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

by Andrew Wareham

  Athene was a notably wet ship, spray and spindrift bucketing across the low, flush deck so beloved of French builders. Like most corvettes she was fast but was envisaged as serving primarily in home waters and so needed give little consideration to the comfort of the crew or the security of her stores. She was a pretty ship with a fine, narrow entry, but always damp, dripping into the cabins, onto the messdecks, the hammocks never quite dry, blankets musty, paper soft, clothing smelling faintly of mildew, dry stores having to be extra protected and wrapped, never quite successfully – she was a rheumatism ship, no friend to her standing officers as they aged.

  Harbour in sight at Antigua, a precise landfall, nicely after dawn in good visibility, the lookout calling his conclusions to the captain.

  “One two-decker, sir, 64, Vice-Admiral’s flag. One frigate, 32, brig and a pair of armed schooners and a pack of merchant hulls.”

  “Convoy assembling, gentlemen. After the hurricane season, the smaller group, those who could not load and get out of the Caribbean before the season and who held in harbour to wait it out. The two-decker will be the old Trojan, a guardship in effect, can’t take her to sea except in a flat calm for fear she’ll fall to bits. Admiral’s offices, quarters for officers passing through, harbour defence battery, not a ship at all, really. Mr Thomas, commence salute to my order. Mr Horley, prepare a bower anchor, if you would be so good, on this occasion. I wish to bring us in smartly, strip the sails and square the yards and look like a member of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, not like an out of work Spanish bum-boat crewed by a bunch of slack-arsed Spanish bumboys! The Admiral is signalling, Mr Rowell, do you think you could tear your attention away from the quarterdeck long enough to tell us what he has to say?”

  The debacle at Portsmouth still rankled. All except Horley, who had not noticed, made a vow to tread very carefully indeed around the captain for the next hours.

  “Sir, moor in Admiral’s lee as convenient.”

  “Good of him. Easier far than having to pick up a fixed point.”

  The manoeuvre was much tidier than leaving Portsmouth had been, the Athene coming up in a smooth, slow curve, the three masts well together, the ever-hopeful audience disappointed. Nothing flash, nothing to write home about, nothing shameful to mock.

  “Shall I get the launch over the side, Mr Horley?” Frederick asked. “The Admiral will certainly order the captain aboard soon.”

  Horley nodded, showed no resentment at this usurpation of his functions, possibly unaware that it was his job at all. Frederick sometimes wondered if Horley was all there, whether there was not some underlying weakness in the brain that would explain his conduct; he was drinking more than was wise, again, would be caught staggering one day. Not a desirable state of affairs.

  “Captain repair aboard Flag, sir,” Rowell called.

  “Inform the captain, Mr Ball.” The midshipman ran instantly, as aware as any that something was astray.

  A quick glance at the launch: Gleeson at the tiller, reasonably uniformed, bearing his poverty in mind; oarsmen clean shaven, canvas trousers and salt-water washed off-white shirts as neat as possible; boat itself clean, well-kept, tidy. Not the flash turnout of a crack ship, but acceptable. Captain’s coxswain dropping down the side now, taking the tiller; a tiny wisp of a man, Smith, quite toothless, balding, in his thirties, wouldn’t weigh eight stone wet, carried always a pair of knives at his belt. Frederick had seen Smith at play, throwing a knife underhand at a chalk mark the size of a penny piece on a board at ten paces; each cast had hit the chalk and pierced through the half inch deal. It was a knack, he had said, smiling with his lips.

  Smith was the captain’s only follower, something unusual in Frederick’s experience; most captains had one or two servants, sometimes a cook, a related midshipman or two, even a chaplain in the case of the richly pious.

  “Captain, sir.” A whisper from the quartermaster. Frederick stiffened, touched his hat as the bo’sun’s party manning the side paid their compliments. Horley was stood watching, his hands in his bloody pockets! Disgraceful! Atkinson was carrying his canvas-wrapped parcel of reports and statements, the navy floated on a sea of paper! He scowled at Horley, said nothing.

  Two hours and the captain returned, larboard side, no ceremony, no interruption of necessary routine. Half an hour more and Frederick and Horley were called to the cabin.

