Perilous Shore

by Chris Durbin

  ‘I understand that huge great house belongs to him, it’s not rented, and it’s not entailed or mortgaged,’ added Chalmers.

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t heard anything of the sort,’ said Holbrooke.

  No, you wouldn’t, Chalmers thought. Even the inhabitants of Wickham have a rustic sort of sensitivity in such affairs.

  ‘Well, I take it from the general thrust of his conversation that he wouldn’t welcome an offer from me until I’m posted. You know my view on the likelihood of that happening. I’d give myself no more than an even chance of being gazetted before this war ends, and then, God help me, all I can do is hope for another.’

  Now is the time to cease the facetiousness that I’m becoming prone to, Chalmers resolved silently.

  ‘I see your problem, George, but I also believe you know the answer. A proposal of marriage – unless you’re a habitual proposer, which I know you’re not – is something that you should only attempt if you’re sure that it will be welcomed, by both the lady and her family. You’ll probably only get one cast at this, so you would be best advised to wait until you’re certain of your trout rising. You’re both still young after all, there’s plenty of time.’

  Did I really compare Ann Featherstone to a rising trout? Good God, David, get a grip of yourself, Chalmers said to himself. But Holbrooke appeared not to have noticed.

  ‘On the other hand, a bold move may win all,’ Holbrooke mused. ‘I may be misjudging Martin Featherstone. Perhaps he’s just making idle conversation, trying to show me that he’s taking an interest in the navy.’

  Chalmers looked hard at his friend.

  ‘I think you know that’s not so. Mister Featherstone’s not stupid, for all his air of detachment from domestic affairs.’

  ‘You’re right of course,’ said Holbrooke in a tone of finality. ‘I must wait until I’m posted. I can be patient, to a point, but it’s the inaction that’ll kill me. I’ll while away the time thinking of that damned interfering superannuated sea officer in Soberton. If ever I get my hands on him, I’ll wring his mischievous neck!’

  ◆◆◆

  It was fortunate for Holbrooke’s peace of mind that the road from Fareham to Portsmouth followed the coast at the foot of the chalk escarpment known as Portsdown Hill. If the carriage had come over the top, he couldn’t have failed to notice that the anchorage at Spithead was unusually crowded. While he’d been dallying in Wickham, Howe’s squadron and the fleet of transports and storeships had returned!

  ◆◆◆

  16: Called to Account

  Monday, Third of July 1758.

  Essex, at Anchor. Spithead.

  Holbrooke paced the flagship’s deck uncomfortably. He’d been there for two hours, since four bells in the morning watch. The flagship’s decks had hardly been holystoned before he’s started his march of doom. His own boat’s crew had rowed him out from the Sally Port. They’d been hastily rounded up by Jackson from their homes and lodgings around Portsmouth, and now they lay off the flagship, waiting. Holbrooke was stemming the tide, waiting to be called in to see the commodore. Nobody had spoken to him, and he had the feeling that Howe was deliberately keeping him waiting, to soften him up for the interview. At least that was how Holbrooke’s guilty imagination anticipated the meeting. He’d damaged his ship, he’d failed to meet his rendezvous and now, when the squadron returned to Portsmouth, he’d been unable to be found. It didn’t sound good.

  His train of thought was interrupted by the doors to the commodore’s cabin being thrown open. A string of clerks and staff officers thundered out, followed by the commodore himself, startling the marine sentry whose salute was a second too late; he saluted nothing more than the great man’s receding back. Howe cast a rapid glance around the quarterdeck before descending to the entry port. He saw Holbrooke and inclined his head, his face grim and unfriendly. Then, to the howl of the pipes, he was gone, his boat’s crew setting the lugsail to take him tearing down towards the harbour entrance.

  Holbrooke gulped and tried to look unconcerned, but he knew he was making a poor attempt. He jumped when he heard Captain Campbell’s voice behind him.

  ‘Follow me if you please, Captain Holbrooke,’

  It all sounded very formal; unlike the last time he’d met the flag captain.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘We missed you at Cancale Bay,’ Campbell stated without any preamble. ‘You were expected back by the ninth of June, if I correctly remember your orders.’

