by Chris Durbin
‘Mister Turner, up to the maintop and take my glass. Let me know what you think,’ said Holbrooke to the midshipman. If she was a privateer, then his duty was clear: to take, sink or burn. But if she was a French national frigate, then he could say goodbye to his prizes and Kestrel would be hard pressed to escape.
‘Mister Lynton run out the guns. How many men do we have in the prizes?’
‘Varley and Edney, six seamen, and four marines.’
Holbrooke looked thoughtful. He’d prefer those men back aboard Kestrel if they had to fight a ship-rigged French privateer, presumably with a similar armament to the sloop. He’d also have brought the Dutch masters and mates into Kestrel for safe keeping if he’d known there was a risk of them being parted. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. However, there was no time to shift people around now, the enemy wouldn’t stand and wait.
‘The ship’s t’gallants are visible now,’ said Fairview. ‘Here. Take my glass, sir. I’m convinced she’s a Dunkirk privateer, I’d know the cut of those sails anywhere.’
Holbrooke studied the small square of white that was just visible on the horizon. He had no idea how his sailing master could be so confident in his identification, but he’d come to trust Fairview’s judgement.
‘Very well, let’s get the prizes underway for Harwich. Mister Fairview, make sail and pass under their sterns, then set a course to intercept this privateer.’
‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied Fairview, rubbing his hands. The sloop filled her sails and ran down towards the bilanders.
Varley was on the quarterdeck of the nearest prize. He’d clearly seen the approaching ship and had already started to get his vessel underway. The second was following his lead.
‘Mister Varley,’ shouted Holbrooke as the sloop sped past the bilander’s taffrail. ‘Make - all - sail - for - Harwich. We’ll catch up with you after we’ve dealt with this privateer.’
The distance was opening rapidly, and Varley didn’t waste his breath shouting a reply that couldn’t be heard. He merely waved to Holbrooke and turned to get his men moving with this unfamiliar rig. The Dutchmen watched impassively, neither helping nor hindering, under the watchful eyes of two marines, their bayonets fixed to their muskets.
◆◆◆
The two bilanders started to make way to the southwest. They’d cross the privateer’s bows at about a mile, Holbrooke estimated. Kestrel, meanwhile, was steering south-southwest to intercept the enemy. The ship was plainly visible now, about six miles almost dead south and coming up fast. She had the look of a French privateer; built for short voyages, just a few days or a week or two at best. She had finer lines, and her masts were slenderer than would be found on a British sloop that was built to keep the sea for months on end in any weather, and to feed a large crew for that time.
‘She’s standing on,’ said Fairview. ‘Maybe she plans to try her luck against us.’
Now, that would be different, thought Holbrooke. It was no business of a privateer to fight a King’s ship. Privateering was a commercial business; it relied upon seizing defenceless merchantmen and their valuable cargoes. Even if this privateer should be able to overpower Kestrel, the sloop would necessarily be so severely knocked about that her value would be minimal.
Mister Lynton,’ called Holbrooke to his first lieutenant in the waist. ‘Are the guns ready?’
‘They are, sir,’ replied Lynton.
‘Then double-shot them. I plan to make this a close engagement.’
Holbrooke was painfully aware that Kestrel was slow, despite her ship rig. Her Dutch builders had given her a shallow draught – barely twelve feet fully laden – to sail in the inland seas, and that came with a wide beam and very bluff bows. That privateer would sail four miles to Kestrel’s three, on any point of sailing. Did she recognise Kestrel for what she had been, a genuine Dutch privateer?
Kestrel and the privateer were closing fast, both with the easterly wind on their beam, Kestrel on the larboard tack and the privateer on the starboard. They were four miles apart. The privateer was hull-up now, and her black sides with a single white stripe were clearly visible, as was the flash of red at her fo’c’sle and taffrail.
‘Hoist our colours, Mister Fairview,’ ordered Holbrooke. Having a gaff mizzen rather than the lateen mizzen in all other King’s ships, Kestrel couldn’t fly the usual enormous ensign from a staff at the taffrail, it would have been swept away by the driver boom. It was, therefore, a relatively modest affair that was set on a halyard from the peak of the gaff.
