by Chris Durbin
The battery was right abeam now; this was the closest that they’d be, just about half a mile. The French commander had got his guns back into action and Kestrel was firing smoothly again. Another four-pounder shot thumped into the sloop’s hull. It was fortunate that the French army didn’t use chain-shot or bar-shot, they’d have been devastating against Kestrel’s spars and rigging.
Now the range was opening as Kestrel passed the narrowest part of the channel. The master brought Kestrel two points off the wind, and the tide was noticeably stronger, bearing the sloop away faster and faster.
‘One more broadside, Mister Deschamps, you may fire both divisions together.’ The first lieutenant had apparently recovered from his loss of control and his public rebuke and was again handling the guns proficiently.
Kestrel heeled to the recoil as the whole starboard battery fired. The wind had carried the smoke down towards the target, so it took a few moments before the results could be seen.
‘Another hit!’ shouted Matross, waving his hat in the air. ‘The centre gun’s overturned, and they’re milling around like a nest of ants.’
Holbrooke studied the scene. There were men on the ground, others helping them and yet more putting the guns back into order. That battery would cause them no more trouble today. By the time they had the remaining two guns reloaded and pointed, Kestrel would be out of range. But Treganoc was correct, that battery commander was a man of ability. His crews were still at their guns, racing to get them back into action even after they’d taken casualties. If the rest of the French at Emden were garrison troops, too old, too young or too unfit to serve in the field army, at least these artillerymen were solid professionals.
‘We’ll waste no more powder on them, Mister Deschamps, you may sponge out and stow.’
‘The Dutch boat has turned back, sir,’ said Varley quietly.
Holbrooke realised that he’d forgotten entirely about the gunboat. He looked searchingly at the master’s mate. Looking for some sign that Varley knew that he’d saved his captain from embarrassment. But there was nothing to tell from the man’s face, he stood immobile on the quarterdeck, scanning both shores, the estuary ahead and casting searching glances at the sails. What a difference between the two men, the first lieutenant and the master’s mate. One was excitable, volatile and gauche, the other composed, professional and poised. Political interest be damned, thought Holbrooke.
◆◆◆
11: … Shall Suffer Death
Sunday, First of January 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. Off Borkum.
Kestrel was showing nothing more than a backed fore-topsail, a jib and a brailed mizzen. She was lying-to off the chain of islands just to seaward of the sandbank called Borkum Riffgat, in the part-German, part-Dutch language of these parts. The damage caused by the three French balls hadn’t been so severe, a piece of the capping knocked off the gunwale and two hits a few strakes above the waterline that hadn’t penetrated. The carpenter was leaving the work until daylight, and the man who’d been carried below in the heat of the action was doing well. A splinter from the fir gunwale capping had raked across the side of his chest, ruining his blue worsted jacket and his shirt and opening the flesh at the side of his chest so that the white of his ribs could be seen. Harris, the doctor, had stitched him up, noting with professional satisfaction that his ribcage had performed the function for which God had designed it. Meanwhile, one of the man’s messmates had performed the same service for the jacket and shirt, which were now soaking in fresh water to remove the blood; waste not, want not.
Nevertheless, the sloop wasn’t quiet. Dinner and the spirit issue had been delayed until the last dogwatch when Kestrel was clear of pilotage waters. The men could be heard celebrating what for many of them was their first action, a muted rumble of voices with an occasional burst of laughter or song. The quartermaster struck the bell three times; seven-thirty in the evening and above his head Holbrooke could hear the shuffle of feet as the helm was relieved, the glass turned, and fresh lookouts were posted. The waves slapped against Kestrel’s sides, and the wind sighed in the rigging, all the usual sounds of a ship at sea.
Holbrooke was in his cabin, his journal was in front of him and his pen was charged, but no words had yet been written. He was considering what to do about his first lieutenant. Until today he’d imagined that Deschamps would settle in after a week or so at sea and had hoped that there’d be no scene before then, nothing that would call his conduct to the attention of the ship’s company. However, the events of the afternoon had dashed that hope; three-quarters of Kestrel’s people had seen him lose control and strike an able seaman, not an ordinary seaman or a landsman, but a man with fifteen years’ service behind him, a man who was laying out on a yardarm before Deschamps was breeched.
