The Friendly Sea (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  It was the first lieutenant’s function to provide his captain with a disciplined and efficient working ship – which meant that he must build his junior officers, training them in seamanship and command, actively leading them through the administrative detail new to them. Frederick, though, was on his own. An experienced purser could teach him much about the ship’s great mass of papers, the dockets, ration lists, receipts and certificates demanded by the Admiralty at the close of each commission, and perused eagerly by petty-minded paper-pushers who never went to sea but sank more officers than French and Spanish combined – but the new purser was too busy teaching himself to be worth asking. An amiable master would brush up his navigation and teach him much about the finer arts of seamanship – but the master of the Athene spoke solely to God, and that by appointment only. He was on his own, would have to rely on his own, limited resources.

  ‘Watch the captain … that’s it … see what he does and try to discover why… listen carefully. Porson and Thomas will talk to me, and Brown… listen and learn – and hope like hell we don’t meet a Frenchie too soon, certainly not this side of the Atlantic.’

  Frederick caught the boatswain’s eye, entered into discussion with him concerning gun-crews.

  “Each of the gun captains knows ‘is trade, sir, most of ‘em from many years since, almost all smelt powder in the American War. Some of they ‘as used smashers before, even. They do each know who they got with ‘em and ‘as shown ‘em where they be. They knows you wants fighting men, sir, because they knows you knows what’s what when it comes to a scrap, this ship being your capture, after all.”

  All very flattering, but it placed another burden on him.

  The captain came on deck, determinedly confident and professional, a smile on his lips, brought the ship to quarters, was agreeably surprised to find all stripped and ready, hands silent and attentive in barely fifteen minutes. If he suspected that the warrant officers had been preparing for the past hour he said nothing.

  “Too long, Mr Horley, but very creditable so early in the commission. We obviously have a willing crew, sir, and I have the greatest confidence in them – together we shall find honour and renown, I doubt not!”

  A voice, anonymous on the main deck, gave a great stage whisper. “You ‘ave the ‘onour, old mate, the bloody prize-money‘ll do for me!”

  Atkinson, wisely, heard nothing; he wore ship in the last of the light, tacking being hardly commended to him after the day’s adventures, set her to night time routine.

  Frederick went below to his tiny hutch to change – even on a relatively calm day Athene was a wet ship – and to eat a belated meal, messing arrangements having been upset in the day’s circumstances.

  Smith was waiting for him.

  “Your servant, sir, what I ‘ave selected special. Captain’s servant on the Chaffinch, so ‘e was.”

  Smith stepped back with a flourish, beckoned forward a short black man, about five feet tall, deep brown face almost indistinguishable in the shadowy wardroom, broad on the shoulders, standing light and well-balanced.

  “Bosomtwi, sir. Three years on the Chaffinch, five before on Lively, 36, sir, isn’t it.”

  A quick count said he had joined towards the end of the American War, young then as he looked to be in his mid-twenties now.

  “Taken out of a slaver, Bosomtwi?”

  “Portuguese, sir, legal, but I jumped and swam, sir, boat’s crew pulled me aboard and they said I was free, being on British territory, and the Gooser could fuck ‘imself. Then they pressed me, isn’t it.”

  Frederick laughed, despite himself – it was typical, and Bosomtwi had chosen to stay during the peace – not that he could have done much on shore in alien England. It was very poor of the Chaffinch’s captain not to take him with him as a personal follower, but perhaps the unusual circumstances were to blame.

  “Well, it seems to have been to my advantage, Bosomtwi. You are very welcome.” Frederick paused, peered uncertainly. “What are you wearing?”

  Jersey shirt, round jacket, loose canvas trousers, but in the most outlandish colours.

  “Captain McFarland, sir, said it was … livery? Is that the word, sir?”

  Quartered red, brown, green and white: it might well be.

  “Hardly right for us, Bosomtwi. Wait a minute.”

  The new purser was sat at the table under the lantern, peering at a double-entry journal.

