Holbrooke's Tide

by Chris Durbin

  ‘Mister Matross. We’ve but one chance to slow down that privateer as we cross his stern, then he’ll walk away from us. I can continue the chase for the rest of the day in the hope that something comes up, but at sunset, I’ll have to abandon it.’

  The gunner looked grave. He pulled at his whiskers and opened his mouth as though to argue with his captain, but then closed it. The whole company of Kestrel wanted to close with this Black Corsair; they didn’t want to hear about abandoning the chase.

  ‘What range do you estimate we’ll have when we cross his stern, Mister Fairview?’ Holbrooke called over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off the gunner.

  ‘The stuns’ls will be drawing momentarily, sir. He’ll still have the legs of us, but I think I can squeeze it to a hair over half a mile.’

  ‘Then that’s your task, Mister Matross. You’ll have maybe five minutes before she’s a mile away, ten before she’s right out of range. We must slow her or stop her. We’re in your hands now; how will you do it?’

  Matross thought for a moment, still pulling at his whiskers.

  ‘Not broadsides, sir, the lads aren’t trained for this fine work. If you can hold the old sloop in range so that every gun can see the target, me and Mister Jackson will point each one ourselves.’

  ‘When do you want to start firing?’ asked Holbrooke.

  Matross looked at the wind, a good breeze from the east still. ‘At a mile, sir. I’ll aim for the stern and hope to hit the rudder head. There’s nowt worth shooting at in her rigging, nowt that’ll slow her down enough.’

  ‘Very well, Mister Matross, carry on.’

  ◆◆◆

  It was growing lighter although the sun had not yet peeped over the horizon. The details of the chase could now be seen, and the human forms on Kestrel’s deck were becoming clearer. Holbrooke guessed that by the time they were at their closest point, there’d be enough light to give Matross the best possible chance of making a critical hit.

  ‘What’s afoot?’ asked Chalmers from his privileged position on the quarterdeck. He could see that Holbrooke had delegated all the tasks to the ship’s officers and now he was free to watch and calculate.

  ‘Good morning, David,’ Holbrooke replied, walking to the taffrail where they could talk in near-privacy. It was a measure of his distraction that he used his friend’s Christian name on deck; such informality was usually reserved for the cabin. ‘I’m afraid this morning may be a disappointment. We’ll have perhaps ten minutes of banging away and then unless the gunner is very lucky or more accurate than I imagine, the privateer will be out of range.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Chalmers looking nonplussed. ‘The talk below is all about prize money and head money. How this fellow from Dunkirk will be ours before breakfast.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid they’re likely to be disappointed, but we’ll play this out to the end. If Matross can’t slow him down, then we’ll follow him all through the day; at least he’ll make no captures with us on his tail. But he’ll certainly lose us tonight, and then I must be away for Portsmouth. The one hope I have is that this fellow has problems not unlike mine. If he was free to choose, I suspect he’d have turned back for Dunkirk when he saw us. That would have been the prudent choice, but where I have commodores and admirals on my back, he has owners and investors. He can’t return to port and hope to keep his job. Just like me, he’ll be on the beach if he fails, and that, I hope, will be his undoing.’

  ‘You know how much faith the people have in you, don’t you?’ asked Chalmers, studying his friend carefully.

  ‘They can have all the faith in the world, but it’s now in the hands of the master gunner. I’ve never seen him at target practice; let’s see how he does.’

  ◆◆◆

  The batteries were a scene of frenetic activity. Matross had ordered all the charges drawn from the guns, and his mates were lovingly carrying up new cartridges filled with the very best power that the sloop owned, personally prepared by the gunner and stored in the driest, warmest part of the magazine against just such a need. Lynton was inspecting every gun of the larboard battery, checking that the shot were as near spherical as they could be and watching as each gun was run in and out, to see that the trucks were rolling free.

  Holbrooke watched as Fairview played his part in the plan. He was a man in perpetual motion, moving rapidly, almost frenziedly, from the binnacle to the weather shrouds, his telescope and octant following him in the hands of Midshipman Edney. But there was a pattern to the master’s movements, and Holbrooke could see that Edney was anticipating his needs. He took a bearing of the privateer from the binnacle, called the result to Edney who chalked it up on a slate, then skipped over to the shrouds where he took a vertical octant angle, again calling the result to Edney, then he took a long look at the chase, followed by a critical survey of Kestrel’s sails. The quartermaster could be seen nervously watching his luffs and muttering to the steersman.

