by Chris Durbin
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The secretary directed Holbrooke to a storeroom a hundred yards away near the rope-walk. The key was held by a grizzled, stunted old man whose sole responsibility appeared to be the custody of officers’ effects. Holbrooke imagined that he did a decent business when the owner of a trunk didn’t return to pick it up, which must be a frequent occurrence. His own things were neatly piled against a wall; his desk, his cot, a few chairs and a small table that he’d brought into the sloop. There were his chests of books and his navigational instruments and another for the cabin stores that he hadn’t consumed. It was strange to see it all there, all his worldly possessions in one place, neatly labelled and piled alongside similar trunks and bags. All his worldly possessions if you didn’t count his growing wealth under the protection of Hawkins and Hammond, but even that thought didn’t lift his gloom.
He noticed the absence of his uniforms, and they were the reason for his coming to the storeroom.
‘A black fellow was here, with a parson, sir,’ said the old man. Clearly Serviteur had made enough of an impression that he was mentioned before Chalmers. ‘He had a note from the commissioner’s office. They took away your uniforms, sir, but I made the parson sign a ticket for them.’
He waved a printed form in Holbrooke’s face and there was undoubtedly a signature along the bottom, and it could have been Chalmer’s, but the man wouldn’t part with it.
Holbrooke would have given a guinea to see this creature try to prevent Serviteur reclaiming his master’s uniforms.
Nevertheless, it was a nuisance. Now he would have to walk to the Dolphin in the ragged coat that he’d worn for the last month in captivity. It had been shot through, doused in seawater and bled upon, and then it had been lived in day and night for a month. The word disreputable hardly did justice to its sheer squalor. The waistcoat had suffered similarly, the shirt was borrowed, and he had on the duck trousers that he’d worn in the flatboat rather than the breeches and stockings that the sartorial standards of Portsmouth demanded. His wig was lost in the surf of Saint-Cast, his hat would never be the same again, he had no sword and as for his shoes…
‘Welcome home, Captain Holbrooke.’
A familiar voice. There at the door was Chalmers, and behind him Serviteur.
‘I apologise for not meeting you at the port admiral’s office, but we only had news of the cartel after it had already berthed. We hurried here as fast as we could.’
‘Chalmers, how good to see you, and Serviteur, how do you do? I gather you are both homeless.’
It was like a ray of hope in the abyss of despair.
‘I took the liberty of taking your uniforms away, sir, to see to them,’ said Serviteur. ‘They’re in the cart now all spruced up,’ he added indicating a hand-cart pulled by a man who could have been the twin of the storekeeper. He grinned fiendishly from between the shafts, uglier than any pot-house nag.
Holbrooke looked helpless for a moment. The transition from ragged poverty to a man with a loyal friend and his own servant and the imminent prospect of fresh uniforms was too much for him to take in.
‘This man will leave us while you shift into your shore-going rig,’ said Serviteur, towering over the startled storekeeper, daring him to demur.
They talked rapidly while Serviteur helped Holbrooke into his clean uniform. In fifteen minutes, he was a changed man. From the crown of his hat to the soles of his shoes he looked the part, a successful sea officer in the home of the King’s navy.
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‘First stop is the Dolphin, I think. You look remarkably thin, Holbrooke. Didn’t they feed you in that cathedral? I warned the landlord to expect you for a late dinner and he’s promised not to let us down.’
‘Then tell me all the news, Chalmers. And Serviteur, how did you come to leave Kestrel?’
‘I didn’t like the look of Mister Rickets and he certainly didn’t like the look of me, sir. He had his own servant and Mister Jackson was kind enough to swear that I’d never make a seaman, not so long as my arse points downwards, were the words he used, and even the afterguard duties are apparently beyond my powers. My discharge was mutually agreeable.’
‘Per order of Sir Francis himself,’ added Chalmers, ‘who incidentally, for all his gruff and sarcastic manner, has a liking for you, Holbrooke.’
‘He has a strange way of showing it,’ Holbrooke replied with a laugh.
