Holbrooke's Tide

by Chris Durbin

  Holmes looked from one to another of his captains but found no inspiration there.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ he said. ‘Holbrooke, you know him best, tell him to leave his horse with the marine, and he may walk into the city. Walk, mark you. I won’t have him riding in here as though he still owns the place!’

  Holbrooke hurried down from the gate. Treganoc was already there and was stroking the horse’s head, keeping it calm. It was a beautiful animal, but its winter on short rations showed in the dullness of its coat and the visible outline of its ribs. Would it survive the march south, he wondered?

  ‘Well, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Major Albach,’ said Holbrooke with a welcoming smile. ‘You can leave your horse with Mister Treganoc and follow me if you please.’

  The commodore was ostentatiously gazing through Treganoc’s glass and didn’t immediately turn around when Holbrooke and Albach reached the platform. Holbrooke could see Albach stiffen at this less-than-subtle insult. He stood still and waited. After Holmes had made his point, he lowered the glass and turned around, his face a blank mask of unwelcome.

  ‘Good afternoon Major,’ he said, his face still immobile. ‘I see your column has stopped, what is the reason for this?’

  Albach composed himself to mirror the commodore’s posture. His set shoulders and jutting jaw an eloquent testament to his unease in the face of this hostility.

  ‘I regret to inform you, sir, that Colonel Reutter is unwell. The doctor’s opinion is that he will not survive a march of two hundred miles in this weather. I have returned, sir, to request that the colonel is allowed to remain in Emden until he is well enough to continue his journey.’

  Holmes had evidently been expecting a request of this sort, and equally clearly had already decided what his answer would be. Nevertheless, he kept the major waiting for a full thirty seconds before replying.

  ‘Common humanity dictates that I must, reluctantly, agree with your request. Colonel Reutter may return and of course, whatever personal servants he needs. But no staff officers. It must be the colonel and no more than two servants. Is that quite understood, Major?’

  The commodore’s tone was softening now that he’d asserted his right to control this new situation. It was an inconvenience, but no more than that, and an invalid colonel would hardly be much of an imposition. However, the commodore had been thinking one step ahead of everyone else.

  ‘I understand that the colonel is not fit to travel by road, but in your opinion, Major, would he be fit to travel to Ostend by sea?’

  Major Albach’s face momentarily showed his surprise before he composed himself again.

  ‘I believe he would, sir. It’s only a matter of a few days if the wind is fair, but of course, you would know that better than I.’

  ‘It is, and if he’s fit for a short sea passage, then I intend sending him away as soon as possible, perhaps tomorrow if all goes well.’

  ‘Then on behalf of Colonel Reutter, you have my gratitude, sir. If you will permit me, I’ll send him back immediately. He will be accompanied by a doctor and a soldier, and they won’t be armed. I must start the column moving again.’

  ‘Then farewell, Major Albach, and once again I wish you a safe journey. You won’t take it amiss if I hope we won’t meet again very soon. Mister Holbrooke will escort you to the gate.’ The slight stress on the word escort emphasised the fact that this was no longer the Austrian’s city. It was now under the protection of King George, and foreign soldiers were present only under sufferance.

  ◆◆◆

  Holbrooke could have forecast what would come next, but the commodore had some surprises up his sleeve still.

  ‘Now, about this damned gun of yours, Holbrooke.’

  Holbrooke sighed. He should have known that it would be his gun as soon as it became a problem. Holmes’ orders regarding his dealings with the Austrians had been very firm, and they were to be given no offence. Holmes must know very well that if he took the gun back to England, it would be stored in some arsenal and quickly forgotten. When it again became a problem – when the Austrians asked its whereabouts, and it couldn’t be found – it would be Commodore Holmes’ gun again.

  ‘I think, in all fairness, that you should carry it to Ostend, Captain Holbrooke. They’ll let you sail into there without firing on you, and you can give them news of the garrison.’

  Holbrooke cursed himself. Of course, that was the only reason that he’d been given permission to go to Portsmouth – wind permitting – rather than to Harwich or the London river. It could be argued – just – that Ostend was on the way to Portsmouth. Commodore Holmes had neatly wrapped up his responsibility for the Austrian gun along with his need to inform the Admiralty of his victory.