  “Mr Leyland, you would please me greatly, sir, if you could cause Bosomtwi to be issued with proper below-decks clothing from slops. To be booked against me, of course.”

  Bosomtwi’s face showed no expression; he rarely strayed ashore, convinced that he was safe from slavery only aboard ship, and so his pay held little significance to him, was kept in a sack in the bottom of his little sea chest.

  When Frederick emerged from his cabin, washed and dressed comfortably in clothing little removed from the men’s, Bosomtwi was waiting with a steaming plate.

  “Shore-food, sir.”

  A steak, sliced and lightly fried, just browned, with thin slivers of parsnip and carrot; coleslaw and raw cabbage and a slab of well-buttered fresh bread on the side. An apple and an orange for afters.

  “Wine, sir?”

  “Beer, please.”

  A bottle of light ale rather than the expected can of ration beer, a welcome extra.

  “Hot shaving water for the morning watch, sir?”

  Frederick smiled assent, relaxed in luxury.

  Paston looked up from his Bible, austere face more than ordinarily sombre. “Your new man, Mr Harris – is he to become a follower, think you?”

  “Of course, Mr Paston, on liking that is. If, as it would seem, he serves me well, then in all justice, his place is his for life, his pension as well. That is but fair, sir, and is custom, is it not?”

  Paston harrumphed – custom was sacrosanct, he accepted, but …

  “He has confessed to you, Mr Harris, that he ran, lawful property stolen from his master, and he a Son of Ham …”

  “But slavery is unlawful in England, sir. My first captain had seen slavers, hated them as utterly vile. As for being a Son of Ham – every ship in the navy has some aboard – Africans, lascars, John Chinee, South Sea Islanders, even, not to speak of Moors and Caribs – landsmen and able-bodies, equally. Why, sir, since Alfred first floated a King’s ship I suspect we have recruited and pressed ‘em all, black, white, yellow and all shades in between, and won many a battle with their fierce aid!”

  “Well said, Mr Harris!” McAllen, the surgeon, rarely capable of speech, a full glass in front of him equally rare, such normally half-empty in the first pouring. “The best and kindest loblolly I ever knew was a man of colour – killed boarding an American at the end of the war.”

  Paston stared disapprovingly, retired into his Bible, unwilling to say more, to create dissension in the wardroom at the beginning of a commission; they had to live together for years, must maintain at least an appearance of companionability.

  The surgeon was under no such compunction, it seemed.

  “Methodies, Mr Harris, make much of Jews and black men as being inherently wicked, fuller of sin than average mortal man. The Bible, it would seem, can tell all men all things.” McAllen took a swig at his gin, shook his head. “Stuff doesn’t seem to work any more. Pity! The trouble with being a medical man, you know, is that you can’t tell lies to yourself – or at least, not to be believed.”

  Frederick slowly realised that the gin had been a painkiller as much as an intoxicant, and, if it no longer worked, then the condition, whatever it was, must be much worsened – perhaps? He sought for the correct words, unaware of the extent to which his face mirrored his thoughts.

  The surgeon grinned, crookedly, but a praiseworthy attempt. “A month, two even. A fast passage and you may bury me on land, but you probably will not. My mate is a capable young man, can treat your pox or cut off your arm or leg, or watch you die of fever. I could do no more. I bid ye goodni
ght, Mr Harris.”

  Two ounces of gin down his throat and the surgeon wandered off to his cot, an example Frederick rapidly followed.

  Book One: The Duty and Destiny Series

  Chapter Three

  The atmosphere in the wardroom remained fraught across the whole Atlantic.

