by Chris Durbin
A part of Holbrooke’s mind was wondering why he hadn’t had this discussion with his officers before, when they left Harwich for the first time. But of course, he knew the answer. It was the unsettling presence of Deschamps who made this kind of collegiate gathering at best awkward and at worst impossible. However, the men gathered around him now were of a different stamp and it was a pleasure to be able to open up to them.
On the chart, the French situation was obvious. Their army was over three hundred miles from France, and the inhabitants of all those German lands were hostile to them. Even the Austrian Netherlands would be of little help. As political allies, the French and Austrians may coordinate their grand strategies, but their armies in the field had little in common, and their logistic arrangements were entirely separate.
‘If they try to supply from France by sea, they have to run right through the straits in the teeth of our channel gropers.’ Holbrooke was using the slang name for the force of sloops, frigates and smaller fourth-rates that secured the narrow seas, leaving the Channel Fleet – mighty second and third-rates for the most part – free to blockade Brest and the Western Approaches. ‘My guess is that they’ll buy supplies from the Dutch and contract them to be shipped in Dutch vessels that’ll run up the coast to Emden. I also expect them to ship supplies into Bremen, here on the east bank of the Weser, until Prince Ferdinand pushes them back, but that’s none of our business and Commodore Holmes will be there in a few weeks.’
Holbrooke let his officers digest that information for a few moments.
‘The importance of Emden is clear. By the spring, if the allied advance goes to plan, it’ll be the only port capable of receiving vessels that are big enough to deliver the volume of stores that they need. Our task is to make Emden an expensive place for the Dutch merchants to do business.’
There were nods around the table. Only Holbrooke had been briefed at the Admiralty, so he spoke with authority, although they were all intelligent men and could see the strategic issues.
‘Now, if I were the master of a Dutch merchantman with a cargo of supplies for the French army, I’d prefer to take the inshore route from the Zuiderzee behind the islands and into the Ems. If I were ordered to Bremen, I’d continue inside the Frisian islands to the Weser. I’d avoid the open sea because I’d be concerned that the British navy would consider my cargo contraband. Which, of course, we do.’
‘However, the inshore passage is dependent upon the tides, and anything larger than a ship’s boat needs to anchor or take the ground twice a day. That’ll add two days to the Ems voyage and three to the Weser. They can make three or four runs offshore to every two inshore, and that’s money lost to the Dutchmen, and you all know about the Dutch and their guilders!’
That raised a laugh; the Dutch were famous throughout the world as single-minded profit-driven merchants. Wherever there was a gold coin to be made, there would be a Dutchman.
‘They’ll know that the channel gropers don’t generally go past Dunkirk, and there’s been no British cruiser in the area since Hind in November. I’m betting that they’ll risk the seaward passage outside the islands, at least until they know that we’re here. They’ll pick up their cargoes in and around Amsterdam, in the Holland province, and they’ll come out through the Texel Passage, here.’ Holbrooke pointed to the narrow passage between the mainland and the most southerly and westerly of the islands. Every British seaman knew about the Texel; previous generations had fought the Dutch off that narrow passage through three wars, and they hadn’t always won.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ asked Lynton. ‘Why wouldn’t they just run supplies across the Ems from the Dutch side of the estuary? They could do that with much less risk, and it could be done overnight. We may not even know that it’s happening.’
‘Yes, I’m certain they’ll do so, to a limited extent. But Groningen is a poor province, and it won’t provide enough surplus to satisfy the French army. Unless they use Delfzijl, which we can blockade, only the smallest hoys and barges can use the mud-holes that pass for harbours in the Dollart, and they won’t carry more than a couple of tons. No, for the volume of stores that an army requires, they’ll need to go to Holland, and they’ll need to ship it by sea. Holland is the centre for distribution of produce for the Seven Provinces, and it’s the financial heart too. And as you can see on the chart, in Holland everything must go by water.’
