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

by Andrew Wareham

  A breath of fresh air, a tour of the main deck with Munson, listening, remembering, gaining the background he needed.

  “Spanish built, sir, taken in ’83, I believe. They uses some woods we don’t, but the bulk of their timber is natural grown, sir, bent into shape as a sapling, as it were, and then growing to the dimensions wanted over the years, strong and flexible. Not like our ships, sir – the shipwrights fighting the charcoallers for every bit of ‘ardwood, and thankful for anything they can lay their ‘ands on and ‘aving to nail it together any old ‘ow. We got good iron, sir, and so we got good guns, better nor they, but we pays the price, which is not being able to make able to make a ship anywhere near as good as the Frogs or Dons, or they Venetians what produces the prettiest ‘eavy frigates you ever did see.”

  This was a new concept to Frederick – most abstracts were, of course – and he had to think long on the idea before he could assimilate it, the more for coming from an agricultural county and never having seen a foundry or mill.

  “Still, sir, we mustn’t complain, being on the right side of it with Spanish hull and English cannon. We got caught on the edge of the hurricane what came through last year, late in the season and unexpected like, and the old Magpie just poked ‘er nose into the waves and rode ‘em all, quiet and peaceful like – more or less, that is – not worried at all. Hornet, she was ten miles further out nor us but damn near never made it ‘ome – English built, she is!”

  They completed stores courtesy of the delivery of some gold from Frederick’s pocket and the expectation of more – he was a famous prize-taker in the yard’s eyes, had brought a line of battle ship home from one sloop, would work even more wonders with another, was a man to be cosseted, would not be unmindful of his obligations, being a well-bred young gentleman too.

  Magpie sailed very comfortably equipped indeed, much to the pleasure of the hands. The people, suddenly fairly much uniformly dressed and far better fed, decided they liked the new man: they would have had doubts about any captain whose main claim to fame was that seven out of ten of his men had been killed in his last fight, but they concluded that it had not been his fault, would probably have been worse under another’s command. They listened to Ablett as he described the fight with the Hercule, chuckled over the forgotten sword, approved of the two Frogs cut down leading the first rush, nodded fiercely at the pistolling of the two French officers.

  “Got a good head on him, ain’t he? Thinks what he’s doing of. Me, I’d just have shot the first two buggers I saw, like, but the Captain, he picked out the two most useful.” The Captain of the Maintop gave his measured approbation, not an aitch mislaid, conscious that he was speaking as senior of all the petty officers. “Young the gentleman may be, but that is two boardings to his name, both desperate affairs where he has pulled irons out of fires that other people have made. Ordered into attack on a 74! Even with the two frigates working at her stern it wasn’t no sensible way of doing things, desperation, that’s what it was, and he pulled it off. He’s good at winning – and that’s good enough for me!”

  “He’s straight with the people, too,” Ablett added. “Not like some of these bloody would-be gentlemen.”

  As captain’s coxswain Ablett messed with the most senior of the crew now, and was listened to in their company. He was the most direct link the petty officers had with the quarterdeck, and, accepting that he had a personal loyalty to the captain, whose servant and retainer he now was, they could still use him to discover what was happening and to pass the message back when things were astray on the lower deck. Only in the saddest of ships did this network break down, and when it did disaster was inevitable.

  “He took me off of an American after I was recognised as having run. It was Hermione I’d left, but he treated it as if I’d gone from Lively, so as not to let that bastard Pigott at me, all because he don’t hold with the lash when it ain’t necessary.”

  “Hermione’s lost, mate. Missing on the Main.”

  “Mutiny,” Ablett responded. “Any money you like! They scragged Pigott and that bloody First of ‘is and took ‘er in, having no place else to go. They been talking about it for a twelvemonth – that’s why we legged it, me and Smithy, better deserters than choosing sides in a bloody mutiny.”

  “Bloody’s what it will ‘ave been, mate. Once the killing starts it don’t stop at the guilty men. All the officers, and anybody who gets in the way or don’t like it, and anybody who’s got a grudge gets a lick in. That first ten minutes is nasty, until they calms down and starts to think. I was there when they caught the blokes what took the York brig in ’82. They told the tale, and bloody near heart-breaking it was, every man overboard down to the smallest of the mids!”