‘You should know that Mister Lynton and Mister Jackson are only waiting for the word to join you in your new ship. If you’ll have them, they told me to say, not wishing to presume.’
‘Let’s hope, Chalmers, let’s hope.’ He never thought he’d hunger for a ship in this way.
‘Meanwhile, Serviteur has been keeping me company at the Dolphin for the past two weeks,’ added Chalmers, ‘and I must say that it’s worked very well. My French has improved enormously.’
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They talked all the way back to the Dolphin. Treganoc had been the only casualty in the flatboat. Edney had incurred the wrath of Howe’s staff by steering straight for Kestrel rather than disembarking the soldiers first. Treganoc was still breathing when they hoisted him into Kestrel, but he was unconscious and with a bullet through his chest it was only a matter of time. He died as eight bells struck for the end of the afternoon watch.’
‘Buried at sea?’ asked Holbrooke.
‘No. Mister Lynton wouldn’t hear of it. We brought him home and the chaplain at Fort Cumberland collected his body.’
‘I’ll never forget how he walked – almost strolled – back to the boats at that jetty on the Ems, with a howling mob of French infantry behind him,’ said Holbrooke. ‘The coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Was it only six months ago? It seems like a lifetime. England lost a hero when Treganoc fell.’
They walked on in silence for a moment.
‘Edney saw Major Albach rescue you from the bayonets, but he also saw you fall and saw the blood on your waistcoat, so we didn’t know how you were until Albach’s letter arrived. Curiously, it was the first we heard of you. It came ahead of a note from the Admiralty to say they’d had the exchange notification, and ahead of your letter. And it came the same day as Mister Rickets appeared with a commission in his pocket.’
‘I can’t really blame the board for rushing to get a new captain in place. Sometimes an exchange takes years to accomplish, if there are any complications or the slightest ill-will,’ Holbrooke said. ‘Did I tell you I have an appointment at the Admiralty for next Tuesday? Perhaps it’s a ship!’
I do hope so, Chalmers thought, for this young man will fret himself into a decline without one.
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‘I’ll go to London on Monday,’ Holbrooke announced as they finished their pudding. ‘That will allow Tuesday morning for my business in Bond Street and I can visit the Admiralty fortified by a feeling of wealth, if the hints in the letters from Hawkins and Hammond bear any truth.’
‘You’ll need a visit to your bank also, I suspect,’ said Chalmers, cleaning up the last of the raisins that had fallen out of his portion of duff.
Holbrooke looked perplexed.
‘I have no bank,’ he replied, ‘Do you think I should?’
‘My dear Holbrooke. I’m not a man of money, but I’d have to have my head firmly in the sand to be unaware that your share of our prizes over the last two years will come to a substantial sum. Now, I have nothing to say against your prize agents, except to observe that they’re as fallible as any others. You should certainly leave a small sum in their keeping, but the great bulk of your wealth must be in a bank.’
Holbrooke looked thoughtful. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that he should have a bank account. A year ago, it would have been pointless, and no respectable bank would have considered him a worthwhile customer, and he’d been so busy since returning from the Caribbean…
‘I don’t even know where to start,’ Holbrooke complained. ‘I know that Carlisle uses Campbell & Coutts on the Strand and I b
elieve they do quite well for sea officers. Do you think I should take advice from Hawkins and Hammond?’
Chalmers considered for a moment.
‘It would be better not to rely on the advice of your agents. I’m not suggesting that they’d do anything dishonest, but it would be better if you’re not beholden to them for this side of your affairs. They may have any number of reasons for recommending a banking house, and not all of the reasons would be to your advantage.’
‘Then Campbell & Coutts it is. I’ll write a letter now to go by the first carrier. They’ll have it on Monday, and they’ll be expecting me on Tuesday.’
Chalmers nodded his agreement. His own share of prize money would be substantial, although not nearly as great as Holbrooke’s. He’d also need a bank, but that could wait.
