by Chris Durbin
After dinner, back in Kestrel, when the bulk of the stores had been embarked, he’d drunk moderately to the sloop’s good fortune and had experienced his first all night in since they sailed from Portsmouth six weeks before. That would have been enough to give him an insufferably sunny disposition, but there was more good fortune. As the anchor was breaking free and the tops’ls were being braced around, a bag of mail had arrived in the port commissioner’s boat.
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‘The ship’s under all plain sail sir, heading east-by-north before a westerly wind,’ reported Fairview, his hand rigidly by his side and a look of intense pain on his face.
‘Will she take stuns’ls Master?’ asked Holbrooke.
‘She will sir, but I fancy this wind will veer to the north and then we’ll be handing them before the watch is over.’
It was quite clear that Fairview wanted nothing to delay his retreat to his cabin. Sod the stuns’ls.
‘Very well, Master. The watch below can be dismissed, who has the deck?’
‘I do sir, until eight bells, then I’ll hand over to Mister Lynton. He should be here at any moment.’
Holbrooke could see out of the corner of his eye that the marine on duty on the quarterdeck was eyeing the half-hour glass as the last grains ran down into the neck. Fairview was watching him also, and he appeared to be steeling himself for the eight strokes on the bell that would be coming … very … soon.
Ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding! The marine announced the change of the watch with eight firm strokes, delivered in pairs for those who were challenged by numbers greater than four. Fairview clenched his jaw and the muscles in his neck quivered as he tensed himself. His head didn’t fall off, nor did his brain explode, but he remained immobile for a dozen heartbeats after the last reverberation died away.
‘’You should turn in, Master, you look as though you’ve been overworking,’ said Holbrooke, grinning.
There’s nothing like seeing a colleague suffering to cheer a man up, and Holbrooke was enjoying this rare glimpse of his near-perfect sailing master behaving like any mortal man. Lynton came on deck looking a little fragile, but nowhere near as bad as Fairview. After a few words about the course and calling him for sails sighted and weather changes, Holbrooke left the deck and retreated to his cabin.
◆◆◆
Pritchard was in the cabin, arranging the letters on the table in the order that he thought Holbrooke should read them. There were four from the Navy Board, already opened, which he quickly skimmed; two of them referred to the Portsmouth master attendant’s publicly stated disappointment that Kestrel had been ordered to sail before she could be put in a decent order for His Majesty’s service. He predicted dire consequences if Mister Holbrooke didn’t persuade the Admiralty Board to let him bring the sloop in for a refit. Kestrel would surely suffer excessive lee-helm due to the feeble effect of the driver, she’d lose valuable anchors when the windlass failed to break them free from the bottom, and she’d be subject to collisions and groundings when the tiller became unmanageable in heavy weather. He reserved his most hair-raising prophecy for the scandalously misplaced magazine, which could take fire at any moment, given its proximity to both the galley stove and the sail-room, that well-known cause of spontaneous combustion from the stowage of damp canvas. Holbrooke smiled at the vehemence of the letters. He would let Pritchard draft a suitably soothing reply which with a bit of luck and the delays in the mail while he was based at Harwich would keep the master attendant at bay for a few months. The other two were for the purser and the bosun respectively, and Pritchard would draft a response, if it was needed, after talking to each of them; there was no need to comment.
That dealt with the official mail. There was nothing from the Admiralty, which was no surprise as Admiral Forbes would deal with Kestrel strictly through Commodore Holmes now. Pritchard gathered them up and departed quietly, leaving three letters on the desk.
There was a letter from Captain Carlisle; presumably it had been sent from Port Royal not long after Kestrel sailed. It came as a shock to Holbrooke to realise that he’d only departed the Jamaica Station less than three months before; Carlisle must have written the letter within a few days of Kestrel sailing. And there was a letter from his father, and one from his prize agent.
