by Chris Durbin
Nevertheless, it was with trepidation that he again reached for the letter and his pocket knife. Now that he examined it, the letter had a decidedly feminine look about it. The paper was thin and delicate and of a much purer white than his father’s. What sense of propriety had moved Ann to omit the address on the letter? Without an addressee’s name on the clean white surface, was it deniable? Holbrooke knew only one thing about the psychology of young women, and that was that he knew nothing.
The knife slid easily through the paper and released the very faintest perfume. It must have been trapped inside the letter by the gum seal to have survived the week or so since it was written. Holbrooke took a deep breath and unfolded the single sheet.
Bere Forest House
The Square
Wickham
Wednesday 1st of February 1758
Mister Holbrooke.
I hope that you will excuse my presumption in writing to you, but I heard about the latest success of your sloop Kestrel in the North Sea and felt that you may be good enough to accept my congratulations. You are Wickham’s only famous sea officer, and all the town is talking about your exploits.
It was wonderful to hear about your battle at Cape François last year, I have been asked to re-tell the story so many times, and I’m afraid that I may muddle it a little. However, I think I manage to get the sense of it right; that three British ships-of-the-line and a frigate sent four French ships and three frigates back into port. People cheer when I’ve finished telling the story!
With my best wishes for your future success.
Miss Featherstone
But of course, you may be wondering who I am; you must be so busy and meet so many people. We played a hand of whist together with my step-mother and Mrs Garnier at Rookesbury House on Christmas day. My name is Ann, and I do hope that you remember me now.
Holbrooke sat still and silent for perhaps half a minute, staring into the distance. His first thought was that it was extraordinary that Ann should imagine that he didn’t remember her. But of course, it was a very daring thing indeed to write to a man whom she had only met briefly, and she needed devices to render the letter innocuous if the receiver should be offended. Secondly, he wondered what sort of a life she thought he led. Certainly, there were sea officers who were very well-connected and did indeed mix in society, but not Holbrooke, who had barely set foot ashore since being commissioned; he had no such connections. The only person of consequence that he could claim as an acquaintance was Captain Carlisle, who was almost as complete a stranger to English society as he was.
Well, he must decide whether he should reply, but he was at a complete loss as to whether that was correct. He’d ask Lynton tomorrow, he concluded. Yes, Lynton would know, but then Lynton was his first lieutenant, and he’d already decided to put a little more distance between himself and his officers. He stowed all three of his letters carefully in his desk drawer and locked it, replacing the key on his watch chain and tucking it deep into his waistcoat pocket.
◆◆◆
21: The Dollart
Thursday, Ninth of March 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. The Ems Estuary.
Spring was late in coming in 1758 and in March the winter gales still held sway. It seemed that the interval between the westerly storms was shorter than the duration of each one, suggesting that some malign intelligence was directing the weather. They came tearing down on the Dutch and Frisian islands in quick succession with barely twelve hours of respite in which the wind veered, slackened and then rapidly backed again into the southwest, heralding the next westerly blast. The only consolation was that the winds weren’t from the east. Much of the remainder of the continent was suffering a harsh winter with the frigid Siberian winds piling up snow on top of snow. The westerlies that assailed Kestrel, coming from the Atlantic across the British Isles to waste themselves on the North Sea and its eastern coast were warm by comparison; warmer but still punishingly cold and much, much wetter. Braziers were set up on the lower deck to dispel the damp chill, but they had to be guarded day and night against the risk of fire.
Holbrooke had forgotten all about the letter from Ann; he had no time to spare at all for anything but keeping the sloop on station. He’d even forgotten to pass Carlisle’s compliments to Lynton and the others, although he’d shown the letter to Chalmers. But none of that mattered because there was no question of replying to letters; the winter weather had isolated Kestrel in a diminishing world of her own. They had heard nothing from home since they quit Harwich on the sixteenth of February, three weeks ago, and there’d been no contact with the Dutch or Frisian shores. In fact, they’d spent most of the past three weeks sheltering in the Ems estuary, tacking backwards and forwards in the eastern channel to the north of Knock when they could or lying-to under the lee of the north-eastern bulge of Groningen.
There’d been no surveying, no running lines of soundings; the results would have been worthless in the constant chop that disturbed the sea in the estuary. They’d seen no Dutch coasters making the run into Emden, either on the seaward passage or the inshore passage, and Holbrooke could swear that nothing had passed that way. That small boats were making the crossing of the Dollart was certain, and that was where Kestrel, even in this atrocious weather, would make her mark.
◆◆◆
‘Gentlemen,’ said Holbrooke, holding onto the bench that ran under the stern windows, ‘we’ll be sending the longboat and the yawl into the Dollart tonight to disturb the trade with Emden.’
Lynton and Fairview cast sideways glances at each other. Treganoc and Jackson showed no surprise, while Matross knew that he was unlikely to be selected for any boat work, being essentially a specialist who must remain onboard. At that moment, as the light was fading behind the thick overcast clouds and the flat, dismal land of Groningen to the southwest was losing its definition, Kestrel was lying-to under reefed fore and main courses. They were safe enough unless something went wrong, but they were in no case to start offensive action, the very elements seeming to rebel against the idea.