Holbrooke had lapsed into that vague look that Chalmers recognised
‘Do you think I should visit Ann tomorrow?’ he asked.
Chalmers was expecting this question. He paused, pretending to think it through.
‘On the whole, I believe not. Apart from the question of Sunday travel which I must officially abhor, while occasionally practising when the trout are rising, I think it would be a little premature.’
‘How so?’ asked Holbrooke, ready to argue.
‘You know that I visited Bere Forest House to tell Mister Featherstone of your deliverance?’
‘Yes, but you didn’t see Ann, I understand.’
‘I saw Mister Featherstone, but he didn’t offer to call for either his wife or his daughter. I found that significant. How can I put this? You’ll know that he has great hopes for his daughter, that he sees her making a good marriage that befits his growing prosperity and his importance, in a small-town sort of way.’
‘Yes, I know that he would be reluctant to part with Ann to any sea officer less than a post-captain. That’s why I’ve been so cautious, and I’ll continue to be until I’m posted.’
‘Well,’ Chalmers continued, ‘it’s gone beyond that. Your wounding and capture have persuaded him, I believe, that sea officers as a class of people carry a risk… Now, hear me out. He wasn’t direct at all and I didn’t push him, but he mentioned the rank of post-captain so often that I’d have to be a blockhead to have missed his meaning. I believe it would be better if you heave-to for a while.’
Holbrooke sat in silence. The sounds of the high street filtered through the bay window and the landlord could be heard clattering dishes in the room below. The clock on Saint Thomas’ church wall struck six. He walked over to the window and stared out at the still-busy town. It was that intermediate time between day and night, when objects became indistinct and distance indefinite. A blind beggar – a seaman by his manner – stood outside the church doffing his cap to passers-by. He saw an old lady drop a coin in the cap and briefly touch the beggar’s arm.
‘Serviteur. Take this guinea and give it to the man across the road when nobody’s watching. You see who I mean? Make sure he knows it’s a guinea and that he secures it well.’
He continued watching as Serviteur fulfilled his commission. He saw the beggar bowing repeatedly and then walk quickly off in the direction of the Point, tapping his stick against the walls for guidance. Even a whole guinea would soon be expended in the taverns and ale-houses, and that was on the assumption that it survived its first contact with the ladies of the Point.
‘I find the honourable course is to break off our communication until such time as I’m posted,’ he said, turning back to Chalmers. ‘Their lordships may do with me as they will, but God send a speedy promotion, if that’s not too impious.’
‘You are, as always, in my prayers,’ murmured Chalmers
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29: London
Tuesday, Tenth of October 1758.
London.
A cold, hard nor’westerly was bringing pelting rain to the capital. The streets were muddy and obstructed by people running from one area of shelter to the next. Holbrooke and Chalmers, however, had taken a carriage from their lodgings and it was with dry shoes and clean stockings that they reached their destination.
The banking firm of Campbell & Coutts had an ordinary double-front of bow windows with a door between them, opening onto the busy Strand. A clerk let them in and took their names and their rain-sprinkled coats. There was an atmosphere of hushed concentration as pens scribbled, wigs bobbed and the immensely important business of looking after other people’s money proceeded with due gravity.
‘Mister Coutts is expecting you, sir,’ said the clerk.
He led them down a hallway to a small reception area with two polished doors leading from it. Mr. George Campbell, the brass sign on the left hand door proclaimed and Mr. James Coutts, the right hand door.
Campbell & Coutts, Chalmers thought. How strange that they should use the ampersand in the bank’s name while the prize agents, Hawkins and Hammond, used the full conjunction. Was there a convention that he wasn’t aware of? His ruminations were ended as the door was opened for him and Holbrooke.
James Coutts was the junior partner in this banking business. He’d married into the Campbell family just three years before, but now his name was on a brass plaque and he shared the responsibilities with the older George Campbell.
