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

by Andrew Wareham

  The boom of the chase gun brought a change in mood. Bandannas were wrapped around the ears of the more careful, a snatched mouthful of water, a handshake, a slapped back, some crossing themselves, a few whispered prayers; a dozen or more glass or leather bottles uncapped, hoarded tots knocked back, shore-bought gin handed round, a mouthful apiece, wholly unlawful, completely ignored.

  The crew of the chaser stepping back, handspike men pointing her, Stewart in person tugging the lanyard on the flintlock, a much deeper note, the gun bucking against the breeching, banging down on the deck, jibs flapping on the great, looming bows a half cable away. The chaser’s crew snatching up muskets, spraying fire to discourage men from attempting first repairs.

  “Point your guns,” Atkinson shouted, Paston behind him with the quartermasters, muttering helm orders.

  Frederick ran down the first five guns, checking the quoins, ensuring they were at full elevation, as high as they could be, saw Jackman coming towards him, doing the same. He raised his hand high, carried on towards the bows, captain and first always well separated under fire in the hope that one would survive to command if the other fell.

  Fifty yards, forty, the bows rising on the uproll, muzzles lifting, broadside guns running out on the Frenchman, nothing from her bowchasers, Stewart’s work well done, Athene still easing onto a course exactly perpendicular to the line of battle ship’s, crossing her bows … now!

  “Shoot!”

  Nine coughing explosions within the second, anxious faces peering.

  “Reload! No time for sightseeing!”

  The forestay was cut part through, the big rope unravelling, snatching apart, breaking and whip-lashing back, foremast visibly jerking forwards and back with the ship’s pitch. The foretopsailyard was broken, hanging in an inverted ‘Vee’, slowly sagging away.

  “There she goes!”

  The jibboom was lifting, pulled up as its bracing collapsed and the foretopmast tumbled down towards it, the fore course collapsing as its yard drooped in turn. The fastest carronades fired, more chain screeching into the mess.

  “Grape! Reload grape!” Frederick bellowed.

  Paston had brailed up the main course and driver, was spilling the wind from the fore course, had Athene just under steerage way, crawling across the scarred bows.

  A loud groaning and a splash as the Frenchman’s foretopmast twisted overboard, its sail unfurling and acting as a huge sea anchor, pivoting the fifteen hundred tons inexorably round, bringing the broadside onto Athene.

  “Jesus! Lie down!” Atkinson roared. If the broadside was grape, the order might help.

  Twenty twenty-four pounders, seventeen of eighteen pounders, lesser cannon on the quarterdeck not counted in the broadside, the roar of twenty stones of black powder firing, roundshot loaded.

  Most of the guns were too high, unable to depress to so small a target, so close; another crash told of the bows colliding, of Athene run down, all of her masts gone, rolling almost onto her side.

  Frederick staggered to his feet, saw he was on a sinking ship, that there was only one way out.

  “Board her! Boarders away! All hands! All hands to board!”

  Arkwright struggled to his side, an arm dangling, dripping blood.

  “Below, Mr Arkwright. Call ‘Abandon Ship’, get the doctor up.” He looked around, saw Smith. “Where is the captain, Smith?”

  “Cabin, sir. Splinter in his guts, ‘e’s gone for the books, sir, make sure they’re over the side. Told me I’d got to board ‘er, sir. The captain won’t be joining us.”

  Smith ran, Frederick following, a stream of men swarming across the bows, through main deck gun ports, a couple running along the fallen mainmast as a ladder.

  Bosomtwi appeared at his side, two of the broadly powerful black men behind him carrying skips, Ablett suddenly with them.

  “Going to draw your sword, sir?”

  Frederick flushed bright red – he had forgotten it. He scrambled up the broken timbers of the beakhead and onto the seventy four’s forecastle, shouting the men to form on him.

  Flat explosions suddenly cracking in the waist, amongst the mass of three or four hundred matelots forming to clear their ship of the three or four dozen assailants. Bosomtwi with a length of slow match was gravely lighting grenadoes, handing them to the big men to throw, quietly pointing to appropriate targets.

