Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey

by Patrick G Cox

  Pieterzoon de Ruiter managed an acrobatic charge to Harry’s side and asked, “Mag ik, kan I go to deck wit’ uwe?”

  Harry smiled and said, “I am sorry, Pieterzoon, but the Captain would not allow you to go on deck just yet.” He was not quite sure why this boy had attached himself so firmly, and the language barrier was one reason he had difficulty with it. “I must speak to Captain Te Water.”

  “Ja, mijn heer?” The Dutch master had noticed his presence and came across, eying Harry’s sodden clothing and the spreading pool of water beneath his feet.

  “Sir, Captain Blackwood’s compliments; he asks that you join him on deck please.”

  “Ik kom,” rumbled the Dutchman. “Take me to him.” He called to one of the women in Dutch and she hurried over with a large oiled coat. The Captain pulled it on and followed Harry from the cabin, firmly preventing Pieterzoon from dodging after them.

  After the warmth of the cabin, the cold struck hard at Harry through his wet clothing, and he wondered if the temperature had dropped. He led the Dutch Captain to Blackwood, who was waiting on the weather side of the deck. “Captain Te Water, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mister Heron,” Captain Blackwood said, acknowledging Harry’s presence before speaking to the Dutchman.

  Harry returned to his post by the binnacle. He’d barely resumed his task of noting activities on the slate for later entry into the ship’s log when there was a hail from the maintop.

  “Deck there! Maid of Selsey’s in distress. She’s carried away her foretopmast.” There was a pause then, “She’s signalin’!”

  Another midshipman staggered to the nettings and sought desperately with his telescope for the distressed ship. “Signal, sir,” he called. “In need of assistance.” Struggling to keep the telescope trained, he added, “She’s reversed her colours, sir!”

  “Damn.” Captain Blackwood swept water from his face as a fresh burst of spray caught him unawares, so focused was his attention on the other ship. “We shall have to attempt to help. She has above two hundred souls aboard.” He turned to the first Lieutenant. “Shorten sail, Thomas; we will have to run down to her and attempt to heave to so we may determine what can be done.”

  “Captain,” the Dutchman interjected, “you risk your own ship in this. I will order mijn manne to assist vhere zey can.”

  Harry watched with bated breath as the quarterboat was lowered under the lee of the Spartan, hove to at great risk to keep her close to the stricken casualty. There were several moments when it appeared that it would be torn from the falls and its occupants drowned as the third Lieutenant and his handpicked crew fought her clear then battled the howling wind and spume-wracked seas to reach the damaged transport.

  “Damned ship seems full of landsmen,” exclaimed Lieutenant Rae. “They have made little effort to clear that ravel. Do they expect us to do all for them yet again?”

  “So it would appear.” Captain Blackwood sounded angry. “Her master seems to have been less than honest about her condition, and his men were insolent and idle when I visited them in Simon’s Bay.” The Captain turned. “O’Connor, fetch the carpenter to me—quickly now.”

  Ferghal knuckled his forehead and ran to the companionway to seek out the senior warrant officer. He found him supervising his mates inspecting a leaking gunport.

  “Hallo, young Fergie,” the carpenter acknowledged his arrival. “What brings yer below?”

  “Captain’s compliments, Mister Trotter,” he said. “Sure an’ he wants you on the quarterdeck.”

  “I suppose I’d best be j’ining ’im then.” The carpenter grinned. “Lead the way, me lad. Matt, see you make all tight here, and keep lookin’. This sea is working her seams bad, an’ she’s takin’ water in some awkward places.”

  “Right, Master!” said Matt.

  “Now then, young Ferghal, what does our Lord and Master want of a lowly carpenter?” Trotter asked, following the youth. “What has caused our heaving too?”

  “T’ Maid o’ Selsey,” Ferghal replied. “She’s lost her foretopmast and seemingly done some damage other where. Sure Mister Beasley and the quarterboat are attending her now. Perhaps there is a need for your services.”

  “So I should think.” The carpenter frowned. “But in this sea there be little I can do if she is holed below water.”