‘We’ve noticed that there’s no boat traffic on the Dollart in the daytime, so if it’s being used at all, it must be at night.’
Every day, when it was at all possible, Kestrel had pushed up the Ems past Delfzijl and Knock to look into Emden and the Dollart. Except for a few fishermen under oars, tiny boats that could hardly make any impression on the needs of the garrison at Emden, the Dollart had been empty. Either Emden wasn’t being supplied at all, or it was being done under cover of darkness.
‘Mister Fairview believes that the wind will veer and moderate by the end of the dogs. Is that still your opinion?’
‘It is, sir. These gales have a distinct pattern and after twelve hours or so…’
‘Thank you, Mister Fairview,’ said Holbrooke, anxious to cut him off before they were all subjected to another lecture on the habits of the winter weather in the North Sea. ‘Mister Lynton will command the longboat and Mister Treganoc the yawl. Mister Jackson, you’ll be with Mister Treganoc.’
Treganoc and Jackson exchanged a glance. They both knew Holbrooke’s reasoning; in a boat expedition of this sort they were quite likely to become separated, and there was a distinct possibility of capture. It was as well to have a commission officer in each boat, to ensure the fair treatment of the men if the worst should happen. Treganoc was competent in a boat, but Jackson was an expert. Despite the disparity in their social class and education, there was strong mutual respect between the two men, and they got on very well.
‘You’ll each have a full boat’s crew. The longboat will ship the swivel again, and you’ll have the corporal and six marines, Mister Lynton. The yawl will have four marines. Seamen to be armed with cutlasses and a pistol for each man. Mister Lynton, you’ll take Dawson,’ he said. That was an obvious decision so that Lynton could leave the management of the boat to the highly experienced coxswain while he directed the actions of the makeshift squadron.
‘Miste
r Matross, you’re to provide combustibles for each boat.’ The gunner nodded quickly. So that was why he was here, they’d be burning and sinking, rather than taking prizes. He knew just what was needed to set small craft on fire.
‘The objective is to find and disrupt any traffic that is using the Dollart to supply the garrison in Emden. The master has a good idea of the navigable water, isn’t that so Mister Fairview?’
‘Aye, sir. Every time we’ve looked in, I’ve taken note of where the fishermen are. It’s all marked on a chart in my cabin.’
‘Very well. Then you all have two hours,’ Holbrooke looked at his pocket watch for emphasis, but at that moment one bell in the first dog was struck as if to emphasise the timings. ‘At one bell in the last dog, we’ll meet again. By that time, you’ll have told off your crews, taken them out of their watches to give them time to prepare, and you’ll all have looked at the master’s chart. I’ll tell you the detailed plan then.’
In fact, Holbrooke had no detailed plan. He’d been waiting for this opportunity, when there was a window of half-decent weather that coincided with the early evening, when he guessed any activity would take place. He also had two hours, but in his case, it was two hours to concoct a plan.
◆◆◆
Kestrel ran silently up the Ems estuary. Delfzijl was just a mile to starboard, but it was impossible that they’d be seen from the shore on such a dark night, sailing as they were under courses alone and with no lights showing. The leadsman was at work in the starboard fore-chains.
‘By the mark, six,’ he called softly. Six fathoms, then they were just to the east of the main channel.
The longboat and yawl were towing alongside to larboard, armed, manned and provisioned for twenty-four hours in case of an accident. Lynton, Treganoc and Jackson were standing together on the quarterdeck, waiting to be sent to their boats when Kestrel was as close to the Dollart as Holbrooke dared to take her. Their posture betrayed their tension; their few movements were wooden, like puppets having their strings pulled.
Holbrooke beckoned for them to join him. Even now, he had time to notice that his resolution to stand back from the day-to-day business of the sloop was working. Three weeks ago, any of his officers would have felt free to join him and engage in conversation; he marvelled at how easy it had been to change the relationship.
‘You all understand your orders? Very well. Stay together and remember that you must examine a vessel before destroying it. You are to be very careful of the lives of the crews; their safe delivery ashore will be a measure of your success. Now, you must be back at this point – you see how Delfzijl and Emden bear? – without fail by four bells in the morning watch. We can catch the ebb and be away if there is any trouble.’
‘And we’ll listen for your guns, sir,’ said Lynton.
‘Yes. Single guns can be ignored, that will be Kestrel’s diversion. But a broadside signifies that you must return immediately. Is that all understood?’
Lynton, Treganoc and Jackson nodded silently. They were all good men, reflected Holbrooke, but this was a dangerous undertaking. What would happen if he had to seek out the commodore having lost his first lieutenant, his marine officer, his bosun and two of his boats didn’t bear thinking about. But this was the only opportunity that they’d had since they’d returned to the Ems, and he wasn’t going to waste it.
‘Then good luck, gentlemen, and good hunting!’
