by Chris Durbin
‘I must admit that I had a nasty moment when I saw that great field gun pointing at me, with the Dutchmen doing a fair imitation of loading it. But I thought hey-ho, I’ve got nothing better to do this morning, so we kept on firing, at her hull now, you understand, until she struck her colours when we were half a cable away. I had no notion, no idea at all that she was stuffed with black powder.’
Lynton was enjoying a hot coffee after a night and a morning in an open boat on the Dutch coast in January and re-telling his adventures to anyone who would listen. However, the gunroom mess had other things to do, and after the first telling, they started to drift away to their duties. Soon Lynton found he was talking to the mess-boy, who was quite happy to shirk his work and listen to any tall stories.
‘Pass the word for the first lieutenant, pass the word for Lieutenant Lynton,’ the cry was echoed from quarterdeck to fo’c’sle and thence down to the lower regions, where the gunroom lay. Gulping down the last of the coffee and leaving a disappointed mess-boy, Lynton walked rapidly to the great cabin.
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‘Ah, Mister Lynton, please join us,’ said Holbrooke. The cabin was already crowded with the ship’s executive officers: Fairview and Treganoc, with Chalmers also in attendance. There was another man there, an officer in a brown uniform with red facings to his cuffs. Below his brown breeches, his legs were covered to the knee by high, black boots and he carried a black tricorn hat with gold lacing. His short sword hung by his side. Lynton immediately recognised him. He’d seen this person as he approached the pink. This officer – for that’s what he appeared to be – was the ringleader of the men who had so disturbed him by going through the show of preparing the field guns to engage the longboat. The brown officer had made himself scarce when the pink struck her colours, and Lynton hadn’t seen him again in the bustle of securing the pink’s papers. Lynton realised guiltily that Kestrel’s rapid arrival and the need to report to Holbrooke had driven the unlikely figure right from his mind.
‘May I present Major Hans Albach of the Imperial Austrian Artillery? Major, this is Lieutenant Lynton, my second-in-command, who commanded the boat that boarded you.’ Lynton bowed, unsure whether he should resent this man not surrendering to him when he boarded the pink. That sword should be his, by right. ‘And this is Lieutenant Treganoc who commands the marines. Mister Fairview, the sailing master and Mister Chalmers you already know. Each of the officers bowed in turn as they were introduced, mystified by this strange turn of events.
‘I’m pleased to say that Major Albach is our friend.’
Holbrooke’s officers exchanged glances. Little did they know of the tangled webs of international treaties that underpinned this war. They all knew that Austria had fought with Britain against France in the previous war, but there’d been much talk of Maria Theresa – some called her Empress – betraying her old alliances by changing sides for the present one. If pressed, they’d probably have guessed that Britain and Austria were at war, but because Austria had no navy to speak of and the British army had not been deployed to the continent, there was no sound reason for the Kingdom and the Empire to clash.
‘As I’m sure you’re aware, the Austrian empire is not at war with Britain, although Austria is allied with France. Britain, of course, is allied with Prussia. And France and Prussia are fighting over Hanover and the other states that make up the Holy Roman Empire in this area, which is why Kestrel is in these waters. So, in this case, the friend of our enemy is not necessarily an enemy to us.’
Holbrooke was enjoying the consternation of his officers. Treganoc was doing a reasonable impression of a man for whom this wasn’t news, but Lynton and Fairview both exhibited frank confusion.
‘Major Albach was taking passage in the pink, his destination was Emden. He looked significantly at his officers, be very careful what you say, was his message. ‘Now, Major Albach speaks no English, but his French has proved perfectly adequate for a conversation with Mister Chalmers,’ Chalmers bowed in acknowledgement, ‘and each of us can probably converse with the major to a more limited extent.’
Holbrooke knew that both Lynton and Treganoc spoke a theoretical kind of French, at a level of proficiency calculated to the avoidance of punishment at school. In their language lessons, they’d obeyed the principle of economy of effort, doing just enough to satisfy the French master and no more. Fairview had no French, as far as Holbrooke was aware.
