Holbrooke's Tide

by Chris Durbin

  ◆◆◆

  Lynton came back in the yawl, bringing a pilot and the governor of Ostend’s polite invitation to berth at the town quay. It was necessary to go right into the town, not for the sake of the colonel – whose health had recovered remarkably and could easily stand a boat trip – but to disembark the nine-pound field gun. It was entirely possible to sling the nine-pounder underneath the longboat, the navy often did so with guns of that size, but it still left the massive gun-carriage to be transported, and it left them at the mercy of whatever facilities Ostend had for shifting such heavy weights. Holbrooke could envisage all sorts of delays while the appropriate experts were sought, and the right cranes were rigged. Far better to bring the sloop alongside at the top of the tide and sway the carriage ashore on the main yard, followed by the gun to be dropped neatly into its trunnion housings.

  By midday it was complete, but although Holbrooke was eager to be off, the governor and his old friend Colonel Reutter had other ideas, and it would have created a diplomatic incident if Holbrooke and Chalmers hadn’t accepted the invitation to dinner.

  Kestrel sailed with the last of the light, a weak ebb tide and a slight wind that had backed right around into the east. The cheer for Colonel Reutter was both loud and heartfelt, and they left Ostend with the sense of a job well done. The pilot, who had spent most of the short voyage deep in discussion with Fairview, was dropped into his boat as the leadsman sounded twenty fathoms. Freed from the shore, from field guns, Austrian colonels and pilots, Kestrel spread her wings and shaped a course west-southwest towards Portsmouth.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Do you fancy another go at that privateer, sir?’ asked Fairview after he’d waved goodbye to the pilot.

  ‘Of course, Mister Fairview, but what do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, the pilot knows everything that happens along this coast. I told him about our encounter and it's his opinion that the Black Corsair – apparently that’s what she’s known as – will be at sea again tonight; he’ll wait until it’s full dark to hide his departure. If he was chased into Dunkirk yesterday evening, he’d have been equally chased back to sea again by his investors. Now, the tide won’t serve at Dunkirk for a few hours yet, and as he’s heading up the East Coast, we could meet early in the morning if we just shape our course a wee bit north.’

  ‘Can we be sure that he’s heading north?’ asked Holbrooke, surprised by this gifted information.

  ‘The pilot was certain on that point, sir. The channel gropers have all but cut off the western route and all our trade heading down the channel is in convoys now. He’s been ordered to pick up some of the colliers coming down from Newcastle way, and if that’s a no-go then to head for the Skaw and take up any stragglers from the Baltic convoys; they tend to get separated from their escorts when they come around the point there.’

  Holbrooke stood dead still. He dearly wanted that privateer. Apart from the plain fact that it was his duty to annoy the enemy and setting aside the prize money and head money, he knew that his achievements at Emden weren’t enough to make that magical step to post-captain. The capture of a privateer alone wouldn’t sway their Lordships, but if Commodore Holmes particularly mentioned him, it could just be enough to tip the balance.

  ‘What course then, Mister Fairview?’

  ‘Nor’west-by-west, sir, and if we snug down to our courses overnight, we should be there or thereabouts at dawn.’

  ‘And why did the pilot tell you all this, what was in it for him?’ Holbrooke asked.

  ‘A reasonable question, sir, and one that I asked him myself. It seems that he just hates the French. He’s not too keen on the Austrians either. He’s Flemish, and his family have suffered for generations being the neighbours to such a pretentious nation. He’s a little bashful and didn’t feel it right to speak to the captain of a King’s ship, but he felt a professional kinship with me, so to say.’

  ‘Then make it so, Mister Fairview, make it so. But let’s keep this intelligence between ourselves for now.’

  Some chance, thought Fairview. A hundred pairs of eyes had seen him deep in conversation with the pilot, and the same eyes had seen him talking to the captain, quiet like, and then order the course alteration and the reduced sail. A most unusual course of action when they were under orders to deliver dispatches. Kestrel’s people weren’t fools.