‘Aye, I’ve sailed in the Zuiderzee,’ said the master. ‘It’s full of coasters and barges running the farm produce from one place to another, and they’re all built to take the ground over low tide.’
‘Then lay off a course for the Texel Passage, Master. Let’s not disturb the Dutch merchants today but lay-to overnight and we’ll be ready to meet them at dawn tomorrow.’
◆◆◆
It was an uncomfortable night on the Broad Fourteens bank. The southwesterly wind kicked up a short, vicious sea over the shallow expanse of sand and mud, and Kestrel pitched, rolled and corkscrewed so that even the old salts retired to their hammocks or sought out corners of the ship where they could wedge themselves in. On deck it was cold; not the bitter, killing cold that easterly winds would bring, but a damp, chilly air that seeped into the clothing and worsened any colds or fevers that the men already had. The surgeon’s mate and the loblolly boy were hard at work all night, administering syrups and pastilles. They had plenty of customers; sailors were terrible hypochondriacs and would as soon miss their grog as pass up free medicines.
Holbrooke, Lynton, Chalmers and Treganoc had finished supper in the great cabin and were enjoying a brandy and the cigars that Serviteur had produced, from who-knew-where. Fairview had the deck; it seemed to be his particular joy to be on the quarterdeck in the most uncomfortable situations.
‘Then the incident with Deschamps can be considered closed?’ asked Chalmers. It was a strained question, delivered through clenched teeth. The chaplain-cum-able seaman was bracing himself against the ship’s motion, an arm wrapped around the back of his chair and both feet firmly planted against the lockers under the stern windows. The chair, of course, was lashed to a ringbolt and the ropes strained and groaned as Kestrel laboured through the night.
‘I hope so,’ replied Holbrooke. ‘I must say that I had misgivings letting him off so easily, and I still doubt that it can be kept completely quiet. But the political argument is compelling. Do you know that Clevland actually stated, not just in my hearing, but with Admiral Forbes present, that two votes for the government are worth more than a squadron of ship-of-the-line? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an admiral, and an Admiralty Lord to boot, look so uncomfortable.’
‘Then we’re all the pawns of politics,’ said Treganoc. ‘Where then is our honour?’
He looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then decided to speak again, his words spilling out as though confessing to something mildly discreditable.
‘You know, I’d have called Deschamps out at the next port if he hadn’t attacked you and caused his own downfall. I cannot abide an officer who treats the men the way he did. Oh, I accept that the petty officers must start the men occasionally to keep them at their work, and the bosun must use his rattan, but more judiciously. That’s a different matter, it’s between men of broadly the same class, and they don’t resent it, in general. But a gentleman should never, never hit one of the people. We expect the death penalty if a seaman or marine should strike one of us, and that establishes a very different relationship and a responsibility to protect the men from ever getting into that situation.’
‘May I ask,’ said Chalmers, ‘on what grounds you’d have called him out, if you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind telling you, or anyone, Mister Chalmers. He struck one of my men, Corporal Tresco. I didn’t see the blow, which is perhaps just as well, but I heard the rumour and quizzed my man. There’s no doubt. He struck him a blow with his fist when the two of them collided on deck as the ship rolled. Any other officer would have laughed it off, or at worst told the
man to mind his step. It may even have strengthened the relationship between the officer and the man. But no, he struck Tresco with his fist, on the side of the head, and the bruise is still there to be seen. Tresco, of course, took the blow, touched his cap, and passed on. If there’s any humour in the situation, it’s that Tresco was a prizefighter before he took the King’s shilling; Deschamps would have stood no chance in a stand-up fight. But then, of course, Tresco would have been hanged.’
‘Then it’s as well that he’s gone,’ said Chalmers. ‘We can do without that kind of grit in the wheels.’
‘However, and for your ears only, gentlemen, there are two other reasons why I accepted Clevland’s plan,’ said Holbrooke. He had their attention now. They had each been affected by Deschamps’ behaviour in his few days as the first lieutenant, and anything to do with him was intensely interesting. ‘The first of the two perhaps reflects less well on me.’