‘She’s going about, sir,’ said Fairview. ‘She must have seen our ensign and thought better of it.’
As Holbrooke watched, the privateer put her bows through the wind and paid off smoothly onto the larboard tack, heading south, directly away from Kestrel. By God, she was fast in stays, thought Holbrooke. And the master was undoubtedly correct. The privateer had failed to see the long, narrow commissioning pennant that all men-of-war flew from the main masthead, but the ensign was unmistakable. The question was, had she been expecting to see a Dutch sloop? Had Kestrel’s obviously Dutch build fooled her? If so, then Holbrooke had been too hasty in declaring his nationality. Another ten minutes and an engagement would have been inevitable.
‘She’s walking away from us,’ said Fairview, carefully stowing his octant in the binnacle case. He’d been observing the angle subtended by her mainmast and boot-topping for the past five minutes, and it had grown depressingly less and less.
‘I’m afraid you’re right, Master, and in this wind, she won’t carry anything away.’
Holbrooke watched the fleeing privateer for another two minutes, then looked towards the west where the two bilanders were still in sight, peacefully sailing towards Harwich.
‘Veer ship, if you please, Mister Fairview, and catch our prizes. We can still make Harwich tomorrow if the wind holds.’
◆◆◆
But Kestrel wasn’t in Harwich on Sunday, nor on Monday. The wind turned dead foul as soon as they made their offing and blew up into a regular North Sea gale. The little flotilla tacked each and every watch for five whole days, the hands soaked and frozen and not caring a damn about prize money any more. Never had two ships been so roundly cursed as the two Dutch bilanders. They appeared incapable of lying closer than eight points to the wind, and they missed stays at the slightest provocation. Varley and Edney could be seen leaping around the decks every time a tack was ordered, berating the sluggish crew and hauling on sheets themselves. It was fortunate that on the Wednesday the gale passed through and the wind veered into the nor’west, allowing Kestrel to catch the flood tide and lead her ducklings into Harwich on the Thursday afternoon. There they turned their charges over to the port commissioner, their hatches still sealed, and their cargoes untouched. Two very weary prize crews rowed back to Kestrel, to be met by closed faces, the sloop’s crew choosing to blame their shipmates for the bilanders’ poor sailing.
‘Well, Mister Varley, Mister Edney, it’s good to have you back,’ said Holbrooke as the two men staggered into the cabin. He could see that they’d had little sleep since Saturday and Edney looked particularly haggard. Being a prize master before your twentieth birthday was an awesome responsibility, as Holbrooke knew from personal experience. Not only is the navigational conduct of the vessel your responsibility, so is the management of the prisoners who, if given the opportunity, will generally rise up against the prize crew, even if they know they’ll soon be returned to their homes.
‘It’s good to be back, sir,’ said Varley. ‘How I resisted ordering the marines to shoot that … that Dutchman, I don’t know,’ he said, unable to find a suitable epithet to describe the bilander’s master. ‘Sheer stubborn, obstinate obstruction rounded off with willfully bad food. If there’s any way of delaying that man’s return to his home, we should do so.’
Holbrooke was momentarily taken aback. This was a side of his master’s mate that hadn’t previously shown itself; a new confidence in addressing his captain. Could
it be that extreme fatigue had lowered his inhibitions? Was this the real Stephen Varley? If so, it must be nurtured.
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s about the best you can expect as a prize master,’ replied Holbrooke, eyeing Varley speculatively. ‘I hope you’ll see it as a good experience, after a few hours’ sleep.’ Holbrooke could harden his heart to the discomfort of a master’s mate and a midshipman.
‘There’s something to report though, sir. I had this from Schoonderwoerd. These two bilanders are part of a much larger contract to supply the French through Emden. They expect two or three vessels of the same size every week.’
‘Do they? Well, it’s not surprising. Emden and Bremen, I suppose.’