  “And they hanged every one?”

  “All except the couple what turned Evidence for the court martial.”

  “They always do, mate.”

  Mutiny in the sense of refusing orders, disobedience, indiscipline, was surprisingly common – everyone knew of examples, two of the petty officers had served in mutinous ships, and it had not hurt their careers; but mutiny in the way of the red flag, bloodshed, betrayal of the ship to the enemy, was extremely rare and provoked an outraged reaction. If the Hermione had gone in, as seemed probable, then it were better for Pigott if he were dead, for he would be broken remorselessly, irrespective now of his connections and influence; as for the crew – every last man of them was walking dead, their names, descriptions, antecedents circulated and no mercy, no matter how many years passed before they were taken up.

  Every neutral stopped, every prize taken on this side of the Atlantic would be scoured for Hermiones for the next couple of years and any seaman who might possibly be English, a deserter, a renegade, would be brought in on the offchance that he might be one of the mutineers. Inevitably, deserters from other ships, long since given up for lost, would be hauled back to dance at the gratings, to curse Hermione, Pigott and all those vaguely connected with either.

  Sailing orders came, half a dozen stores to Jamaica, two frigates and a troopship watching interestedly to see what sort of a fist the new man was going to make of it – he had achieved notoriety, the telescopes would be on him.

  “’Magpie, Permission to Proceed, hoist, sir.”

  “Thank you, Gleeson. High on the tide – take her out, Mr Fraser. Course for Kingston, Mr Munson?”

  Fraser was flattered, the order was a public mark of confidence in him, a compliment. He sent Rogers forward to take his place at the anchor and brought the ship out in style, topsails set to aid the capstan, courses sheeted home a fraction earlier than Munson wished, passing the signal station on the point with a bone in her teeth and only two fathoms beneath the keel, peering interestedly at the pretty colours of the coral on the reef, very visible so close as they were. It was all very impressive to onlookers, no doubt, and pleasing to Frederick, who had wanted to know just how much enterprise there was in his premier.

  “Thank you, Mr Fraser, a job well done, a most excellent start, sir, to our many voyages together. Dismiss watch below. Station three cables windward of the convoy. Mr Gleeson, ‘Make more sail’ to the convoy. Your watch, Mr Jackman? Keep them together, kick any straggler’s arse, make such sail as is practical.”

  Frederick ostentatiously left the deck, called Fraser to his cabin. “Boy’s first watch as a lieutenant – best leave him to it – let him have the memory.”

  Fraser chuckled – he doubted there was more than six months between Jackman and the captain, and was not sure which was the elder. He did not see fit to explain the joke, though.

  A large schooner appeared on the third day, closed the convoy and invited Magpie to play chase, to follow downwind and then watch helpless as the schooner used her ability to point closer to the wind than any square-rigger and tacked happily back to the convoy to help herself.

  “There’s a name for that game, Mr Fraser! Hold station. Mr Jackman! Chaser, if you please. If she should come closer than four cables I w
ill give you the order to run out and fire. You will get but one round, so use it to the best advantage.”

  “Not much chance of a hit, sir,” Fraser commented.

  “Very little, but more unlikely things have happened, and the chance should at least be looked for, if only to annoy her.”

  In the event Jackman put a highly creditable hole in her mainsail and the privateer found better things to do elsewhere. The convoy the meanwhile had become wonderfully docile and obedient to command, clustering behind like oversize ducklings wishing only to follow mama home to safety, the navy changed from overbearing tyrants to every sailor’s friend and saviour.

  “Mr Gleeson, did you put your glass on her?”

  “Yes, sir, Spanish. Our Lady of Compostella. Four ports on a side, but I’m fairly sure two of them were empty. Two hundred tons, sir?”

  “Probably. Full of men.”

  “Jam packed, sir,” Fraser confirmed.