  ‘I’ll be ready to start firing in two minutes, sir,’ Matross reported. ‘The guns will all bear then, although it’ll be long range. The best chance of a hit will be in five minutes.’

  ‘Very well, carry on,’ said Holbrooke, affecting a pose of unconcern that fooled nobody.

  Watching Matross at work was instructive. Unlike the master who was filled with nervous energy, the gunner was a slow, methodical man who just wouldn’t be rushed. He’d managed to transmit that sense of calm to the gun crews, who were all standing by their guns as though ready to be inspected.

  Matross was squatting behind number two gun, the furthest for’rard on the larboard side, and Jackson was behind number four gun, the next in line. The gun captains were supervising the men with the handspikes, training the guns as far for’rard as they’d go, while Matross and Jackson adjusted the quoins for elevation.

  ‘Wait until I call my fall of shot, Jacko,’ said Matross. He wanted no confusion between one shot and another when he adjusted his training and elevation. It would be an interesting problem because they’d have a different gun each time.

  ◆◆◆

  Bang! Number two gun fired, and although he was waiting for it, Holbrooke jumped. He hadn’t realised how nervous he was.

  Matross stared over the gunwale.

  ‘Short and to the left,’ called Fairview. Matross looked irritated, and Holbrooke motioned for the master to leave it to the gunner. On this bright day, with the sun just rising and no significant sea, he could easily see the results of his own shooting, and this was no time for a parliament.

  ‘A hundred yards short and fifty left,’ muttered Matross as he moved to number six gun. ‘Knock that quoin right out,’ he ordered to the gun captain.

  The crew of number two gun were sponging out the barrel almost before the fall of shot was seen.

  Bang! That was Jackson’s number four gun.

  ‘Fifty short, but good for line,’ said Jackson. That was good shooting.

  ‘Too far right,’ muttered Fairview to himself, to the evident annoyance of the quartermaster, who scowled at him.

  Bang! Number six gun.

  ‘That pitched right up to him,’ said Lynton, ‘just a few yards left.’ Holbrooke realised that it would be tyrannical to try to stop his officers commenting on the gunnery. This was the best, most interesting show they’d seen in many a month.

  Holbrooke no longer noticed the sound of the guns firing. The conditions were almost perfect for Matross and Jackson, with the steady breeze blowing the smoke back over the sloop and away to leeward. They had an uninterrupted view of the chase.

  Number eight gun pitched short and to the right. The gun captain on number two gun raised his hand – Gun Ready – as Matross made his leisurely way back from firing number six.

  Each gun had fired two rounds before Fairview, still leaping between the binnacle and the weather mizzen shrouds, raised his hat and reported formally. ‘That’s our closest point of approach sir. Just about half a mile. The range will start opening now. If we weren
’t firing, we should tack and follow in her wake.’

  ‘Thank you, Mister Fairview, keep her full and by.’

  Holbrooke knew that he had perhaps three shots with each gun before the privateer moved out of range. There was no point in telling Matross and Jackson, they knew it as well as he did, and it would only interrupt their flow.

  ‘A hit, sir, a hit on her stern, reported Matross after number six gun had fired for the third time. Holbrooke could see for himself; he’d watched each shot through his telescope. This one had hit high on the privateer’s stern, but too far too larboard to damage the rudder head or the tiller.

  ‘Well done, Mister Matross, keep at it.’

  Jackson’s shot threw up a plume of water right under the privateer’s stern. That was good shooting. His two warrant officers were getting used to the guns and intelligently allowing for the range and the changing relative aspect of the ships.

  ‘He’ll be regretting that he didn’t just run for Dunkirk when he first saw us,’ said Lynton, who had little to do and badly needed to discuss the action with someone. Holbrooke didn’t favour him with a reply.

  ‘Another hit, sir, must have been about head-height over her quarterdeck.’

  Holbrooke shuddered at the thought. But however hard he looked, he saw no change in the privateer’s heading and no slacking in her speed. He reckoned on only one more shot from each gun; four shots to determine the outcome of the chase.

