by Chris Durbin
Holbrooke could see Matross looking over his shoulder at the number one gun, the furthest forward on the starboard side and the first to fire, whose crew was hastily reloading. If they didn’t manage it in time before number fifteen gun fired, he’d have to order number two gun to fire, which, being on the other side of the ship, would advertise his shame to the whole of Harwich, and more particularly to the ships of their new squadron. It should be possible for a well-drilled crew; there was no ball to load, just a quarter-weight charge already prepared in its felt bag, but it would be a close-run thing.
Number two gun’s crew waited tensely, their gun loaded, primed and run out. The gun captain fingered his linstock, blowing on it gently because it was understood that the gunner would be unable to reach them with his own linstock before they must fire, if the even spacing of the salute was to be maintained.
‘…number fifteen gun fire.’ Matross turned, ready to capitulate and order number two gun to come to the rescue, when he saw number one gun’s captain fling his arm triumphantly into the air, followed by the captains of numbers three and five.
‘If I wasn’t a gunner I wouldn’t be here, number one gun fire,’ he intoned, a slight smile creasing the corners of his mouth, and every man on Kestrel’s deck breathed again.
‘They’re in a rare old stew on the flagship, sir,’ said Lynton, looking at the hive of activity as the master gunner of Seahorse lashed out right and left with his cane, in a vain attempt to be ready to return the salute. But it wasn’t to be, and the Kestrels had the intense satisfaction of counting down a five-minute delay in the return of the salute, by which time the yawl was lying off the flagship’s side waiting for the salute to finish before Holbrooke could be received on board.
◆◆◆
Holbrooke’s report would have to be delivered to Holmes now, not directly to the Admiralty, and he was carrying it now as he mounted the frigate’s side to the howling of the pipes. Holmes was a proper commodore, a first-class commodore with a post-captain in command of his flagship. It was Captain Thomas Taylor who met Holbrooke at the waist, and he didn’t look too pleased that the young commander had upstaged the flagship at their first meeting.
‘It’s good to meet you, Holbrooke,’ he said, his expression giving his words the lie. ‘I see you chose to arrive unannounced.’
Holbrooke could feel a hundred pairs of disapproving eyes upon him. Perhaps he should have sent in a boat to declare his imminent arrival, but that all seemed a bit unnecessary as Kestrel was a familiar sight in Harwich. In any case, he had a good easterly wind which Fairview had forecast would fall before the tide turned, and he could feel that forecast coming true as he was rowed across, the chop of wind against tide being noticeably less. He could have been delayed until noon, when the flood would start if he’d followed this arbitrary protocol. But still, Holbrooke realised that he’d made an unfortunate first impression and it would be as well to show a little humility.
‘Thank you, sir, and I apologise for startling you. I wasn’t expecting to see you here yet, and the wind served…’ He realised that he was probably making matters worse and it would be better to hold his tongue. Taylor was some fifteen years Holbrooke’s senior in age. He’d been a lieutenant in the last war, suffered on half pay through the peace and had been made master and commander in the small brig-sloop Badger in ‘fifty-six when the navy mobilised for the next war. Holbrooke knew of him for his briefly famous action against a French privateer of almost double Badger’s force, for which he’d been made post-captain and commissioned into Seahorse. In principle, if Holbrooke made a good impression during his time in command of Kestrel, he could be posted in about a year and then he would be only a matter of months behind Taylor on the post-captain’s list. But for now, the disparity in rank was enormous. Taylor was a post-captain who only had to live long enough to one day hoist his flag as an admiral, while Holbrooke, in the rank of commander, had but a tenuous hold on a naval career. If he didn’t impress in his new rank, he’d be on half pay by the end of the year, his career over, for he wouldn’t get another sloop and he couldn’t return to the lieutenant’s rank. Promotion to commander carried a cruel jeopardy that was well known and understood.
