by Chris Durbin
‘If you’ll excuse me then, sir, I’ll take the deck and start making way to the southwest. There’s not a moment to lose,’ said Fairview, hurrying out of the door.
◆◆◆
12: Political Compromise
Tuesday, Third of January 1758.
Kestrel, at Anchor. Harwich.
It was astonishing how the officers of the sloop had immediately started to bond as soon as the drunken, bullying first lieutenant had been removed from his duty. The doctor had stitched his artery, re-positioned the bones as best he could and stitched the skin of his wrist, but he had little hope that the hand could be saved, and the severity of the injury gave cause to fear for the man’s life. Probably it didn’t matter, he reminded himself. The man was doomed to be hanged, or shot if the court was feeling merciful. He had only weeks left to miss that hand. Harris had kept him sedated in his cabin and Jackson checked his bindings every watch. The ex-first lieutenant was going nowhere except to a hospital, under guard.
True to the master’s prediction, Kestrel came to anchor in the Stour off the King’s Yard in Harwich just after sunrise on Tuesday. The yard hadn’t woken up yet, and all was stillness. Only the outlines of half a dozen vessels in various stages of construction proved that this was a working commercial shipyard, turning out sloops, frigates and ships-of-the-line for the King’s service. Towering over them all, her timbers outlined against the rising sun, was the skeletal outline of a huge seventy-gun two-decker, already allocate the name Conqueror.
Holbrooke gathered his officers together as his boat was being readied to take him ashore.
‘Mister Fairview, would you look after the formalities? I’m sure that you can deal with the port commissioner and his minions.’
The master nodded his agreement. ‘They won’t care about us in any case, sir. A little foreign-looking sloop under Admiralty orders? They’ll just be glad that we don’t want anything!’
That was the advantage with Harwich and part of Holbrooke’s reason for choosing it over the Nore or anywhere up the London River. The King’s Yard had been leased to civilian contractors for many years, and the remaining naval establishment at Harwich was tiny, just a storehouse and a very junior commissioner. If he could decently ignore an unexpected visit, he’d probably do so gladly.
‘Mister Treganoc, I have a particular service for you. It’s vital that no word of the circumstances of Mister Deschamps’ injury should leak out before the Admiralty is informed. Please ensure that no person other than Mister Fairview and Mister Harris goes ashore on any pretext whatsoever and that no person from the shore sets foot on board. We’re stored for three months, so there’s nothing that the purser urgently needs. I repeat, no contact with the shore, for anyone.’
‘Very well, sir,’ replied Treganoc. ‘I’ll see to that.’
‘And Mister Harris. As far as the hospital is concerned, it was an accident, is that clear? If you can keep him sedated, so much the better.’
‘Aye-aye sir,’ the doctor replied. ‘I’ve enough laudanum to keep him under for a week, and I’d do that in any case. He’ll be in pain when the tincture is withdrawn.’
‘Then I’ll be back, I trust, tomorrow or perhaps Thursday, and I intend to sail as soon as the tide serves. I’ll consider who’ll serve as acting first lieutenant when I’m back, but for now, Mister Fairview, you command in my absence.’
Holbrooke hurried ashore to find a post-chaise that would take him to London without any delay. He was lucky; the port commissioner had arrived from a visit to the Navy Board the evening before, and the shay was looking for passengers to make its return trip profitable. Holbrooke’s offer to pay the whole fare was snapped up. He briefly wondered whether he could claim the shay as expenses – the Navy Board clerks were notorious for rejecting anything out of the ordinary – but he dismissed it as a concern for another day. It was still dark when the driver cracked his whip, and the horses moved faster and faster, the wheels rattling on the cobbles as they sped out of town. Colchester and Chelmsford passed in a blur; they were through Brentford shortly after midday and on the last stretch from Ilford before dark. The shay pulled up outside the Admiralty at six o’clock with Holbrooke praying that Admiral Forbes was in the building or could be called.