Holbrooke held up each one in turn, balancing them. He ached to read Carlisle’s letter first, but it seemed disrespectful to his father to leave his letter on the table while he read one from a man who was no relation. Carlisle was still a patron, and he could yet influence the course of Holbrooke’s career by using his interest to ensure that he was posted in due course and given a frigate to command. Nevertheless, he was no longer Holbrooke’s captain; the relationship had changed. But there was one other thing that occurred to Holbrooke as Kestrel swooped and glided across the unusually benign North Sea. He hardly liked to admit it to himself, but he’d hoped for a letter from Ann, the girl that he’d met at Rookesbury House on Christmas Day. He had no right to expect a letter. In fact, it would have been almost unthinkable for Ann to have written to him based on a casual meeting at someone else’s house party. No properly educated young lady would so expose herself. And yet…
It’s a reflection of how far Holbrooke had come in casting off his ties to the shore and embracing the vocation of a sea officer, that filial duty lost the contest for the honour of being the first letter to be opened. Holbrooke, ever the self-analyst, examined his own motivations as he slid the knife through the seal on Carlisle’s letter. It would certainly be wrong to suggest that he loved his father less; they had a good relationship that would survive through any number of years apart. However, Holbrooke acknowledged to himself that it was a relationship from the past. His childhood in Wickham had a dreamlike quality that had only been deepened by his short in December. He didn’t belong there anymore, so his future lay with the relationships that he forged in the navy, and the most important of those was with Carlisle, the man who had saved him – in Holbrooke’s view – from being cast aside, unfit for the service.
The letter wasn’t very long, just two pages in Carlisle’s own hand, still slightly shaky from his broken clavicle. As Holbrooke opened it, a pressed flower fluttered to the deck. It was a hibiscus, its luscious orange colour preserved over the long miles that it had travelled. Its colour was so deep as to be almost scarlet. That must be a gift from Lady Chiara, Carlisle’s wife; there’d been hibiscus at the Angelini house overlooking Nice when they’d first met, and they flourished on Jamaica. The letter was dated only two days after Kestrel had sailed.
Holbrooke quickly skimmed it for news. There was none, it being a letter from one man to another, a letter to cement bonds of friendship and to keep a relationship alive over five thousand miles of salt ocean. Of course, there could be little news in an enclosed island like Jamaica after only two days, Holbrooke shouldn’t have expected any. Nevertheless, he felt the dislocation from that insular community and was strangely disappointed that there was nothing new to tell. He’d written to Carlisle in December, giving an account of his brush with the French convoy, but Carlisle probably wouldn’t have received it yet.
There were greetings from Chiara who had slipped the flower into the letter, to remind him of warmer seas and old friends. Greetings also from Enrico, Chiara’s cousin and now a midshipman in Medina; from Black Rod, still the mystery of his real name hadn’t been broken even though as Chiara’s personal manservant he was in daily contact with Carlisle. Messages of goodwill to others in Kestrel of course: to Chalmers, to Lynton, to Jackson and to Serviteur, the four followers of Carlisle who had thrown their lot in with Holbrooke. It was an interesting commentary on Carlisle’s character that he included the freed black French slave in his general greeting. Whether Serviteur would value the interest that was implied by those few words, Holbrooke couldn’t tell, but not one post-captain in ten would even remember the name of a man such as he.
The greetings and polite inquiries covered the f
irst page, but the second was of a much more personal nature, and Holbrooke had to read it twice before he was sure of its meaning.
…I implore you, my dear George, to train yourself to identify the opportunities that will now come your way as captain of your own ship and grasp them while you can. Shakespeare had it dead right when he put these words into the mouth of Brutus, urging Cassius to join him in acting against Caesar:
‘There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.’
The full sea on which we are now afloat is this present war. It offers chances for glory and advancement as we ride the flood tide, but it also hides shallows on which we can ground ourselves, so softly that we don’t even notice it.
Let this coming year of 1758 be the year of Holbrooke’s tide. Dare anything, grasp every opportunity however fleeting and bow to nobody.