‘From what Schoonderwoerd could hear, sir, listening when they didn’t know he was there, if you understand, there’ll be no more shipments to Bremen, it’ll all go to Emden. The crew’s opinion is that the French expect to be pushed out of Bremen very soon and they’ll fall back on the Ems.’
‘That’s useful, Mister Varley, thank you,’ Holbrooke replied. This was indeed valuable information. The French would be lucky to hold the line of the Ems, in his opinion they’d be back behind the Rhine by the summer.
‘And one other thing that Schoonderwoerd heard, sir. There’s a separate contract to load supplies in Ostend for a different customer in Emden. It’s the same Dutch shipowner that hopes to get that contract.’
‘And Ostend is in the Austrian Netherlands. Thank you and be sure to thank Schoonderwoerd for me.’
The two men left, and Holbrooke gazed out of the stern window at the two bilanders. The contract to ship supplies from Ostend was undoubtedly for the Austrian garrison at Emden. Holbrooke didn’t yet know the significance of that confirmation of the existence of the Austrian detachment, but by the pricking of his thumbs, he knew that it was significant.
‘Sentry. My compliments to Lieutenant Treganoc. I’d be pleased to see him in the cabin, if he’s at leisure.’ He could see the poor sentry, his mouth working as he tried to memorise the formula of words that he’d been ordered to convey. Holbrooke took a perverse delight in slightly changing the formula each time, just to test the sentry. He could now hear the quarterdeck runner being dispatched on his task to find Treganoc.
◆◆◆
‘Good afternoon, Mister Treganoc. Coffee?’
Serviteur was at hand, as always, walking solemnly into the cabin from the tiny scullery; really it was just a cupboard, barely capable of holding Serviteur’s muscular frame. Every other captain’s servant that Holbrooke could remember would either pop into the cabin like a jack-in-the-box or would creep in quietly. He’d never heard of a servant who had such an air as this man; you’d think he was one of the ship’s officers by his confident manner.
‘I wanted to pick your brains on the defences of Emden. There’s a rough outline on this chart, and perhaps you can deduce the details after you’ve had a look.’
Treganoc took a cursory glance at the chart that Holbrooke had laid out on the table, held down by a variety of makeshift paperweights.
‘I’ve already seen this chart, sir,’ he replied. ‘The master showed it to me soon after we sailed. There’s not really enough detail to come to any conclusions, except that the town has a wall and a moat, and it faces this island, with the lagoon beyond it.’
They were interrupted by a knock at the door, and Fairview popped his head in. Clearly, he’d given Varley and Edney a make-and-mend afternoon following their trying time in the prizes, there were few other explanations for the sailing master acting as a messenger.
‘Port commissioner’s coming off, sir, shall I show him down?’
‘Than you, Mister Fairview, please do,’ replied Holbrooke. He hadn’t intended to stay longer than the time it took to take on a few barrels of water and some fresh provisions, and the purser had taken the jolly-boat ashore as soon as the ship had swung to her anchor. ‘I wonder what he wants?’
‘Perhaps I should leave you, sir,’ said Treganoc.
‘No, please stay and drink your coffee; I don’t imagine he’ll be here long.’
The port commissioner was an ancient commander who’d been many years on half pay. He hadn’t had a ship since early in the last war, and he’d been old for sea-service even then. For a decade-and-a-half he’d languished on the beach, all but forgotten by the Admiralty. But the need to mobilise in 1756 had dragged up the most unlikely characters, and here he was, utterly enchanted to be back in employment. He came up the side like a young man, apparently unconcerned at the thick woollen layers of waistcoat, overcoat and cloak that would have immobilised a lesser man. He acknowledged Lynton’s salute – there were no pipes for an officer who wasn’t commanding a ship – and followed the first lieutenant down to the cabin, looking eagerly about him at the familiar sights of a man-of-war. Serviteur knew the correct form – it was amazing how quickly he had absorbed the culture of the navy – and there was no attempt to offer the port commissioner coffee. A decent sherry was produced, with glasses for four because Serviteur correctly guessed that Lynton would be invited to stay.
