Perilous Shore

by Chris Durbin

  ‘I agree, and certainly that’s a consideration,’ Holbrooke answered. ‘And yet I still need your guidance, David.’

  Serviteur brought sherry and departed to the scullery as silently as he’d come. He would hear what the captain and the chaplain said, but there were few secrets now that Serviteur had been on board for the past eight months.

  ‘Rationally, I should cut and run for Portsmouth and let the yard have a look at the sloop. If I return to Cancale, I’ll be more a hindrance than a help to the commodore.’

  Chalmers said nothing, he just watched his friend.

  ‘And yet, my motives could be misconstrued. I ran from a French frigate. I had such a fright that I didn’t care to stay at sea any longer, it could be said.’

  ‘Men will say whatever they wish to say. You’ve all the documentary evidence you need, and you didn’t fall into the trap of taking advice, just gathered the facts from those best placed to offer them. The facts say go back to Portsmouth.’

  ‘Even so…’

  ‘George, this is one of those moments when only your opinion counts. I can’t help. This is where you earn your princely pay. The last point I would make – and I say this from a desire to ease my fellow man’s suffering – is that of the five wounded, in my opinion, two will be dead by the end of the week if they’re not put ashore to a hospital…’

  ◆◆◆

  15: Penny for Your Thoughts

  Wednesday, Seventh of June 1758.

  Kestrel, alongside. Portsmouth.

  The westerly wind carried Kestrel past the Round Tower and past Portsmouth Point, stemming the two knots of ebbing tide at the harbour entrance. Now the sloop was creeping towards the pontoon to the south of the wet basin. The sound of her pumps carried clearly to the men on the shore.

  ‘Back the main tops’l,’ shouted Fairview, ‘brail the mizzen.’

  The sloop’s forward momentum was checked and converted into an irresistible sideways pressure from the wind on her beam.

  ‘Move that fender for’rard,’ called Jackson to the party of men detailed to preserve Kestrel’s paint and woodwork. ‘Drop it half a fathom, I want it just skimming the water.’

  Yard by careful yard Kestrel moved towards the pontoon. The same master attendant was waiting for them and the same riggers, no longer standing back and watching but ready to take the sloop’s warps.

  ‘There’s a gust coming, Mister Fairview,’ Holbrooke warned as he saw a lugger over on the Gosport side heeling to the unexpected draught of wind.

  ‘Aye sir, and it’s coming a little more northerly,’ he replied.

  ‘Let fly the jib sheet,’ Fairview called to the fo’c’sle party. ‘That should be sufficient, I believe,’ he said to Holbrooke.

  The sloop was in competent hands, the easing of the sail area right forward would stop the bows being pushed hard onto the pontoon by the wayward gust.

  Jackson flung the heaving line and the riggers were soon hauling the bow warp across. The aft warp could wait, a combination of the wind and the ebbing tide would naturally swing her stern into place.

  The eye of the warp was safely dropped over the bollard and the rigger stood back, giving a thumbs-up to Jackson.

  ‘Give it some slack… more, more. Avast, hold it there.’ Jackson watched the bows carefully. If the forward warp was hauled in too far it would prevent the stern swinging into place.

  The familiar crunching sound of the rattan fender being compressed between the sloop and the pontoon announced that they had arrived safely alongside. All that remained was to double up on the head and stern warps and rig springs.

  ‘Well, here we are again,’ said the master attendant. ‘The first thing I heard this morning was that you’d sent in a boat requesting to come straight into the harbour; no dallying at Spithead for the good men of Kestrel! I came directly here, now what can we do for you, sir?’

  Holbrooke left the carpenter to relate his tale of woe. There was no rush. They wouldn’t be able to get into the basin until late in the afternoon, when the tide had risen, and meanwhile the preservation of the sloop was still in Holbrooke’s hands. The hands would be pumping through the day, although the flow would slacken now that they were alongside, and the timbers weren’t working with the sea. It had been an anxious night as the quartering wind increased. In the middle watch it was a strong tops’l breeze and Holbrooke wondered whether they could pump as fast as the water was coming in through the hole in her stern.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘What do you think, sir, two months again?’

