Perilous Shore

by Chris Durbin

  Albach looked confused, then the realisation dawned. Yes, he’d walked over to the edge of the camp just before turning in. Yet he looked dissatisfied, still unsure about what he was hearing.

  ‘You were alone on enemy soil, engaged in a reconnaissance?’

  Holbrooke noticed the careful use of words. Albach called it reconnaissance, not spying. There was a deadly distinction between the two. It meant the difference between being taken up as a prisoner-of-war and being marched to the gallows.

  ‘Not alone. You perhaps remember Jackson, the bosun and I’m certain you’ll remember Serviteur. They were with me.’

  Now Albach could laugh out loud.

  ‘I was congratulating myself on knowing just where you were without you having any idea that I had left the Netherlands, and all the time you were stalking me in the night!’

  ‘I was. But why are you in France, and how did you come to save me today? It was today wasn’t it? I haven’t slept through twenty-four hours?’

  ‘Yes, just about one o’clock, or two bells in the afternoon, if you prefer. You see, I did learn something in my time in your ship.’ He looked pleased with himself.

  ‘My superiors found me to be an embarrassment. My own regiment is in Silesia and Colonel Reutter’s detachment was necessarily being dispersed. You remember the colonel from Emden? But of course you do; you were kind enough to carry him and his gun to Ostend,’ he said looking with affection at Holbrooke.

  ‘It so happened that a letter came from the militia of Brittany asking for volunteers who were experienced artillery officers. My superiors wished to oblige the French and so I was sent to Dol de Bretagne to command the militia artillery.’

  He fussed with Holbrooke’s pillow for a moment.

  ‘The militia officers are willing enough, but they have no experience at all. You can’t possibly conceive of their fanciful perceptions of a battle. It’s been my policy to go wherever it looks likely that they’ll be in action, and that’s why I was with the militia battery that deployed to Point de la Garde this morning; you saw us I’m sure. I was watching you. You’re quite distinctive you know, among all that red and yellow. When I saw how it was going and that you were determined to see all the soldiers off the beach, I ran down to give myself the honour of being the officer to whom you would have to surrender. It was quite heroic; I do assure you. Those French peasants have no idea what an officer in the Imperial Artillery looks like, and I ran the risk of being taken for an enemy. In fact, I arrived just in time. I saw you go down, and I saw those French savages charging at you. I stopped them by sheer force and the flat of my sword. A guinea for each of the five of them was the price of your life, and in exchange for your sword they gave you into my custody and helped carry you to this dressing station.’

  Holbrooke digested this information. He was fortunate, he knew. If Albach had arrived a few seconds later, he’d have been dead.

  ‘Your ships ceased their bombardment at that moment, and in recognition the duke declared a general quarter to the thousand or so of your soldiers left on the beach. It was fortunate, it prevented a bloodbath.’

  ‘Did you see Mister Treganoc?’

  Albach looked solemn.

  ‘His boat managed to escape, and I saw it return to the fleet. Your midshipman did very well, but I believe Mister Treganoc was badly wounded, or he may even have died. He wasn’t moving when I saw them pulling away. I very much hope he survived. I remember so well his generous remarks about my field guns when we first met. Certainly, he didn’t move while he was still in my sight.’

  He looked solemn and stared at the sand.

  ‘If I may say, it wasn’t my guns that wounded him; it was a musket ball from one of those who would have bayoneted you. Luckily that was one of the last two loaded muskets in the group, the other one was used to shoot you. By the time they had reloaded the boat was beyond their range.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it. There were enough lives lost in this misbegotten adventure,’ said Holbrooke and his head fell back on his pillow.

  ‘And I do believe that the midshipman – I regret that his name eludes me – recognised me. He certainly looked shocked when he saw me.’

  ‘You were a popular visitor to Kestrel, Mister Edney would know you well enough.’

  Albach nodded.

  ‘You must rest now. You’re in my keeping, you know, and we can talk later. I’ll bring you a glass of wine, but then you must sleep.’