Holbrooke sat back and thought about what he’d just read. He valued advice from Carlisle, more than he valued the words of any other man. And yes, he’d been guilty these past three months of letting the day-to-day routine of commanding a man-of-war occupy his whole mind. In a way, it was inevitable. He’d been short-handed on the passage from Port Royal to Portsmouth and had been obliged to take some of the weight from Lynton’s shoulders, as well as acting as the ship’s sailing master. Then he’d been saddled with a useless first lieutenant for a week, and he realised how much of his thinking-time had been occupied in keeping things on an even keel. But he’d had Lynton again for six weeks now, and his sailing master was perfectly capable of navigating the sloop. Holbrooke knew that he’d been guilty of managing the detail of the running of the ship and had failed to delegate to his two very competent officers. He needed to step back, to concentrate on planning how to bring this man-of-war that the Admiralty had entrusted to his care into action; to make a difference, however modest, in this war. He wouldn’t achieve that if he was continually looking over his officers’ shoulders.
Starting this afternoon, he thought. He’d told Lynton that he wanted them to work through the watch and station bill together. That was wrong, he realised. Now he’d tell Lynton that he wanted to see the finished product after the first lieutenant had discussed it with the bosun, the gunner and the sailing master. That way, the hard work would be done, and all he had to do was to review it, a work of thirty minutes rather than half a day. Holbrooke knew that it was a significant change in the way he did business, and his officers, even those whom he’d only known for two months, would certainly notice the difference. It was a matter of stepping aside from the old ways of doing things and stepping up to the responsibilities of command.
Holbrooke laid down the letter from Carlisle, and a draught sent it spinning to the floor, where it landed blank-side up. There was a postscript that he’d missed:
‘I have just learned that Medina will be leaving the Jamaica Station in the spring. I’m taking a convoy to Halifax and all ports between, which I hope includes the Chesapeake. Perhaps I’ll see my home again. Chiara will start working on the admiral’s wife tomorrow to obtain permission for her to take passage with me.’
Holbrooke wondered when they’d ever meet again as the winds of war drifted them further and further apart.
◆◆◆
Holbrooke’s hand wavered over his father’s letter, but something made him first open the letter from his prize agent, Messrs. Hawkins and Hammond of Bond Street. A premonition, perhaps, that the family letter would require the greatest attention.
‘… at your request we investigated the question of outstanding prize money for Samuel Gifford, late Landsman of His Majesty’s Ship Barfleur, now residing at The King’s Head, Wickham, Hampshire, in consideration of the value of the ships taken at Cape Passaro in the year 1718. I am pleased to inform you that Mister Gifford is owed the sum of thirty-seven pounds, three shillings and fourpence, three farthings. The prize agent who handled that business ceased trading in the year 1745, at which time, by good fortune, our own firm of Hawkins and Hammond took over their outstanding accounts. I am in the happy position of informing you that if Mister Gifford presents himself at our offices at The Hard, Portsmouth, our representative will be pleased to pay his prize money in full, less seven-and-a-half per cent for the charges that have accumulated over the past forty years. I trust that you will see that he is accompanied by a respectable gentleman who will be able to attest to his identity and ensure that he returns home in safety.’
Holbrooke could only laugh. Clearly, the partners of Hawkins and Hammond had read between the lines of his letter and understood what sort of man Samuel was. But what on earth Samuel would do with that sum of money was impossible to imagine. The King’s Head probably paid him no more than five shillings a week, and he likely hadn’t owned more ten shillings at any time since he spent his recruitment bounty. The prize money represented about three years pay to Samuel, Holbrooke guessed. Nevertheless, it was his by right, and he should have it. He’d ask his father to take Samuel to Portsmouth to claim this windfall; if he could persuade the old ostler to enter that known haunt of crimps and press-gangs.
◆◆◆
Holbrooke was still smiling as he turned his attention to the third letter, addressed in a distinctly old-fashioned style, Mister George Holbrooke, Master and Commander. The envelope was bound in tarred small-stuff with a wax seal over the knot. That was another archaic practice that nowadays was only used if there was something valuable or confidential enclosed, but typical of the way his father would secure a letter. He took out his pocket knife and cut the cords in two places, then he slid the blade underneath the seal and worked it from side to side to free it from the sturdy paper of the envelope. That would allow him to return the letter to the envelope for storage.