◆◆◆
The same porter showed Holbrooke into the waiting room. This time one of the leather wing chairs was free, and he sat on it with as much trepidation as he would have perched atop a keg of black powder. Without any hurry, the porter took his letter and disappeared through the same door. Holbrooke waited impatiently. Not for anything would he pace the room, even though his ten hours in the shay had stiffened his legs and given him an aching back that badly needed to be exercised. In the event, the porter was only gone ten minutes.
‘Admiral Forbes will see you now, sir,’ he said, leading him away.
The admiral looked as though he hadn’t moved since Holbrooke was in this very room two weeks before.
‘Commander Holbrooke, it’s strange to see you again so soon,’ he said, not looking pleased. ‘I’ve read your report; perhaps you’d tell of the events in your own words.’
Holbrooke recounted the bare facts as the admiral listened in silence.
‘This is a bad business, Holbrooke. Deschamps will have to pay for this, of course, votes or no votes. We can’t have first lieutenants running around attacking their captains, an example will have to be made. Now, you say that your servant saved you. He’ll need to testify of course; do you see any problem with that?’
‘I regret that I do, sir. He’s a freed black slave from Saint Domingue. He volunteered into Medina off Cape François in November and Admiral Cotes signed him over to Kestrel when I took command. I’m not sure what weight a court martial will give to his evidence.’
‘Hm,’ the admiral looked thoughtfully. ‘Were there no other witnesses?’
‘The marine sentry, sir, he came in when I called him, just as the attack was happening. He was in time to see the attack but too late to prevent it.’
‘That’s better, but it’s still a private marine and a freed slave – a French freed slave – against what will undoubtedly be a different story, and that from a gentleman and the son of a Member of Parliament. Is there anything else that may help our case?’
Holbrooke noticed that the admiral was taking a share of the ownership of this problem, he wasn’t leaving the young commander to sink or swim on his own. That must indicate that he wasn’t entirely surprised at the turn of events. Deschamps must have had a reputation before he was appointed to Kestrel. Holbrooke remembered the manner in which the admiral had told him of his new first lieutenant, it had been almost apologetic.
‘The marine lieutenant, Mister Treganoc, came in just behind the sentry. He saw Deschamps being restrained by my servant but was too late to see the attack in progress. Most of the other officers saw Deschamps leave the gunroom drunk, swearing he’d thrash me if I didn’t apologise.’
‘Come now, that’s better,’ the admiral said brightly. ‘The testimony of a clutch of warrant officers and a lieutenant of marines should hold water. But it’ll be a problem for the ministry if the old man withholds his votes. Ah, here’s Clevland, he’ll know what to do.’
Holbrook carefully recounted the story to the secretary to the board. He was a much more political animal than the admiral, more street-wise and with his ear to the workings of the House. When Holbrooke had finished, Clevland sat in silence, his face set in the expression of a man weighing up the odds. Forbes and Holbrooke were silent also, only the ticking of a clock broke the stillness of the Admiralty on this cold and wet Tuesday evening in January.
‘I have a thought, but it requires your agreement, Holbrooke. However, I believe it’s in your interest, so you’ll hear me out.’
Holbrooke nodded cautiously.
‘You have a problem, Mister Holbrooke. Your two witnesses to the assault will be demolished in a court martial, and you have only circumstantial evidence othe
rwise. No, don’t interrupt,’ he said holding up his hand and looking irritated.
‘If – and I say if advisedly – this goes to court martial you run the risk of it ending in a prosecution of yourself, and your servant. The death penalty for him certainly, but also for you unless you’re lucky and can be merely dismissed the service for perjury.’
‘But that’s ridiculous…,’ Holbrooke started to say, rising from his chair.
‘Pray, don’t interrupt again,’ said Clevland in measured tones, the steel showing through the velvet glove.
Holbrooke closed his mouth and sat back onto the edge of the chair, his back straight and his expression defiant.
‘Now, the ministry also has a problem. Those two votes that come with the borough of Midsummer are crucial. You did know that his father is the member for the Midsummers? Well, they could mean the difference between government bills passing and not passing, between Anson having his new ships and the money being frittered away on the army or some pet project of whichever member shouts loudest. The loss of those two votes can influence the course of this war far more than your sloop can ever do, far more than a squadron of ships-of-the-line, in fact.’