‘The major has told me,’ Holbrooke again looked significantly at his officers, ‘that he has no connection to the cargo, except for a general liking for field artillery, which I suspect we can all understand. The cargo is consigned to the commander of the French garrison at Emden, for onward shipment to the artillery commander of the field army, whereas Major Albach is on a mission to the Austrian garrison.
His officers heard this revelation without comment. The city of Emden was no concern of theirs, and once they’d swallowed the tale of Austria’s alliances, it didn’t matter who occupied it. Their business was with the vessels that supplied the city, and they cared little whether it was held by the French, the Austrians or a detachment of Malay pirates.
‘I’ve explained to Major Albach that we’re unable to deliver him to his destination today as we must catch the tide and carry our prize away to Harwich, so he’s agreed to be our guest for a few days.’ In truth, the poor major had few options other than to swim, but he gave every appearance of a man who was accepting the inevitable with grace. ‘Mister Lynton, I hope you’ll welcome the major into your mess.’
‘With the greatest of pleasure, sir. We can victual him as a supernumerary.’
There was a knock at the door. Varley came in and removed his hat, bowing carefully. It wouldn’t do to show up the ship in front of a foreign officer. ‘Sir, there’s a brig coming down from Delfzijl, she’s flying a Dutch ensign. The tide will turn soon, and there’s still a little wind, so she’ll be here in an hour. She looks like a man-of-war to me.’
Holbrooke wasn’t concerned that a brig-of-war could do them any harm, but he had no desire to argue the subtler points of the Rule of 1756 with a Dutchman, who would certainly see things in a different light. As much as the carriage of goods for France was an important consideration in Britain’s maritime war, it was of the most vital concern to the Dutch, whose economy depended upon her trading fleets.
‘Very well, then we must conclude our business and be away, and as you’re here Mister Varley, you’ve saved me the trouble of passing the word for you. Take a petty officer and four seamen, Mister Treganoc will give you a file of marines,’ he glanced at the marine lieutenant, who nodded in reply. ‘Assume command of the pink and follow Kestrel to Harwich. Stay under our lee and don’t take any nonsense from those Dutchmen.’
‘Aye-aye sir,’ Varley replied, his face an impassive mask. He hadn’t yet recovered his sense of humour after the last spell as prize master, but perhaps this would be a shorter passage if the master’s weather predictions proved accurate.
‘I’ll bring her master into the sloop, that should make things a little easier for you.’
Varley turned to go; he knew that he had little time before the brig-of-war reached them.
‘And Mister Varley,’ the master’s mate paused, one foot on the coaming of the cabin door. ‘There’s to be no fooling with those field guns.’
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The Dutch brig-of-war followed Kestrel and the pink until they were clear of Borkum and then, after firing a single gun harmlessly to leeward, she retraced her course back towards Delfzijl. It was a futile act of bravado, but it would look well in the report that the brig would undoubtedly make:
I chased the British sloop and her illegal prize until they were beyond the islands and I sent them on their way with a warning shot, to which they made no response except to continue their retreat from Dutch national waters.
The brig was in sight until night fell, laboriously tacking into the estuary against the last of the ebb.
Holbrooke couldn’t fail to notice that the master’s weather forecast was correct, even if Fairview didn’t remind him at the turn of each glass. The wind dropped to nothing overnight, leaving a glassy sea heaving rhythmically under the influence of forgotten winds. But it didn’t bother Kestrel and the pink as they’d made their offing with the last of the ebbing tide. The moon rose and cast its cold light over the North Sea and the stars burned with extraordinary brightness in this unnatural calm.
With the dawn, the wind came clear and cold from the east-nor’east, a perfect quartering wind for Harwich. Varley hardly touched the pink’s sheets for the entire voyage and, on the whole, these Dutchmen were a much more reasonable set of people than the bilanders’ awkward crews. When they understood that they’d be home in a week or two, they became positively friendly. They each believed passionately that if the pink’s victuals were soon to belong to someone else, they should eat and spare not while they had the chance, and for the sake of an easy life, they included the prize crew in their two-day food binge. It was a contented, well-fed prize master who handed the pink into the custody of the port commissioner on the Saturday evening.
