Holbrooke's Tide Page 7
It took a moment for Holbrooke to orientate his mind, to realise that Samuel’s Admiral Byng was the father of the John Byng that he himself had served under. But this was something Holbrooke hadn’t known before. This old man – he’d always been old as far as Holbrooke could remember – fought with George Byng, later Lord Torrington, at one of the greatest sea battles of the century, nearly forty years ago. He’d never taken Samuel for a seaman, but then he’d probably tried his best to hide it.
‘Mortal shame what they done to his boy.’
Again, it took Holbrooke a moment to realise that Samuel was referring now to John Byng, executed earlier that year on the deck of Monarch in Portsmouth Harbour. It must have been big news in Wickham. Then this little, derided, servile man was part of Holbrooke’s own naval history. Samuel had served with the father and won a great victory in the Mediterranean which resulted in the admiral’s ennoblement; Holbrooke had served with the son thirty-seven years later and had participated in the loss of the navy’s stronghold in that same sea, and the younger Byng had been shot for it. A sobering thought. But the real mystery was how Samuel had evaded the impress service all these years. He was demonstrably eligible to be taken, having used the sea, the criterion that the act of parliament demanded, and he’d lived his whole life within walking distance of the largest, most man-hungry naval port in the world. And yet he’d contrived to keep out of the way through almost four decades of near-constant warfare. Perhaps there was security in obscurity after all.
Another thought occurred to Holbrooke. If Samuel hadn’t collected his prize money, then it may still be waiting for him; in fact, almost certainly so because the prize agents were meticulous in their record keeping, and they knew that there was no time limit on the money being claimed. He resolved to inquire. It would only take a few letters, and it would represent a sizeable sum to Samuel, and even the impress service wouldn’t take up a man of his age.
◆◆◆
It was four miles to Wickham, and at the tortuous pace of the dog cart, with Samuel more interested in talking than driving, those four miles took a whole, merciless hour. But every torture must come to an end and eventually they entered the village square. Here the horse tried to turn aside to his home at the King’s Head on their left, but a gentle word from Samuel had him moving in the right direction again, on through the silent square. They turned sharply down the hill to the bridge by the mill where in the summer the little trout endlessly stemmed the current, darting to the surface to snap up insects as the stream brought them into the fish’s field of vision. Here also was the dipping hole, which acted as the village well. Over the river, they skirted the church of St. Nicholas on its raised mound and trotted on up the valley.
The Holbrooke cottage was an isolated place half a mile north on the road to Alton. It lay between the road and the river with a triangular lawn bordered on two sides by the river Meon at a point where it formed a natural bend as it followed its winding course to the sea. Although it was surrounded by the Rookesbury estate, William Holbrooke owned the freehold of this small patch of England, his own piece of paradise.
‘You’ll be back at three o’clock then Samuel,’ said Holbrooke as the ostler brought the cart to a halt in front of the door.
‘Aye, sir, that I will, six bells in the afternoon watch. I remember that much from my time at sea. I’ll be watching the clock in the saloon. But you’d best keep an eye on the weather. You’ll know where to find me if you decide to leave early.’
It was a good point. The snow would surely come, and it wouldn’t take much to make the road impassable by cart. And unless things had significantly changed, Samuel could always be found in sight of the bar at the King’s Head, ready to help any customer finish his drink, or to sweep up the heel-taps.
Stepping through the door of his childhood home only increased Holbrooke’s feeling of dislocation. Little had changed. No, that wasn’t true; nothing had changed. It was a place set apart, unaltered by the passage of time. The sense that Holbrooke’s mother had just stepped out to the market in Wickham was overwhelming. Mary Holbrooke had passed away ten years ago, but her feminine influence still filled the place. The gaily flowered curtains were the same, the needlepoint cushions looked as though the imprint of her arm could still be upon them and there was a vase on the table, freshly filled with winter leaves. William Holbrooke had never recovered from his wife’s death, and George Holbrooke’s childhood had been surrounded my remembrances of her. If anyone owned this cottage, it was Mary, not William and certainly not George.
