Holbrooke's Tide

by Chris Durbin

  The sea to leeward was an awe-inspiring sight, the waves in regular ranks advancing in all their sublime beauty towards the distant Jutland peninsula. The gale that had blown for twenty-four hours from the west-southwest had stacked up the water into this shallow corner of the North Sea, creating short, steep whitecaps whose crests broke as the urgent wind forced against their near-vertical sides and the shallowing sea retarded their bases. Each of those waves could overwhelm any coasting craft, and it was therefore not surprising that Kestrel had seen no sign of life since she sailed from Harwich five days ago. No sail, no boats – nothing – even in this, one of the busiest seas in the world. She was alone in a wilderness of grey sea, white foam and slate sky.

  Fairview faced to windward and let the full force of the gale batter his face. With his eyes closed and an expression of rapt concentration, he looked like some tribal shaman divining the future.

  ‘It’s backing, sir,’ he said. ‘It’ll start to moderate tomorrow, and by Thursday we’ll be whistling for a wind.’

  Lynton snorted involuntarily. He had a private opinion of the master’s weather-lore, and he considered him to be an expert only in having the gall to present the obvious as a clever piece of forecasting. Holbrooke watched the interplay between his two officers. He knew they were fundamentally good friends, but as he’d predicted when he’d first met his new sailing master, a sloop was a small place to confine two officers of such restless energy.

  ‘I hope you’re right, Master, because we need the traffic to come outside the islands, although they may well guess what we’re up to with those bilanders not being heard from these past ten days. However, I doubt whether they’ve moved at all yet, even on the inside passage with this wind whipping across the tide. This may be our last chance before the owners know for certain that they’ve lost two vessels and their cargoes. Then they’ll take the inshore route, regardless of their schedules. Would you both join me below? you can leave the deck to Midshipman Turner.’

  ◆◆◆

  Down in the cabin, the ship’s motion was intensified. Kestrel had the wind on her larboard bow, and she was under close-reefed tops’ls and storm jib with a corner of the mizzen showing to keep her from paying off. The bows lifted to every roller and came down again into the hollow back of the wave with a sickening swoop and a final crunch that shook the ship from stem to stern. Every seam was strained, and the rigging sang in a high pitch, modulating in frequency as Kestrel rose and fell, alternately exposed to the wind and hidden in a trough. It wasn’t dangerous – unless they lost a spar – but neither was it comfortable.

  ‘Let’s see your chart again, Mister Fairview,’ and the master left briefly to rummage in the chartroom that doubled as his cabin.

  ‘Moderating wind! Flat calm!’ muttered Lynton. ‘What else could happen after this blow? I could have made that forecast; the ship’s cat could have made that forecast.’

  ‘But he is usually right, you know,’ countered Holbrooke. ‘Let’s let the master be the wind-prophet. Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.’

  It was difficult to avoid adjudicating in these petty jealousies between his senior sea officers, particularly when Lynton presumed upon their long acquaintance to air his frustrations, where any other first lieutenant would otherwise have held his silence.

  The master unrolled the familiar chart. On paper, the situation became clear in a way that no sterile discussion could achieve. With this moderating gale, the coasters would take the first opportunity to make the short beat through the Texel Passage and then they’d have the wind behind them for a fast run to the Ems Estuary. If the weather deteriorated, they could always duck through any of the gaps between the islands to find refuge in the calmer waters inside, even though it meant they’d have to anchor in some quiet tidal lake and wait for the wind to decrease. Probably the contract with the French army contained an incentive payment for meeting the delivery schedule and a penalty for missing it; a carrot and a stick. And without a doubt the owners would have passed down those terms to the masters of their vessels. This much was evident to each of the three men gathered around the chart.

  Lynton looked dubiously at the chain of islands. ‘If they take the outside passage at all, they’ll be cautious, with those bilanders still missing. When we’re sighted, they’ll haul their wind for the nearest passage without waiting to identify us.’ He pointed to the gaps between the islands that led to Dutch internal waters.

  ‘Then we need to think again, Mister Lynton. Look at the problem from the other end of the telescope.’