  ‘And, of course, you can convey Colonel Reutter home at the same time.’

  ◆◆◆

  28: Ostend

  Thursday, Twenty-Third of March 1758.

  Kestrel, at Sea. Ostend South 5 leagues.

  There was no doubt that the sea air was doing Colonel Reutter a power of good. For some unfathomable reason, Kestrel’s people had taken the aged Austrian to their hearts; perhaps it was the outrageous moustache. He was ensconced in an armchair – knocked up in a few hours by the carpenter – lashed to a pair of ringbolts on the quarterdeck, with a weather-cloth set up in the mizzen shrouds to protect him from the spray. Serviteur had quickly discovered that there had been no coffee in Emden since the autumn, and now he brought cup after cup of the revitalising liquid to the quarterdeck. My coffee, Holbrooke thought ruefully. The colonel was perhaps the most cossetted person that Kestrel’s decks had ever seen. That kindly old gentleman, he was known as.

  However, the wind had not been fair. It had blown steadily from the southwest, and after she’d passed the Texel, Kestrel had been obliged to stand far out to the west into the North Sea – almost to the Norfolk coast – before making her board to the south-southeast. That’s why noon on the third day since she left Emden found her still five leagues to the north of Ostend with the wind and tide against her. Holbrooke had decided to wait until the Friday morning before making his entry, rather than risk an arrival in the gathering dark. He’d need a pilot in any case, and few pilots that he knew would gladly come out after the sun had set.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘It’s a fine spring morning,’ said Chalmers. ‘Don’t you find this breeze refreshing, Colonel?’ The Austrian had long ago stopped pretending that he spoke no French.

  ‘I do, sir, I do,’ he replied, looking around him. ‘I wonder, would there be any more of that coffee, do you think?’

  His words were heard by Edney, the midshipman on watch, who exchanged a confirming glance with Fairview then sprinted below to find Serviteur.

  ‘Would it be impertinent if I asked you how the Empress views the role of Britain in this war? I ask because we appear to be in the unusual position of being friends but allied to others who are firmly at war with each other and to ourselves. It must surely exercise the full diplomatic talents of our respective governments.’

  ‘I regret that I can only speak for the situation as it stood some months ago,’ the colonel replied. He’d become fast friends with Chalmers, sharing conversation and coffee throughout the two days since they sailed. ‘But you are correct, it’s a puzzle. The Empress values her relationship with Britain but is dismayed that your government appears unconcerned at the Prussian threat to our lands in the east, Silesia for example.’

  Chalmers thought for a moment. ‘My best understanding is that His Majesty also wants good relations with Austria but is concerned that the Empress appears to have abandoned our old alliance in favour of the French.’

  ‘Perhaps, but only the French can offer Austria any help with the Prussian threat. It is the reality of international relations, dear sir, stripped of all the human goodwill and reduced to a calculation of where one’s best interests lie. Real Politics, I believe it is being called by our diplomats.’

  The co
ffee arrived, carried by Serviteur on the gunroom’s disreputable silver tray. The colonel took a cup gratefully and brought it to his lips.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Sail ho! Sail on the starboard bow!’ shouted Shepherd from the crosstrees of the mainmast.

  ‘Up to the masthead with the glass, young Edney, and let me know what you see,’ said Fairview. ‘Serviteur, you’d oblige me by acquainting the captain that a sail is in sight on the starboard bow, to the south.’

  But Holbrooke had heard the hail from his cabin, where he was poring over the Navy Board returns of bosun’s stores with Jackson. He and the bosun both left Pritchard to secure the books and without even a pang of guilt fled the dull task for the more tangible problems of a vessel in sight off the coast of the Austrian Netherlands.

  ‘Ship-rigged, sir. She’s bearing away and setting her stuns’ls. Looks like she’s running down to take a look at us,’ called Edney.

  ‘Twelve leagues from Dunkirk and sporting stuns’ls, altering course towards us, bold as brass. She’s a French privateer, for sure,’ said Fairview.