  “Orders, gentlemen. Water and stores tomorrow, then we are to convoy a pair of troopers to Jamaica, followed by a six-week cruise taking in the islands around Martinique, returning to Antigua as home port.”

  Atkinson leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, stared at the deckhead with studied, false impassivity.

  “Vice-Admiral Farquhar informs me, gentlemen, of the intent to descend upon the richer French islands, to make of them jewels for the English crown. To that end an unspecified number of infantry regiments are shipping from England and Ireland. Most, of course, will die of the fever before the French can kill them. It will be our privilege to assist as we may.”

  Atkinson smiled, brought his eyes down to them, having carefully avoided even the appearance of disapproval of his superiors’ orders.

  “We are to take, burn or sink every French vessel that we may come across; interdict communications and prevent the movement of reinforcements and deny supplies. We are to raid the islands and raze batteries, forts, emplacements of any sort. We are to eradicate harbour facilities and destroy military camps. We shall be busy people!”

  Horley brought his hands together in approbation, began to say how proud he would be to play his part in taking the war to the enemy; belatedly, slowly, he became aware of the air of gloom about him.

  “Coastal guns, Mr Horley, are long-barrelled cannon, commonly of thirty six, even forty two pounds, and throw a round over some three miles. Their shot are often heated. One dropping through our deck could possibly sink us; red-hot and reaching the powder room and we certainly die. We cannot live within range of a coastal battery in daylight, so must creep in at night, land our storming party and take them, without fail, before dawn. Two boats, thirty men, at most, if the sea is calm.”

  “Oh!”

  “You may well say that, sir. Yours will be the honour of commanding these expeditions, sir, as premier. Mr Harris, the admiral has instructed the yard to issue us additional small arms; take ten guineas – here – and see what can be done. Memory tells me they are singularly rapacious here, will look for a share of the prize-money they hope we may win.”

  “Aye aye, sir. With your permission, sir, I could add ten more?”

  Atkinson nodded grudgingly, not pleased to admit his relative poverty, unable to refuse.

  Horley grunted suddenly, rubbing the arm that Frederick had unsubtly elbowed. “What the devil … oh, yes. Should I, too … Yes, of course, sir. One moment!” He belched, brandy fumes unmistakable, hurried out. He came back with twenty still in a bank wrapper, unaware of the insult of outmatching his captain.

  Frederick took the teak longboat, hopefully, sought out the grandly named Master Intendant of the Artillery Park, found a nasty, seedy-looking, pot bellied, yellow-eyed, fortyish civilian, third to hold the title in the year, the Yellow Jack having visited.

  “The Athene, sir. I believe there may be a few of muskets or such for us? I expect you may need to hire some men to sort them out?”

  Frederick smiled sweetly, greasily, saw the joyous light of avarice gleam brightly in the no longer morose face opposite him.

  Ten guineas made it possible to locate two dozens of muskets, spare flints, cartouches and horns. Another ten roused out five thousand made cartridges and ball.

  Frederick let his pockets jingle as he stood by his boat watching his booty loaded dry.

  “It just so ‘appens, sir, that we ‘as a few oddments of things what ‘ave ‘appened to come our way and be stowed in odd corners, an inconvenience to us, really.”

  “Perhaps I could help you out then, Master. Would, say, twenty more he
lp pay the costs of bringing them out?”

  In short order a line of labourers appeared carrying jute sacks and heavy wooden boxes and crates large and small, dusty, filthy, dripping grease, all coming from the small, stone warehouse tucked away behind the open-sided, high-roofed sheds of the park proper. A section of the quayside was swept clean, palm leaves laid down, sacking on top, the ‘few oddments’ laid out.

  “Six musketoons, Mr ‘Arris, like big fowling pieces, sir. Fires four ounces of slugs, spreading about three feet in thirty.”

  Brief inspection showed them to be old but unrusted, perfectly usable; there were spare mainsprings for the locks in a little box, anything else a gunner’s mate could knock up as needed.

  “Grenadoes, sir, what used to be called stinkpots. Three ‘undreds, sir, each with wooden plug and four-second match, sir.”