  “No taking that one – hold off and batter that would have to be. No prize money for the hull and forget about head money because you would never get an agreed count for the crew.”

  “Aye, sir, and the prisoners eating into our rations and swilling down the water so that our cruise would be cut short as well.”

  “Not so, Mr Fraser.” Frederick remembered Ainslie’s words, decided they still applied. “No quarter for privateers. They sink or they swim and make their own choice which, without our assistance. In Channel waters your privateer may be respectable, truly a private man o’ war, but out here half of them are pirates and the other half are waiting their turn, so down they go, gentlemen, and if they can’t swim they can always beg the sharks for a helping hand, like calling to like, as it were.”

  The words had been spoken, and the fate of future privateers had been sealed as far as Magpie was concerned.

  Making port uneventfully in Kingston, they found William a couple of days in after escorting the convoy almost to Ireland, there being a general nervousness amongst the merchantmen and far too much interest with the Admiralty to ignore their wishes.

  Magpie came to a berth a cable astern of William, considerately shielded from direct view of the flagship – what could not be seen could not be rebuked, and a new captain could be given a little leeway, especially when he was a very young and cherished new captain. Immediate orders to repair aboard the Admiral, as expected; the longboat, towing behind as soon as they entered sheltered waters, became the captain’s barge, Ablett mustering his newly selected men, each with Magpie neatly lettered on the band of his sennit hat, freshly shaven and tidy in clean shirt and trousers. Frederick entered his barge nervously clutching the great heap of papers even a short voyage generated, all for the Flag Captain to narrowly, mean-mindedly inspect or casually pass on, depending on his whim, character and hangover. Paperwork was an unending, terrifying imposition on the semi-literate seafarer – and the navy produced hardly any other sort; a clerk was essential, and knew so much that he had to become a follower, a personal retainer, not to be recruited lightly.

  A few sotto voce calls as they passed William, rowing very proudly, en route to the Admiral’s aged but seaworthy 64, relegated, like most survivors of her class, to colonial waters, to overawe the natives – in this case the Americans, who had chosen to build nothing larger than a frigate.

  “What ho, the shitehawk!” was loftily ignored, but “Huzzah for Hercules!” received smiling acknowledgements.

  Pipes and sideboys as he climbed the flagship’s side, still a delight – Frederick suspected they might always be – Flag Captain’s handshake and formal greeting, introduction to Rear Admiral Masters, renowned as a bloody-minded, nit-picking, petty autocrat, face wreathed in unexpected smiles.

  “Welcome, Captain Harris! Truly, sir, I am honoured! Not many of us have trodden the decks of a Frog 74 – and none living that I know of from a sloop. Well done, sir!”

  Frederick had been told that Masters had taken a French line of battle ship at the Saints, had excited little public comment, being one of several such victories in that great battle, had wondered if he might not show jealousy. Instead he found himself welcomed to the circle of the elite, which was very flattering, but possibly where Farquhar led, Masters followed.

  Brief inspection of his report, details of the convoy and his further orders, oblique reference to the Hermione, the navy’s shame, rapidly glossed over.

  “You will dine with me today, Captain Harris. Firewood and harbour food for your people, sail tomorrow forenoon.”

  The invitation held status of a Royal Command, could be refused with decorum only by a despatch carrier. Frederick accepted instantly, sure of a good meal, certain of too much wine.

  Bright and shiny in his best Frederick was returned to the Admiral for half past two, shore time in harbour, exactly ready to dine at three o’clock, the accepted meal time for the most senior officers.

  Formality at first, all conversation led by the Admiral as they assaulted his fresh beef, chickens and crayfish; a little more relaxation as a second remove entered and more wines circulated, blood hot in the tropical afternoon. Finally, an English suety pudding and they had reached the stage of toasting.

  The captain of the William caught the Admiral’s eye and rose in his seat, turned and bowed towards Frederick.

  “A glass of wine with you, Captain Harris. To you and your victory, sir!”

  Glasses drained, banging on the table and cries of approval from the navy; polite enquiry from the army, two colonels and a major; comprehension and respect from a quiet, black coated civilian, a functionary from Whitehall, Frederick had understood, on some sort of visit to the Sugar Islands.