  Lynton was evidently looking forward to some more shore leave; the frustrations of their time with Howe’s squadron had affected even him.

  Holbrooke looked across at the master attendant as he disappeared below with Chips.

  ‘They’re short of work, with the Channel Fleet at sea and Howe’s squadron away. Whether that means they’ll throw all their shipwrights at the problem and get us back to sea quickly, or whether they’ll take their time to spin out the employment, only the master attendant knows.’

  Holbrooke broke off to wish the injured men well as they left to be taken across the harbour in Haslar’s own lighter. Two of the lacerations could walk with assistance, but the other two and the amputee were being tenderly carried by their messmates on the stretchers that belonged to the lighter.

  ‘I’ll be back before you sail, sir,’ croaked one them, with his chest swathed in an elaborate bandage. ‘I’ll heal quicker than that wheel in any case,’ he said jerking his finger towards the strangely bare quarterdeck.

  That seemed to exhaust the man’s energy and his head fell back onto the canvas.

  ‘Just rest easy now, Matthew Ogden,’ his messmate said, gently shifting a bundled shirt to stop his head rolling. ‘Just rest easy…’

  Holbrooke shook his head as he watched them being carefully lowered onto the pontoon. What were their chances? The odds for the amputee were perhaps three-in-four for survival while the others had a somewhat better prognosis. An even chance that at least one of them would die, then. Better than the near certainty of losing two of them if they’d stayed at sea.

  ‘Ah, here they come now,’ Lynton said as Chips dragged himself aft muttering under his breath. The master attendant looked cheerful by comparison.

  ‘Oh, it’s a big job, no doubt about it, sir. We’ll have to replace the knees and three of the larboard fashion-pieces; a big job for sure. Luckily, I have a dry-dock just waiting for you and plenty of men. I’ll just get my tickets from the commissioner’s office this morning. Sir Richard is away in London, so it’ll go through quickly and we’ll have you in the dock at the top of the tide. We’ll be cutting wood tomorrow forenoon.’

  Captain Sir Richard Hughes was the resident commissioner, the senior Navy Board official in Portsmouth. His son of the same name had been the first to alert the Admiralty to the possibility of an Austrian garrison at Emden, when he commanded the frigate Hind. That information had profoundly influenced Holbrooke’s actions at Emden earlier in the year. Evidently Sir Richard was free with delegating authority in his absence.

  ‘And the wheel, master attendant, and the binnacle?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve a few wheels in my store and we can make the plinth in no time; same for the binnacle. You’ll have to write a letter for the compasses of course and I can’t speak for how long that’ll take; it depends on our affectionate friends.’

  Yes, Holbrooke thought, it was the little things that caused the problems. The Navy Board, who bizarrely signed all their letters as Your Affectionate Friends, would have to authorise the issue of two new compasses, and that assumed there were compasses to be had. He tapped his pocket in reflex. He’d already decided that he wouldn’t wait for the navy board to issue the compasses if there was a danger that he’d be delayed. Not when there was an instrument vendor behind the Hard, and Holbrooke’s credit was good. He’d walk over there as soon as this business was concluded. After all, what was the point of prize money if he co
uldn’t use it to further his career?

  ‘You’ll be wanting to know how long you’ll be without a ship, Captain Holbrooke.’

  ‘An estimate would be helpful, if you please.’

  ‘Well, we’ve to dock her down, shift the stores from the after end, cut out the old fashion-pieces…’ he counted off the tasks on his fingers; Holbrooke was prepared for the worst ‘… and then give her a splash of paint and flood the dock. Let’s say seven weeks, if we can get a good run at it before Mister Anson and Mister Howe come back with a list of jobs reaching from here to Plymouth Dock.’

  He was a jolly soul, this master attendant, but it was quite clear that his primary concern was to maintain a steady flow of work for the yard. The navy’s ships were just a means to an end for him.

