Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press
BY ALEXANDER KENT
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho
Stand Into Danger
In Gallant Company
Sloop of War
To Glory We Steer
Command a King’s Ship
Passage to Mutiny
With All Despatch
Form Line of Battle!
Enemy in Sight!
The Flag Captain
Signal–Close Action!
The Inshore Squadron
A Tradition of Victory
Success to the Brave
Colours Aloft!
Honour This Day
The Only Victor
Beyond the Reef
The Darkening Sea
For My Country’s Freedom
Cross of St George
Sword of Honour
Second to None
Relentless Pursuit
Man of War
Heart of Oak
BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN
Halfhyde at the Bight of Benin
Halfhyde’s Island
Halfhyde and the Guns of Arrest
Halfhyde to the Narrows
Halfhyde for the Queen
Halfhyde Ordered South
Halfhyde on Zanatu
BY DEWEY LAMBDIN
The French Admiral
The Gun Ketch
A King’s Commander
Jester’s Fortune
What Lies Buried
BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON
Storm Force to Narvik
Last Lift from Crete
All the Drowning Seas
A Share of Honour
The Torch Bearers
The Gatecrashers
BY JULIAN STOCKWIN
Mutiny
Quarterdeck
Tenacious
Command
The Admiral’s Daughter
BY JAN NEEDLE
A Fine Boy for Killing
The Wicked Trade
The Spithead Nymph
BY DUDLEY POPE
Ramage
Ramage & The Drumbeat
Ramage & The Freebooters
Governor Ramage R.N.
Ramage’s Prize
Ramage & The Guillotine
Ramage’s Diamond Ramage’s Mutiny
Ramage & The Rebels
The Ramage Touch
Ramage’s Signal
Ramage & The Renegades
Ramage’s Devil
Ramage’s Trial
Ramage’s Challenge
Ramage at Trafalgar
Ramage & The Saracens
Ramage & The Dido
BY FREDERICK MARRYAT
Frank Mildmay OR The Naval Officer
Mr Midshipman Easy
Newton Forster OR The Merchant Service
Snarleyyow OR The Dog Fiend
The Privateersman
BY V.A. STUART
Victors and Lords
The Sepoy Mutiny
Massacre at Cawnpore
The Cannons of Lucknow
The Heroic Garrison
The Valiant Sailors
The Brave Captains
Hazard’s Command
Hazard of Huntress
Hazard in Circassia
Victory at Sebastopol
Guns to the Far East
Escape from Hell
BY JAMES DUFFY
Sand of the Arena
The Fight for Rome
BY JOHN BIGGINS
A Sailor of Austria
The Emperor’s Coloured Coat
The Two-Headed Eagle
Tomorrow the World
BY R.F. DELDERFIELD
Too Few for Drums
Seven Men of Gascony
BY JAMES L. NELSON
The Only Life That Mattered
BY C.N. PARKINSON
The Guernseyman
Devil to Pay
The Fireship
Touch and Go
So Near So Far
Dead Reckoning
The Life and Times of Horatio Hornblower
BY DOUGLAS W. JACOBSON
Night of Flames
BY DOUGLAS REEMAN
Badge of Glory
First to Land
The Horizon
Dust on the Sea
Knife Edge
Twelve Seconds to Live
The White Guns
A Prayer for the Ship
For Valour
BY DAVID DONACHIE
The Devil’s Own Luck
The Dying Trade
A Hanging Matter
An Element of Chance
The Scent of Betrayal
A Game of Bones
On a Making Tide
Tested by Fate
Breaking the Line
BY BROOS CAMPBELL
No Quarter
The War of Knives
Published by McBooks Press 2001
Copyright © 1982 by C. Northcote Parkinson
First published in the United States by Houghton Mifflin Co., 1973
First published in the United Kingdom by John Murray Ltd, 1982
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.
Cover painting: A Naval Engagement by Philip James Loutherbourgy.
Courtesty of Spink & Son Ltd., London, UK/Bridgeman Art Library.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Parkinson, C. Northcote (Cyril Northcote), 1909–
Guernseyman / by C. Northcote Parkinson.
p. cm.—(Richard Delancy novels; no. 1)
ISBN 1-59013-001-4 (alk. paper)
1. Delancy, Richard (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—19th century—Fiction. 2. Napoleonic Wars, 1800–1815—Fiction 4. Guernsey (Channel Islands)—Fiction.