  The carpenter made his way to the Captain on the quarterdeck and saluted. “Yer sent fer me, sir?”

  “Take a look at the Maid of Selsey, Mister Trotter. She’s taken some damage below water I believe. What think you? Can your mates make her sound enough to ride this out?” The Captain handed the carpenter his telescope, adding, “See below her beakhead as she rises. She seems to have overrun her spars and the fools have still not cleared away the wreckage!”

  “Signal from Mister Beasley, sir,” exclaimed Midshipman Peterson. He called out the flags to the rest of his party. “Assistance required. Ship holed and making water fast.” When a fresh string of flags soared aloft, he read the flags and hurriedly searched the signal book. Finally he called, “Mister Rogers asks permission to take off the convicts, sir!” He looked shocked, and desperately checked his book again, spelling out the words and letters carefully. “It seems correct, sir,” he added doubtfully.

  “Acknowledge, Mister Peterson.” The Captain’s face was grim. To the first Lieutenant he said, “Damme, Thomas, she has upwards of two hundred of the wretches under hatches, over half of them women and children. In this sea it will be dangerous and damnably difficult.” He turned to the carpenter. “I will require you to accompany the boats and see what may be done to keep her afloat until we can effect the transfer. A miracle is needed here, Trotter. Nothing less will do!”

  THE SECOND QUARTERBOAT JOINED THE FIRST, struggling through the seas, the red coats of a party of Marines clustered bright in her belly. With huge difficulty, one of the launches was also hoisted out, dropping alarmingly into the water in the ship’s lee as she staggered against the power of wind and sea. Her crew spilled into place and, under shouted orders, slashed the lashings holding her oars even as the boat surged out on the length of her painter away from the ship.

  An exclamation of appreciation drew the Captain’s attention to the cluster of Dutch officers watching the exercise. “I beg pardon, Captain,” he said, addressing Captain Te Water. “I fear I am a poor host at present.”

  “Alles in order,” exclaimed the other. “Uwe manne.” He paused then added, “Your men are ver’ brave and ver’ good.” His officers nodded their agreement. “Ve vould not haf attempted such a thing as this!”

  Harry watched the boats soaring and plunging alongside the stricken ship as the men scrambled into her chains in their struggle to board her. Forward he could see the flash of an axe as someone cleared the wreckage under the other ship’s bows. Then the process was reversed, with small figures being passed into the boats, struggling and kicking in fright and fear. These were followed by several women, and the first boat cast off to begin the struggle back to the Spartan.

  Harry held his breath each time the boat plunged over a steep crest. He could see that everyone not engaged in rowing was bailing furiously as the water poured over her gunwales and prow with each stroke. A cheer went up from the Spartan as the overloaded boat struggled into her lee. Harry joined Lieutenant Rogers and the hands as they hauled the pathetic human cargo from it. A quick change of crew and the boat was away again on its mission of mercy just as the second quarterboat struggled alongside.

  “Staan uwe een kant, Mijn Heer,” said a deep voice at his elbow. “Uns zal diese werk ondernemen!”

  Harry found himself firmly moved aside and a burly Dutchman took his place, a line around his waist as he reached down toward a pair of children. Taking one in each huge hand, the man swung the kicking pair almost effortlessly upward to where his companions waited to catch them. In no time at all the boat was emptied and on its way.

  “Mister Heron,” the first Lieute
nant called him. “Take some men and clear a space under the fo’c’s’le for the women and children. See the purser for some bedding. When you have done that, make a space in the forehold for the men. Make sure it is secure.”

  Finding a , Harry told him what was required, and then he led his party to the sheltered space beneath the fo’c’s’le. Quickly they cleared the area of anything that could be used as a weapon to ensure the safety of the children. They rigged some screens to enclose the area normally used as a sick berth. Harry had barely finished when the royals herded the bedraggled women and children toward it. Harry felt sickened at the looks of fear mingled with hope on their faces and swiftly led his party below to prepare the hold for when the male convicts came aboard. He watched as the ship’s armorer secured chains to the great frames in readiness for the arrival of the prisoners. When that was done, he reported the work to the first Lieutenant.