‘Welcome, George, welcome,’ said his father, throwing the door wide, ‘I don’t like the look of this sky, where’s the wind? Just a whisper from the nor’west. Let’s hope the snow holds off until you’re back in your ship. Here, let me take your cloak.’
Holbrooke stood in the parlour and tried to orientate himself. The stillness was oppressive. On a ship, there was a constant background hum of noise, even at anchor in Portsmouth harbour. The sounds of over a hundred men in close confinement, the wind in the rigging and the slap and splash that even the smallest ripples made against the hull ensured that there was never complete silence. Here, half a mile from the nearest village, with the sounds of the river trapped under a thin covering of ice and with no traffic on the road, there was nought but a deathly hush. He looked around; his father appeared to have made no preparations for the Christmas feast. The maid wasn’t in sight, and the sideboard was bare. Holbrooke had a mad moment when he wondered whether he’d come on the wrong day. He set his bag down on the flagstones and waited for his father, at a loss what to do or say.
‘Now, we won’t be staying long, we’re expected at the house at eleven, but there’s a bite in the kitchen, and I’ll boil the kettle for tea.’
Holbrooke looked questioningly at his father. He knew nothing about being expected elsewhere. Father and son stared at each other in mutual incomprehension.
Light suddenly dawned on William. ‘Didn’t you get my letter? Oh dear, oh dear, I do beg your pardon, no wonder you’re bewildered. I sent you a note on Friday, but it seems it didn’t arrive.’ He laughed in embarrassment. ‘We’re bidden to Rookesbury House for dinner. When I bumped into Mister Garnier in the town on Friday afternoon, he insisted that we should join his party. He’s very keen to meet you and hear all about Cape François. Oh, I hope that suits you, I’d imagined you knew all about it, and when I saw you in your dress suit ...’
Holbrooke smiled. It wasn’t at the thought of dinner at Rookesbury, but in remembering the disagreement that he’d had with Serviteur in the grey light before dawn. He’d planned to wear his frock coat for this informal family occasion, while his steward was tactfully insistent that he should wear his dress suit and sword, with his cloak to cover all against the weather. It was only the intervention of Lynton – even on his last day as the sloop’s first lieutenant he was deeply concerned for the honour of the ship – that had swayed the argument in Serviteur’s favour. Now, by chance, he was dressed correctly for a dinner party in a grand house. In his blue dress coat, he was indistinguishable from a post-captain of less than three years seniority, except for the matter of a little gold braid, and his white waistcoat, blue breeches and white stockings had been carefully cleaned by his steward. Privately he’d been wondering how he and his father would spend a whole day together, shut up in the little cottage on the frozen river with only Mary’s ghost for company. But now they’d have just an hour together. He could explore the cottage against the faint chance that anything had changed, and then they could walk up the lane to the house. Suddenly it sounded very attractive.
‘Well father, that’s a pleasant surprise. That explains why the maid isn’t here.’
‘Yes, I gave her a holiday. She’s gone to her people at Alton, she won’t be back until Monday. She’s a good lass and deserves a few days off.’
‘Then we’ve a little time. Serviteur made up a hamper for us, there’s a ham, some tongues – you know the vict
ualling office still gives every captain a barrel of ox-tongues for his own use? – and some fresh beefsteaks. The bosun added some ship’s biscuit for you, I think it must be a private joke. And there’s a pie that the cook made especially for you; he says he served with you, Llewellyn, a Welshman.’
‘Oh, I remember him. He was a fore-topman in those days before he lost a leg falling from the t’gallant yard, skylarking. Please pass my respects. But here are some bottles,’ he said as he delved deeper into the hamper.
‘Ah, now those are from me. The finest, smoothest rum that Jamaica can offer, not that raw kill-devil stuff. It comes from a plantation over towards Montego Bay. There are four bottles, but be careful, they’re powerful!
‘Then perhaps we can offer one to Mister Garnier. I don’t think he’ll be offended at a gift of rum from Jamaica.’
‘And you’ll have enough provisions to last through to twelfth night!’