  Campbell left the statement hanging. He hadn’t invited Holbrooke to respond, he’d merely laid out the indictment.

  ‘You’ve heard nothing of what occurred then, sir.’ Holbrooke replied. ‘I sent a report on the seventh.’

  It was a poor attempt at regaining the moral ascendency, but it was the best that Holbrooke could manage. He didn’t dare take too high an attitude.

  ‘We’ve heard no news, except a rumour from a bumboat that Kestrel’s in dock. You should be aware that the commodore’s annoyed. He’s delaying any action until he’s heard your story. Now’s your chance, Mister Holbrooke.’

  Holbrooke opened the canvas satchel and extracted a copy of the report that he’d sent to Howe as soon as Kestrel had arrived at Portsmouth, and copies of the thrice-weekly reports to Admiral Holburne. This was his ammunition.

  ‘The day after we left Cancale Bay we fell in with that French frigate and sloop, just inside the Écrevièr Bank. We damaged them both, but the frigate shot away our wheel and put a hole in our stern below the waterline, where we couldn’t come at it. I have the carpenter’s report here.’

  ‘How much water were you taking?’

  ‘Three feet an hour after the best plug that the carpenter could manage. We pumped continuously until we arrived at Portsmouth the next day.’

  Campbell had served with Anson when he sailed around the world. He knew all about leaking ships, and probably three feet an hour didn’t seem too disastrous to him.

  ‘And where were the French ships when you broke off the engagement?’

  ‘To the south of us, blocking our passage back to the squadron.’

  Campbell sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘There’s something else you should know, sir,’ Holbrooke continued. ‘It was a trap. That Guernsey pilot, Renouf, led us into that place and the two Frenchmen sprung the trap.’

  Campbell’s eyebrows went up.

  ‘Renouf jumped overboard when he knew that the French were unlikely to catch us. He’d hoped to be picked up by the frigate, but it sailed straight past him.’

  ‘Serves him right,’ Campbell replied, smiling for the first time. ‘Now where were you when we anchored yesterday afternoon?’

  That was the most dangerous question. Holburne had forbidden him to go to London, the usual magnet for young sea officers, but he’d said nothing about Wickham, only ten miles away and just two hours at most by carriage.

  ‘I was visiting my father in Wickham, sir. Admiral Holburne gave me leave to travel that far.’

  Holbrooke gambled that Holburne wouldn’t be questioned on the matter, and if he was there was enough elasticity in his verbal orders to justify Holbrooke’s trip.

  ‘And this is all in these documents?’

  ‘It is sir. I expect Kestrel to be ready for sea on the tenth of July and I hope to rejoin that squadron on that date.’

  ‘It’s regrettable that your report didn’t reach us in Cancale Bay,’ Campbell mused. ‘It sounds like you acted correctly, but I have to tell you that the commodore is very annoyed. He’d planned to give you command of a division of flatboats for the re-embarkation. You’d have been the only commander, you know, the rest of us are all post-captains. An opportunity missed, I’m afraid.’

  Holbrooke felt sick. That was just the kind of chance he’d been hoping for. He’d have been compared directly with senior post-captains and it would have looked very well on the commodore’s report.

  ‘Still, I expect there’s to be another landing soon and perhaps – I can
not guarantee it – but perhaps you’ll have another chance. The army will be camped on the Isle of Wight for the time being, but the commodore’s on his way to London to meet Mister Pitt. You heard about Saint-Malo?’

  ‘No sir, I’ve heard nothing at all.’

  ‘You saw the duke and his army land, and that was a very creditable affair.’

  ‘The flatboats performed well?’ asked Holbrooke.

  ‘Yes, very well indeed. The soldiers are bursting with enthusiasm for them. They landed the army in a time that couldn’t have been contemplated before, and the same for the re-embarkation. Unfortunately, the rest of the affair was not quite so successful. The army marched unopposed to Saint-Servan across the lagoon from Saint-Malo. However, they decided that the town was too strong to take by assault, that it required a regular siege, and that they couldn’t achieve it before a French army appeared. They satisfied themselves with burning all the ships that lay under the walls: three of the line that were being repaired, twenty-four privateers and sixty merchantmen of all shapes and sizes.’