  ‘I believe there are no batteries on these islands, with the Dutch being at peace since ‘forty-eight,’ said Fairview. ‘It’s not in a Butterball’s character to spend money until they’re forced to do so.’

  ‘That’s my understanding also,’ agreed Holbrooke. ‘However, it’s still their territorial waters, and at least in theory we can’t risk going in there. Otherwise, we could ambush them from behind the islands.’

  ‘It’s very dangerous, in any case,’ said Fairview looking uncharacteristically worried. ‘Those are shifting sands; the banks are in a different place after each westerly gale. Even if I had a good chart, without a Dutch pilot, I wouldn’t want to try it.’

  They all stared at the chart, hoping for something to leap out at them, some imp of inspiration. Lynton was the first to speak.

  ‘Could we wait in the Ems estuary?’ he asked tentatively. ‘We have at least some sort of right to be there as it’s the only way to Emden, and whether that city’s an enemy or a friend, we can argue the case.’

  They all looked at the stretch of water that they’d been forced to fight their way out of two weeks ago. It was certainly possible. After Delfzijl and Knock, the land slanted away on either side and the estuary became broad before it reached the sea. By the time a vessel had passed the natural extent of the shoreline, it had become a twelve-mile wide arm of the ocean. That would be a landsman’s view of the chart, but these three seasoned seamen knew better. The spaces between the Dutch and Frisian shores were tightly-packed with tiny figures, each showing the depth of water at that point; the depth of water that could be expected at the lowest tide. When that was considered, then the cruising area available to even a modest sloop like Kestrel was severely curtailed.

  ‘They’d just run into the shallows on the Dutch side at first sight of us, sir,’ said Fairview.

  ‘Not if we had a boat up against the land,’ said Lynton, enthusiastically. ‘Look, from Delfzijl north on the Dutch side, it’s almost uninhabited, just a few small villages. There’ll be no batteries to assert their rights. If the sloop lies behind Borkum, here in the eastern channel,’ he pointed to the leeward side of the big island that bifurcated the Ems estuary, ‘when the coasters come in through the western channel – as they must whether they take the outside or inside route – we can beat across the channel towards them. They’ll haul their wind into the Dutch shore as soon as they see us, but the longboat will be waiting. With any luck we’ll be able to take the prizes beyond the Dutch territorial waters, to make it all clean and legal.’

  Holbrooke and Fairview looked sceptically at the chart. Where were the flaws in this plan? Why hadn’t they seen it themselves? After a few moments of this stalemate, it dawned on all three of them that the plan was workable. It would take luck, a fair wind and a steady hand, but it could work.

  ‘Mister Fairview, when can you place us behind Borkum? Can we safely lie to windward of this other island, Juist?’

  ‘We can be there in the morning watch tomorrow, sir, but that may be a little early. Perhaps Thursday would be better, to give the Dutch time to run down the chain of islands. As for the channel between Borkum and Juist – they call it the Eastern Ems – it’s wide enough for us, and we’d be stemming either the flood or the ebb. We’ll be quite safe there.’

  ‘Then let’s run down to the north of the estuary and make an offing so that we’re not seen.’

  Holbrooke took another c
areful look at the chart.

  ‘Mister Lynton, you’ll command the longboat.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied the lieutenant, the delight showing in his face.

  ◆◆◆

  Any of the rustic farmers or fishermen on the two Frisian islands of Borkum or Juist who had ventured out of their homes on this cold January morning would have seen the remarkable sight of one of King George’s sloops-of-war stemming the flood tide under her courses with not a sail set above the tops. The infant flood was just strong enough to counter Kestrel’s forward thrust and, from the shore, she appeared to be stationary.

  ‘Wind’s in the west sir, falling every moment,’ observed the master, ‘and this clag is here to stay; we won’t see a sail much past three leagues.’ Was there a hint of smugness in his tone?

  ‘Yes, I dare say,’ replied Holbrook, staring fixedly past the southern tip of Borkum in the direction that he hoped his prize would come.

  ‘We’ll have a day or so of this, and then the wind'll come at us cold and clear from the east.’