  ◆◆◆

  Four bells sounded, the midpoint of the first watch. Kestrel had the easterly wind two points on her starboard quarter which was her best point of sailing, and normally she’d be running at ten or eleven knots. However, under her mainsail and jib, she was making no more than three knots, and the moderate swell was running fast beneath her keel. No lights were showing on deck, and below only a few dim lanterns showed where the ladders plunged down into the lower regions.

  ‘Then if we’re carrying dispatches,’ asked Chalmers, ‘why are you making this excursion into the Southern North Sea just to chase a privateer? I had understood that dispatches always come first. Certainly that’s the reason that you gave for leaving that convoy alone back in December.’

  They were sharing a glass of wine and a light supper by the dim illumination of a battle-lantern. Serviteur had rigged the deadlights, but there was always a chance that they weren’t completely effective, and as Kestrel could already be close to the privateer, the battle-lantern was the best light that they could afford to use.

  ‘I wonder about that myself, David,’ replied Holbrooke. ‘The first thing to point out is that we’re not formally carrying dispatches, not in the sense that we’re forbidden to deviate from the fastest route. The commodore couldn’t place that restriction on us, not at the same time as he ordered us to stop off in Ostend and then make for Portsmouth rather than Harwich. If Kestrel was really constrained in that way, then we’d have been anchored at the King’s Yard yesterday, and the dispatches would have been delivered to the Admiralty by now. Holmes knew what he was doing. He’s in no hurry to be relieved of his duties at Emden. After all, he’s the governor of the city until someone else is appointed and hopes to gain credit for handing it over in good order. He’ll use the loss of his other frigate as an excuse for the tardiness of the dispatches.’

  ‘Ah, then we’ve all the time in the world. This is, in effect, a cruise, is it not?’ asked Chalmers.

  ‘Well, not exactly. Today’s Friday. Unless I’m badly misunderstanding the unwritten part of my orders, I have until Monday to make it to Portsmouth. Nobody will thank a mere sloop commander for arriving on a Sunday and disturbing the dockyard on a day of rest. Now, Fairview tells me that this easterly wind will be with us for another three days at least, and he hasn’t been wrong yet in his weather forecasting. We could easily make Portsmouth in twenty-four hours from here, so I have a day in hand.’

  ‘So, you see it as your duty to chase this privateer? It comes under the general injunction to annoy the enemy, does it not?’

  ‘That’s correct. But more than that, I need to do something significant with my time in Kestrel. We’ll probably be in dockyard hands for a couple of months once we’re in Portsmouth. I can’t imagine that we’ll be allowed to sea again without the capstan, the gaff, the wheel and the new magazine; the master attendant won’t be denied for much longer.’

  ‘Then Emden will count for nothing? Surely that was a significant achievement in causing the surrender of a whole city.’

  ‘It is, but it’s Holmes’ achievement, not mine. Oh, I’m sure he’ll give me some credit, but it’ll pass unnoticed.’

  Holbrooke stared at the lantern, marshalling his thoughts.

  ‘You know, command of a sloop is very much a trial promotion. Most commanders only spend a year in command, then they’re either posted or put ashore. A few spend longer, but only if the Admiralty needs more evidence of their fitness to command. Now, most sloops are sailing under Admiralty orders, for the simple reason that their Lordships can keep a close eye on them. However, my greatest achievement will be reporte
d upon by Commodore Holmes, and my name may not even be mentioned. If I can take this Dunkirker, this Black Corsair, as she seems to be known – why, oh why, do sailors have to create a mythology around their enemies, why these portentous names? – then my report can go directly to the Admiralty along with Holmes’ dispatches. I can’t afford to waste these months in command of Kestrel; I may never get another chance. And, of course, it’s my duty to annoy the enemy,’ he smiled.

  ‘Then I’ll drink to the annoyance our Black Corsair,’ said Chalmers, ‘and pray that we may not pay too high a price in the taking.’

  ◆◆◆

  29: The Dunkirker

  Friday, Twenty-Fourth of March 1758.

  Kestrel, at Sea. Deal West-Southwest Twelve Leagues.