  Holbrooke nodded. It was a significant achievement, but it hardly justified the employment of such a large squadron and army.

  ‘They marched back to Cancale Bay and we took them back on board without any trouble. It appears that the duke doesn’t care to be involved anymore and he left for London yesterday. His staff say that he’ll press for a command in Germany, where there may be some real soldiering to do. Lord alone knows who’ll command the land forces if we have another go.’

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Then what appears to have started badly ended well, in fact,’ said Chalmers, as they walked out through the gate in the city walls beneath the Dock Bastion.

  ‘Yes, although I daren’t visit Wickham. It appears that Howe will be ready to sail before the end of the month and however much he is assured that I acted correctly, he’ll be justifiably angry if I leave Portsmouth again. The only good to come out of this is that it’s stopped me agonising over whether to propose to Ann. I cannot now, unless I do so by letter, and that would hardly be correct.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied Chalmers, privately relieved that his friend couldn’t commit himself so rashly. It wasn’t that Chalmers disapproved of the match, in fact he very much approved of it, but he thought there was a strong probability of Martin Featherstone withholding his agreement until Holbrooke was posted. In fact, he could sympathise with Featherstone, who wanted only the best future for his only child.

  They crossed the swing-bridge over the Mill Pond, skirted the Gunwharf and struck out towards the Hard and the main dockyard gate.

  ‘I shall write to Ann, of course’ Holbrooke continued. ‘We made no arrangements, but she’ll be expecting me to call again on Saturday, and that I certainly cannot do. Then Kestrel will be ready next week, and we’ll be sent away again.’

  Chalmers cast a sideways glance at his friend. His voice wasn’t as firm as it usually was, and he had a fixed, glassy expression.

  ‘I believe you’re wise not to travel again until you’re back in the commodore’s favour.’ Chalmers was studiously looking ahead as he spoke. ‘If you truly wish to marry Ann, then the shortest path to that goal lies through your posting in the Gazette, and that appears to be in Mister Howe’s gift. With the sloop back in the water and ready to sail, you can make yourself useful. Until then he sees you as irrelevant to his plans.’

  ‘You’re right, certainly. I’ll send a letter this afternoon.’

  ‘And I shall write to your father. I have an appointment with his trout, but my place is here for the next few weeks at least.’

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Was the letter not to your liking, Ann,’ asked her stepmother as she peered around the half-open door of her room.

  Sophie Featherstone had seen Ann take the letter that was addressed to her and retreat to the privacy of her room. It was quite clear who’d written the letter, and the joy on her stepdaughter’s face as she recognised the handwriting on the envelope confirmed it. But Ann had been alone in her room for half an hour. Each previous time she’d received a letter from her Captain Holbrooke, she’d reappeared in five minutes, bouncing down the stairs to announce her happiness, her delight in the world and all its works.

  Ann was sitting on her bed with the letter held in a lifeless hand.

  ‘Oh Sophie! He’s not visiting next Saturday, and perhaps not for some time. The commodore’s returned and now he must stay in Portsmouth to get his ship ready to sail again.’

  Sophie sat beside her stepdaughter and held her hand. They were very close, more like sisters than mother and daughter and with only twelve years separating them, they had an empathy that rarely existed across generations. And yet they were very unalike, both physically and in their manners. Where Sophie was tall and dark with an athletic bearing, Ann was of average height with golden hair that she wore loose. Sophie rode well, mixed easily in any company and could hold her own in an argument, while Ann, at nineteen, hadn’t yet shaken off her adolescent diffidence.

  ‘I…I know nothing of men. Tell me honestly Sophie, is he trying to put me off? It seems very strange that he’s unable to travel just ten miles when he wants. After all, he’s the captain of his ship. Who’s to say he can’t?’

  Sophie smiled tenderly.

  ‘Even the captain of a King’s ship answers to a higher authority, Ann. I’ve heard of this commodore, Richard Howe’s his name, and he’s said to be very particular about how he wishes things done, and most insistent that his orders should be obeyed.’

  ‘Then you think Captain Holbrooke may still care for me?’