So here he was, sat in the solitude of his cabin, considering what he would say when he called his first lieutenant in, which he intended to do before eight bells. Holbrooke had not previously been in this position, at least not on this side of the table. But he could well remember a few difficult interviews in Fury, before the war, which he recalled with hot shame. How had Captain Carlisle handled those interviews? Certainly, he’d given Holbrooke the chance to redeem himself, and that was the example that would guide his conduct of this meeting. In any case, his innate decency wouldn’t allow him to blast a man’s career after so little time together. Then, of course, he didn’t know the force of Deschamps’ political connections. Would it be possible to do anything about his first lieutenant? Would Clevland tell him that he must persevere? Yes, a second chance, for many reasons.
As Holbrooke was preparing his thoughts, there was a knock at the door. He was surprised to see Deschamps enter without asking permission, a set, grim look on his face. Holbrooke could see that his plan for the interview was already in ruins.
‘I’d welcome a moment of your time, sir,’ he said, his belligerent expression unchanged, and he walked boldly into the cabin, staggering slightly as the sloop nudged into a wave.
‘Take a seat, Mister Deschamps. I was going to call for you, but here you are. What can I do for you?’ asked Holbrooke in as cordial a tone as he could manage.
Deschamps remained standing. Whether he’d heard the invitation to sit was unclear, but he supported himself with one hand on Holbrooke’s desk as he swayed unsteadily to the pitch and roll. Was he drunk? It seemed likely, this moderate motion shouldn’t bother anyone after five days at sea.
‘I have come to tell you, sir…’ he appeared to lose his train of thought for a moment. ‘I have come to tell you that I resent the way you spoke to me on deck today.’ Having stated his complaint – clearly a prepared speech but even then, he had difficulty with the delivery – he stood unsteadily clutching the desk, staring at his captain with unconcealed dislike, his chin jutting forward, and his shoulders set.
Holbrooke was speechless. Now he could see that Deschamps was drunk, even by the standards of a navy that issued half a pint of spirits or a gallon of small beer to each man every day. But drunk or sober, he’d never witnessed an officer talking to his captain in this manner. A year ago, in the Caribbean, he’d seen a first lieutenant treat a post-captain with disrespect, but they weren’t commissioned into the same ship, and there was a degree of ambiguity in their relative status. That encounter had turned out badly for the first lieutenant. But here Holbrooke was, in his own ship, with his duly appointed second-in-command drunk in his cabin, and apparently contesting his authority.
Holbrooke looked steadily at his first lieutenant. ‘Mister Deschamps, we’ll talk about this in the morning. Meanwhile, you should turn in,’ he said coldly.
‘That I won’t. We’ll have this out here and now or I’ll be glad to meet you ashore,’ he shouted, banging his fist on the desk and pressing his face close to Holbrooke’s. His breath stank of brandy.
Now the wretched man had challenged him. There was no way back from this position.
‘To your cabin, Mister Deschamp
s, or I’ll call the sentry, and have you taken there,’ said Holbrooke, rising and keeping the desk between him and the first lieutenant. If he was attacked, which seemed possible in the first lieutenant’s present state, he wanted some solid furniture in his way; there was nothing honourable about brawling with an intoxicated subordinate.
‘No you won’t, you upstart,’ and to Holbrooke’s horror he saw that his first lieutenant had a dirk at his waist, and he was fumbling for it. He’d noticed that weapon before; it was quite normal for an officer to carry such a small token of his martial honour, but to draw it in his captain’s cabin …
Holbrooke took a step back and prepared to defend himself. ‘Sentry!’ he called, but at that moment Deschamps lurched forward, the dirk before him, aimed for Holbrooke’s gut in a killing move.