  The watch on deck knew very well that something was afoot, and the upper masts were peopled by an unusual number of lookouts, all straining their eyes into the pre-dawn blackness to be the first to see their quarry. The bells were silenced now and replaced by a discreet cough and a jerk of the head by the quartermaster. The change of the watch was accomplished with only whispers. The scrape of the hobnail boots of the marine as he shifted his stance was the loudest noise on the quarterdeck.

  ‘West-nor’west under main and jib,’ said Fairview. ‘The mizzen’s furled, and she’s steering well as she is. Wind’s steady from the east and likely to remain so.’

  Lynton grimaced in the darkness. It was impossible to have a conversation with the sailing master without hearing his views on the weather.

  ‘Sunrise at five-fifty,’ Fairview continued, and in an even lower voice, ‘There’s no telling where we’ll see the privateer, if we see him at all, but my best bet would be the larboard quarter at about sunrise or a little before.’

  Lynton looked astern. It was too early for any sign of horizon, but the stars which were clear and bright in the west were fading in the east. Half an hour, he estimated, then he’d have a chance of seeing a sail.

  ‘Very well, I have the ship,’ said Lynton. ‘Mister Varley, I want a lookout at the main and the mizzen, each to report to me before he takes his turn.’

  Varley removed his hat. ‘Aye-aye sir,’ he replied. ‘I’ll bring the first two right away.’

  Lynton walked nervously up and down the quarterdeck; this atmosphere of secrecy had infected him. As far as he was aware, only the captain, the master and himself knew about this pursuit of the French privateer. However, he noticed that the gunner was on deck, checking the main batteries. Before the first glass had run through, Matross was joined by the quarter gunners, then the gun captains. Men who had no need to be on deck in the early part of the morning watch were gathering at their stations, even the idlers, those who kept no watch, started to appear. Evidently, Kestrel’s pursuit was no secret after all. As the duty marine turned the glass, Holbrooke appeared on deck, fully dressed and looking keenly about him.

  ‘Have the men gone to quarters already?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t hear the drum.’ This was taken to be the captain’s jest, and the quartermaster and the steersmen and anyone in sight jerked their shoulders up and down in a parody of silent laughter.

  Holbrooke took up his telescope and started methodically sweeping the horizon, starting astern and working up the larboard side.

  ‘The sky’s lightening astern, sir, but there’s nothing in sight,’ said Lynton. ‘There’s a lookout at the fore and main, and they’ve been briefed to keep a particularly careful watch.’

  Holbrooke lowered his telescope, wiped his eye and replaced it.

  ‘You’ll be discounting the sail on our larboard quarter then, Mister Lynton,’ he said in a conversational tone.

  Lynton looked shocked. He grabbed his own telescope and looked in the direction that his captain was indicating. Then he turned and removed his hat.

  ‘Sir,’ he said formally, ‘Sail on the larboard quarter, about three miles. Do I have your permission to beat to quarters?’

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

  The drum commenced its stirring tattoo almost before the words had left Holbrook’s lips. After all, the drummer was close enough to hear every word that was said, having been roused out of his hammock by the sergeant at the turn of the watch.

  Both Holbrooke and Lynton had a moment to wonder by what strange alchemy a captain was able to see things when he first came on deck that the entire watch had missed. It happened too often to be coincidence, and it was common to all captains, whether they were good, bad or indifferent. Perhaps the watch on deck became too accustomed to seeing nothing and consequently continued to see nothing even when a sail peeked over the horizon. Maybe it was the captain who, with the greater weight of responsibility on his shoulders, observed more keenly. Both men independently resolved to ask Chalmers, who had become the fount of all unconventional wisdom.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘He’s heading north under all plain sail, and it looks like he hasn’t seen us yet,’ said Fairview, who had appeared as if by magic before the first roll of the drum. It looked as though the master hadn’t turned in since being relieved of the watch half an hour before.

  There was an unnatural hush about the ship as the clearing for action was carried out in near silence. It was foolish, of course; the enemy couldn’t possibly hear them at three miles, yet only the officers on the quarterdeck spoke in anything like normal tones.