  A great, piercing, wailing howl as the smelly figure of Simple Simon burst forward in insane attack, no thought of defence, smashing and screaming into a line of muskets coming to the aim, wholly berserk, scattering them before him as he slashed with both hands at everyone he saw.

  Grape poured in from the stern, port and starboard, two broadsides, and a pair of resounding thumps as William and Thetis hit alongside and boarded. Screaming rose to a new pitch, the mass of French seamen wavered as their officers tried to face both ways.

  “Athene! Athene!” roaring from the bows, answered by rhythmic shouts of “William!” “Thetis!”

  Frederick pushing forward to the head of the Athenes, to his proper place, running at a man with a sabre, lunging through his slash, stamp on his face while pulling the sword point out of his ribs, kick him to the side, parry a musket and fixed bayonet, inexpertly presented, punch forwards with the sword hilt and an economical back cut to the thigh as he staggered.

  On, over the litter of rigging on the deck, pistol drawn left-handed – it was easier on the cross, Atkinson had been right – an officer six feet away, point at his belly and squeeze, down howling, pistol back in its holster, fumbling out the second, cock it, another lieutenant, facing away, trying to organise a section of musketeers, to start the volley fire that could still destroy the Athenes; a ball in the small of his back, his men scattering into fragmented groups of mates together.

  On, stumbling over a dead man, ignoring the horrible squelching noise as he trod on something slimy, a last formed group to his front, cutlasses and half-pikes in a rank, a second row loading behind them, Bosomtwi at his side, underarmed, a careful, precise flip of a grenadoe, smoke trailing it, into the middle, panic as they broke, a couple flinging their weapons down, others seeing, needing only that example.

  The fighting ended in a wave of raised hands and cries for quarter, the French deciding they had lost, that the hurt was too much, the possible gain too little. With leadership they would have fought on, could still have turned the balance, but their captain was down, their lieutenants were dead, their warrant officers new in their ranks, political appointees very often – the will to die rather than be beaten was not there, and as a result, they lost, and cared very little.

  “Where’s Simon? Grab him! Stop him!”

  “’E’s gone, sir, poor little bugger! Feller with a blunderbuss got up be’ind ‘im before I could do anything about it – blew ‘is ‘ead off from a foot away.”

  Porson snorted, wiped his forearm across his runny nose.

  “Poor little lad – mind you, I’m surprised he noticed, bo’sun – he never had much use for his brain. You settled the one who got him, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man! Who’s left?”

  “Christ knows, sir! I’ll get a roll.”

  Frederick looked around, yelled for Athenes to close on him. Two useful faces appeared immediately, each with a clump of men.

  “Jackman, Gleeson! Secure prisoners, herd them together in the waist, check the lower deck before you put them in the hold. Where’s the surgeon?”

  “Never got off Athene, sir, went down with her. Him and the purser and they French prisoners, sir, went back below to bring up more of the wounded. They wouldn’t be told!” Arkwright was almost in tears, his left arm roughly bound up, a bloody cutlass in his right.

  Captain Ainslie of Thetis came marching up the deck, hand outstretched.

  “I give you joy of your capture, Mr Harris! This one is Athene’s, sir, beyond question. Did Atkinson get off?”

  “He was hurt. Went below to destroy the conf
idential books, sir.”

  “Quite right, too. He knew his duty! What’s the bill?”

  “I don’t know yet, sir, we can’t seem to find many of ours. Jackman, have you a count?”

  “Twenty seven remain, sir, with a chance that there may be one or two down and wounded and not yet brought in. We have certainly lost the captain, the master, Mr Stewart, the purser and the doctor and we can’t find Mr Thomas or Rowell, but nobody saw them go. Only three of the survivors are wounded, sir, besides Arkwright, because they mostly got killed instead.”