  ◆◆◆

  The light had faded when Holbrooke woke again. He felt much stronger now and sat up, looking around him. The only illumination was from a campfire some yards away, and it gave a strange orange glow to the tent. He realised that the canvas was no longer being buffeted by the wind. The gale had expended its fury and moved on up the channel and across to the Netherlands and Germany. It would be a hard night for soldiers of both sides in Hanover.

  He was alone. No, there was a sentry outside the door of the tent. His musket was slung over his shoulder, so he evidently wasn’t expecting any trouble from his captive. What now? He was a prisoner of the French, although Albach had somehow managed to take him into his own custody. That couldn’t last, he knew. At some point he would be given up to the French navy. That was the convention, each service looked after the captives of its adversary service. Probably he’d be sent to Brest, or perhaps to Saint-Malo, although there would be little enough naval presence there after their ships had been burned back in June. Thinking of the French navy brought him to wondering what had become of the other British captains who had been on the beach. He’d last seen Rowley and the others waving away the boats, deliberately stranding themselves with the trapped remnants of the rearguard, faithful to Howe’s order to be the last men off the beach. He hoped that they had held out until the French blood-lust had been slaked.

  Holbrooke realised that he was hungry and thirsty. He felt filthy after vomiting and he dearly wanted some water to wash his face. He looked down at his chest and stomach. The bandage that had been wrapped around and around was showing a seepage of blood on the right side, not a great amount, but enough to make Holbrooke wonder about the extent of his injury. The rest of his clothes, his waistcoat and his coat and hat, had been folded beside him. His pistol had been placed under his hat; he could see its muzzle poking out under the gold trimming. That was a strange omission of Albach’s; even as a friend it would be a fundamental precaution to keep a firearm away from a prisoner. He lifted the hat in curiosity, then saw that it was no omission. The flintlock mechanism had been destroyed and there was a bright splash where the soft lead of a musket ball had scored the barrel and shattered the wooden handle. The ball had expended its energy in demolishing this weapon and it seemed likely that his wound was caused by the pistol being smashed against his ribs by the force of the shot. The good sea-service pistol had evidently sacrificed itself to protect its owner.

  Holbrooke sat up. For a fleeting moment it occurred to him that he could try to escape. With the gale still raging, the squadron could hardly have left the bay yet. It may be possible to find a boat…

  Then common sense came to his rescue. He was wearing a bloodied naval uniform and was surrounded by ten thousand enemies who had just won a hard-fought battle. His chances were slim at best, and in the likely event that he was taken, he could expect summary execution. There would be little sympathy for a man who caused trouble now, and he doubted whether Albach’s influence could help him a second time. It appeared to be one of those occasions in life when he must await his fate, but in the meantime, he could try to clean himself. Although his shirt was nowhere to be seen, his waistcoat would cover the bandage and his coat would complete the transformation from an anonymous wounded man to a wounded King’s officer. The canteen of water was still there where Albach had left it. He paused for a moment; his thirst balanced against his desire to wash. He reached a compromise and poured a handful of water that he rubbed vigorously into his face. The rest he drank, the cool water soothing
his salt-sore throat.

  His refreshment complete, Holbrooke found a barrel to sit upon. He decided that it would be best to stay in the tent until Albach returned. He didn’t want to risk his life roaming the camp unescorted, however pure his motives. In any case, from the sounds around him, he was still in the temporary dressing station on the beach, and he’d no desire to see the damage that his squadron and the rearguard had done to the French infantry.

  Well, he was a prisoner-of-war and he’d survived the most dangerous phase – the initial moments of capture and the hour after – when the passions of the victors were at their height. He didn’t appear to be too severely wounded although now that the feeling was coming back, the pain of his bruised ribs and broken skin was starting to make itself felt.

  Presumably he would be exchanged within a few months. It rarely took longer as the British navy had a credit balance in captured sea officers. The important thing now was to be transferred to the custody of the French navy as soon as possible, where he could expect much more sympathetic treatment.