Clevland paused, was it for effect? Yes, he was letting the importance of this affair sink in, and Holbrooke was interested to see that he wasn’t the only intended audience; the secretary was stirring the admiral up as well. Forbes looked uncomfortable but had the grace to say nothing.
‘There is a solution, and I commend it to you, Captain Holbrooke,’ said Clevland. He took a deep breath. ‘The assault didn’t happen. Deschamps sustained his wound in action against the French field guns, and there will be no need for a court martial. If he lives, Deschamps will have a pension for the rest of his life in recognition of his honourable injuries. You will never suggest to anyone that there is a different story. If it leaks out from your people, then you’ll ignore it. I assume you can have that conversation with your officers, to achieve their silence?’
Holbrooke nodded dumbly.
‘Good. I’ll deal with the elder Deschamps. Once I’ve finished with him, he’ll be grateful that we’ve kept this quiet and will be indebted to the government and even more obliged to support us. You’ll be free of a counter-suit, your servant will live, and the affair will be over.’
Holbrooke thought for a moment. ‘Is this really possible, sir,’ he asked. ‘I’m rather out of my depth here.’
‘Yes, you certainly are out of your depth Mister Holbrooke and don’t go imagining otherwise. Believe me, it’s not only possible but essential. It’s the best of all solutions. Courts martial are unpredictable and do nobody any good, just ask Admirals Matthews or Lestock, or anybody who sat on Byng’s board.’
Clevland didn’t even look in the admiral’s direction but kept his eyes on Holbrooke. However, from the way that Forbes shifted uncomfortably in his seat, it was clear that the arrow had hit home.
‘But I have over a hundred men on board, some of them are bound to talk,’ said Holbrooke, despairingly.
‘And nobody will take any notice of them. But the best way to ensure their silence is to distract them. Prizes, Mister Holbrooke, and action against the enemy. Keep ‘em busy and give ‘em something to look forward to. And if you’ll take my advice, just drop a few hints that their prize money will be delayed if a court martial is convened. Let slip that a court martial will jam up the process until the legalities are all over and that could take years. It’s probably true, at that.’
Holbrooke nodded. There was sense in what Clevland said, even he could see that. Rumours would circulate, but only between sailors, and if Kestrel was successful, the lower deck would soon forget all about the first lieutenant who lasted less than a week. In a month they wouldn’t remember his name.
‘There are no great names involved here,’ said Clevland, apparently reading Holbrooke’s mind, ‘and if Kestrel is back at sea, can you be there tomorrow? Even better. If Kestrel is back off the Ems for a month or so, it’ll be old news when you return, if it becomes news at all.’
Holbrooke thought for a moment, but there really was no decision to make. If he defied Clevland, he’d walk out of here a half pay commander with no ship – no hope of a ship, ever again – and a lawsuit against him. And Serviteur would certainly be hanged.
‘Then I agree, sir.’
‘Excellent, Holbrooke,’ the admiral interrupted, taking over the proceedings. ‘Then let’s get you away from here. Is there anything I can do?’
Holbrooke thought rapidly. Could he ask a favour at this moment? Yes, he thought. He’d solved a problem for these men.
‘A first lieutenant, perhaps, sir,’ said Holbrooke without much hope.
‘A first lieutenant, by tomorrow? You surely jest, sir.’
Clevland coughed pointedly. ‘The young man who was to see you today but is bidden to return tomorrow. Is that not a solution, Admiral?’
The admiral slapped his palm against his forehead. ‘Of course. Young Lynton passed for lieutenant on Monday. Good God, is that only yesterday? You wouldn’t have heard, of course, Holbrooke. He’s been haunting the waiting room ever since. Perfect. Will you take him?’
‘With all my heart, sir, with all my heart,’ replied Holbrooke, his mood lifting for the first time since he quit the Ems estuary.
‘Then the porter will know where he’s lodging. If you can get him back here by eleven o’clock, then I can run by and sign his commission after my appointment this evening. Clevland, would you have it made out?’