  ‘Without a doubt, Mister Fairview.’

  Now, thought Holbrooke. Now is the time for a sail; anything to stop the master’s weather forecasts.

  Nothing, no hail from the masthead. Kestrel was carefully positioned at the southern end of the Eastern Ems, so that they could see to the west, over the submerged Randzel Sand that lay to the southeast of Borkum, into the Western Ems. But from the west, their bare poles above the tops would be difficult to see in this dank greyness.

  ‘We’ll be whistling for it by dinner,’ continued the master, remorselessly.

  Holbrooke turned his back on the master. Anything to block out the self-satisfied gabble. It would do no harm, Holbrooke knew; Fairview had the thickest skin of anyone he’s ever known.

  ‘I fancy…’

  Holbrooke would never know what the master fancied because even the master’s weather lore took second place to the hail.

  ‘Sail ho! Sail on the larboard beam. Looks like a pink, sir, just coming in and out through the mist.’

  ‘Up to the maintop, Mister Varley, and let me know what you see.’

  The mist seemed to be thicker nearer the water, and there was still nothing visible from the deck. Holbrooke paced, waiting for a report from the master’s mate.

  ‘It’s a pink, sure enough, sir, under all sail with the wind on her starboard quarter. She’s passed Rottum and that little island to the east of it.’

  ‘Then she’s committed,’ said the master with deep satisfaction. ‘She won’t be able to beat out against this flood, she’s coming right up the channel.’

  ‘Is there any sign of the longboat, Mister Varley?’ called Holbrooke.

  There was a short pause while Varley scanned the murk to the west. ‘No, sir. Nothing. And I can’t see the Dutch shore either.’

  That was to be expected. Lynton would be under oars, close in to the shore over the Groningen Watt, a bank of sand and mud that would be partially dry at low water. Lynton would certainly have seen the pink by now but would be waiting for Kestrel to make her move.

  ‘How much water over the Randzel Sand?’ asked Holbrooke.

  ‘Four fathoms at this state of the tide, sir, and rising,’ replied Fairview.

  ‘Very well. Fore-stays’l, tops’ls and t’gallants. Bring her about, Mister Fairview, and we’ll beat up to the pink.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied the master turning to give the orders. The backed fore-stays’l gave the leverage forward, and Kestrel’s bows came smoothly through the wind. The tops’ls fell from their ties, and the yards were lifted. Within two minutes of the order, the sloop was dashing across the sands in pursuit of the pink.

  ‘Let’s have our battle ensign at the main; I don’t want her to be in any doubt of her peril.’

  The pink was in sight from the deck now, an unearthly, unfocused image as it slipped in and out of the thin mist. Ah, there she goes, thought Holbrooke. They’d been seen, and the pink had hauled her wind, heading now for the Dutch shore. Her narrow stern was clear for all to see, the defining characteristic of a pink.

  ‘What do you think, Master?’ asked Holbrooke. ‘What’s her burthen?’

  ‘Gusting two hundred tons, sir. A good size for a vessel of her type.’

  There was a small village on the shore, at the bend of the land where the sands behind the islands gave way to the estuary. It looked like the pink was hoping for sanctuary in the squalid mud-hole of the kind that fronted each of these villages, just large enough for a coasting vessel to swing to a short anchor at high water or take the ground at low water.

  So far, the plan was working, but there was still no sign of the longboat, and if Lynton wasn’t in position, then it would all end in humiliating failure. There was no question of Kestrel catching the Pink before she found refuge and once at anchor so close to the shore, Holbrooke knew that he risked a diplomatic incident if he cut her out.

  Kestrel was moving fast now, her fore tack at the cathead and all her tacks and sheets twanging taut. The water was barely rippled here in the estuary under the lee of the Dutch coast, and with this light wind, there was little noise. The silence and the ghostly light that filtered through the mist lent an otherworldly air to the chase. There was a sense of the sloop sailing through an unknown element in a world where there were no solid forms, only ephemeral, drifting shapes that came and went at random.