  He thought back over what Albach had told him. It was likely that Treganoc had been badly injured, or perhaps he was dead. Most likely dead from Albach’s tone. Holbrooke felt regret at the thought, but it wasn’t yet grief, maybe it never would be. He’d seen death and mutilation aplenty during two years of intense warfare at sea and perhaps he was becoming hardened to it. He remembered that Treganoc had aged parents living across the Tamar in Cornwall, but to his shame he knew almost nothing more about the marine lieutenant’s life outside the service. He must of course write to the parents if Treganoc had indeed died, but he couldn’t do that until he knew the facts, and that probably wouldn’t be until he was exchanged.

  Edney had survived, evidently. That led him to a more encouraging thought – and Holbrooke recognised its selfishness – that Edney had witnessed his rescue from the waves. But what had he seen? He didn’t remember being conscious when he was dragged ashore, so all that Edney would have seen was Albach preventing him from being bayoneted out of hand. What report would he give to Lynton?

  There was another thought. What of his command of Kestrel? This wasn’t the Jamaica Station. There were dozens of hopefuls waiting for a sloop and it was unlikely that Lynton would be given temporary command in his absence. Unless he was exchanged very, very quickly, it was probable that Kestrel would be given to another newly-promoted commander.

  His heart raced at the thought. Would he be posted? He’d done well on the beach at Saint-Cast, at least he thought he had. Would it merit Howe’s recommendation, and would that be enough for their lordships to take notice of him? It made sense, but sense rarely had anything to do with it. He knew that he was still woefully short of influence. At the Admiralty, only Admiral Forbes knew him, because he’d been the motivating force behind the Emden blockade.

  He was forgetting the Admiralty Secretary, Clevland. He may also have a good opinion after their two meetings. Holbrooke had acquiesced in concealing a scandal when his then first lieutenant had attempted to murder him. Yes, Forbes and Clevland probably had a fair opinion of him.

  His mind strayed to his father, and then to Ann. They were the only two people outside the service who would feel much regret at the news of his possible death – at least he hoped that Ann would feel regret. How long before the story of his survival reached them? The Duke d’Aiguillon was presumably an honourable man; his staff would be making a list of the officers and men that they had captive, and the names of the dead where they were known. It was entirely possible that the list would be sent to Howe before the squadron left the bay. Then the fact of his survival would be known at the same time as news of his capture was received. It was possible, but hardly likely, he acknowledged to himself. The victorious army would have plenty to do before they dealt with the niceties of communicating with the vanquished. It was more likely that a letter would be sent by a cartel, and that would take at least a week. He had to accept that there would be a period, days or weeks, when his father and Ann may think the worst.

  ◆◆◆

  26: The Prisoner

  Tuesday, Twelfth of September 1758.

  Saint-Cast Bay.

  Holbrooke woke early. His bruised ribs were sore, and he was hungry. He had to force himself into civility when Major Albach drew aside the flap of the tent.

  ‘I apologise for apparently deserting you, Mister Holbrooke,’ said Albach brushing the dust off his uniform, ‘and I regret that you’ve been confined to this tent since yesterday, but as you can imagine, it’s necessary for your own safety.’

  ‘Yes, I understand, and thanks for your consideration,’ Holbrooke replied, forcing a smile. ‘The guards have been good enough to bring me food and drink, but they haven’t been very communicative.’

  Albach moved closer and leaned in towards Holbrooke, cupping his hand around his mouth so that they weren’t overheard.

  ‘They’re my men, the local militia of the coast,’ Albach continued in a low voice, barely more than a whisper. ‘Most of them speak French more-or-less although they’re Bretons. I’ve forbidden them to speak to you unless it’s necessary for your comfort. You know, your soldiers didn’t always behave in the best manner ashore and there’s genuine anger among the people of this area. My main concern has been your safety. I’ve stationed a whole platoon within a shout of this tent and the lieutenant has his orders to protect you. I’ve let it be known that you’re a valuable captive.’