Fairview brought the sloop to and gave the boats a lee. It took less than a minute from Holbrooke shaking their hands for the boats to be gone on the tide and lost in the darkness.
‘Take us back down the estuary, Mister Fairview.’ Now for the second part of the plan.
◆◆◆
Kestrel had to tack back down the estuary, against both the wind and the tide. It was only because Fairview thoroughly understood the soundings and the twists of the currents that they were able to make any way at all, and it all had to be done in silence. It was important that Lynton’s force should be deep into the Dollart before the diversion began.
‘We’re a mile north of Delfzijl now, sir,’ reported the master, touching his hat unnecessarily in the inky blackness.
‘Very good. Then we can show a few lights, Mister Fairview.’
Holbrooke called forward, loud enough to be heard, but still softly. It was unlikely that anyone on the Dutch side could hear them, but it was as well to be quiet, until the time was right.
‘Mister Varley, your guns are ready?’
‘Ready, aye, ready,’ replied the master’s mate.
Not for the first time, Holbrooke was impressed by the steadiness of Varley. His calm demeanour was transmitted to the gun crews, and there was no fidgeting, nobody nervously shifting the guns with a hand-spike. They looked like veterans, each man waiting in silence.
‘By the deep, three,’ called the leadsman, also afflicted by the air of watchful silence so that his report had an unearthly quality to it.
‘Then we’ll lie-to here, Mister Fairview, and let the stream take us back down to Delfzijl.’
‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied the master and quietly gave the orders for the main course to be backed and the head to fall off the wind.
‘Starboard battery, one gun,’ called Holbrooke. The guns were loaded with roundshot because there was a discernable difference between the sound of a shotted gun and one that was loaded with nothing more than a charge of powder, and Holbrooke wanted the watchers on the shore to be convinced that Kestrel was firing at something. The guns were at maximum depression with the quoins hammered hard home, so there was little chance of a stray shot reaching the shore. But from the shore, the flash would be easy to see at only a little over a mile.
Bang! The first gun fired, and the veil of the night was ripped apart by the flash. If that didn’t wake up the good burghers of Delfzijl, nothing would.
‘Starboard battery, another gun, Mister Varley.’
Bang! The second gun fired.
‘Silence on deck,’ called Holbrooke, projecting his voice forward.
All ears were listening intently now.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said Edney, the signal midshipman, ‘I’m sure I can hear a bugle on shore. And that’s a drum tattoo as well.’
Now that Holbrooke knew what he was listening for, he could hear it too. The garrison – the nominally friendly garrison – of Delfzijl was being woken and stood to arms. Now, what would they do? Holbrooke was gambling, betting that they wouldn’t send out their gunboat, and he knew there was nothing more dangerous in the harbour or the road. That was what he feared most, a gunboat on the loose in the Ems while his longboat and yawl were hunting in the Dollart. But he knew that the odds were slim. The gunboat had been sent back with its tail between its legs once, and it would be a foolhardy commander that ordered it out a second time, and in the dark into an unknown situation.
‘Larboard battery, one gun, Mister Varley.’ Holbrooke was careful to designate which side of the ship would fire before he ordered the engagement, otherwise an over-eager crew may shoot without waiting to hear which gun was to fire. He was pleased to hear Varley following his lead, as he’d been taught.
‘Number two gun. Fire!’ he shouted. There was no need for silence any more.
Holbrooke was trying to simulate the sounds and the light show that went with the taking of a vessel at night. It was important not to overdo it. Three guns should be enough, now they just needed lights and shouting. With the wind in the north, it was just possible for the sounds to reach the Dutch and add to their conviction that under their very nose that damned British sloop was taking another prize. There was nothing they could do about it, but it would draw their attention away from the Dollart to the south and give Lynton and Treganoc time to complete their task.
◆◆◆
Kestrel had been silent for three hours, but the lights of the guard at Delfzijl continued to burn brightly as eight bells in the middle watch were sounded. Nothing could be heard of the garrison, but b
y the pattern of lights it was clear that they were still awake. More lights were appearing all the time, and there was a cluster of them heading north along the coast. Holbrooke had seen and heard nothing of the boats, but then at this range, he hadn’t expected to.
‘Tide’s turning now, sir,’ reported Fairview looking over the side and watching the small waves change their shapes as the current started pushing against the northerly wind.
‘Mister Varley. Starboard battery, two guns with a two-minute interval.’
The guns fired, then silence returned. Kestrel was still just a mile north of Delfzijl hugging the edge of the deep channel.
‘Douse the lights Mister Fairview, then take us down to the rendezvous, if you please, and silence on deck now except for the lead and the lookouts, who are to whisper.’
The night was still bible-black; only the lights of Delfzijl showed where men were mustering in confusion, unsure just who the enemy was, and in the dark, where they were.
The Dollart was opening up now, as Knock came abreast to larboard.
‘Deck there!’ It was the lookout at the foretopmast head, trying his best to make a whisper carry down to the quarterdeck. ‘I can see flames on the larboard bow, sir. Four or five separate fires.’