  ‘I imagine you’ll be looking for the port admiral, sir. Mister Holburne is using Sir Richard’s office, so if you’ll walk with me, we can kill two birds with one stone, ha, ha!’

  ◆◆◆

  Admiral Holburne carried the responsibility of a commander-in-chief and the powers that went with it. It was he who ensured that ships sailed on time and in sufficient numbers upon the occasions that their lordships demanded. He’d seen enough young captains who preferred to loiter in port, and he chose not to take the story of Kestrel’s damage at face value. Holbrooke spent a worrying ten minutes in the outer office while the master attendant was called to describe the work that was required and its probable duration. By the time that Holburne had finished with him, the schedule was pared down to five weeks, and damn your eyes, sir, if it’s a day longer!

  Holbrooke’s interview was equally difficult. He was quizzed on the circumstances of his departure from the squadron – be so kind as to produce Commodore Howe’s written orders, Mister Holbrooke – and on the detail of the fight with the frigate and sloop. In the end, Holburne grudgingly conceded that perhaps Holbrooke had acted appropriately, while stopping short of an actual endorsement of his decision to return to Portsmouth.

  ‘You’re to report to this office every Monday, Wednesday and Friday forenoon with a statement of the whereabouts of your people and the progress of the repairs to your sloop. There’s to be no straggling, and no trips to London for you or your officers, do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’

  ‘I’ll expect your first report the day after tomorrow, Mister Holbrooke. Now, I have much to do, so good day to you.’

  Holbrooke felt as though he should have stood on his dignity and protested the admiral’s use of the word straggling in the same sentence as he limited his own movements. There was an implication that Holbrooke was planning a dereliction of duty that one may expect of a late returning libertyman. He felt sure that most captains would certainly object… or would they? Holburne was a fearsome man. He’d used an armed press gang to break up a meeting in his native Inverkeithing and – if the reports were correct – had drawn his sword as an argument for securing the office of Provost. No, probably most captains would have behaved much as he did, he decided. Some battles were better not fought.

  ◆◆◆

  Despite the daily running of the gauntlet when he delivered his report to Admiral Holburne’s office, they were probably the most pleasant five weeks of Holbrooke’s life so far. He had the Saturdays and Sundays free at a time when the concept of a weekend was unknown, and the remainder of the week to spend on his beloved Kestrel. The distinguished firm of Hawkins and Hammond of Bond Street, who acted as prize agents for both Carlisle and Holbrooke, had made the first distribution of prize money from the capture of the French frigate Vulcain in the Mediterranean two years ago. Now, at last, he had money to spend that hadn’t been borrowed from the agents, nor did he have to negotiate a line of credit each time he made a purchase. It was a welcome reminder that there were prizes taken in the Caribbean and the North Sea that would provide a steady flow of cash for years to come. If he was careful, he could survive as a gentleman, in a modest way, even if he were to be cast onto the beach tomorrow and never given another ship.

  He and Chalmers took their rooms again at the Dolphin and on Fridays they shared a carriage to Wickham. They spent the night at the Holbrooke cottage and on Saturdays Chalmers and the senior Holbrooke persecuted the brown trout of the Meon. The junior Holbrooke, however, pursued other endeavours and promptly at eleven o’clock every Saturday he lifted the brass lion-head door knocker of Bere Forest House. He was expected. His courtship of Ann had become a settled state of affairs, and everyone appeared content with the arrangement. True, Ann’s father quizzed him frequently, yet discreetly, on his prospects of becoming a post-captain; a genuine captain as far as the conservative understanding of a provincial corn merchant extended. They walked together through the Saturday market, they strolled along the banks of the Meon and they visited Ann’s friends. On Sundays they each crossed the river and climbed the little grass mound to the church of Saint Nicholas where the Holbrookes and Chalmers met the Featherstones at worship. Those were idyllic days, a dreamlike time of growing understanding between Holbrooke and Ann.

  ◆◆◆

  It was Sunday evening and their carriage was jangling along the Fareham road, heading back to Portsmouth. Chalmers cradled a canvas bag with its dozen half-pound trout wrapped in the fresh green grass and wild garlic that he’d cut from the riverbank. They were destined for the tender ministrations of the Dolphin’s cook and packed as they were, they should last until Wednesday or Thursday. Fried trout for breakfast for at least the next three days, the thought made him salivate.

