore-masthead to look for signs of shore batteries. Mister Edney will do,’ he added, indicating the signal midshipman who was looking lost. ‘There’ll be no signalling today.’
‘By the mark, seven,’ chanted the leadsman observing that the piece of entwined red rag just kissed the surface of the water as he felt the lead touch bottom.
Holbrooke looked at Fairview, who nodded to show that he’d heard and that he was happy with the sloop’s position.
‘How far do you intend to go today, sir?’ asked Fairview. ‘We have three hours of the flood, but unless we anchor for the night, we’ll need to take the first of the ebb to clear the channel before dark.’
‘Let’s see how far we can get. I’d like to make it to Delfzijl if we can. How far is that?’
‘Five leagues from here, sir. With the tide behind us and this westerly wind, we can be there in less than two hours. We should make it easily. You could anchor at Delfzijl, it’s a neutral port.’
‘No, it’s too close to Emden for today, and I don’t know whether the French have any gunboats there.’
Holbrooke was also conscious that Kestrel still looked very Dutch, her bluff bow and broad beam gave her away to anyone familiar with ships and the sea. He didn’t want any questions about her origin from officious port authorities, and he didn’t want to be beholden in any way to the Dutch, not with the plans that he’d made for interrupting their trade with Emden.
◆◆◆
This was the first fine day they’d been graced with since sailing from Portsmouth. Looking back, Holbrooke couldn’t remember a clear day since he’d left the Caribbean through the Windward Passage back in November. The blue skies and sparkling seas of the tropics seemed like a different lifetime.
The sun that rose over East Frisia was pale, but at least it was visible and not so bright as to make looking up the estuary uncomfortable. Kestrel was under topsails only, but with the wind in her starboard quarter, she was ma
king three or four knots through the water. The flood tide was adding another three knots, so the shore on each side of the sloop sped by remarkably fast. The land on both sides of the estuary was flat and featureless, except for a few villages and isolated cottages. Up ahead lay the substantial Dutch sea-port of Delfzijl, the last real port before they reached the Dollart. There had always been a bulge in the river where the Ems spread out to form an estuary, but long, long ago men had reclaimed much of it for farmland. Then in medieval times a flood had inundated the fields and created a salt lagoon. Over the years there’d been many more-or-less successful attempts to reclaim the land again, but the Dollart was still a large area of water, a rounded square some four or five miles in breadth. Much of the lagoon dried at low tide, and it was a haunt for sea-birds and subsistence fishermen. Emden lay on the Dollart, but they were worlds apart: the bustling city was all business and movement while the lagoon remained unaffected by the march of civilisation.
‘There’s Delfzijl,’ said the master, pointing to a few tall buildings just becoming visible on the starboard bow. It has a good anchorage in the road, and there’s a regular pilot service, although we won’t need their services,’ he added hastily.
‘Then we’ve made good time. How much further will we need to go to get a look at Emden itself?’ asked Holbrooke.