PR6066.A6955 G8 2001
823’.914—dc21
2001026668
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Printed in the United States of America
9 8 7 6 5 4
GIBRALTAR
Chapter 1
THE GUERNSEYMAN
THE SQUALL came out of the darkness without warning, the brig being laid on her beam-ends. Seamen clung frantically to anything secure and there came from below, just audible over the other noise, the crash of gear displaced and hurled to leeward. A long minute passed during which it seemed that the vessel was lost, and then, slowly, slowly she began to right herself, her masts rising jerkily skywards. Now began the thunder of the tattered sails, whether taken aback or torn to ribbons, with the wind’s shriek over all. In the darkness it was hard to tell what canvas, if any, remained and what other damage had been done, but the master, John Beecher, was on deck in a matter of seconds and bellowing his orders at men who might or might not have remained on board. Beecher tried to put the brig before the wind, chancing what dangerous flats might lie to leeward. Working fast, the mate and boatswain,
with the four deck-hands, had more than enough to do, even when joined reluctantly by the cook, the steward and a couple of boys. Both topsails had been blown out of the bolt-ropes but finally it was found possible to steer the ship under a close-reefed mainsail. There were hours of work to do and it would be daybreak before all had been even temporarily set to rights. The initial squall had become a westerly half-gale, gusting to gale force occasionally, and the wind still roared overhead, making a noise through which could just be heard the ominous creaking of the pumps. It had been a bad moment and danger was still far from remote.
John Beecher was a Liverpool man, reared in the coastal trade, and had known these waters since boyhood. A voyage like this, from St Peter Port to Plymouth, from there to Cardiff, and now back to the Mersey, was ordinarily child’s play, the more so in that the Charlotte (120 tons) was a newish brig and recently re-rigged. He felt confident of making the Mersey but could have wished for a stronger crew. He had sailed originally with one man short and had then left one of his men sick at Plymouth. There was one steerage passenger on board, a youth from Guernsey, one too frightened and ill, he assumed, to be of any use. However, he now had a craft which answered to the helm and he might presently edge round towards his proper course. He would not try to bend another sail until daybreak which was due in another hour or so. With two men at the pump, freeing the vessel of the water that had gone down the hatchway—she was not leaking, he felt sure—and with the old cook nearly useless, he could spare only two men to clear up the remaining tangle aloft. The brig was proving difficult to handle, however, and he took the weather wheel himself, leaving Otteridge to assist on the lee side. As the other worries lessened he now became aware, for the first time, of the sound forward of a sail flogging itself to tatters. It could only be the jib, a sail he would need if he was to bring the wind abeam, and he knew all too well that the storm jib had already been split. Should he quit the helm and go forward himself? No, he dared not leave Otteridge alone and the mate, Mr Crosbie, was busy in the main-top. With some part of his mind he planned how to make a makeshift jib, using what remained of the fore-topsail or falling back, even, on a hatch cover. He had no sailmaker, however, and doubted whether it could be done in time. But how was he to hold his course without a headsail of some sort?
The noise of snapping canvas died away abruptly and Beecher concluded, with annoyance, that what remained of the sail had gone overboard. Presently, however, an indistinct figure came out of the darkness and a voice at his elbow could be heard, shouting:
“I’ve secured the jib, sir.”
The voice was not one he recognised so the words must have been spoken by his passenger, the young Guernseyman.
“What did you do?” he bawled.
“Knotted the sheet, sir, and made it fast.”
“Well done, lad. Are you a seaman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you join the crew?”
“If you’ll repay me the passage money.”
“What’s that?”
“Give me my money back—MONEY BACK!”
“Oh—very well.”
“What shall I do now, sir?”
“Relieve one of the men on the pump and send him to me.” The wind abated next morning and Beecher could see that his former passenger was pulling his weight. He was not a man but merely a well-grown boy. He was no seaman, whatever he might say. As against that, he was not quite a landlubber, either. Later that day, with the Charlotte on course for the Mersey in fairer weather, Beecher sent for the youngster and thanked him.
“What is your name, son?”
“Richard Delancey, sir.”
“Is that a Guernsey name?”
“Not really, sir. It is Huguenot, Protestant French.”
“What is your real trade?”
“I am to be clerk in a shipowner’s counting-house.”
“But you have been at sea?”
“In fishing boats, sir.”
“Aye, lad, I thought as much. You’re used to boats but not to ships.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is your father a seaman?”
“No, sir. He is a corn chandler. My great-uncle in Liverpool is a shipowner, though, and I am to work for him.”
“Did you never wish to go to sea?”
“I did, sir, but my two elder brothers were lost at sea and my parents did not want to lose me as well.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
Beecher had nearly offered to take Richard as an apprentice but he lost interest in him after this, repaying his passage money but seeing to it that he earned his keep. He had, of course, much else to think about, and much to do before he sighted Bidston Hill. He was concerned, less immediately, about the news from the American colonies, where there had been fighting at Lexington in April, news of which had reached Liverpool in June. War seemed inevitable with all the inconveniences and dangers that must result, with the press-gangs active and with privateers at sea. One way and another, the outlook seemed bleak.