He described Clevland’s argument about the strength of the witnesses who would be called to give evidence, and his opinion that the verdict could easily be in the balance. Holbrooke was aware that he could be heard from the scullery, and he knew that Serviteur was in there, cleaning dishes and glasses and ready in case his captain needed him. That was partly why he was telling the story.
‘And so, you see, it wasn’t at all clear that Deschamps would be convicted. It would only need a few members who owed the father a favour – and there must be many in the service – and Serviteur could have found himself on trial for his life. I, of course, would also be open to prosecution in those circumstances, for perjury if for nothing else.’
Treganoc looked thoughtful. Clearly, he had high-minded notions of honour, and he was working this one through, attempting to form his own view. What would he have done?
‘And the last reason won’t surprise you at all. The navy cannot afford any more high-profile courts martial. The trials after Toulon are still poisoning the service, and that was thirteen years ago! And of course, Byng was shot only last year. Without public confidence in the navy, the nation is finished. We may as well give up on our colonies, fold up the empire, build a wall at the high-tide mark and retreat from the world.’
‘Hear, hear,’ exclaimed Treganoc. ‘I’m convinced. I drink to your wisdom Captain Holbrooke.’
‘And I drink to Deschamps’ boorish behaviour,’ said Lynton, raising his glass to the alarm of his shocked fellows. ‘For without his expulsion from this select group, I’d still be wearing the seats in the Admiralty waiting room thin, and then with no better expectation than to be sent to some damned fourth-rate as the junior. But here I am, and very grateful for it. Living proof that it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.’
◆◆◆
14: The Rule of 1756
Saturday, Seventh of January 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. Off Schelling.
The two Dutch bilanders, so alike that they must have been built side-by-side in the same shipyard, were lying-to under Kestrel’s guns. It had been a civilised affair; they hadn’t even tried to run. How could they with Kestrel between them and their only refuge, the intricate web of channels behind the islands? A single gun had sufficed to persuade them to back their tops’ls and await a boarding party.
‘If their cargo is for the French in Emden, then they’re ours,’ said Holbrooke to Lynton. ‘Take a boarding party, Schoonderwoerd is waiting to go with you to speak their language. Look carefully at their inventory. You’re looking for anything that suggests that their cargo is not for the French army. Particularly anything that’s consigned to that Austrian detachment that may or may not exist. Here’s a summary of the Rule of 1756. As a matter of form, you should read it to them. Good luck.’
The wind had turned easterly and brought in the snow. On land, the fields and dykes would be covered, and the rivers and ponds would be thick enough for ice-skating. There’d be frost fairs in the towns of Holland. Here at sea, there were a few flurries of snow and the air was bitter, but at least the wind had dropped, and Lynton had a relatively easy time of it, being rowed across to the nearest bilander. He looked up at the deck to be met with a half dozen blank, unsmiling faces. They dropped no ladder and there was no rope for him to haul himself up with. He had to scramble up the slippery side, a seaman’s calloused hand on his rump to stop him slipping backwards.
‘Go over to the other one and bring their master back here with his papers,’ he said to Varley. ‘Don’t take no for an answer, bundle him into the boat if necessary. I’ll keep Schoonderwoerd and two of the marines with me.’
Lynton was already forming a poor opinion of these Dutchmen; surly characters who sought to profit from this war at the expense of Britain. However, there was no danger from them, not with Kestrel to windward.
Down in the tiny cabin, the unwilling master unlocked his desk and produced his papers. A quick look told Lynton they were written in French. That wasn’t so unusual, French was often used in maritime trade whether the French nation was a party to the transaction or not. Lynton could read French far better than he could speak it, and a quick perusal showed that the ship’s cargo, beer, salted hams, turnips, apples, potatoes, shoes, harnesses, blankets and a multitude of other stores that an army needed, was consigned to a major in the commissariat of the French army at Emden. When the master of the second bilander arrived, it became clear that they had a commercial relationship, and the second one was the senior, but neither of the two masters would admit to speaking English.