  ‘He’d be a fool not to, and I do believe Ann, that between you and I, we may refer to him as George. I know you call him George, even if I still have to observe the formalities.’

  ‘I don’t want to appear stupid, but it’s so difficult being courted by a sailor. He has no fixed home, unless you can count his father’s cottage, and I don’t know where he’ll be from one day to the next. This letter gives no indication of when I may see him again. He could be off to the East Indies for all I know.’

  Sophie thought for a moment.

  ‘You know that your father is against you becoming too attached to George before he’s been made a post-captain?’

  ‘I do, and I understand his reasoning and of course I respect his decisions. But it’s so hard to wait. I just feel as though I’ve no control over anything. It would be very improper, I suppose, to go to Portsmouth to see him.’

  Sophie laughed.

  ‘I’m afraid it would, although you’d give our friends in the town something to talk about for years to come! It would be very improper of you to seek him out in Portsmouth. But there is another possibility. Do you remember that we stood on the Round Tower last year to watch the fleet sail?’

  ‘Yes, you could almost touch the ships as they came out. You’re not thinking…’

  ‘I am, but we’ll need some information to make this work. I’ve already called once on William Holbrooke at his cottage and I can do so again. He’s probably the best source of naval information in the town. I can ask him when he expects George to sail and I can at least attempt to understand this business of the naval ranks and their significance. I believe he’s secretly afraid of me, so it shouldn’t be difficult.’

  ‘You won’t embarrass me Sophie, will you?’

  ‘No, have no fear. I know the man and I know how to handle him. Just leave it to me and then at the least we’ll know more. At best we’ll fulfil your desire to see him again, although in the guise of interested watchers, no more. Not a word to your father now. I’ll tell him when it’s too late for him to object.’

  ◆◆◆

  They floated Kestrel out of the dry dock on the Monday, two days ahead of the date demanded by Admiral Holburne. Her new wheel looked dark and incongruous against the weathered oak and elm all around it that had been bleached white by the sun, the salt spray and the endless scrubbing. She lay in the wet basin for tw
o days taking on stores and setting up the tops’ls and the running rigging, then on the Wednesday, exactly five weeks after they’d limped back into port, they warped out into the harbour. There they lay, waiting for orders. The commissioning pennant flying from her main truck announced to the world, and to Commodore Howe, that Kestrel was ready to re-join the squadron.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Weigh anchor, Mister Fairview.’

  ‘Boat coming alongside, sir,’ said Edney. ‘It looks like dispatches and mail.’

  ‘Easy on the capstan until we get the mail on board,’ Holbrooke said to the first lieutenant. ‘You may weigh with a will as soon as the boat’s clear.’

  The strong nor’easterly whipped over the dockyard, laying Kestrel over under the minimal canvas that she was showing to cast her head to the east. The ebbing tide ran fast under the sloop’s forefoot. The hands were already out on the yards ready to drop the tops’ls.

  ‘Anchor’s aweigh, sir,’ shouted Lynton from the fo’c’sle.

  The wind caught the jib and fore-stays’l and the bows fell away to starboard. Tops’ls and mizzen appeared as if by magic and Kestrel gathered way. They had two knots of tide under the keel, and the docks and Gunwharf slipped rapidly down the larboard side.

  ‘There’s a note you should see, sir,’ said Pritchard, daring to step into Holbrooke’s view during the tricky departure from Portsmouth. ‘It wasn’t covered or sealed, and I saw that it required your immediate attention…’ he trailed off, unsure whether he’d done the right thing.

  ‘Oh, give it to me then,’ said Holbrooke in exasperation.

  A single look at the note just deepened the mystery. He turned it over, there was nothing on the back, and no sender’s name.

  ‘In haste. Look at the Round Tower as you pass.’

  ‘That’s all?’ asked Holbrooke.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Pritchard looking wretched, ‘there was nothing to identify it.’

  It could just be his father’s handwriting. And yet he was not the sort of sentimentalist to stand on the Round Tower and wave to his son’s ship; that was for lovesick girls and heart-broken mothers, he would have said. In its three-and-a-half centuries the tower had seen plenty of both, but not many hard-bitten old sailing masters.