More interest was shown in Richard by Mr Crosbie, the mate, who taught him some rudiment of seamanship. Some old seaman’s clothes, the gear of a man who had deserted, were found for the boy, and he was eventually complimented by the boatswain on his effort at a long splice. It had to be done again, to be sure, but it could have been worse, considered as a first attempt. Convinced for a moment that he had a natural gift for such things, Richard asked Mr Crosbie whether he would be allowed to stay in the ship. He was soon made to realise that there was no chance of this.
“No, son. Not a hope in hell! Liverpool docks will be crowded with men out of work—real seamen at that, men who have rounded the Cape—and who would have a berth for a lands-man or little better? We are undermanned because two of our men went down with the flux but at Liverpool we can take our pick. No, my lad—your place is ashore.”
“But why are all those seamen out of work, Mr Crosbie? Are things any better at Bristol or London?”
“It’s the American trade—all brought to a standstill. There are hundreds of ships lying idle, rotting at their moorings. Seamen can be had for two a penny.”
“But what of the other trades, Mr Crosbie? The slave trade? The West Indies?”
“Look, son, the Atlantic is all one. A Liverpool ship carries trade goods to Africa, slaves from Africa to Virginia, tobacco from Virginia back to Liverpool. Take away the American part and the whole voyage comes to nothing.”
“But won’t that ruin the Americans, too?”
“To be sure it will. So they put to sea as privateers and make the picture worse!”
Thinking this over, Richard came to the conclusion that his prospects in Liverpool as a clerk were no better than his prospects as a seaman. He doubted whether his great-uncle was the sort of man who would pay a boy to do nothing, not even his godson. But what hope had he of returning to Guernsey? As things were, he could not even work his passage. He was still pondering this prospect when the Charlotte came into Plymouth. Going ashore there he saw that reception centres had been formed where men were being urged to join the navy. He asked a bystander whether the press-gangs were out but was told that these were not yet needed. Sailors without work were joining as volunteers. The brig sailed again for Cardiff, where the same recruiting efforts were being made. There was only one business prospering and that was the preparation for war. Was that, he wondered, the business he should enter? Ancestors of his had been soldiers. Should he follow the same trade? But what knowledge he had was of the sea. Perhaps he should serve the king that way and end as a captain, perhaps as an admiral! He knew all too little about the service but he guessed that a man who entered on the lower deck would most likely stay there. He sought the advice of the second mate who expressed his horror. “The navy, my lad? That’s a service to keep out of! That’s the way to find yourself back on the beach without a leg or short of an arm. It may be all right for officers but it’s hell on the lower deck.”
“But there are mi
dshipmen, surely, no older than I am and in line for promotion. How do they come to be chosen?”
“Midshipmen! A useless and insolent lot of young lubbers, fit for the nursery but strutting on the quarterdeck! They are chosen by the captain, who takes money for it or chooses to oblige a friend. They come aboard as volunteers, first class, sometimes rated as captain’s servant, but all classed as “Young Gentlemen.” Their fathers make them an allowance through the captain—their pay being next to nothing. They are rated midshipmen when there is a vacancy. If I joined the navy—never fear, I won’t—they’d make me master’s mate. If you joined, you’d be volunteer second class.”
“And how do they enter—the volunteers second class?”
“They are shipped from the workhouse, the orphanage or charity school, never having volunteered or been told even what lies ahead of them. They have the worst life of any, the last to be fed and the first to be beaten.”
After this conversation Richard felt more resigned to life in a counting-house. He felt still happier about it when the Charlotte came into the Mersey on Monday 28 August. On that sunny morning the port looked most impressive, the docks filled with shipping, the town extensive and the country pleasant on the Cheshire side. The pilot had been picked up off Point Lynas, however, and he brought news which was quickly repeated from man to man. There was trouble in the town because the crew of a ship called the Derby had been told that their wages would be reduced from thirty to twenty shillings a month. The seamen countered this by unrigging the ship. When some of them were arrested a large crowd of sailors—some thousands, the pilot said—had attacked the gaol and obtained their release. All business was now at a standstill and the more nervous merchants had fled into the country. As the Charlotte came into the Salt-house Dock it became obvious that the local atmosphere was tense. No work was being done, no ship was preparing for sea, no goods were being shipped or landed. There were groups of sailors on the quayside and a crowd of them collected in the Goree Piazzas, listening no doubt to one of their leaders. There was no actual riot in progress but it looked as if there might be trouble by nightfall. Nor was it clear that the Charlotte’s men would keep out of it. Once the brig was alongside the quay with sails stowed and topmasts sent down, the men went ashore in a group as soon as they had been paid. “They’ll end up in prison as like as not,” said the boatswain, shaking his head. “Some men can be taught only with a capstan bar.”
The Guernseyman Page 1