◆◆◆
7: Christmas at Rookesbury
Sunday, Twenty-Fifth of December 1757.
Rookesbury House, Wickham.
As it happened, they didn’t need to walk to the house. Just as they were wrapping themselves into coats and cloaks and considering whether they needed to encase their good shoes in sacking, they heard a noise outside the cottage.
‘Well, bless me. It looks as though Garnier is honouring us,’ said William as he opened the front door of the cottage. There on the side of the road was a coach-and-four, the horses’ breath steaming in the still, cold air, and a footman solemnly standing beside the door.
The wheels of the coach broke the ice that had formed in the puddles on the long approach avenue. The coachman was clearly expert and knew the grounds well because he brought the cumbersome vehicle around in a broad sweep across the gravel drive that ended with the door neatly opposite the front entrance to the house. Another footman was ready to meet them and fold the steps into position. Holbrooke and his father stepped down in some style, the older man dressed in a plain blue suit that would have served as well on the quarterdeck as it did in a provincial town, while the younger was resplendent in his blue and white with gold lacing.
Holbrooke knew Garnier by sight and had spoken to him once when the older man had congratulated Holbrooke on Fury’s victory over Vulcain in the Mediterranean eighteen months ago. He’d vaguely promised to invite the Holbrookes to his house, but before that could be fulfilled, Medina had whisked the lieutenant away to the Caribbean. George Garnier was a prominent man in this rustic backwater of Wickham. He was in his mid-fifties and had been the physician to the Duke of Cumberland and now he held the sinecure of Apothecary General to the Army. He was a gregarious man, fond of socialising and a popular host by the standards of rural Hampshire. Under his ownership, Rookesbury House had entertained such figures as Hogarth, Churchill, Gibbon and Garrick. However, on this Christmas feast day, the guests were more local, consisting of Garnier’s family and a few of the leading men and women from the villages around Wickham. It hadn’t occurred to either of the Holbrookes that they were the guests of honour at this event, but so it appeared as they were ushered into the room to a respectful silence. It seemed that most of the guests had arrived before them or perhaps they’d stayed in the house overnight; in any case, there were a good twenty people present. And it seemed that dinner had been brought forward to an unfashionably early hour so that Holbrooke could make the journey back to his ship before darkness overtook him.
‘Where are you meeting your boat, Captain,’ asked Garnier in a genial voice before he started the introductions, ‘I’ll have the coach take you there.’
Holbrooke still felt a thrill at being addressed as Captain. ‘The tidal mill at the head of Fareham Creek, on the Cams estate,’ replied Holbrooke, ‘but I’ve arranged for the King’s Head to run me back. My boat will be there at 4 o’clock.’
‘Oh, please accept my coach; it’ll save you time, and if we do have snow it’ll be a much more certain arrival and it’s sure to be more comfortable. It would be an honour to be of service to such a distinguished sea officer. I’ll send a message to the inn.’
The introductions were made. George Holbrooke knew none of the other guests, but William was acquainted with about half of them. They were prosperous local tradesmen for the most part, with their wives and one or two adult offspring. Some were frankly delighted to meet a King’s officer fresh from the sea, while one or two looked rather sullen at being upstaged by such a young man. However, it was all a blur to Holbrooke who hadn’t anticipated anything like this and had no experience of celebrity.
◆◆◆
Holbrooke found himself seated for dinner between his host and a man who had recently come to the town and had bought the corn merchant’s business. He was an ordinary-looking person – middling height, grey wig and an expanding waistline – but there was something about him that commanded respect; he had a robust, businesslike air about him. It was an enjoyable end of the table, although Holbrooke wasn’t sure that he much liked being the centre of attention. If he’d thought about it and if his innate modesty hadn’t coloured his judgement, he’d have realised that a year-and-a-half into this war, a man who’d commanded a ship at the first significant British victory would be lionised in any society. He was therefore completely unprepared when, after the pudding, Garnier leaned across and addressed him in a low whisper.
‘As it’s a family feast day, I don’t intend that the ladies should withdraw, Captain Holbrooke, but I wonder whether it would be too much to ask you to describe the battle?’