  ‘I’m not sure my skin has ever been described as valuable before,’ Holbrooke chuckled, quite recovered from his early-rising grump, ‘but I’ll be careful what I say. I heard the guards changing and guessed they were speaking Breton.’

  He paused for a moment, hardly daring to ask the next question, dreading to hear the answer.

  ‘Have you heard anything of the other sea officers who were on the beach? There were four of them and I believe none of them got off in the boats.’

  ‘They’re well,’ said Albach, now speaking in normal tones and striding stoop-shouldered around the tent. ‘They’re at the other end of the beach under the custody of the Boulonnais regiment. The colonel of the Boulonnais has no idea what he should do with them. He finds them an embarrassment, and I’ve offered to take them off his hands.’

  He turned to face his friend.

  ‘Now listen, Holbrooke,’ he continued changing to a more intimate form of address, ‘I’ve arranged to have all five of you moved away from here before the duke decides what he’s going to do with the British soldiers. You don’t want to be mixed up with them; they’re far too many to receive any sort of gentlemanly consideration.’

  He looked knowingly at Holbrooke. Soldiers captured en masse could expect to be treated en masse, and they had no general officer to speak for them, Drury having died on the beach and all the rest having made their escape.

  ‘The soldiers will be taken to Dinant, but that’s too close for comfort to the scene of their depredations; the locals won’t treat them well. You and the other sea officers will be going to Saint-Malo, eventually. However, the navy owns no buildings in the town and your men burned all their ships, so until they can arrange suitable accommodation, they’ve agreed that I may take the five of you to Dol. The bishop there is a friend of mine. I sent my best horseman to him yesterday and I had his reply a few minutes ago. He’s agreed to make accommodation available in the cathedral. It’s a long ride, at least thirty miles, and we must make it in one day, tomorrow, on horseback. Do you think you can manage that?’

  Holbrooke nodded cautiously. He hadn’t yet tested his wound by even gentle walking let alone a day in the saddle on rough country roads. He was too well-bred to ask how on this earth Major Albach had become good friends with the Bishop of Dol.

  ‘There’s one thing that I’ll need your assistance with.’

  Albach looked embarrassed, so much so that Holbrooke feared that he was going to be asked for something that his rank and commission couldn’t allow. Some info
rmation, perhaps, in exchange for his comfort and safety.

  ‘All five of you will need to give your unconditional parole for a month, otherwise the duke will insist on keeping you under his eye. It will need to be signed in the presence of the adjutant-general, and I’m sure you know the likely penalty of breaking parole.’

  He held up his hand to forestall Holbrooke’s interjection.

  ‘I only state this because it was so particularly pressed upon me by the adjutant-general himself, not because I imagine for one moment that you would break your sworn bond.’

  It was fortunate that they knew each other so well, because Albach’s spelling out of the obligations of parole could be resented by any gentleman. Holbrooke thought for a moment. In any event, it was highly unlikely that he would be exchanged in less than a month, in which case there was nothing to be lost and much to be gained.

  ‘I agree of course. And Albach, thank you again for your consideration.’

  Albach made a self-deprecating gesture.

  ‘There’s a second part that I must ask you to agree. The other gentlemen; they must also sign the parole. I’ve committed myself to be their custodian and the parole must be signed by all. All or none. Do you think you can convince them?’

  Holbrooke thought it would take minimal persuasion once the alternative was explained to them. He knew none of the four well, but his impression was that they were all reasonable men. It wouldn’t do to be confident and he’d have to put it to Captain Rowley with delicacy, he was a post-captain after all, but they were very likely to agree, he decided.

  ‘I believe I can put the case to them, Albach, and frankly they’ll be fools if they don’t agree. Could you give me, let’s say an hour, to speak to them? It may take that long to explain how I know you so well before I even touch on parole.’

  ‘You’ll be circumspect of course, regarding my role at Emden?’