‘That’s a fine pair of prizes you have there,’ said the commissioner as he raised his second glass, the first having been merely to chase away the damp. ‘The cargo will fetch a pretty penny, and those bilanders are much favoured by the east coast trade. I’ve looked at their paperwork, they’re certain to be properly condemned under the new rules.’
You’d have thought they were the commissioner’s own prizes, by the way he rubbed his hands. Of course, it was quite likely that a little of their value would stick to his fingers as he facilitated their progress from possible prizes to hulls and cargoes knocked down to the highest bidders. Prizes had a way of enriching a whole community of hangers-on, some of them symbiotic, some mere parasites.
‘Aye, I’m hoping there’ll be no difficulty with the prize court. When do you expect them to meet?’ asked Holbrooke.
‘Oh, next week, without a doubt. I’ll be sending the books up to them tomorrow by the carrier. I could send the post chaise, but that would eat into your profit, ha, ha!’ and he nudged Lynton in the ribs, smiling broadly. It’s lucky that Treganoc was standing behind him because the marine officer looked at him in disgust. He had high notions of personal honour that didn’t allow him to openly share in the joy of what was essentially a commercial transaction.
‘Are the crews being looked after?’
‘Oh yes, I’ll send them back on the next cartel. They’ll be with their families by the end of the week.’ He saw that Holbrooke was about to speak. ‘Unless you’d like them to be delayed a little, Captain.’
‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ said Holbrooke, who hadn’t realised the repatriation process could move so fast. ‘I’d rather that it wasn’t known that Kestrel is taking prizes off the islands. The Dutch will suspect something by the middle of the week, and they’ll be certain in two weeks, but if we can keep them guessing as long as possible, then they’ll keep sending their ships out to sea rather than inside the islands.’
‘Very well. Then I’ll make an excuse and hold them for another week. I can let them believe that there’s a chance that the bilanders won’t be condemned at all and that they may be able to sail them home again.’
Treganoc saw Lynton cross his fingers behind his back and looked displeased. It wasn’t that he was against mild superstitious practices, but he wanted to keep some space between himself and these money-hungry sailors. He made no allowance for his own private means; a few hundred pounds was neither here nor there against his family fortune.
‘The two masters are staying on anyway, on the off-chance that they’ll get their ships back, so it won’t look unusual. When they’ve been properly condemned, I can send the whole batch of them back.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Holbrooke. ‘I see my water and provisions are coming off, so I’ll catch the tide and be underway in an hour.’ This was so obviously a hint for the commissioner to leave that even he caug
ht it. He tipped back his sherry and sent a hopeful glance in Serviteur’s direction, a glance that was rewarded in the way that had been intended.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ said the commissioner accepting his refilled glass and nodding appreciatively at the tall black servant. ‘I have something for you. I assume you’re bound for Emden, in advance of Commodore Holmes?’
He carefully unfolded a sheet of paper from some pocket in the inner recesses of his layers of clothes. It was octavo in size, and it was divided horizontally into two roughly square sections. The upper showed a detailed map of Emden, including the fortifications, the gates, the wharves, the road where ships could anchor and the principal buildings. The lower showed the location of the city in relation to the Dollart and the Ems Estuary, with some details of the surrounding country. Holbrooke stared at them in astonishment. There were the lakes, the ones that he’d seen glistening in the distance beyond the city. This was far, far better than any of the charts in his possession.
‘You are sent from heaven, sir,’ exclaimed Holbrooke. ‘Mister Treganoc and I were just bemoaning our lack of an accurate plan of the town when you arrived.’
‘It is intended, I believe, for one of the London journals, which accounts for its size. Perhaps the Gentleman’s Quarterly, or something of that nature,’ the commissioner said, looking somewhat furtive. ‘There may be a copyright concern, so keep it close, if you please.’
Holbrooke inclined his head in polite understanding, but Treganoc heard nothing; he was already studying the walls of Emden. The marine lieutenant was no fantasist, but even he could dream. And in his dreams, he was leading a last desperate assault on the battlements, a forlorn hope, his name to be forever immortalised as Treganoc of Emden!
◆◆◆
15: Ambush
Tuesday, Seventeenth of January 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. Off Schiermonk.