  ‘What will he do, Mister Fairview?’ asked Holbrooke, still studying the faint outline of the ship through his telescope. A decision was urgent because with this cloudless sky the horizon was growing lighter by the second and at any moment a lookout in the privateer would see Kestrel. Holbrooke was confident that he was looking at the Dunkirker. In this patch of water, only vessels heading from the channel to ports to the east of the Texel would be found, and there would be precious few of them with a war raging in that region. For the same reason, the privateer was quite probably not keeping a proper lookout; what was the point when no decent merchantman had any business here?

  ‘Well, he’ll take a long, hard look at us first. We hardly look like a King’s ship under this rig. When he’s smoked us, he’ll come onto the wind, as hard as he can and beat up to the nor’east.’

  ‘He won’t turn back then,’ asked Holbrooke. ‘He could make Dunkirk on a close reach.’

  ‘Not him! According to the pilot, he’s under a lot of pressure, and if he’s chased back to port for a second time in a week, the owners will be looking for a new master. No, he’ll be hell-bent on making his way north, and he’ll rely on his speed to lose us. He may even know by now where we’re bound. A message could have reached him from Ostend before he sailed; there’s a good road to Dunkirk and it’s less than thirty miles. In that case, he’ll hope to run down our clock so that we’re forced to abandon the chase.’

  ‘And that could very well be the case, Mister Fairview,’ said Holbrooke, studying the chase through his telescope. ‘We’ll come about and beat up to him.’

  ‘May I suggest that we veer, sir? With this rig, she’ll veer much better than she’ll stay.’

  ‘Very well, make it so, Mister Fairview. Once you’re steady on course, make all sail; we must be seen soon in any case.’

  ◆◆◆

  The pressure of the jib for’rard and the absence of a balancing mizzen brought Kestrel’s stern quickly through the wind. As she settled on her new course, with the chase fine on her larboard bow, her full suit of fair-weather sails began to appear at the yards. The brails of the mizzen were cast loose, the tops’ls were shaken free from their gaskets and then the staysails were run out. The yards had already been chained by the bosun, and he was rigging the splinter nets.

  ‘Have the boarding nets ready but not rigged, Mister Jackson,’ Holbrooke said. Jackson knew that his place at this point in action was on the quarterdeck where his captain could easily speak to him. His mates could leap around the tops encouraging the men; he’d learned that he must stand back and see the whole picture, much
though his instincts called him upwards.

  ‘He’s seen us, sir,’ said Fairview. ‘He’s coming about. Ha! We’ve caught him out there, look at the hash he’s making of it. He only just saved himself from being caught in irons. Now he’s round and heading nor’east. May I come up, sir? If we put the wind fine on larboard bow, he’ll still cross ahead of us, but we may be able to get a few shots in.’

  Holbrooke nodded distractedly. He was carefully studying the privateer, looking for anything that would help him. Privately, he thought Fairview’s assessment of the enemy’s likely movements was dead right. The chase would cross his bow at something between a mile and half a mile and then his superior speed would allow him to edge around to the west and resume his planned course to the east coast of England. That would leave Holbrooke with a difficult decision: should he continue to chase with the probability of losing sight before nightfall, or should he obey his orders and head for the straits and home? Fairview was undoubtedly right when he suggested that the privateer knew the constraints on his action.

  ‘Mister Fairview. Adjust our course to cross his stern as close as possible. I’ll leave it to you. You may make any sail you need to achieve it.’

  Almost before he’d finished speaking, Jackson was shouting at his mates, ordering the studding-sails to be made ready; if Fairview came off the wind a little, then he’d probably call for them.

  ‘Pass the word for the gunner,’ said Holbrooke to Varley.

  The gunner’s quarters were in the magazine, supervising the making up of cartridges and passing them up to the guns. In one sense it was a waste of his talents; he knew the weapons better than anyone else in the ship and could point them to better effect. However, the safety around the magazine was so important that the regulations allowed no leeway when they were in action; the gunner must be in the magazine. Still, this could hardly be called action, not yet.