  Holbrooke was unusually thoughtful. He usually was bouncing with good humour after a couple of days in Wickham, but now he appeared… not depressed, nor disturbed, but quietly contemplative.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ said Chalmers, a phrase from his childhood springing unbidden to his lips.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ replied Holbrooke, ‘I’m just a little weary.’

  Chalmers made no response. He’d told his friend many times what a poor liar he was. In many ways he was as transparent as a pane of glass, and it was quite certain what occupied his mind at this moment. The coach rattled on along the flint-covered road with its occupants engrossed in their own thoughts. Ten minutes passed and the carriage swung left over the Wallington Brook and past the tidal mills at the head of Fareham Creek. The road was smoother now, a main thoroughfare that was kept clear of the worst of the potholes and boulders.

  ‘Actually,’ said Holbrooke, startling his friend who really was weary and had almost fallen asleep the moment the motion of the carriage eased, ‘I was thinking of Ann.’

  Chalmers thought for a second or two, trying to remember what had caused Holbrooke to speak so, then he remembered his question of fifteen minutes ago, a penny for your thoughts.

  ‘Then if you were thinking of Ann, my friend, it’s probably best for both of us if you keep your thoughts to yourself. I’ll keep my penny if you don’t mind.’

  Holbrooke smiled; his face relaxed from the rigidity of hard thought.

  ‘You can’t escape from your offer so easily, my dear friend,’ he replied laughing. ‘I was thinking about Ann, but more specifically about whether I should ask your advice.’

  ‘And your conclusion?’ asked Chalmers.

  ‘My conclusion is that I should. Ask your advice, that is.’

  ‘Then it appears that I have no hope of escape. I’m trapped in this carriage with a madman for another hour at least, for only a madman would ask another’s advice in affairs of the heart. It appears I must submit.’

  ‘You must, it appears.’

  Holbrooke paused, marshalling his thoughts.

  ‘Kestrel will be ready to sail again in a week and a half, so next Saturday will be our last at Wickham for some time. Perhaps only for a week or two, but possibly longer.’

  ‘That’s a well-known difficulty of naval life, I understand,’ replied Chalmers.

  Holbrooke half-bowed in sarcastic acknowledgement.

  ‘I’m
sure you’ve noticed that Ann and I are becoming quite… attached to each other.’

  ‘It would have been hard to miss it, my friend.’

  ‘Well, I’m considering whether I should ask Martin Featherstone for his daughter’s hand.’

  Silence.

  ‘Does that surprise you, David?’

  ‘Not in the least. So far you have told me nothing that any reasonable person couldn’t have guessed. I’m sure it’s not for a statement of the obvious that you woke me from a fast-approaching nap. If you wish to propose marriage to Ann – and by the way, I believe that you’ll make a fine couple – then you hardly need my advice. I wish you the very best in your future together. Now I believe I’ll take that caulk.’

  ‘If only it were so simple,’ said Holbrooke, ignoring his friend’s desire for sleep. He stared out of the window as the horses cantered past Portchester Castle. ‘It’s not Ann that’s the problem, I believe she will agree to marry me. If not, then she’s a very good actress. Nor is her stepmother any kind of hindrance, she appears to have a real regard for me.’

  Chalmers nodded; he knew where this was going.

  ‘It’s her father who I feel may be a problem. He’s always been probing about my prospects for being posted and I understand that he’s been speaking to a long-superannuated sea officer from up Soberton way.’

  ‘A famous haunt for washed-up sea officers, I understand,’ said Chalmers.

  ‘Naturally we haven’t been specific in our conversation. Neither of us has candidly admitted what’s on our mind, but I’m becoming certain that Featherstone is unhappy with his daughter marrying anyone below the rank of post-captain. He often hints that he has great ambitions for his only child, that she’s his only heir and that his fortune is not inconsiderable.’