Commodore Holmes occupied the great cabin, which would otherwise have been Taylor’s. It must have been an awkward arrangement because Seahorse was an older, smaller frigate mounting only twenty-four nine-pounder guns. She’d been laid down and launched here, at the King’s Yard in Harwich just a few hundred yards away. Seahorse had been built to the now-discredited 1745 establishment and in consequence was cramped and under-gunned. It was difficult to know where Taylor would be berthed; certainly it would be less comfortable than the great cabin.
Holmes wore an un-powdered half-wig that barely touched the collar of his undress frock coat, giving him a casual appearance. Evidently, he’d also been caught unawares by Kestrel’s pre-dawn arrival. However, he was inclined to be friendly; perhaps he enjoyed his flag captain’s discomfort. It wouldn’t be unusual for there to be tension between a commodore and the captain of the flagship; after all, they were substantially the same rank. When this mission was over, Holmes could easily find himself once again the captain of a man-of-war.
‘That was a neat piece of work, Captain Holbrooke. Your master must know Harwich well.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Holbrooke replied. ‘This is our third visit since we’ve been on station.’
‘I’ve heard all about your prizes from the port commissioner. He tells me they’re sold already and have fetched good prices. The prize court is moving with extraordinary speed, trying to establish the Rule of 1756 by giving it a wide body of legal precedent, before the challenges gain ground.’
Now that Holbrooke didn’t know, although he should have guessed. International law leaned heavily upon precedent, and if the courts could offer enough uncontested cases or could create so many that the contestants couldn’t keep up, the Rule would become accepted by default, whatever the neutrals thought.
‘And I heard about Deschamps and his unfortunate … injury.’ Holmes looked meaningfully at Holbrooke, letting the younger man know that he’d been told, or suspected, the truth of the story.
‘Yes, sir. An unfortunate incident, but I have a replacement already, Mister Lynton, and we’re doing very well. I’ve called in today for wood and water and to replenish my victuals. It’s my good fortune to find you here, sir.’
Taylor grimaced. He wasn’t at all sure that seeing the commodore’s pendant was a surprise to Holbrooke. Otherwise, how on earth had he been able to fire off an eleven-gun salute at such short notice?
‘Well, I’m glad to see you,’ said Holmes. ‘It saves me coming to the Ems to find you. I think Admiral Forbes told you that I’ll be establishing a blockade of the Weser before I turn my attention to the Ems. But you seem to have it pretty well stoppered. Is much getting through?’
‘Just the local traffic from Delfzijl and the Groningen villages around the Dollart, nothing above ten tons. There are nearly four-thousand French and Austrian soldiers in Emden, not to mention the civilian population. They’ll be feeling the pinch, sir. We’ve been up the Ems as far as Delfzijl every day, and they know that we’re taking prizes.’
‘Then they’ll have noticed your absence by now.’ Holmes looked thoughtful. ‘I need you back there as soon as possible, Holbrooke. The French – and it seems the Austrians – will be offering greater inducements to the merchants now so we can expect some more determined efforts to get the shipments through.’
Holmes didn’t mention that he was entitled to one-eighth of the value of any prizes that Holbrooke took, from this moment forward. Of course, he gained nothing from the captures that had already been made. Many men would have been irritated that Holbrooke had effectively stifled the trade – and therefore the potential for prizes – before coming under his command, but if Holmes felt that way, he didn’t show it.
‘You know,’ said the commodore, ‘it wouldn’t be surp
rising if the French were feeling a little isolated in Emden. When their field army retreats – and retreat it must, in the face of the fresh forces that Prince Ferdinand is mustering on the Elbe – Emden will be left to fend for itself, and eventually it must fall to famine or siege. If I were that French commandant, I’d be thinking about abandoning the city before my escape is cut off. If you can do anything to encourage him – without unnecessarily endangering your ship, of course – then you should do so. I won’t put that into writing but just bear it in mind, would you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Holbrooke, and he described their encounter with Major Albach. ‘The Austrian major hinted as much; he was very free with his information.’
‘What a stroke it would be if the navy could take Emden without any help from the army!’ Holmes turned to his secretary. ‘Draft a letter to the port commissioner informing him that Kestrel has priority for wood, water and victuals, and anything else they need. It’s all to be completed by noon tomorrow.’