  “Well done, lad,” said Thomas Bell. “Hopefully we will be able to transfer them to the other ships as soon as this storm abates. The master thinks the wind is falling now.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Harry glanced forward. “Have you further orders for me?” The wind seemed much colder now, though perhaps it was the contrast between the fetid air of the hold and lower decks and the exposed quarterdeck.

  “Not at present. Remain on hand, though. I may need you shortly.”

  Harry returned to his post at the binnacle and resumed charge of the slate from a just as the master grunted, “Wind’s abating—not swift enough to help us, though, and there’s a feel of snow in it. This sea will run for days.” The master peered at the clouds racing overhead and added, “We’re far enough south for snow, though it is unusual at this season.”

  In the time Harry had been below it seemed that all the women had been removed from the distressed prison transport, though not entirely without loss and injury. The surgeon and his mates were busy among them, and several canvas-wrapped bundles, some obviously children, lay on the deck.

  The first Lieutenant remarked to the master, “It is a miracle what we are witnessing: only five of the children lost, and eight among the rest. Our own bill is light as well: one crushed foot and two broken arms. Mister Rogers tells me that in the lower prison hold the water was already at waist level for the men there. But her master would not countenance their removal from it, though there were several drowned already.” He glanced across at the Maid of Selsey and grimaced. “It must require a special hardness to be willing to allow even convicts to drown like rats in such a cage.”

  “Aye, Mister Bell.” The master scowled. “I do believe you to be in the right of it there, sir!” He thrust his large hands deep into his coat and added, “And to be so determined on the profit that you ignore rotten timbers. The carpenter says it is surprising she has held together this far.”

  THE WIND WAS SOMEWHAT EASIER THOUGH STILL STRONG when the last boat drew away from the sinking ship. A flurry of snow briefly powdered the shoulders of those on deck as the quarterboat was hauled up to her davits and the launch returned to her cradle.

  “Braces there,” called the first Lieutenant, and the backed topsail once more filled to the wind. It was almost as if the ship wanted to leave the scene of the sinking of the Maid of Selsey and put that misery behind her.

  Spartan gathered way; somewhere ahead the remaining ships of her small convoy had to be found. “Shake out a reef in the topsails and see if she will carry reefed topgallants, Thomas,” Captain Blackwood ordered. “We have a stern chase now.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said the Lieutenant, and he turned and bellowed, “Hands to make sail, Mister Billing. Reefed t’ gallants if you please, and set the mizzen topsail triple reefed.”

  The canvas spread and the ship plunged forward, her deck canting steeply on the roll. Harry staggered and steadied himself with a hand on a belaying pin in its rail. He grinned at Ferghal clutching the frame of the hourglass housing. “The ship seems eager to leave this place,” he commented.

  “Aye, that she does, Master Harry, and who should blame her?” Ferghal glanced to where the master and crew of the Maid of Selsey were gathered with Lieutenant Evans. “Yet some of our guests may not be quite so content with our Captain’s arrangements for them.”

  Following his gaze, Harry laughed. “Aye, it seems we have filled a few vacancies. I’m sure Mister Billing and his mates will soon have them used to our ways.” He indicated the screen beneath the fo’c’s’le. “But our other passengers will have to go to the other ships as soon as we find them. Some may consider that harsh treatment.”

  The lookout’s cry drew their attention. “Land ho! Fine on the larboard bow.”

  “That will be Desolation Island. Kerguelen, as the French call it,” remarked the master. “No shelter there—a forsaken place frequented only by whalers. We are farther south than is desirable.”

  “Indeed,” replied the Captain, “but it is good to have that marker. We are making good time with these winds.”

  The lookout’s cry interrupted them again. “Deck there! Three sail hull down ahead. It’s the convoy.”

  “Well, Thomas,” the Captain remarked, “the ship has done well. I shall go below. Have them call me when we join our flotilla again.”

  Harry watched as his Captain left the deck. He had watched and marvelled at everything he had seen in the last few hours. He was aware that he was chilled to the bone. And so is everyone else, he told himself. The wind seemed to find no cause to go past him. He grinned tiredly. His stomach complained at its lack of food as the galley chimney released a drift of smoke. Food and then sleep; his journal would have to wait.