‘That I will, sir. Now, Mister Holbrooke, if you make a note when you submit your expenses, refer to Clevland, the chances are that the Navy Board clerks will pass it without bothering me, but if they do, then I’ll approve it. You did well in getting here without delay; you showed good judgement in leaving the Ems. But now your sloop must be back at sea on Thursday at the latest, with Mister Lynton as your first lieutenant.’
◆◆◆
It was dark when the shay came to a halt beside the jetty in Harwich. Holbrooke and Lynton were both shattered after a late meeting at the Admiralty, where Lynton received the coveted commission. They’d had a broken night sharing a room off the Strand and an early morning search for a post chaise. Fairview met them on the jetty. He’d been waiting since dusk, which he thought the first possible time that Holbrooke could return.
‘You know Mister Fairview, I think,’ Holbrooke said to Lynton. ‘Mister Fairview, I present Mister Lynton, our once and future first lieutenant.’
Holbrooke’s good humour was evident, which surprised Fairview who could guess at the dark time that he must have had in the Admiralty. However, the master recovered quickly from his surprise. He’d joined Kestrel a day before Lynton had left, so they’d at least met, although he hadn’t expected that they’d be shipmates so soon after.
‘Explanations can wait until later,’ said Holbrooke. ‘Lend a hand with the dunnage, would you?’
The longboat had been waiting for them fifty yards off the jetty, riding to a grapnel. It now came alongside with a rush and Jackson leapt for the shore before the bow oar could pass his painter.
‘I’ve been ensuring that your orders are obeyed, sir. Boat’s crews are great gossips,’ he whispered. Then he recognised the cloaked figure beside Holbrooke. ‘Why, Mister Lynton, I’m pleased to see you. Are you joining us? It’ll be just like old times.’
Kestrel’s anchor had been at short stay since the boat had taken the master and bosun to the jetty, and now it was a matter of minutes to heave it clear of the Stour mud. The strong ebb tide and the south-westerly wind bore them quickly out of the river and into the North Sea, the lights of Harwich and Felixstowe fading rapidly as they set a course back to the Ems.
◆◆◆
13: The Plan
Thursday, Fifth of January 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. The Texel, Northeast-by-East 20 Leagues.
Lynton slipped back into the role of first lieutenant as though he’d just been on lea
ve for a week. Deschamps hadn’t been forgotten, but the memory of his brief spell in Kestrel was becoming hazier as each hour passed. Clevland was right; he’d be all but forgotten in a few weeks, particularly if the people had something else to think about. Meanwhile, with a quartering wind the sloop made good progress overnight, slipping through the dark expanses of the cold North Sea heading for the eastern shore. After a good breakfast, Holbrooke called his principal officers into the cabin.
‘Now then, gentlemen,’ said Holbrooke as they crowded around a chart of the North Sea. ‘I’ve a feeling that the Dutch won’t be expecting us back so soon, and in any case, they probably won’t have alerted the coastal trade. I’m going to try our luck off the Dutch coast.’ He indicated the chain of islands curving away to the northeast: Texel, Vlieland, Schelling, Ameland, Schiermonk and finally Rottum, where the Dutch Republic gave way to the first of the East Frisia islands, Borkum. Between Rottum and Borkum lay the Western Ems estuary, the border between the nominally neutral Seven Provinces and French-occupied East Frisia.
‘My last information is that the French army still holds the line of the Weser,’ he pointed to the bight in the coast some twenty leagues east of the Ems, where the Weser and the Jade met the sea. ‘They also have a lighter presence further east on the Elbe.’ They could all see the great river that flowed through Hamburg and effectively cut the French off from the Baltic. It must be very tempting for the French to believe that they could open a land route to the sea that washed the shores of Russia, Finland, Sweden and a host of smaller states. It was the region that supplied much of Britain’s shipbuilding raw materials: pitch, hemp, tar, masts and spars, although the tallest timber now came from New England. If the French could cut off that trade, they’d hit the British navy harder than they would by winning a fleet action.
‘However, Prince Ferdinand is planning a spring offensive and is already putting pressure on the French. Their land supply lines are over-extended, and the only way to move the bulk of food, ammunition and stores that they need is by sea.’