  Frederick had never seen grenades before, vaguely knew of them as more or less spherical cast iron bottles, the size of two fists, hollow and with a single opening. Packed with powder, stoppered with the plug, match inserted through a hole drilled in the wood, the user had to light the infernal machine, then cast it from him, quickly. It was generally recommended that they be thrown from the fighting platforms in the tops to land on the deck of a close grappled enemy; they were not popular weapons.

  “Captain Edwards, sir, ‘im what ‘ad Hector, 64, in the American War, took a Spanish first-rate by boarding, rolled them grenadoes down the ‘atchways when the gunners tried to come up and join in. Said they did no end of good, so ‘e did.”

  “Powder might be a problem, Master Intendant, they would need, what, a half pound apiece?”

  “Thereabouts, sir, but we do just ‘appen to ‘ave a few barrels of French white large-grain on the hoy, what got tucked to one side a while back. If I could put, say, five guineas, in the powder-master’s ‘and, as it were, sir?”

  “I will have to go back to Athene to get it.”

  “Never you mind, sir, it can wait till you’re tied up alongside the hoy,” the Master smiled in the most trusting fashion, they were good friends together, he implied, nothing so vulgar as a business deal. He proceeded to the next crate.

  “Forty eight Sea Service pistols, the new model with the stronger spring, what ‘ave not yet been issued in Antigua, for some reason. Cartridge paper and ball, sir, but the paper ‘as not been cut, I am afraid, sir.”

  “The gunner’s party will do that, sir, and gladly! You have done us proud, Master Intendant, we shall tell the Admiral how thoroughly you have cooperated with us! Now is not the time, sir, but the Athene might well wish to replace her pair of nine pounder chasers, iron guns, with a single long nine?”

  “Not a one in the park, sir, but if so be it should come about that one such might appear, then the Athene shall have first refusal, sir.”

  A drink in the Master Intendant’s office – a business-like, well organised place, its folders and ledgers all neatly labelled and racked or stacked away, and back to Athene to display his spoils and be congratulated.

  “Initiative, Mr Harris, much to be commended in an officer, and so it shall be noted! What say you, Mr Thomas, are you happy with our spoils?”

  “Frog white large grain, sir. Burns slower than the English, it do, sir, just a little bit – different saltpetre, sulphur refined different again, their charcoal burned from different timber, see? It will do well enough for grenadoes, but not for pistols with their short barrels, nor yet for carronades; better than English for a long barrelled great gun, a siege piece, say, or a chaser, the extra part of a second’s burn building muzzle velocity.”

  “And I thought powder just went bang, Mr Thomas,” Atkinson responded. “So French coastal guns in a battery are likely to be a mite more effective than English, you would say?”

  “Perhaps a cable more in range, sir.”

  “The buggers! That is a thing to look out for, now, Mr Harris!”

  “These musketoons, sir,” Thomas continued. “What I have in mind is to load them with heavy slugs rather than shot. Take, say, three pistol balls, cut into four pieces each, as a load, roughly four ounces, spreading at thirty feet at belly height they should have a quite interesting effect, big enough to discourage any man.”

  “Whilst bird shot might serve only to annoy, unless carefully at head height, which is not easy to do.”

  “As well, sir, I don’t have any bird shot in the magazine, which could be awkward.”

  “Point taken, Mr Thomas. Prepare your loads, sir.”

  “You will remember, captain, that I have paper to cut and cartridges to fill for the pistols; and the grenadoes to fill, their stoppers to make good, no doubt, old match to replace, perhaps.”

  “Yes, Mr Thomas, and you and your mates have only a single pair of hands apiece, and, with the best will in the world, each day has only twenty four hours, and you do have to spend some time asleep. If it be possible, then I will find additional useful men for your party. And, no, I will not send Simple Simon to work with the powder again – Mr Horley made a very understandable error there, a mistake any of us could have made.”

  Horley redeemed himself to an extent by taking the master of the powder hoy in hand, and so plying him with gold and brandy as to far exceed their official allowance, the magazine jam-packed with the deadly little barrels when they sailed.

  The convoy to Jamaica was wholly uneventful, apart from the late addition of three more vessels which just happened to know sailing date and time and tagged along by coincidence.

  “So, who did they pay, Mr Harris?” Atkinson sourly enquired. “Not me, that’s for sure.”