‘Schoonderwoerd, I’m going to slowly read the important parts of this paper, and I want you to translate for them. Raise your hand when you want me to pause.’
‘Aye-aye sir,’ he replied. Schoonderwoerd had been a long time in King George’s navy, but his command of his mother tongue appeared to be intact.
It took about fifteen minutes, but slowly and laboriously the two Dutch merchant masters were brought to understand that their vessels, their cargoes and crews were being impounded, their hatches sealed, and they’d be taken to Harwich. Their status would be investigated against the provisions of the Rule of 1756, which effectively prohibited a neutral nation trading with a belligerent state if it had not enjoyed that right in peacetime. As the French weren’t in Emden in peacetime, it would have been odd if the Dutch had been permitted to trade with them. That, in any case, was the Admiralty court’s current interpretation.
‘I’ll be placing a prize crew in each vessel, and you’re to sail under the prize master’s direction, keeping under the sloop’s lee. Is that clear?’
Both men nodded. Evidently, their English was better than they cared to admit. The day had not come when English was the international maritime language, but it wasn’t far away.
Lynton reported back to Holbrooke.
‘They’ll cooperate, sir. Schoonderwoerd has explained to the crews that they’ll be returned to their homes once the bilanders have been condemned.’
‘That’s right, Mister Lynton, the Rule doesn’t allow for the crews to be treated as prisoners-of-war.’
‘The crews have no stake in the cargo or the vessels, and there’s no love between them and the masters. If we put Varley and Schoonderwoerd in the lead bilander – that’s the one with the patched mainsail – with two able seamen and two marines, and Edney in the other with three able seamen and two marines, they’ll follow along like ducklings to a pond,’ said Lynton.
‘Well, that was a successful chase, I must say, and I doubt that anyone on shore will have seen us, so until these bilanders don’t arrive home, say in a week, the alarm won’t be raised. Now, let’s be on our way before the whole Dutch herring fleet comes this way. We should be in Harwich tomorrow.’
◆◆◆
‘Sail ho! Sail on the starboard beam.’ The call of the lookout penetrated the deck and was heard clearly in the cabin. Lynton excused himself and ran up the ladder; Holbrooke followed at a more deliberate pace. The sloop was lying-to with her head to the southeast, so this new sail must be offshore,
too far to seaward to be another Dutch merchantman making the run to Emden or Bremen.
‘She’s a ship, sir, tops’ls and t’gallants and she’s reaching to the north,’ shouted Able Seaman Shepherd.
‘Is she a man-of-war?’ asked Lynton. That was the critical thing to know. With this easterly wind, she could be a merchantman from any of a dozen different nations making her way north to Denmark or the Baltic. Or she could be a French frigate, come to investigate rumours of a British cruiser off Emden.
‘Not a man-of-war,’ replied the lookout. ‘There’s something not quite right. A privateer perhaps, sir.’ Conversation with the lookout was easy with the sloop lying-to in this moderate breeze; there was no howling wind to tangle the words and lead to misunderstanding.
‘A Dunkirker, for a guinea,’ said Fairview. ‘She’ll be looking for our Baltic trade that’s coming up from the London river.’
The French merchants had enthusiastically taken up the Dutch tradition of the previous century. With Dunkirk in French hands, and a war stifling their ability to trade, they’d put their energy into fitting out their ships as privateers. The channel gropers made life difficult for them, but once they’d broken clear of the narrow seas and into the Atlantic or the North Sea, they were in their element with rich pickings among any of the British merchantmen that were foolish enough to sail without a convoy. Despite the danger and the high insurance rates, some still attempted it, hoping that a fast passage would cover their costs. François Thurot was the most famous of the Dunkirk privateers; his little squadron had taken – it was said – sixty prizes in the first year of the war before a proper convoy system was established. He was believed to be over-wintering at Bergen and may still be there, but perhaps this was another ship on its way to join him.