HARRY HERON:
MIDSHIPMAN’S JOURNEY
Book One of the Harry Heron Adventure Series
Patrick G. Cox
Harry Heron: Midshipman’s Journey
Copyright © 2015 Patrick G. Cox
www.harryheron.com
Cover illustration by Peter Rindlisbacher
eBook ISBN 978-0-9860953-1-3
Harry Heron: Midshipman’s Journey is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons living or dead is coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher or the author except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews.
Published in the United States of America by
IndieGo Publishing LLC
www.indiegopublishing.com
Think Indie. Go Create. Publish!
The Harry Heron Adventure Series
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Harry Heron: Midshipman’s Journey
Harry Heron: Into the Unknown
Harry Heron: No Quarter
Harry Heron: Savage Fugitive
Harry Heron: Awakening Threat
Harry Heron: Hope Transcends
OTHER BOOKS by PATRICK G. COX
__________________________________________
A Baltic Affair
Limehouse Boys
Magnus Patricius: The Remarkable Life of St Patrick the Man
Chapters
1 – Banshee Encounter
2 – Rebellion Brewing
3 – Visit to a Frigate
4 – Renegade and Blackmail
5 – Perilous Journey
6 – Harry Makes a Stand
7 – Patronage
8 – Appointment
9 – A Ship at Last
10 – The Billy Ruffian
11 – Fitting Out, Fitting In
12 – Privateer Adventure
13 – A New Ship
14 – The Spartan
15 – Convoy
16 – Confrontations
17 – Sea, Sky and Stars
18 – Corsair
19 – Engagement
20 – Ocean Landfall
21 – The Fairest Cape
22 – The Southern Ocean
23 – Sinking the Dutchman
24 – Tempest
25 – Botany Bay
26 – Heat, Rum and Unrest
27 – Exploration
28 – A Southerly Buster
29 – The Coral Barrier
30 – Batavia
31 – The Bustling East
32 – New Orders
33 – Mission to Muscat
34 – Matters of Diplomacy
35 – Broken Peace
36 – Excursion to the Hill Country
37 – The Vihara
38 – Sea Fight
39 – Letters from the Admiralty
Nineteenth Century Sailing Terms
Chapter 1
Banshee Encounter
Harry Nelson-Heron did his best to ignore the taunts of the older boys as he laboured with them in the field. The first day had been the hardest. Equipped with stout boots, thick breeches, a smock and a wide brimmed hat, he had set out with the other children as the dawn was breaking and worked all day, with only the usual breaks for tea, lunch and finally some light refreshment in the afternoon. It was a long and very tiring day for Harry, but he was determined to at least do as much as Ferghal and, if possible, more than anyone else.
His hands were sore and bleeding from the unaccustomed roughness of the straw they gathered into piles to be bound. His mouth was as dry as the dust by midday when they broke for lunch and a rest from the heat. He gladly would have given up by that point, but he overheard one of the bigger boys, a rough fellow named Declan Murphy, saying to his cronies in a loud voice, “Sure, the squire’s brat is lookin’ tired.” He was referring to Harry, his favourite target. “He’ll not last the day, not to mind the week—he’s not the heart for real work.”
“Pay him no mind, Master Harry,” said Ferghal, seeing Harry’s face turn red with anger at the insult. “Ye’ve no need to be doin’ this anyway.”
“You’re wrong, Ferghal,” Harry snapped, his temper hot. “Now I’ve every need. I’ll not rest until he eats those words!”
He drove himself even harder through the afternoon and into the evening until, finally, the steward himself ordered him to stop and go home with Ferghal and the others. No one taunted him openly again.
Harry’s father had inherited the farm unexpectedly on the death of a cousin, and had resigned his commission as a Major in the Fusiliers based out of Downpatrick to take it over. Thus, in the spring of 1794, the family had moved from their home in Saul Street, Downpatrick, to the ancient farmhouse crouched on the southeast face of Scrabo at the head of Strangford Lough.
The relationship between Harry and Ferghal often attracted comment. Ferghal being the son of his father’s head groom, their social stations were hardly equal, yet their friendship was more than that of brothers or even simple friendship. In part this arose from the conditions of Harry’s arrival in the world on the 20th of May, 1789. He was a sickly infant, and the family’s housekeeper, Ferghal’s mother, had summoned a priest. Harry had therefore been baptised a Catholic, though his family were strict Church of Ireland.
On his return from a foreign campaign, his father had taken steps to regularise the matter with the dean of Downpatrick’s newly restored cathedral, a nonsense in his view, but a necessity if Harry were to avoid the restrictions then imposed on papists by the existing laws.
“Do you tell me that his baptism was not Christian?” he demanded of the dean. “Is not the baptism of any child in an emergency the province of any Christian?”
“My dear Major, of course, in any situation where the child may die, it is the duty of a Christian to ensure the child is baptised while it yet lives,” the dean responded. “But your son was baptised by a papish priest. It is necessary that we regularise his membership in the Church of Ireland lest he be labelled as a member of the Roman Church and excluded from holding any official position.”