  Horley withdrew into himself, convinced he was misunderstood, a victim possibly of inexplicable circumstance – any gentleman had the odd drink occasionally, it was no great thing that he should – and, as for seamanship, he was not there for that, it was none of his concern as an officer. If there was no misunderstanding, then the only real explanation was that the captain had a down on him and had sought the flimsiest of pretexts to humiliate him. As for Mr Harris, he was still young, inexperienced, lacked town-bronze, savoir-faire, had been drawn willy-nilly into the captain’s schemes – Horley bore him no grudge, as his letters would make clear, but he regretted that he could not see where his own best interests lay, would really only have himself to blame that he would not be able to call upon the influence of Horley’s family and friends. He stood his watches, presided over sail drill, as ordered, and for three weeks drank only tea or water, hands shaking, stomach roiling, head aching; eventually he came to realise that there could be no harm in a couple of glasses with his dinner, and then a nightcap to help him sleep, and a pick-me-up in the morning to wake him up. Because of the irrational prejudices engendered by the captain, and out of deference to Paston’s known views, he took most of his drinks in his cabin, out of sight, knowing that he was right because he felt better almost immediately – it was obvious that the liquor was doing him good.

  Paston took comfort from the Word: he played no games, had no conversation, remained taciturn in the mess; he unbent on the quarterdeck, in duty bound offered Frederick a deal of useful advice and example, but the very concept of friendliness was lacking in the man – he could not give as a voluntary act.

  Purser Leyland was honest and intelligent and inexperienced, and driven to his wits’ end by Horley’s refusal to do other than put his reports aside unread and nod his agreement to Leyland’s every proposal.

  Surgeon McAllen was too busy dying to be company, soon took to his sickbay to lay grey and motionless, a corpse that still took a breath occasionally and sometimes wept in its sleep.

  Fortunately for the Athene the autumn Atlantic greeted winter with a series of storms, half and three-quarter gales and rank after rank of rollers marching across their course. It was perfect weather for shaking down a new, unsteady crew. The men rapidly grew tired, near to exhaustion, no energy left for moaning, groaning or insubordination. They grew expert in setting and trimming sail, in swaying up the topgallant masts and soon after bringing them down again – royals never came into question. The master’s mates developed their skills, already considerable, and the midshipmen learned enough to almost be worth the food they ate. Frederick discovered the realities of command, was amazed to find how very simple it was, whilst one offered trust to one’s juniors.

  “Well, Mr Harris?” Atkinson enquired, standing at Frederick’s shoulder, quite unobserved. “Course set with two reefs, and not a word said, sir, since you ordered your men aloft. You have just stood, silently watching, sir.”

  “Yes, sir. They know what to do now. Brown will keep them together, does not need me shouting at him. If anything goes wrong, I am here. When he needs me, or I think it best, I give orders and go in first, but for all ordinary concerns, it is his mast, sir – or so I believe, that is, sir,” he hastily added, suddenly aware that the junior lieutenant was telling the captain how his ship should best be worked.

  “Quite right, Mr Harris. You have petty officers – use them, make them grow. Could your Brown ever tread the quarterdeck, do you think?”

  “No, sir. He is a good man who will always do as he is told, and do it well, but not without first being told.” Frederick took a quick glance at Atkinson, could read nothing in his expression. “If you are looking to promote a before the mast jack, sir, then Porson tells me that Arkwright, of the mizzen, was apprentice on a John Company thirteen hundred tonner, got drunk and missed his ship at Canton and signed on, force-put, to the Blanche frigate, is now a topman with a sextant in his bag and a copy of the Tables.”

  “So I had heard. Is he a drunkard?”

  “Not that I have seen, sir. Just a foolish boy I suspect.”

  “Good! I hate sots – I detest them on land, will not tolerate them at sea! Watch Arkwright, if you please, be sure that he is free of the vice.”

  The wind was easing as they spoke, sun breaking weakly through the clouds.

  “Make more sail, sir?”

  “Shake out one reef, I think, Mr Harris.”

  “Brown, single reef course, if you please.”

  The topmen ran heavily back up the mast, laboriously untied the reef points, reset the sail, clambered back to the deck.

  “Brown, hold the people at readiness, they may need to take in the reef again if the wind varies.”

  The men sat down on the deck wherever there was protection from the wind and the weak warmth of the winter sun to ease them, rapidly fell asleep.