The business of opening an account took surprisingly little time. Coutts was gratified to have another sea officer on his books, particularly one who had been so successful at taking prizes in this war. Everyone thought there was a good few years to run, and there were more fortunes to be made by active, aggressive sea officers. As soon as he’d received Holbrooke’s letter, he’d enquired among the prize agencies to discover who looked after Holbrooke’s affairs. It took very little time; they all knew each other and which sea officers they acted for. They needed to do so, because much of a prize agent’s work was involved in untangling the complementary and competing claims to payouts. Thus informed, he’d called on his friend Mister Hammond on Bond Street, and what he learned there convinced him that Commander Holbrooke represented a sound investment in the future prosperity of the bank. Of course, Holbrooke didn’t know that his new bank was already in contact with his prize agent, nor would he ever know that the link had been made before he’d even visited Bond Street.
Holbrooke left Campbell & Coutts with little to show for his visit; just an open letter confirming his status as an account holder. He had a vague recollection of interest rates being discussed, terms of deposit and the potential for investing in funds in the future, but it was a new language to him, and try as he might, he could take in very little. He was comforted by the assurance that his terms were identical to those of his friend Carlisle, who had kept his money at Bankers of 59 Strand, now Campbell & Coutts, for some years.
Nevertheless, he was quietly proud of having an account in a London bank. Now all he needed was some money to deposit, and that was their next destination.
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They stepped out of the bank to find that the squall had blown through and in the way of autumnal showers it left behind a keen breeze and rapidly drying pavements. London looked scrubbed clean, if a little moist around the edges.
‘I think we may walk, don’t you, Chalmers,’ said Holbrooke as a hopeful hackney carriage pulled up alongside them.
Chalmers looked doubtfully at the mud-covered roads and the still-puddled pavements.
‘I think not, Holbrooke. You’ll arrive looking like a half-pay officer and I’ll look like an unbeneficed parson. Let’s take a carriage.’
‘But I am a half-pay officer, at least until this afternoon,’ he replied crossing his fingers behind his back, ‘and you, to my knowledge, have no living,’ he laughed, ‘but I take your point.’
The hackney carriage bowled along through the streets of the capital. Charing Cross, Pall Mall, hard right at Saint James’s Palace, a mad dash across Piccadilly and thence to Bond Street, and the relative quiet of this prosperous London backwater.
Holbrooke had corresponded with his pri
ze agents since he’d first brought Kestrel back to England, but he’d never had the leisure to visit the premises. In truth, he’d never been invited. It was only in the past six months that Mister Hammond had really started to see the value of Holbrooke as a client and could map out a revue stream that may, possibly, flow from his depredations of the enemy’s men-o’-war and merchants.
They were made most welcome. Coffee, brandy perhaps? Mister Hammond was most pleased to make Holbrooke’s acquaintance and that of his friend.
‘Now then, sir, we have quite an account building up for you. There’s the Vulcain of course, and you take a master’s mate’s share in that capture; still a significant amount, oh yes, a good sum. Then there’s L’Arques,’ he added thumbing through a ledger, ‘a lieutenant’s share, and the merchantmen in the Caribbean. Let’s not forget the Torenvalk that you so aptly renamed Kestrel; another lieutenant’s share. Now it becomes much more interesting, sir. The gun money for l’Outardé is very substantial. The court agreed that you should have the captain’s share even though you were only in locum. There was a pair of very valuable French West Indiamen that you shared with Two Brothers and Blandford. Finally, the privateer that you took off Dunkirk was bought into the service – did you know that? – another delightful addition to your portfolio.’
Mister Hammond sat back in his chair with the air of a man who had dined well or was exhausted by fruitful labours.
‘A most useful sum, sir, and the funds are coming in month-by-month. Now, do you have a bank that I should talk to?’ Hammond asked this with a straight face born of years of practise, despite his lengthy conversation with James Coutts only the day before.
‘Campbell & Coutts, if you please,’ Holbrooke replied, not without a certain satisfaction, presenting his letter of introduction.
Hammond made a creditable impression of surprise, and handled the letter with awe, as though this was the first time that he’d been entrusted with such a precious document.