  The William’s captain was prevailed upon to tell the story, of the two frigates snapping at the stern of the great third rate, failing to cripple her rudder, the desperation measure of sending in the sloop with her heavy carronades to cut up her rigging enough at least to slow her in her pursuit of the merchantmen.

  “Just a hope, sir – we knew Athene’s gunnery was good, had just seen her destroy a post ship in ten minutes. Ainslie of Thetis was senior, gave the order, warned us to take advantage of the distraction in any way we could. Athene bore away as if she were shy, the Frog ignoring her, then spun on her heel at a mile, set her courses and swooped downwind, banging away with a long thirty two chaser, turned a fraction as if to open her quarter and give a broadside before running, then crossed her bows unexpected at pistol shot firing chain, destroyed jibboom and foretopmast. Unfortunately they went over the side, sails set, like a sea anchor, spun the Frog through a right angle, broadside on. One full discharge and Athene’s done for, on her side and under the Frog’s forefoot – and they climbed aboard, cool as cucumbers, and set about the Frog’s crew! William and Thetis followed and between us we got their surrender, mainly because Athene’s men cut them up something vicious the ten minutes they were on their own. Three black men, two of them enormous fellows, had got a couple of skips of iron grenadoes, was tossing them calm as you please wherever the French tried to form up; one of the Athenes had gone mad, was slashing at everything in sight; Mr Harris here was leading a wedge of men, breaking them up. He pistolled two officers in person, I know, and his sword was running blood and him well-splashed with it when we met on the maindeck.”

  They looked at Frederick with a sort of knowing awe – they had all seen his like before, normally at their funerals. Mild-seeming chaps, well-mannered, quiet, slightly reserved and utterly insane in a fight, unbeatable because they had never learned to be defeated; there was generally an expression of surprise on their dead faces. They smiled and nodded to Frederick, glad he was on their side, not one they would ever have to meet across a blade.

  The civilian ventured to speak, nervous it seemed in such company.

  “I give you joy of your victory, sir! More than ever I think I took the wiser course in not seeking a military or naval career – I do not think I am made of that sort of stuff, sir! Were your casualties very high, Ca
ptain Harris?”

  “They were the highest I ever heard of, Mr Critchel,” Masters interposed. “Captain, second, master, two midshipmen and nearly seventy hands out of a bare hundred.”

  “I beg you will not forget the surgeon, sir! He and the purser and some French prisoners from the corvette were lost from going below to try to rescue more wounded from his sickbay. They could have saved themselves, had just enough time, but chose to aid the unfortunate, knowing the ship was foundering underneath them.”

  “Well said, Captain Harris,” the Admiral was silent a few moments, then turned to the civilian as if continuing an earlier debate. “There is still honour, sir, even amongst the bloodiest of Jacobins and regicides, it would seem.”

  “So I see – I concede the point. Being a Member and living my days at Westminster, I have become a stranger to the concept, of course. Possibly, on second thoughts, I should have been better advised to go to sea!”

  The army, well into its third bottle apiece, bright red in cheeks as well as coats, nodded careful agreement, their senior colonel raising his glass.

  “We regard one man in ten lost as hard fighting, sir. Your figures are beyond my experience, Captain Harris – yours is a fearsome service, sir. You have my respect. I drink to you, sir! By the bye, sir, you have the look of my neighbour, Lord Alton – are you one of the Hampshire Harrises?”

  “He is my uncle, sir.”

  Critchel, the politician, took note of this, committed Frederick’s face to his memory. Lord Alton controlled a number of votes in the Lower House.

  An hour more of increasingly incoherent anecdote, song and wit and the company rose – figuratively in most cases – and were borne away into the tropical darkness, cloaked in decent anonymity.

  The tide served soon after dawn and the Master and Fraser took Magpie out of the harbour, grinning quietly.

  “Good morning, gentlemen! I see we seem to have sailed?”

  “Good morning, sir! In compliance with your orders, given last evening, sir, we conformed to the Admiral’s signal.”