  “You have paid a high price, Mr Harris,” Ainslie said. “Take command of the prize, sir, and bring her back to English Harbour. All of your Athenes, of course, and we shall find an officer and ten or a dozen men each from William and Thetis to make up a scratch crew. Working parties to make good the damage you so casually did to the stem and foremast – if you were going to take her, Mr Harris, you might as well just have hopped aboard without all that fuss first! We may be able to recover the foretopmast – God! How we cheered when we saw that stick topple! A copy of my report will go with you, the original, of course, to Admiralty and the Gazette.”

  Three days hove to, blessing now the light winds that had previously been such a curse, surrounded by escort and convoy, men almost fighting each other to clamber aboard and help, the West India Company ships especially generous in stores and aid. They jury-rigged jibboom and topmast, sufficient to take her to the yard, found a large tricolour to fly, an even larger Union flag above it.

  “Hercule, her name, Mr Harris. Put an ‘s’ on it and she will be added to the list, a pretty ship for a great, lumbering cow of a battle wagon. Off you go, sir, with my blessing!”

  Ainslie’s career would have been finished if he had lost the West India convoy, however little he might have been to blame. Sailing in triumphant could only do him great good – he could afford to be generous in his praise.

  Frederick nervously built his pyramids of sail on the huge monstrosity he temporarily commanded, the first third rate he had ever sailed in, convinced himself that with a suspect foremast it behoved him to be very cautious indeed, crawled west towards Antigua. A single captured gunbrig bore him company – Hornet had found one of her adversaries to be a national ship and had accepted her surrender after, very unfortunately, failing to observe the privateer’s attempts to do the same.

  English Harbour, two hours after dawn, Frederick buoyed up by relief at having brought the beast to its destination, almost sleepless in three days but slowly becoming aware that he was to be the man of the moment again.

  “Mr Gleeson, make, ‘permission to enter harbour’ and ‘prize ship Hercule, 74’.”

  The flags ran up, the first short hoist rapidly, the second, half alphabetical, more slowly.

  “Acknowledged, sir.” Gleeson called. “Await pilot, sir.”

  “Acknowledge, thankfully, I would not wish to do anything else, for sure! Strip to topsails, Mr Johnson.”

  Johnson was a lieutenant from Thetis, her second, of ten years seniority and not best pleased at his subordination, even less at being detached from his frigate with slight prospect of returning to his berth.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Pilot cutter putting off, sir. And Admiral’s barge, sir, and boats from the yard, sir, and two longboats full of men from the sloop at the dock, sir.”

  “Man the side for the Admiral, Mr Johnson.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  A beaming admiral with a line of battle ship suddenly gifted to him – promotions for his own family of young men; a relatively small amount of prize money; a glittering success towards the end of his period on station. If he stretched the refit just a fraction the admiral could go home in Hercule, be greeted with a knighthood, the Bath, possibly more, almost certainly with further, immediate employment. A quick glance about showed the ship to be certainly reparable, though somewhat scorched in places: the beam became positively beatific.

  “Mr Harris! You have the command? Well met again, sir. What’s the story, sir, in brief?”

  Athene sunk, Atkinson lost, a horrific butcher’s bill – evidence of sacrifice and devotion to duty. Farquhar looked suitably grave, paced with Frederick to the great cabin, sat at the late owner’s desk to read Ainslie’s report.

  “Magnificent! I envy you, sir! Captain Atkinson was alive when you boarded?”

  “I believe so, sir, yes.”

  “Good. No court martial for the loss – not that there could be any point in any case – but it means that there need be no delay in proceeding. Let us return to the deck, sir, in public.”

  Once on display, in front of a growing, marvelling audience from the yard and ships in port, the Admiral took centre stage, ranged himself with his bevy of satellites at his shoulder, cocked hat squarely placed.

  “Mr Harris!”

  “Sir!”

  Frederick drew himself to attention, hatless – having lost his – and, as ever, aware that he was far the shorter man, no matter how he inflated his chest and stiffened his knees.