  “Well done! There is a time to keep every hand busy, but this is not it. An hour of sleep will do them all good. Look after the men and they will look after you, generally, apart from the bad buggers! Keep out of the way in day to day routine, stand forward in action – know when it is time to shout ‘Go on’ and when it must be ’Come on!’”

  “Yes, sir, action’s the easy bit, though. All the noise and the banging and your blood racing and watching six ways at once – it’s fun, sir!”

  “Jesus wept! Not when you lose – and not when you have won, not when the butcher’s bill lies on the desk in front of you and every name means crying women and fatherless children and always the same question.”

  “Why him and not me, sir?”

  “Why my son, my man, and not yours, is the harder one.”

  “Luck? Providence? My man Bosomtwi says my fate is written, as is every other man’s, sir.”

  “Maybe so – sounds like a heathen doctrine to me, Mahometan, Kismet and all that! Not the sort of thing for the quarterdeck, I believe, Mr Harris. I do think we should set some sort of example, you know, King and Country and Church – look what has happened to the Frogs for forgetting their duties!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Start to work up your boarders from tomorrow, if you please. We are of shallow draught yet possess a broadside greater than that of most frigates, provided we can get in range, so I expect us to be used inshore to a great extent, poking about around the cays and nosing out pirates and privateers – as far as there is any difference in these waters. We shall certainly wish to inspect neutrals – Dutch and Americans and Danes hereabouts – all of them inclined to favour the French, certainly to have little love for us. The Dutch and Americans still remember the last war, and the Danes have no love for our blockades, so every boarding will be resented, especially if we detect contraband. It will be vital that we do not cause an incident – Ambassadors demanding apologies at St James and naming the Athene will do none of us any good!”

  “Training and discipline, sir – the men to know what will happen if they step out of line.”

  “I shall rely on you, Mr Harris – I am glad to know that I can, sir!”

  Discussions with Porson about the men selected for the boats’ crews – competent oarsmen, strong and reasonably sensible.

  “Longboats, sir, Mr Gleeson and Mr Ball – we would not wish to use Mr Woodgate’s little jollyboat. They will tell you of their men, sir, they know them by now.”

  Frederick grinned; Porson had left enough unsaid to make all clear.

  “Gentlemen, eight men at the oars, six to sit on the bottom boards, two to the boat gun, when shipped. They will need be wide-awake, for freeboard will be at a minimum.”

  “My men are all able, sir,” Ball replied.

  “Mine are except that
I’ve got Simple Simon, sir,” Gleeson added. “They say he’s mad in a fight – he screams and howls and froths and wets himself and swings a cutlass in one hand and a big carving knife in the other and you just got to point him in the right direction.”

  Frederick was not sure it was lawful under the Rules of War, and it was certainly inhumane. If it worked though …

  “Who washes him afterwards?”

  “His mess, sir. They all look after him – he’s not a bad boy at heart, and they reckon he’s the one who scragged the bo’sun of the Chaffinch, what brought everything to a head, sir. They say the bo’sun ‘liked’ the ship’s boys and maybe tried to make use of Simple Simon and him not understanding thought he was being attacked, which, you might well say, he was, after all. Be that as it may, the bo’sun was found in bits and Simple Simon crying and they took to protect him when the captain wanted him hanged.”

  “Mr Gleeson! You have just made me an accessory to a crime against the Articles. Never tell me anything like that again!”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Always, Mr Gleeson, tell it to my man Bosomtwi, by accident of course, him overhearing you talking.”

  “Oh! Yes, sir. Sorry, sir! I should of thought.”

  “’Have’, Mr Gleeson!”

  “Aye aye, sir. Have what, sir?”

  “Never mind.” The English language was to remain a closed book – probably literally – for Gleeson; there were other, possibly more important, things to do than teach a very mere midshipman the basics of the formal register. “Issue cutlasses and boarding axes according to preference. Ensure that the men know how to grip them correctly; practise with the cutlasses – parry high, parry low and thrust. Waste of time, they’ll just slash anyway, but do it in case any wish to learn. We shall load and fire pistols when we get a reasonable calm; no point on a deck as wet as this, never keep the priming dry.”