  The four shots brought no more hits, just plumes of water that would have wetted the crew on the deck of the privateer. They’d be congratulating themselves now because they could see that Kestrel was almost out of range. In a moment, Holbrooke would order the sloop about and they’d settle down to a long stern chase in the hope that another King’s ship would appear over the northern horizon. There was little else that could end this in Kestrel’s favour.

  Holbrooke looked for’rard. Matross was peering through the number four gun port. He looked back at Holbrooke and held up his hand. ‘Just one more shot,’ he was saying. It was beyond any sensible range for a four-pounder gun, and the delay would mean that Kestrel would start the stern chase half a cable behind where she should be. Fairview was looking impatient, wanting to get the sloop about and start the highly technical work of getting every extra fraction of a knot out of her.

  Holbrooke nodded at Matross. The gunner infuriatingly knelt beside the gun and showed no urgency as the range was increasing yard by yard. He pulled the quoin right out and laid it carefully aside. He made slight motions with his hands to get the gun trained just so, then he stopped and appeared to be staring into space. Seconds passed.

  ‘Fire!’ Matross said to the gun captain who pressed the linstock to the pan. The fizz of the priming could be heard from the quarterdeck, such was the hush that had descended upon the ship. The four-pounder recoiled on its breeching tackles, and Matross popped his head over the gunwale, like some sort of fat rodent peering out of its hole. Nothing. No sign of where the shot went. Holbrooke stared at the chase for a moment then turned to the master, trying to hide his disappointment.

  ‘Bring us about, Mister Fairview, and fetch her wake.’

  But his words were lost in the general cheering. He looked for’rard at the chase to see that her profile had changed. The gaff had fallen away from the mizzen, and the driver was leaning over to larboard; she was paying off the wind. Matross’ infuriating pause had been to wait for the slight swell and a momentary decrease in the wind to bring the larboard battery up a few vital degrees. That had given the blessed number four gun that little extra elevation. He’d missed the rudder but brought down the driver, and she’d be under Kestrel’s battery, unable to manoeuvre, long before the damage could be repaired.

  ◆◆◆

  30: Resolution

  Monday, Twenty-Seventh of March 1758.

  Kestrel, at Anchor. Portsmouth Harbour.

  Kestrel lay at anchor some way past the dockyard in Fountain Lake, with her prize half a cable on her beam. Holbrooke had already paid a visit to the port commissioner – who had declined to tell him anything of Kestrel’s future – and now he was writing letters, with his clerk beside him ready to make fair copies where needed or to make file copies of holographs for those letters where only Holbrooke’s own handwriting would do. Kestrel had received no mail of any kind; it was almost certainly waiting for them in Harwich, and they could expect a delay of a few days until news of their arrival at Portsmouth reached that isolated port. Commodore Holmes’ dispatches announcing the fall of Emden were already heading up the London road, along with his own letter telling of his delivery of Colonel Reutter and the Austrian field gun to Ostend, and his capture of the French privateer. He was now dictating a letter to his prize agent.

  ‘… I would, therefore, be grateful if your Portsmouth representative could look over the privateer La Bon Chance at his earliest convenience. Copies of Kestrel’s log, my own deposition and the privateer’s papers may be obtained from my clerk, Mister Pritchard,’ he dictated.

  It occurred to Holbrooke, and not for the first time, that he was on the way to accumulating a moderate wealth. True, he’d not yet received a penny in prize money, although the payment for Fury’s capture of Vulcain in 1756 was imminent. Nevertheless, the partners of Hawkins & Hammond – the same prize agent that Carlisle used – were confident that they’d all be condemned and in consequence were delighted to be able to advance him quite sizeable loans against the vessels that had been brought in by Fury, Medina and Kestrel. As far as Holbrooke was aware, none of the captures were seriously contested, and he’d take the captain’s share of three-eighths for the Dutchmen brought in since January. He’d only take two-eighths for the privateer, as he’d have to give up one of his eighths to Commodore Holmes, under whose orders he was acting at the time of the capture.

  ‘One copy of that to the prize agent’s offices in Bond Street, and one copy to their representative in Portsmouth. You may carry that to the office on The Hard by hand, Mister Pritchard,’ said Holbrooke.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ the clerk replied. ‘Should I turn over the log and the other papers at the same time?’