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‘Mister Lynton,’ said Holbrooke when the first lieutenant reported the sloop at anchor. ‘Unless the port commissioner has some unfortunate news for us, I intend to remain here until I hear from the Admiralty regarding our Austrian guest. Tell the purser that he may purchase fresh provisions, and the master may replenish our wood and water. Mister Jackson may do whatever he wants to the rigging, but we must be ready to sail at twenty-four hours’ notice. He’s to speak to you before he embarks on anything that may prevent our sailing.’
‘I know that the carpenter wants to do a boot-topping, sir,’ replied Lynton. ‘That’ll take two days, but if we have to sail with only one side done, it won’t be the end of the world.’
‘Try telling that to the master, Mister Lynton. But go ahead, let’s have our boot-topping clean and weed-free.’
It would be a hard few days for the hands; the guns and all the heavy stores had to be moved to one side of the sloop to expose as much of her underwater hull as possible. Then stages would have to be rigged, and boats secured alongside so that the weed and barnacles could be scraped off. The cleaned hull would then be inspected for loose caulking, and a fresh confection of teased-out rope strands and tar would be forced into the seams where necessary. The whole had then to be payed with a toxic mixture of tar, sulphur, fish-oil and tallow that would inhibit the growth of weed and the infestation of barnacles. They called it white stuff. Then, if there were time, the process would be repeated for the other side, and all this in a cold east coast harbour in January. A seaman’s life was hard indeed.
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What was the government’s view of relations with Austria? Holbrooke could only infer from Admiral Forbes’ sparse comments a few weeks ago, but it did seem likely that Pitt would prefer them as neutral friends rather than outright enemies. Probably Emden was the only place where British and Austrian interests were at odds. In which case it was important that Holbrooke acted carefully. How would the judgement of a mere commander be taken? There was a bold course of action in which Holbrooke fearlessly gave his opinion, and there was a safer course, in which Holbrooke merely stated the facts. His career could hinge on this decision. In exasperation, he pushed the cabin door open and spoke to the sentry.
‘Pass the word for Mister Chalmers, Dawkins,’ he said and then returned to stare out of the window at the busy town.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Chalmers, arriving with a broad smile. He appeared to have not a care in the world. ‘You look as though you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.’
Holbrooke grimaced. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, but he’d called the chaplain here and now he must go through with it. He outlined his dilemma. Chalmers sat in silence for a moment, pondering.
‘I know even less than you about the workings of the Admiralty, and neither of us knows anything at all about the government.’ said Chalmers. ‘I fear there’s little to be gained by trying to guess how either of those departments will take to offered suggestions.’
Holbrooke looked even more depressed.
‘I wonder what Captain Carlisle would do in this situation?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not very helpful,’ said Holbrooke. ‘Carlisle is a post-captain, and that’s a huge step up from a commander. ‘When all’s said and done, I’m not much more than a senior lieutenant. A post-captain is supposed to be able to represent the country’s interest when he has nobody to turn to. His opinions are generally respected.’
‘My dear Holbrooke, I see no post-captain hovering over your shoulder. There’s no such a person in Harwich, not even the port commissioner has that rank. Look around you; you’re far more important than you believe. You can offer an opinion to the very highest in the land because you’re the person on the spot, and nobody knows the situation better than you. Sending a letter to the Admiralty that merely states the problem without offering a solution is unworthy of you; you’re better than that, sir. Now, I ask you again, what would Carlisle do?’
Holbrooke was aware that not one in ten captains of men-of-war would allow a supernumerary chaplain to speak to them in this hectoring manner, but he’d asked for Chalmers’ advice, it would be churlish now to berate him. In any case, he was right. And he knew just what Carlisle would do.
‘My clerk,’ he said to Dawkins.