From there, things moved fast, and later it was difficult for Holbrooke to arrange the facts in the correct sequence. The cabin door flew open, and the marine started to enter, his musket held before him but his bayonet still in its frog; he’d be too late to intervene. Then Holbrooke sensed a disturbance behind him, and in one rapid movement, his servant leapt from the scullery, knocking Holbrooke aside and grasping the first lieutenant’s wrist in a vice-like grip. Serviteur was a big, powerful man and he’d already formed an opinion of this new first lieutenant: he didn’t like him, and he didn’t trust him. There was a crack, a howl of pain and Deschamps was on the floor, his wrist broken – a compound fracture with white bone showing past his cuff – and the dirk was spinning away across the deck. That tableaux would be imprinted upon Holbrooke’s mind for the rest of his life; the pitiful wreck of the lieutenant confined in the powerful arms of his black servant, blood pulsing from the inside of his wrist where the bone had pierced the skin. The marine sentry was fumbling for his bayonet, unsure what do next. Then, Treganoc appeared at the door. By sheer chance he’d been approaching the cabin – checking on his sentries before the change of the watch – just in time to hear Holbrooke’s shout and see the marine disappear inside.
◆◆◆
Holbrooke was still trying to compose himself half an hour later. Serviteur, however, appeared unaffected by the drama. He’d cleaned the blood from his shirt and returned to the cabin, bringing hot coffee and offering brandy. Holbrooke gratefully accepted the coffee but refused the brandy; somehow it had lost its attraction after smelling it on his first lieutenant’s breath. He was trying to remember the exact words that Deschamps had used and was writing them into his journal, to be used as testimony in the court-martial. For this was a capital offence, and the twenty-first article of war left little room for manoeuvre: If any officer … shall strike any of his superior officers, or draw, or offer to draw, or lift up any weapon against him … shall suffer death. He could hear Deschamps’ muted howls. Presumably, Harris was working on his wrist, trying to save the man’s hand, or at least his life. But to what end? Nothing could save Deschamps from the noose.
The knock at the door startled Holbrooke. He really needed to get a grip on himself. He’d been in action before, he’d killed men and prevented men killing him, but then it had never been personal. This was personal.
‘Evening, sir.’ It was Jackson, the bosun and a long-time shipmate of Holbrooke’s. Jackson was the very first of what could be called Holbrooke’s followers. The bosun owed his warrant to Holbrooke, but then Holbrooke owed his life to Jackson. ‘Mister Deschamps is in his cabin, sir, lashed into his cot and I tied the knots myself; he won’t be getting out again. Mister Harris has finished twisting the bones around – that was the noise you could hear, the screaming and such – and he’s just stitching him up. Mister Treganoc sends his respects, he’s placed two sentries at your door and two at the first lieutenant’s door. He’ll stay with Harris until the work’s done, then he’ll report to you.’
Jackson looked quizzically at Holbrooke, appraising him. He knew very well that his captain was no coward. He’d followed Holbrooke onto the deck of the French frigate Vulcain when all appeared lost, and he’d seen Holbrooke deal with an assassination attempt in Kingston. No, his officer was no coward, but this evening his face was pale, and he looked shocked.
‘We’re well shot of him, sir, and the court martial will settle his hash once and for all. I can swear to the fact that he was drunk when he left the gunroom, and there’s at least six of us can swear the same. He went to his cabin and as far as we can tell downed half a bottle of brandy in five minutes. Plucking up his courage, you could say, but he’ll need more than courage now,’ Jackson added brutally. ‘Still, it’s fortunate that Serviteur was there.’
‘Aye, it is that, Jackson,’ replied Holbrooke, still not trusting himself to a long speech.
‘It was a good day’s work when he came aboard to sign on. I saw his little fishing boat sinking before my very eyes. A good day for him and a better day for us.’
Even in his shock and mental turmoil, Holbrooke couldn’t help noticing how Jackson so casually linked their fates together. What was good for Holbrooke was good for Jackson, and vice-versa. When Holbrooke had been made commander and commissioned into Kestrel, it was taken as read that he’d ask for a bosun’s warrant for Jackson, and a grateful commander-in-chief at Port Royal had granted the request. Their fortunes were bound together until the exigencies of the service should part them, and they needed to look after each other. And now he was including Serviteur in the chain of patronage. Is this how it works? thought Holbrooke. Do I gather followers without having any say in the matter?