  ‘Well, with this wind we’ll know for sure in fifteen minutes,’ Holbrooke replied.

  The word had spread below, and the deck was filling with people. If they hadn’t already known the significance of the master’s identification of the sail, they knew by now. The gunner was already checking his guns and that brought the quarter-gunners and gun captains up, all surreptitiously easing the lashings that kept the four-pounders in place against the gunwales. A red coat caught Holbrooke’s eye; that would be the marine sergeant moving his drummer into place.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, I just want to check aloft,’ said Jackson, which Holbrooke took to mean that he was going to confirm that the boarding nets, the chains for the lower yards and the puddening were all in place.

  ‘Deck there. Shepherd’s almost certain that it’s the same privateer we saw off the Schelling in January. Black hull with a white stripe and red fancy-work fore and aft.’

  ‘Now that’s what I call handsome,’ said Lynton, rubbing his hands. ‘His conscience has smitten him for disappointing us.’

  ‘Beat to quarters, Mister Lynton. Clear the sloop for action.’

  The drum roll stirred those very few souls that hadn’t yet realised that there was a fight in prospect. Bulkheads were knocked down, canvas partitions removed, boarding nets rigged, guns cast loose from their sea-lashings and men ran purposefully in all directions.

  ‘Sir,’ it was Chalmers trying to attract Holbrooke’s attention. ‘Sir, Colonel Reutter is asking that he be permitted to stay on deck.’

  Holbrooke thought for a very moment. The colonel was a passenger and a senior officer of another nation. If he were killed or wounded, it would be an awkward arrival in Ostend. On the other hand, he was a fighting man – a little past his prime perhaps – but he had a moral right to be on deck if they were about to go into action.

  ‘Ensure that the colonel understands that we are about to engage a French privateer; a Frenchman, make it plain, an ally of Austria. If he still wishes to remain on deck, then he may.’ Holbrooke had no time for the laborious process of translating his words into French and was grateful that Chalmers would do it for him.

  ‘Is all in order, Mister Lynton? Good, then haul your wind, Mister Fairview. Let’s get inshore of him in case he changes his mind and runs for Dunkirk.’

  ‘The ensign, sir?’ asked Lynton.

  ‘No, not yet. I just have the feeling that he may be mistaking us for someone else. Let’s see if he’ll commit himself before we show our colours.’

  ◆◆◆

  The two ships converged fast. Soon the privateer was visible from the deck of Kestrel, that same lean, black hull with the stripe. She looked deadly, probably more so than Kestrel, and she was likely to be similarly armed. It would be a tough fight if the Frenchman could be drawn to commit himself.

  ‘She’s hauling her wind, sir,’ said Fairview. ‘She must have recognised us. Look how quickly she’s handing her stuns’ls! It’s a joy to watch.’

  Sure enough, the privateer had brought the wind close onto her starboard bow and was heading south. She’d need to put a tack in to make Dunkirk, but unless she carried away something vital, like a tops’l yard, she’d be safe by dark. There was no doubt that she could show Kestrel a clean pair of heels.

  Holbrooke could feel all the eyes on the quarterdeck watching him. He knew that the chances of catching the privateer before he made Dunkirk were slim in the extreme. On the other hand, the mathematics of the chase always favoured the hunter. Holbrooke could make as many errors as he liked and until the privateer was safe behind the batteries of Dunkirk, he still had another chance. The chase, on the other hand, could hardly afford a single error. There was a myriad of things that could go wrong at sea, that could hold up a vessel for ten critical minutes. This privateer couldn’t afford to make just one error, because if he did, Kestrel would be upon him.

  ‘We’ll chase, Mister Fairview, right to the very walls of Dunkirk. Put your best men on the wheel, pinch every yard you can and let’s see how well Kestrel will fly!’

  There was a general cheer from the men on deck. Holbrooke knew then that he’d made the right decision. There was plenty of time to make Ostend by the morning after they’d chased this Frenchman into Dunkirk.