  ‘Yes, without a doubt. A day sooner in getting the process started is a day sooner that we’ll be paid,’ replied Holbrooke.

  Pritchard nodded enthusiastically. His share of Kestrel’s prizes was paltry compared with his captain’s share. Nevertheless, it would still be more money than he’d ever had before.

  There was a knock at the door, and Jackson stepped half-way into the cabin.

  ‘Oh, I see you’re busy, sir, I’ll come back later.’

  ‘No, no, Mister Jackson. Pritchard is just finishing a letter; it’ll be five minutes before he’ll be ready for the next. How can I help you?’

  ‘Well, sir. It’s a bit of information really. I’ve just come back from the yard, and it seems to be generally known by everyone from the master attendant down that they’ll be taking us in hand before the end of the week. The word is that they’ll give us a wheel and they’ll shift the magazine and fit port-lids in the waist gun ports, but we’ll keep our old gaff driver. I heard that all the new sloops will have drivers, sir, rather than lateens. The capstan is too much work for a middling refit, so that’ll be for another day. They’ll take us into the dock at the same time and re-caulk and pay the bottom. They’re talking about six weeks or two months, it depends on what other work comes up.’

  ‘Did it sound like gossip or is there some truth to all this?’ asked Holbrooke.

  ‘I think it’s true, sir. Master Rigger is shifting the timbers in the dock already. He certainly believes it, and the ordnance yard is waiting to take our powder.’

  Holbrooke digested this information as Jackson left. It wasn’t a surprise, but he was disappointed that the port commissioner had chosen not to tell him. He’d been warned back in December that the Navy Board would probably insist on at least that much work. It meant that they’d all have to move out of the sloop. He could give
a few weeks leave to the men; there’d be no desertions with the prize money that they were owed although he could expect some straggling. The navy made a clear distinction between desertion – where the man had no intention of returning – and straggling, which was just a case of overstaying leave and was treated with some indulgence. And he could take some leave himself. It was a curious feeling that he’d be free to do as he liked, without being summoned by bells or pipes, and he could sleep all night in a bed that didn’t move. He’d discuss the details with Lynton so that they’d be ready when he had the official word.

  ‘The next letter to Captain Carlisle in Medina, at Halifax with a copy to Williamsburg in Virginia, in case Medina touches there. Your very best hand, if you please, Pritchard.’

  Holbrooke had heard nothing from Carlisle since the letter dated November saying that Medina was taking a convoy north to various ports in the English colonies and finally to Halifax. It sounded likely that Pitt had decided on another attempt at Louisbourg, and Medina’s convoy was part of the build-up of force that would be required to capture that strong fortress, after the failed attempt last year.

  ‘… The Dunkirker didn’t so much as fire a gun for the honour of the flag, but she hauled down her colours before we had covered half the distance that separated us. It was a strangely bloodless affair, I’d expected at least a few casualties in the privateer; after all, we’d scored several hits to his stern, and one shot must have cleared the quarterdeck at head height. However, apart from severe fright, nobody was hurt. It took until well past noon to transfer the privateer’s people to Kestrel – a decent lot, on the whole – and to send across a prize crew, but it was worth the effort …’

  Holbrooke, Fairview and Chalmers had entertained the privateer master to dinner; it had proved an invaluable investment of their time. After the first bottle, before which he’d tended towards moroseness, the Frenchman opened up and explained the difficulties of life as a privateer master. Ever since Thurot’s cruise in 1756, the expectations on privateers had grown to such an extent that it was considered a disgrace to return to Dunkirk without at least one prize. The average privateer master lasted only two cruises; not because of the dangers of the sea and the enemy, but because his owners and investors rewarded failure with dismissal and brooked no excuses. Holbrooke also learned that their assumptions regarding the privateer’s plans were correct and that it was only the foreknowledge of his movements that had allowed them to take this prize. It was likely that the master would have a spell in the hulks at the upper end of Portsmouth Harbour before his turn came around for a prisoner exchange, but he appeared quite philosophical about it. His ship was an excellent example of an ocean-going privateer, and it would be snapped up by one of the British consortia, probably to re-appear in a few months at Port Royal or Antigua.