Holbrooke would remember the letter to Mister Clevland as a minor waypoint in his career, in the building of his self-confidence. He explained the situation with Major Albach, the circumstances of his being on board Kestrel and what was known of his purpose in being on passage to Emden. At the urging of Chalmers, in firm but respectful tones he stated his opinions. There was no legal case for detaining the major, his return may be beneficial for Britain’s relations with Austria, and it would be quite safe for Kestrel to put him ashore at Emden under a flag of truce.
The letter was sealed and sanded and rowed ashore to be sent to London by the port commissioner’s daily courier before he had a chance to change his mind.
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The major had become a firm favourite of the gunroom in the two days he’d been onboard. He was interested in everything; in the workings of the sails, the management of the guns – so different from field, siege or garrison artillery and a world away from the mortars which were the major’s principal passion – and the household economy of this strange floating company. He’d been shown the mysteries of the bosun’s art, following Jackson into the ultimate pinnacles of the masts, his knees shaking as he was helped down from the main t’gallant cross-trees. And the carpenter had taken him into his holy of holies – the carpenter’s walk – the narrow passageway in the cloistered extremities of the hold that ran the length of the ship on each side so that he and his mates could come at any damage. The major had made such a good impression – and after all, he wasn’t an enemy – that discipline would have suffered if he hadn’t been granted every consideration that was in the sloop’s power.
Kestrel spent three days in Harwich. It took that long for Holbrooke’s letter to reach the Admiralty, for Clevland to consult with Admiral Forbes and the First Lord and for a reply to be sent back. The sloop was ordered to sail as soon as she’d completed her stores, to deliver Major Albach to the Emden garrison and to continue with her previous orders. In those three days, the Kestrels were delighted to learn that the two bilanders had been duly condemned and that their cargoes and the ships themselves would be auctioned where they lay. The bilanders’ crews were cheerfully rowed out to a small brig that would take them to Dover where they’d join the regular cartel to Calais. They’d be home not much later than they would have been if their vessels hadn’t been taken. The carpenter had completed the boot-topping, adding perhaps as much as a knot to Kestrel’s speed, the rigging had been overhauled and made ready for another spell at sea and the store
s had been completed.
‘Take us to sea, Mister Fairview,’ said Holbrooke after he’d seen the port commissioner over the side. He was a most obliging commissioner, and the reason for his friendliness had been discovered by the purser. By a variety of stratagems involving a small percentage here and a modest encouragement there, the commissioner reckoned to pocket at least five per cent of the condemned value of any prize that passed through his hands. A most satisfactory arrangement for an officer who thought his service days were long over.
And there was one more thing that encouraged Holbrooke. He hadn’t heard the name of the former first lieutenant spoken during the whole of their stay in Harwich. As Clevland had forecast, intense activity and prizes had driven Deschamps from the minds of Kestrel’s people.
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17: Major Albach
Monday, Twenty-Third of January 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. The Texel East-Northeast 20 Leagues.
Holbrooke was poring over the plan of Emden that the port commissioner had given him. He was wedged into his chair which in turn was fastened to a ring-bolt; a necessary precaution because Kestrel was beating hard against a strong nor’west wind. The deck was sloped at a crazy angle, and anything not properly secured would migrate to the bilges in very short order. It wasn’t that Holbrooke anticipated any direct action against Emden – his orders now were quite clear, to blockade the port and survey the estuary – but he worked on the principle that no knowledge is ever really wasted. It wasn’t a very detailed map, but it did give an impression of the way the city was defended, and Holbrooke hoped that it would provide some clues to its seaward defences and its weak points.
At first sight, the fortifications were formidable; there was a continuous moated wall around the city with four gates piercing the masonry and two rivers flowing through, each of which – he assumed – must pass through some sort of culvert. The rivers fed the moat and a network of canals within the city, one of which left the city to the east through a significant break in the wall. The fortifications continued around the wharves and jetties that faced the sheltered road – the anchorage – between the city and the small island of Nessa. The twin approaches to the Emden Road gave access to and from the Dollart on either side of the island. Wharves lined the shore facing the island and there were further wharves – named delfts on the map – in the centre of the town, two of which were protected by locks.