  Athene sat a couple of cables upwind of the troopers in close escort, dangerously close at night, the old ships being undermanned and poorly kept, but the Caribbean was empty, the merest pleasure-cruise. They dropped the convoy off Kingston, did not themselves enter harbour.

  “That’s a Rear Admiral’s flag in there, gentlemen, on a small two-decker, with a mob of merchant vessels besides, a convoy forming and a dearth of small ships. A providential sloop turning up out of the blue? Goodbye cruise, hello convoy duty! No thank’ee, gentlemen, not today.”

  A bright dawn off Martinique, volcanic Pelee dominating the harbour, a little wisp of cloud announcing she was not quite as dormant as she looked, might wish to make the fact clear one day. The two great forts seemed equally quiet, as empty as Diamond Rock dominating the offshore sea-lanes.

  “The better part of one hundred and twenty guns of twenty four pounds and bigger, gentlemen,” Atkinson commented. “Plunging crossfire, heated shot after the first hour. No fleet could live in that harbour. To take St Pierre would demand a blockade and at least a brigade and a siege train landed. Impossible to starve them out because a fleet could not risk staying on blockade during the hurricane season, so it would have to be a siege and assault completed between the beginning and end of a single dry season. We shall just serve them notice not to be complacent – take a glance in, see what’s in port, trail our coats and remind them that we can do this here, but they don’t dare try the same in Antigua. We shall give them a few sleepless nights, just in case we are making a reconnaissance before a landing, to be an irritation, while we wander round their coast and gobble up anything that shows itself.”

  Passing across the harbour mouth at long range, betting that the battery on the point was not in practice or fully alert, Gleeson and Woodgate high in the topgallants with a telescope and a notepad.

  “Four frigates, sir, though one might be a post-ship. We think a pair of thirty sixes and a twenty eight jackass and that fourth which might be of twenty eight or only twenty four. Two brigs and a third which might be a brigantine – their yards were not crossed, sir, so it was hard to be certain. Two armed schooners. One very big merchantman, as big as the troopers, sir, a French West India Company ship for sure, sir. More than forty other traders including the smallest of cutters and droghers, sir.”

  “A night attack with the boats,” Horley suggested, fo
rgetting that they had already fully alerted the garrison.

  “No, Mr Horley, even the Frogs will have guard boats out all night for the next week. We would lose every man and achieve nothing. Make sail, east about, Mr Paston.”

  Paston raised his austere voice as they ate their beef at dinner, boiled ration horse, grey and untrustworthy, made palatable by pepper and chillies and groundnuts and unidentifiable roots and vegetables picked up from bumboats in Antigua by Bosomtwi and the wardroom cook. It was rather hot, perhaps – the wardroom a sweltering ninety degrees – for a thick stew, but food with flavour was well worth the sweat and chewing.

  “A heathen mess, sir, but very welcome! A pity the men cannot eat like this.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr Paston!” Horley expostulated. “They are used to their food, they enjoy it, it is natural for their sort and no doubt at least as good as anything they ever ate in the sties they called homes. Horses for courses, you know – the common clay will not thank you for being treated like gentlemen of breeding!”

  “Quite right, Mr Horley!” Purser Leyland enthusiastically agreed, waving a dripping spoon. “It would be like wasting good wine and brandy on the common palates – rum will do to make them stinking drunk.”

  The comment was made so ingenuously that Horley was unable to discern the insult, nodded his approbation as he chewed. Paston hurriedly spoke up before the premier could think about the purser’s meaning.

  “We shall not see the frigates’ yards uncrossed when next we open the great bay, gentlemen,” Paston prophesied. “One at least will be ready to chase us off, or try to; perhaps there will be another waiting round the headlands, to take us in a trap, or so they think, Romish whores that they are! Shan’t we serve them out, gentlemen, when we close on them and run out the smashers!”

  “Hence the trailing of our coats today, Mr Paston! I see now.”

  “Just so, Mr Harris. A dozen prized ketches and brigs and yawls full of sugar and hides and logwood and tobacco will be welcome to the Admiral’s pocket, and no complaints heard. A fat frigate under our lee, English colours over French – there’s glory for you, and promotions all round!”