Caught unawares, Holbrooke could only stammer his agreement. He could see his father half-way down the table watching the exchange and likely guessing its nature.
‘Now, I know you young men are apt to be modest,’ Garnier continued in a confidential tone, ‘but if I may advise you, this is your opportunity to play the hero. Whatever you say will be around the town by tomorrow and the county by the next day, and you may one day want to take a position here. I’ll leave it to you,’ and he ended with a preposterous wink.
It wasn’t only William Holbrooke who had watched the whispered conversation; the whole table was looking expectantly at George. The men eased back in their chairs and adjusted waistcoats, ready to be entertained. There was a faintly heard clatter as a few of the women discarded their tight shoes, betrayed by their expressions of pure relief.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ said Garnier rising from his chair, ‘Captain Holbrooke has kindly agreed to give us an account of the recent victory off Cape François,’ he said in a declamatory voice. ‘Now, you may not yet understand how privileged we all are. Captain Holbrooke brought the first news of the battle to the Admiralty, and the King was informed last week. But even His Majesty hasn’t heard a first-hand account, and nor will he because Captain Holbrooke must take his ship back to sea on Tuesday! So, we trust you to spread the true and genuine news of this the first great victory of the war. Captain Holbrooke, if you please.’
Holbrooke had rarely felt so ill at ease. He’d often described naval actions after dinner, and the fight between Fury and Vulcain was well-rehearsed, but it had always been in the company of sea officers, who could be expected to understand the influences of wind and current. They would know instinctively how much damage could be done by a well-aimed broadside and could taste the very powder in the air as he described the carnage of a battle at sea. But, except for his father, none of this company had been afloat in any capacity other than a passenger on a coastal or cross-channel passage, and certainly none had walked a quarterdeck as chain-shot howled across the sea, taking life and limb without distinction of rank. And furthermore, this was a squadron action that he was being asked to describe, not an unseemly scrap between mere frigates. Senior post-captains had been involved, and it would do no good to his career if any hint of criticism got back to them.
However, he knew in principle how the task should be done and signalled to a servant to clear a space on the table before him and bring a
ll the small silverware that he could find. Salt cellars and pepper pots became ships-of-the-line, the harbour and the shoals were marked out with discarded napkins, and a knife showed the direction of the wind. The rapt audience drew closer so that they should miss nothing. This was real entertainment, something that they could pass on in future gatherings.
Holbrooke described the battle from the time when he beat back towards Monte Christi to report de Kersaint’s squadron sailing, to the moment when it was clear that the French were withdrawing. He showed just how the ships lay in relation to each other, and emphasised how the French had been beaten, forced to retire before inferior numbers of the enemy. He described the shocking state of Dreadnought, Maurice Suckling’s ship, and the efforts that had to be made to tow her back to Port Royal. He didn’t go on to describe how the convoy escaped virtually unscathed a month later; it would have spoiled the mood.
He finished his story to a vigorous thumping of the tables. These provincials, townsmen of the two Holbrookes, evidently appreciated being an audience at this, the first public telling of the story. Looking at the flushed faces gazing back at him, Holbrooke realised that in his own small way he’d advanced the government’s cause in this war. There was at least one corner of England that knew for sure that the navy was on the way back from the humiliation of Minorca, that the normal order of things was being restored.
◆◆◆
‘Will you join us, Captain?’ Holbrooke turned from the endless questions about Cape François to be confronted with a lady to whom he’d been introduced as soon as he’d walked through the door. He remembered that she was the wife of the corn merchant, but the name was lost in the confusion of his mind. She was a tall woman, rather statuesque in her carriage. Her carefully coiffured wig, silvery-white in the glow of the candles, accentuated her height and she had a bold eye that was fixed fearlessly upon him. The overall effect was of a woman determined to make her way in the world and be damned to anyone who offered to obstruct her. ‘I’ll help you out, Captain. I’m Mrs Featherstone, and that’s my husband there talking to your father. I regret that I’ve been unable to get your attention since we were introduced,’ she said.