Holbrooke looked startled. He’d hoped to be able to give each watch a few hours ashore to stretch their legs and spend some of their future prize money. It was lucky that he hadn’t mentioned it to his officers because then the people would certainly be anticipating a run ashore.
‘Is there any reason that you can’t sail tomorrow, Holbrooke?’ asked Holmes, seeing the blank look on his face.
‘None at all, sir,’ he replied, recovering quickly. ‘I’ll catch the last of the ebb if the wind doesn’t serve.’
‘Very well, very well. Now, you’ll join me for dinner? Meanwhile, my secretary will let you know what reports I need. You’re under my command now, you know. No more hobnobbing with their Lordships and the Admiralty Secretary for you!’
◆◆◆
Jackson surveyed the sloop’s people from his precarious perch atop the belfry. Being a severely flush-decked ship, there was no true fo’c’sle or quarterdeck from which he could look down on them, so the belfry it had to be, perched on top of the massive timbers of the windlass. He also knew that it was a very effective arrangement for his purposes. He was one of the ship’s officers now, not a commission officer but a warrant officer and like every bosun, he’d come up from the lower deck. It was better for all if he employed less formality than the captain or the first lieutenant would in addressing both watches.
‘Now then men,’ he began. ‘First off, the captain’s asked me to tell you that you’ve done well this past six weeks and he says that he’s proud of you.’
Jackson studied the men. There were a few who looked suspicious; they’d heard similar starts before, and it usually meant that the bosun was being sent to deliver a message that the commission officers would rather not have to. A few only, because in general, they were a happy company, shaking down well and with some significant successes under their belts, not to mention a tidy sum in prize money in a few months. Most of them looked attentive, hoping that the bosun was going to say something to their advantage.
‘Now, you’ll all have heard that we’re sailing on the last of the ebb tomorrow.’
Apparently one or two hadn’t, but they were men so far removed from the workings of the ship – the loblolly boy, some of the warrant officers’ servants and a powder monkey or two – that they hardly mattered.
‘We’ve wood, water, victuals and some stores to get on board, so there’s a deal of work to be done.’
‘No run ashore then Bosun?’ asked a bewhiskered quartermaster in the front row of men. He was presuming on his great age and vital skills to ask the awkward question.
‘Now there you’ve got it wrong, Curly. You’ve been listening at the wrong scuttle-butts, you have. Try hauling some of those grey curls away from your ears next time.’
That drew a laugh, and it grabbed the attention of the few cynics. He had their attention now.
‘If we can get the heavy stuff done today, and I can see the water lighter heading our way now,’ he said looking over towards the yard, ‘Mister Lynton is prepared to give you shore leave, watch-by-watch, after the evening gun.’
There was some excited whispering now. Few of the men had been ashore since they sailed from Portsmouth back at the end of December. Harwich wasn’t London, nor yet was it Portsmouth Point, but where there were sailors, there were drinking-houses and where there was money being spent there were women.
‘Silence!’ roared Jackson. The whispering died down, and he was again looking down at a mass of expectant faces.
‘Watch-by watch, I say, and the change of the watch will be at two bells in the first watch. That’s fair. So, who’s to take the long dogs and who’s to take the first and middle? Starbowlines or larbowlines?’
There was a general discussion. Some thought the earlier liberty boat would be better. What if the ale-houses all closed before the second half of the crew got ashore? Some thought the later session was the better when the town had livened up a bit.
‘Captains of tops, what’s your preference?’
The six men broke away from the crowd and gathered together in front of the windlass. These were the most respected men on the lower deck, the shapers of opinion and the arbiters of fair play. There were a few moments of discussion, then the captain of the foretop in the larboard watch raised his voice.
‘We should draw lots for it Bosun. That way it’s all square.’
‘A good idea, George, a good idea. Who’ll give me two straws from their hat?’
Jackson turned his back on the men and arranged the two straws in his large fist so that their tops were level.
‘Who’s youngest?’ he asked.