  The bell chimed seven times from the fo’c’s’le belfry, and he realised with a shiver that it would be another half hour before he could be relieved of his watch. He sighed and noted the time and the course on the slate in his hand. It had been a long and exciting watch.

  Chapter 25

  Botany Bay

  At the old farm at Scrabo, Mistress Heron received the packet of letters with delight. She gladly paid the two shillings demanded by the carrier, an enormous sum for any letter, but she considered it a small price for this battered package. She bustled into her husband’s study announcing, “A packet of letters, my dear, from Harry. I wonder where these were dispatched. Surely they must be almost in the Antipodes by this time. None of these postmarks are familiar to me.”

  Picking up the discarded packet, the major studied the various instructions and endorsements. “If I read this right, this was put aboard the Indiaman Lord Canning at the Cape. From there it has taken a journey to London, thence by packet boat to Bristol and by another to Dublin before reaching the posting office here in Belfast.”

  “Small wonder then that I had to pay two shillings for the delivery,” his wife remarked.

  The major smiled. “He must have spent his stipend posting it, if the weight is any indication.” He cut the twine binding and slit the wafer sealing the stiff wrapping of oiled paper to extract the neatly folded letters. Handing them to his wife, he said, “I shall read them when you have done, my dear. I see he has included some excellent illustrations of their voyage and the places he has seen. I shall content myself with those for the moment.”

  MAJOR HERON SCANNED THE BUNDLE OF SKETCHES and watercolour illustrations Harry had included, and hesitated over one. It depicted a scene from the battle with the xebecs. He was about to put it aside when his wife exclaimed in distress.

  “Harry has been engaged in a sea fight with slavers! He says they were almost overwhelmed…I cannot imagine such a thing on so large a ship as the Spartan….” She read a few more lines. “Oh, I see. He was not on his own ship, but on a transport he was sent to assist in defending.”

  “Unusual, I would have thought,” the major remarked calmly, wishing he could see for himself what the letter contained. “Though I expect the circumstances required it.” He was used to his wife’s tendency to relay disjointed snippets of
news as she read and commented on Harry’s letters. He reached for the first two letters and scanned them, taking note of the mention of the Spanish Fleet and the tardiness of the convoy transports.

  Finally, his wife relinquished the third letter, and he was able to read for himself the account of the fight, though he suspected that Harry was not telling the whole story. He frowned over the mention of Harry’s encounter with Cormac Murphy and his having arranged for his being taken onto Spartan’s books. The frown deepened as he read of an accusation made against Ferghal by the Barclay pup. Once again he reflected that Harry had not told all, merely mentioning that the second Lieutenant had resolved it and that Barclay had had an interview with the first Lieutenant over the incident.

  The letters amounted to a journal as Harry wrote a little each day whenever he had the opportunity so that his parents could follow the events of the voyage, picking up the interest of the Parson and his pursuit of the sciences. They read of the visit to Ascension and the arrival at the Cape with Harry’s impressions of the castle and the town growing around it at the southern tip of the African continent, as they envisaged it. Ferghal featured in the letters too, with many mentions of the little things he had done for Harry or some kindness shown to the other boys, and, of course, the music he made. There was even a brief mention that he was now teaching some of the other boys the art of playing the fife and the fiddle, something that made the major laugh with delight.

  Mrs. Heron stared out of the window, the sketches briefly forgotten in her hand. Softly she said, “I hope the voyage to Botany Bay is without mishap. I miss his mischief and starts so.”

  IT SEEMED TO FERGHAL THAT THE GREAT SOUTHERN OCEAN had done its utmost to hinder their passage, and he wondered what the return voyage would serve up. Even the gunroom had suffered when Midshipman Hereford had fallen to his death from the main yard during yet another gale south of the New South Wales continent. A pity, he reflected, as he had been one of Harry’s allies, though considerably older in years. He shuddered as he recalled the sight of the youth’s body swirling away from the ship as the gale carried the ship onward without hope of turning or rescue.