  ‘Deck there!’ The call came from Varley, still at the masthead. That was good. Holbrooke had confidence in the regular lookouts, but Varley knew the tactical situation, he knew where he was likely to see the longboat, and he could guess what Lynton should be doing. He could offer much more intelligent commentary on the evolving chase than any lookout. ‘I see the longboat now, under sail. She’s a mile or two beyond the pink and a little to seaward.’

  Good. The longboat could easily out-sail any pink in these sheltered waters and Lynton hadn’t shown his hand until the chase was deep into the estuary, with the tide flooding.

  ‘I think we’ll fetch the pink on this tack, sir,’ said Fairview. ‘I hope young Lynton doesn’t let her slip past him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll do very well,’ replied Holbrooke testily, but again the master appeared to notice no rebuke. It was clear that Fairview would very much like to have exchanged places in the longboat with Lynton, but that certainly wouldn’t happen while Holbrooke was in command. He didn’t doubt the master’s proficiency in boat operations, but he was just too valuable on the quarterdeck. Anyway, it was clearly the first lieutenant’s prerogative to command the longboat on occasions such as this.

  ‘Silence on deck,’ roared Fairview. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought I heard a gun.’

  Both men strained to hear, but the swirling mist deadened sounds and confused directions.

  ‘It’s the longboat, sir,’ shouted Varley from the masthead. ‘She’s opened fire with her swivel.’

  The longboat was fitted to take a two-pounder boat gun, but that was unnecessarily heavy for persuading an unarmed coaster to heave to. The carpenter had spent the previous day making a mounting for a swivel gun right in the bows of the boat. A swivel only fired a half-pound ball, but it was very much lighter, could be fired more rapidly, and allowed the boat to pull another pair of oars. Kestrel could readily spare a swivel gun from the dozen that she owned. Lynton had taken twenty mugs – the breech-loaded charges that gave the swivel its rate of fire – and no Dutch coaster would face that sustained bombardment, however light the balls.

  Holbrooke could hear it now, a report every sixty seconds or so. Lynton was making it quite clear to the pink that she really had no option but to strike before the longboat came crashing alongside and twenty cutlass-wielding seamen poured onto her deck. The end was inevitable; the master just had to decide how much damage he was prepared to risk before he bowed to the overwhelming force.

  ‘She’s backed her tops’ls, sir.’

  The pink was only three miles away, an
d Holbrooke could see the two vessels now from the deck. The pink was lying-to as the longboat ran down towards her. There was a moment of confusion as the two vessels met; Lynton was quite rightly making a drama of coming alongside, further intimidating her crew. Holbrooke could see the force of the impact quite clearly as both the longboat and the pink staggered, their masts swaying wildly.

  ‘She’s struck, sir,’ shouted Varley.

  ◆◆◆

  16: The Pink

  Thursday, Nineteenth of January 1758.

  Kestrel, at Sea. Western Ems Estuary.

  Kestrel’s people contemplated the pink with the greatest of pleasure as she lay alongside, well-fendered and bobbing gently against the sloop in the light airs. She carried one hundred and eighty tons of artillery stores and ammunition, and it was the wonder of all hands that her master hadn’t struck at the first shot from the longboat. A man-of-war’s magazine was buried deep in the hull, well-protected from the enemy’s shot, but a merchantman had no such protection for his volatile cargo, and the barrels of powder were pressed hard against her thin planking. An unlucky shot from the longboat would have sent them all to their eternal rest.

  But the real wonder, the sight that made everyone stare, was a pair of handsome bronze four-pounder horse artillery guns and limbers, just like those that Kestrel had duelled with nearly three weeks ago, complete with the French royal cypher. They were lashed top-to-tail on the deck, the guns properly mounted upon their carriages, one muzzle pointing to starboard while the other pointed to larboard. They looked for all the world as though they could be a makeshift armament for the pink. The guns were things of beauty, at least to the military eye, and Lieutenant Treganoc had been seen covertly fondling them each time he passed by. He knew he couldn’t keep them, they’d soon be consigned to the armoury at the Tower of London, to be converted into something that met the British army’s needs, or to be offered to an ally. The pink was a very valuable prize indeed, and she had suffered no damage except the loss of a little paint from her sides.