A tiny and acutely shy boy was pushed to the front. He looked about eight, but Jackson knew that he claimed to be thirteen. The truth was probably somewhere between the two ages, but as there was no documentary evidence of his birth, it would probably be forever a mystery. He was a Marine Society boy, taken from the streets of London, given a hot meal and a suit of clothes and sent to the receiving ship. His officially documented life had begun when he’d been presented to the society by a kindly magistrate. Harsh it may have been, but it was a far, far better life than he’d have had in the capital, homeless and vulnerable and with an almost certain life of crime and punishment ahead of him. He was considered a lucky boy in Kestrel, and the rest of the people were happy to have him picking the straw.
‘Now then youngster, you just pick the straw that looks best to you. If you pick the longest, your watch goes ashore first, if you pick the shortest, your watch is second. Do the captains agree?’
‘Aye, Bosun, we agree,’ said the one who had spoken before.
The boy looked in horror at the bosun’s fist, then at the tops of the two straws. He was getting helpful calls by now. ‘Pick the thickest one!’ ‘No, if it’s yellow it’s the longest.’ ‘Bosun’s fist has probably crushed them anyway; just pick any one.’
He stood paralysed for a few seconds, which to him must have seemed like hours. Tentatively he reached out and touched the straw furthest away from him. Jackson opened his fist to show that young Larry had picked the longest straw, the larbowlines would go ashore first.
◆◆◆
20: News
Thursday, Sixteenth of February 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. Orford Ness West 4 leagues.
Kestrel had sailed as Commodore Holmes had ordered, taking the last of the ebb tide and a friendly westerly breeze to sweep down the Orwell between Harwich on the Essex side and the Landguard Fort on the Suffolk side, and out into the North Sea. They had victuals, wood and water for three months and a full magazine. However, the people were not at their best after their run ashore; it was fortunate that a salute wasn’t required, and Jackson had prevented a nasty incident at the windlass when the pawls weren’t correctly engaged before the men started heaving the cable in. But they were at sea now, and the salt air would soon clear the thick heads.
‘Bosun’s Mate! Get those men moving on the foremast, I want the t’gallants set this wa
tch, not later this afternoon when the hands feel it convenient. I’ve never seen such a shocking display. Use your starter, man!’
Fairview was apparently not in good humour. He’d taken himself ashore for dinner with the master attendant at the King’s Yard, an old friend and drinking partner. By the way that he held the heel of his hand to the side of his head, he was experiencing agony every time he shouted, and today a good deal of shouting was required as the hands were driven to their station, many still retching up the remains of their debauched run ashore.
Holbrooke, however, was in a particularly good frame of mind. He’d dined with the commodore and by sharing a few glasses of wine he’d made his peace with the flag captain. It was important that the commodore should be well-acquainted with his captains because, with naval signalling in its infancy, a squadron commander had to rely on his captains to correctly interpret the few signals that he could make, supplemented by shouted instructions when they could get close enough. But it was still the case that a captain had to carefully watch the movements of the flagship and direct his own ship accordingly.
He’d met the other captains: Francis, who commanded the second frigate, Charity; Smith of Strombolo, another young commander like himself; and Stretton of the cutter Acrias, a lieutenant half a dozen years older than Holbrooke. There were some tensions in the squadron, but nothing out-of-the-ordinary, nothing even remotely to compare with the outright hostility that Holbrooke had experienced when Medina came under the command of Commodore Jermy in Wessex, and they were ordered to attack Port Louis on the island of Grenada. Francis was considerably senior to Thompson and didn’t seem particularly pleased that the junior man had the ear of the commodore. Stretton looked wistfully at both Holbrooke and Smith; he probably felt that it was just luck that separated him, a lieutenant, from the two commanders, and Holbrooke thought he was probably correct. Smith, however, appeared to be perfectly happy with life. He was still in his early twenties and commander of his own sloop. True, Holbrooke was even younger and had held his rank a month longer, but there wasn’t a great deal to separate Strombolo and Kestrel; the latter carried two more guns, but she was still a makeshift affair, not yet having been refitted to a regular navy standard.