  ◆◆◆

  The south-westerly wind, a tops’l breeze, bore evenly upon the two ships. They were of equal size and similar rig, but the privateer had the advantage of finer lines and a deeper keel. Her hull cleaved the waves more cleanly, and she had a tighter grip on the water, so she was a little faster than Kestrel and made a little less leeway. At first, the difference wasn’t apparent, but soon the evidence of the master’s octant was backed up by casual observation from the deck.

  ‘She’s luffing us, and she’s faster,’ said Fairview, lowering his octant.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Master,’ replied Holbrooke. ‘Nevertheless, we’ll stay on her tail and see her home. It’s good to be pushing the sloop after all those weeks in the estuary.’

  It was good. Holbrooke could see the high spirits of the men on deck. Nobody had yet gone below, and all hands watched every sheet and bowline, taking another few inches in whenever it looked as though a rope had stretched, or a spar had eased. There’d been no opportunity for a real sailing match in this commission, with a good steady breeze and without mountainous waves pummeling them.

  On and on they sped, the hunter clinging to the heels of the hunted, praying for a lost spar, a sprung mast or a broken rudder pintle. All they needed was ten minutes, and the privateer would have no option but to fight. At four bells in the afternoon, the privateer tacked and stood away from the coast. It was the only tack that would be needed, half a glass with the wind on her larboard side and she could tack again and make Dunkirk.

  ‘How far in can we stand, Master?’ asked Holbrooke.

  ‘Well, we probably draw two feet less than her, but it shallows fast here. We’ll have to come about in five minutes anyway, so we should do so now, sir.’

  ‘But the tide will be less in the shallower water, won’t it?’

  ‘Aye, it will, sir,’ replied Fairview looking pointedly ahead. He thought there was little advantage in risking the shallows to the north of Dunkirk.

  Holbrooke didn’t reply for a full minute, while Kestrel ploughed on to the south. He looked up at the clouds scudding away to the nor’east, he looked over at the green water speeding by, and he felt the wind on his cheek.

  ‘You’re right, Mister Fairview. Put the sloop about. We may have gained a few yards by standing on, but the wind’s not going to veer.’

  Just after eight bells in the afternoon, the privateer came about again this time with the clear intention of making Dunkirk on this tack. The tide had slackened, but the wind was still firmly in the southwest.

  ‘Follow her around, Mister Fairview. There’s just a chance that she’s tacked too late.’

&n
bsp; There was no land in sight to the south, and if the Dunkirker had stayed too long on the larboard tack, she’d have to ease off to reach home, and then Kestrel would have an advantage. It almost certainly wouldn’t be enough, but that and a little luck…

  But it wasn’t to be. As the light faded in the west, the privateer reduced her sail and glided expertly into the deep canal that led to the fortified port of Dunkirk. There was no chasing her into there; the canal was guarded by four new batteries with at least forty guns between them, and the city itself bristled with guns. The eastern approaches to the canal were further guarded by chevaux de frise – a row of spikes that would rip the bottom out of any ship – that stretched out to sea over the foreshore. The western approaches were protected by a further canal, more like a deep moat. Nothing short of a full-scale siege could interrupt the business of Dunkirk.

  ‘Give her a gun, Mister Lynton, just to speed her on her way.’

  They were well out of range, but a gun would emphasise the point. On this occasion, the privateer was the hunted, not the hunter.

  ‘Reduce sail, mister Fairview, and take us out to sea. I want to be off Ostend at first light. I assume you know where to pick up a pilot?’

  Holbrooke looked around the deck; there was no sense of disappointment, the people seemed pleased with their day’s work. The chase would be told and re-told over the mess tables in future commissions, gaining drama with the passage of time. Ten years from now, in some ship whose timbers still stood as tall oaks in the New Forest, the events would have suffered a sea-change into something truly heroic. Well, if that’s what it took to hone a fighting machine, so be it, thought Holbrooke.

  ‘Three cheers for the captain,’ shouted someone of even greater enthusiasm than the rest, and the cheers were so loud that they woke the sleeping colonel, who had completely missed the last two hours. He woke to find himself immobile in the chair, smothered in blankets by well-meaning souls to keep out the chill.