‘Would you call in the master, please, Mister Jackson?’
Jackson turned to go but paused at the door. ‘Do you know, sir, what a thrill it still gives me to be called Mister Jackson? It’s like a dream, and I’m frightened in case I wake up. I only wish my mother had lived to hear it,’ and he closed the door softly as he left.
◆◆◆
‘Well, this is a bad business, sir. I’ve never heard anything like it. A first lieutenant taking a dirk to his captain? You know he was drunk when we took on the horse artillery, sir?’ asked the master.
‘No, I didn’t. Was Deschamps often drunk, Mister Fairview? You can reserve that answer if you like. Doubtless you’ll be asked something like that at the court martial.’
‘Oh, I’m happy to let you know, now that I can speak freely.’
Holbrook looked questioningly at the master.
‘Well, it’s hard to criticise a first lieutenant to his captain, it seems dishonourable in a way. But he won’t be in this ship much longer, and the truth will come out eventually. The fact is, sir, that Mister Deschamps was a quarrelsome drunkard who shirked his duties and used his rank to bully his messmates.’
‘Thank you, Mister Fairview, no doubt you’ll attest to that when the time comes.’
‘That I will, and the others of the gunroom. It’s not for a court’s ears, sir, but I don’t doubt that Mister Treganoc would have called him out the next time we touched land, so it’s safe to say that he was a doomed man anyway. I can’t imagine him standing long against that marine wielding either pistol or blade.’
‘Well, enough of that now,’ he passed his hand across his eyes, trying to focus on the next things that needed to be done.
There was another knock on the door, and Treganoc came in, looking grave and severe, followed by Chalmers.
‘May I ask after your health, sir?’ asked Chalmers. ‘The doctor sends his respects, and he’s at your disposal as soon as he’s settled Mister Deschamps’ wrist.’
‘The man will never fight a duel, that’s for certain,’ added Treganoc with a wry smile. ‘Which is a pity, in a way.’
‘I’m well, thank you,’ replied Holbrooke wondering whether the marine lieutenant assumed that the quarrel between him and Deschamps was common knowledge. ‘However, the doctor may see me to satisfy his medical particulars whenever he pleases,’ he added with a smile that yet looked like a grimace. ‘Now, we have some decisions to make, but before we start, would you give me your bes
t estimate of when we can make Harwich, Mister Fairview?’
The master fished out a scrap of paper. ‘I was looking at this just before you called for me, sir. We’re some seventy-four leagues from Harwich. The wind’s backing again so we should be able to make it on the larboard tack. We could be there in the forenoon watch on Tuesday. If you wanted Sheerness, the Nore or Chatham, then Tuesday afternoon or dogs. Or we could make the London river on Wednesday forenoon.’
‘Then it seems that you’ve read my mind, Master, and I’m grateful. All things considered, we must return to England so that we can turn Mister Deschamps over to a hospital and so that I can explain myself to their Lordships. Now, we’ve fulfilled the first part of my orders, at least partially. I don’t expect Commodore Holmes to arrive on station for two months yet, so we still have time to stir up the French supply chain after I’ve been to London. If I can get a post-chaise to the Admiralty on Wednesday, I can be back on board on Thursday and Kestrel can be back on station on Saturday, weather permitting. We’ll have lost only five days.’
Holbrooke winced as he spoke. There was always a possibility – a distinct possibility – that either Admiral Forbes or Clevland would deem that he’d proved himself incapable of handling his officers, that he was deficient in leadership. In that case, he wouldn’t be coming back from London.
‘Is it really necessary to return, sir?’ asked Chalmers. ‘Can’t we stay at sea until the commodore arrives?’
‘No,’ replied Holbrooke firmly. ‘Mister Deschamps has some kind of influence, or at least his father has.’ Which is why Admiral Forbes said that he must have a ship, he reminded himself, privately. ‘Anything that concerns this unfortunate incident must be open to the most rigorous inspection. He must be landed without delay, and Harwich is the closest port with a good road to London. Besides, it’s our support base for this operation.’