Inside, there was a single page of thick paper, covered on both sides with densely-packed writing. Folded into the letter was a second envelope; it was of thinner paper and sealed only with gum, but curiously it wasn’t addressed; no writing at all marred the unblemished, pure-white cover.
Holbrooke laid aside the second envelope and smoothed out his father’s letter. It was much as he expected, thanking the younger Holbrooke for joining him for the Christmas feast, congratulating him on his captures off the Dutch islands, news of which had reached Portsmouth and thence Wickham. Best wishes from sundry people that he’d met in town and at the college, and news of local events. There was no professional advice; his father hadn’t been very forthcoming on that score since he’d been commissioned as a lieutenant, and now that he was a commander it had ceased entirely. Did his father imagine that he’d resent being given advice? If so, he was wrong, but it wasn’t an easy subject to raise. So far, so predictable, but it was the last paragraph, squeezed into the space that would usually be taken up by a signature, that was not at all expected.
‘Well George, imagine my surprise as I was just about to close this letter when I heard a carriage draw up outside the cottage. It was Mrs Featherstone, whom we met at Rookesbury house, the wife of Martin Featherstone who bought the corn-merchants business in the town. She was, by her own admission, on a delicate errand. You will have seen the envelope enclosed with this letter; it’s from Mrs Featherstone’s step-daughter, Ann. It appears that Ann wanted to write to you to congratulate you on your victories in the North Sea but felt that your short acquaintance at Christmas was insufficient grounds for opening a correspondence. However, Mrs Featherstone is a rather bold woman, as perhaps you remember, and it’s quite probable that she persuaded her to write.
Holbrooke did indeed remember Mrs Featherstone, a striking woman with a most particularly confident air about her. Much different to her step-daughter, he thought, although they seemed to get along well enough.
‘I don’t know the contents of the letter, although I guess that Mrs Featherstone may. She’s not a woman whom I would enjoy questioning as I suspect I would soon end up on the wrong side of the interrog
ation! I hope I’ve acted aright in allowing her to enclose her stepdaughter’s letter with mine, I rather thought that it wouldn’t be sent otherwise. In any case, blame the message not the messenger if it’s a correspondence that you don’t welcome.’
Holbrooke picked up his knife to cut away the flap of the envelope, then he stopped. He laid the envelope back on the table and stepped over to the window, trying to clear his mind. He’d never had a letter from a lady before, not even his mother, as they’d not once slept under separate roofs from the day he was born until the day that she died.
‘Mister Lynton’s compliments, sir. The wind’s increased and veered four points. He’d like to hand the t’gallants, sir.’
Now that his attention was diverted from the letters, Holbrooke could feel the increased motion as the wind and waves had moved further onto the beam. Perhaps it was a little early to reduce sail, but it was likely to get worse.
‘Tell Mister Lynton that I’ll come on deck, Serviteur.’
Serviteur moved towards the door as Holbrooke started to stow the unopened letters in his desk drawer. Then he stopped, Ann’s presumed letter still in his hand.
‘One moment, Serviteur,’ he said. ‘My compliments to Mister Lynton and he may hand the t’gallants whenever he sees fit.’
Holbrooke sat again and tried to analyse his thoughts. He knew that his immediate response to Lynton’s message – to come on deck to supervise – was born of the frame of mind that he’d sworn only a matter of minutes ago to leave behind. His first lieutenant was perfectly capable of deciding when to reduce sail and there was no doubt that he could execute the drill without his captain looking over his shoulder. He was rather proud of himself that he had so quickly changed his behaviour. But he also knew that there was a second motive that had caused him to so promptly agree to come on deck, beside his ingrained habit of management-in-detail. He was putting off the moment when he’d open the letter from Ann. He’d moved to the stern window to delay opening the letter, and he’d felt a surge of relief when Serviteur had delivered Lynton’s message. What had he to be afraid of?