“It is still a nonsense,” growled the Major. “We are a Protestant family, and my son will be churched in our church and no other. How should he be seen as Roman?” Yet in the end, he grudgingly acceded to the procedure, and so Harry was blessed and his baptism recorded in the cathedral’s Parish Register.
Now eight and a half, Harry was the youngest of three children. His brother James, already a pupil at the Grammar School in Jordanstown, would inherit the farm and his father’s dignity as the local squire. His sister Mabel would no doubt make a good marriage in due course. As the younger son, Harry would have to make his own destiny in the world. It was fortunate, therefore, that he was possessed of an iron will, somewhat masked by a natural courtesy some mistook for weakness. It was not a mistake many made twice, for he also had an explosive temper and detested dishonesty and betrayal, character traits he shared with his father.
“’Tis the last day o’ the harvest, Master Harry.” Ferghal rested his back against the sun-warmed stone wall. “Declan an’ the rest talk of the schoolroom in Newtownards; will you join us?”
Shaking his head, Harry grinned. “I wish I could. I’m sure it will be more fun than my sister’s governess allows us in our own schoolroom.” He sighed. “I wish I could join James at Jordanstown, or better, at the Navy School in Belfast.”
“Still wantin’ to go to sea?”
“Would you not? The Army does not appeal, and as for the Law…
.” He shrugged and grinned. “That leaves me the church. Can’t you just see me leading the Our Father?!”
“Oh, aye, sure an’ that would suit.” Ferghal laughed. “Shall we hunt the leprechaun wi’ the others? If we find his pot o’ gold, there’ll be no need for you to bother over the future.” He bounced to his feet. “The work here is done and the others are trying for it.”
Clambering to his feet, Harry grinned. “Lead on, that would suit well. I could buy the wee boat old Eon uses for fishing—now that would give us some sport.”
“So it would, an’ here comes Declan.”
“Will you be joinin’ us? We’re bound for the Barrow t’ hunt t’ Leprechaun.”
“I’m coming,” replied Harry, setting off down the field. The Barrow was a local landmark, one of many ancient and mysterious landmarks in the county. Local legend insisted it was the home of a leprechaun.
THE OLDER BOYS GREW BORED OF LEPRECHAUN HUNTING and found other games to amuse themselves. Their sport was briefly interrupted by a shower of rain, causing them to take shelter beneath a lonely tree.
“See,” called one of the youths. “Look, the rainbow ends there in the old stall. Now we have you, Mr Leprechaun.” Ignoring the falling rain, he was off toward the ancient stable with its sagging roof.
Not to be outdone, the others ran after him, stopping short when they were greeted by the delighted braying of a young donkey colt tethered there. “Oh! He’s disguised himself,” Harry called, laughing. “Search the stall—he’ll have hidden his gold somewhere nearby.”
More pragmatically, Ferghal looked at the empty manger and the overturned water pail. “Sure an’ he’s hoping we’ll feed him.” Turning to one of the others he said, “Give him an armful o’ the straw while I fetch some water from the stream.”
The others laughed, and some half heartedly continued their search for the crock of gold while Ferghal ran to the stream nearby, filled the pail and brought it back. The colt drank thirstily then watched with interest as the children began a new game of tag. It seemed pleased to have company and was clearly unhappy at being left alone again as their game took them farther away. The shadows were lengthening and the sun already dipping below the horizon when their realisation of the lateness of the hour started them homeward.
They had not gone far when a fearsome cry startled them. When it was repeated, they recalled all the ancient tales of strange spirits said to wander through the darkness in these northern climes. Even the boldest among them took fright when the cry was repeated seemingly directly above them and accompanied by the clank of a chain.
“Holy Jesus—save us!” squeaked Declan Murphy, the oldest of the group and reportedly the bravest. “’Tis the banshee come for us.” Crossing himself several times, he grabbed his younger brother by the hand and took to his heels in the direction of the farm and town. The others followed his lead, and soon the group were running pell-mell up the road, certain that they were being pursued by the terrifying but unseen creature behind them.
“Run, Master Harry,” gasped Ferghal as Harry slowed. A stitch in his side was making him gasp for breath. “Run! The banshee cannot touch us if we reach the stable. They cannot take the soul of one holding iron.” He was almost in tears as he gasped this out and, seizing Harry’s arm, half dragged and half carried him along.
The ghastly cries drew closer and closer, the sound of a chain dragging adding to their terror. A quarter mile from the gate of the farm, neither of them could run any further. The others had scattered, and the dreadful banshee with its wailing cry seemed to be focussing on them. Trembling in fright and convinced they were about to die, the pair hurled themselves under an outcrop of rock that was used as a sort of natural stile by anyone crossing the stone wall.
Babbling all the prayers he could remember, Ferghal crossed himself and prepared for imminent death. Harry, likewise infected by threat of a terrible death at the claws of the banshee, shut his eyes tightly and launched into the familiar words of the Lord’s Prayer. The ghastly cry, accompanied by a terrifying clash of chain and a tumble of small stones around their hiding place, tore at their ears as they huddled together waiting for death!
“Ahhhhhhwwwwwwwhggggnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” shrieked the banshee.
There was a clattering sound as something tried to mount the wall above them, then another terrible cry.
Harry stopped praying. So did Ferghal. They looked at each other in wonder as realisation dawned on them. Harry began to laugh, his arms wrapped around Ferghal even as the cry shattered the night above them. It took a few minutes for them to stop laughing long enough to crawl out of their hiding place and look the banshee in the eye.
“The colt! Oh, Ferghal, we nearly died of fright, didn’t we!” Harry sat down, his knees weak, as another paroxysm of laughter welled up and overwhelmed him. “It has lost its mother and sought to accompany us.”
Next to him, Ferghal hugged his sides as he gasped for breath, overwhelmed by his laughter. “Oh, Master Harry, did you not see how fast the Murphy ran? And his face! If he but knew! We must not tell him.” He gasped with another fit of laughter. “Lord, save us, what fools we are.” He plucked a handful of grass and offered it to the snickering colt. “Come, Master Harry, we had best take him home with us. Oh, what sport, and we so afraid it was the banshee.”
HARRY’S FATHER WAS STERN WHEN THEY LED THE COLT through the gate and into the enclosed yard behind the main house.
“Well young man? You have given the household a great deal of worry. It is an hour at least since you should have been home, and twenty minutes past since young Murphy ran by here shrieking some nonsense about the banshee having taken you.” He frowned at his son, his face angry. “What have you to say for yourself?”
“I am sorry, Father.” Harry stood his ground, conscious of his dirty face, his torn smock and the bedraggled appearance he presented. “We were indeed, as we thought, pursued by the banshee. And we have brought him home to seek his dam.”
His father’s face twitched as he returned Harry’s look. “Have you indeed?” The Major’s gaze took in the equally bedraggled Ferghal, the colt and the chain by which the boy was leading it.
The colt let out another of its shrieking brays, immediately answered by another from inside the stable. Major James Heron threw back his head and laughed heartily.
“By God, that is rich! Sean, Sean, your son and mine may be the death of us both yet, but they seem to have faced the banshee itself and lived to tell of it.” He clapped his groom on the shoulder. “And they have brought the brute home for its mother. What should we do with this pair?”
“Put them under the pump I should think by the state of them.” Sean O’Connor grinned. “I suspect the mistress will be reluctant to let Master Harry into the house in that condition.”
“You’re right.” The Major roared with laughter, the sound of his mirth bringing his wife, daughter and the rest of the household out of doors to see the cause. “Away with the pair of them, Sean, put them under the pump and make them at least appear respectable.”
He walked to where his wife was watching, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Susan, my love,” he said softly, “that boy of ours is a wild one. If God spares him, he will make his mark on this world one way or another. I suspect the Almighty may well not want him in the next life until he has worked off all his mischief in this one.”
He looked across at the two small and now naked figures stood in the great drinking trough while Sean O’Connor and a stable hand sluiced cold water over them and directed them to scrub off the dirt that streaked their bodies.
“They have faced down the banshee, and I think that little will give them cause to fear anything from now on,” he said with a chuckle, and followed his wife indoors. As they entered the house, the bray of the little colt echoed once more around the yard. The Major gave another snort of laughter. “It seems even the beast agrees.”
THE WINTER BROUGHT COLD RAIN, SN
OW AND GALES. Harry endured the schoolroom with his sister, enjoying being taught to draw and paint, to keep a journal, and to do his sums. Naturally talented in drawing and painting, his work attracted encouragement and flowed over into his neat handwriting. His one lack, in his own eyes, was his inability to master music. He could sing, he could dance the jigs and figures with Ferghal and the others, but no matter what instrument he tried to play, he couldn’t produce anything that could be considered music. He envied Ferghal in many things, not least in the ability to play the fiddle and to create small toys for his siblings carved from discarded pieces of timber, but his friend always shrugged and reminded him that he too had talents others envied.
Harry’s curiosity sometimes led to difficulty, such as when he tried to learn how the horses were shoed. Several times only his quick reflexes saved him being kicked, or from burning himself at the forge.
The farrier found an able assistant in Ferghal as he tended the bellows and held the slugs of iron to be hammered into shoes for the great plough horses, trusting him to “mind t’ squire’s sprig” when Harry was present.
Whenever Harry could escape the schoolroom, he joined his friend to watch or to lend a hand, hindering more than he helped often as not.
“Is it difficult to hold the horse’s hoof when you are shoeing one?” he asked the farrier as he watched the man fit a new shoe to one of the great plough horses the farm kept.
“Nay, young sir.” The farrier winked. He was as broad as he was tall, and renowned for his consumption of liquor and his pugilistic prowess as a bare-knuckle fighter. “If they gives me hardship, they knows to expect as good as they gives me!”
To Harry’s young eyes, the farrier made the work seem light, and the horses did seem to know better than to resist him. Even his father’s hunter, a large thoroughbred acquired in his army service and used to campaigning and battle, seemed meek in the farrier’s presence. Yet this same horse was never one to tolerate strangers or anyone who took liberties with him.
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