  “You will take yourself ashore, sir, and purchase a swab for your shoulder this day, to show your rank of Master and Commander, so richly earned and rarely deserved.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Mr Jackman, master’s mate – your lieutenant’s commission will be delivered to you this afternoon. Midshipmen Gleeson and Arkwright, your records will include my letter, which your board will read when you stand before them.”

  The midshipmen were in effect guaranteed their commissions and employment in the rank as soon as their years were up, unless later ill-conduct supervened. Frederick also could look for early employment, a plum, a heavy sloop, a cruise, enrolment de facto in the Admiral’s family, though not himself a Scot as all the others were. He now had a patron in the service, and could expect to rise with him, honour bound to him.

  “Sir, Mr Stewart, as you see, is not with us. I have the painful duty to inform you …”

  It was not all beer and skittles – the family of each of the commission and warrant officers would have to be told, a personal letter sent, care of the Admiralty, for their records had gone down with the Athene. It would be many months before the next of kin knew more than vague rumour, were able to discover any more than the account of the action the Gazette would certainly publish.

  Book One: The Duty and Destiny Series

  Chapter Six

  Orders came to Frederick following a week of leisure, the day after three of the Antigua Squadron made port from a sweep along the island chain.

  “I am giving you Magpie, Captain Harris. Ship-sloop, 20, nine pounders and four carronades, twenty fours. Her crew has been thinned by fever and so, and as a mark of my approbation, you may take a dozen of your Athenes with you. Marston of the Magpie is made post into the Charlotte, 28, whose captain is to take Caractacus, 36, whose owner is to get Hercule. Do you want Jackman as your second?”

  The Admiral’s offer was, quite obviously, tantamount to a command, would not have been made had it not been his personal wish. There was a reason behind it, but that was none of Frederick’s business unless the Admiral chose to make it so.

  “Yes, please, sir! Jackman is a very steady man, one I have a value for and one whose support will be a comfort to me.”

  That should have laid it on thick enough, he thought, and, besides, was fairly much the truth.

  “Good.” Farquhar glanced at the folders on his desk, sent his flag-lieutenant away to fetch one not there. “The fact is, Mr Harris – and ye should know, being his captain – well, to cut a long and involved story short, that is… I must inform ye that Mr Jackman – unbeknownst to him, I believe – is in the way of being a connection of mine, that is… one might say that I knew his mother quite well when I was a captain on station here in the seventies, just before the American War, and was promoted away quite suddenly, and when I returned to this station, two years since, well … I discovered, that is, I had not known …”


  Frederick nodded – all was now clear and young Mr Jackman was to be advanced in his career – without being acknowledged, of course, because a bastard could not lawfully become a commissioned officer.

  “Gleeson and Arkwright will go with you, Captain Harris, they are your young men to form. You have a coxswain in mind?”

  “I believe one has appointed himself, sir. My man, Bosomtwi, will come with me, of course?”

  “He is your follower, Captain Harris, must do so. I have been told of his doings on the Hercule’s deck, have been most impressed, have named him in my report.”

  “He was born a fighting man, sir, in one of the warrior tribes. I wish that I might be able to send him home again, one day, but he tells me that it is impossible, so he must stay with me, which is my gain, I truly believe.”

  “Take as well the two big men who were with him, Captain Harris – they also have earned the right, sir, and should be regarded as your followers, and I believe you have the means to provide for them in later life. My Flag captain will detail the rest of your men. Now, sir, the First of the Magpie has been given the gunbrig your Hornet took, as lieutenant in command, so the second becomes first, with a good enough report from his captain. Your standing officers are much as they always are, except that the gunner is forever sure he is ill – the belly ache, the marthambles, griping in the gut.”

  “Perhaps he is unwell, sir, poor man.”

  “Perhaps he is a bloody old woman, Captain Harris!”

  “That also is possible, sir – I shall make it my business to discover which.”

  “Do so. Whilst on medical topics, I have also made mention in my report of your surgeon, Isaacs, a brave man, one who should be remembered.”

  “Thank you, sir, it is all – and the least – we can do. We should not forget, either, the Frenchmen who died with him, doing their best to save the wounded of both nationalities.”