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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Yes, sir – with no reflection at all on Mr Fraser, he had no experience in action and I wanted him where I could see him, get the measure of the man. Jackman I know to be wholly reliable – he would do the right thing with me away. Next time, sir, I stay in the ship, Fraser commands the boats – he will get his chance now that I know I can trust him. Jackman needs another year of naval experience, I think, perhaps two, before he should have his step.”

  Farquhar nodded, the explanation accepted. He glanced at Frederick’s written report.

  “You stayed two days in the harbour, Captain Harris?”

  “Yes, sir – I judged it would take the Spanish that long to react, to decide what to do and then get permission to do it. From all I have been told they are brave fighting men, but take so long making their minds up the battle is decided before they get there.”

  “Commonly true – but do not get overconfident, sir – there are exceptions to every rule. You were right to take the chance, though, from what I see here.”

  “Yes, sir – seven of the merchantmen were big enough to bring in, so we emptied six smaller into them, and went through the yard, sir, stores always a concern. Only a small yard, sir, but it works a stand of tall, straight hardwood back in the hills – which is why it is there, I suspect. Two dozens of straight-grained, seasoned spars, sir, ready to ship out to the naval yards in Spain. They are on the decks of the four brigs, sir.”

  Frederick made no mention of the stores that now jam-packed the Magpie’s hold space, of the Spanish powder brought away for practice, the uncovenanted rum in the purser’s lazaretto, the fresh foodstuffs almost all used up in the last week of rich eating. It was custom, after all, and it would only have been wasted otherwise, when the government stores of the place were burned. The Admiral chose not to pursue the matter.

  “Your barquentine was condemned yesterday, local merchants having formed a syndicate to buy her in and seeing no reason for the court to delay. There is a need for a large ship, it would seem, to run up to the States to buy wheat, and the opportunity was too good to miss. She was, incidentally, carrying emeralds and pearls, found by your man Rogers, possibly worth five thousands in their own right – the agent is sending them to London to sell, will need several months before he has the cash to hand, but thought it the best course, there being no market for such here.”

  “I have been lucky, sir – a most fortunate cruise.”

  “Ride your luck, Captain Harris – it will not last for ever, it never does, so make the most of it. Four days in harbour, sir, before you go out again. Your men must have the chance to spend their money – no doubt the local whores are bracing themselves!”

  # # #

  Here’s an excerpt from the beginning of Book Two in the Series: The Bitter Land.

  That first cruise set the pattern for a busy, profitable year. The Admiral received one eighth of the value of every ship and cargo taken and, in the nature of things, sent successful prize takers out to the richest of cruising grounds: every convoy Magpie escorted was followed by its cruise back, commonly by the most circuitous of routes, and she returned with prizes or recovered deserters every time she made port.

  The Americans came not to love her, for Magpie would take every English, Welsh, Scots or Irish accent on the grounds that having been born in Britain they could not be American citizens, were obviously subjects of the Crown, and, being British seamen, must be deserters from somewhere. Backed by her guns the Magpie’s boarding parties could not be gainsaid, and diplomatic protests, months after the event, could be swept aside, met by blanket denial of wrongdoing, and the shortage of skilled men was already an embarrassment to the navy. In addition, the Americans made no secret of their essential hostility, of their wish to conquer Canada, of their eventual desire to make the Sugar Islands part of their sphere of influence, so it was a pleasure to rub their noses in the reality of their own weakness at sea.

  The favoured ships made their cruises, took their prizes, showed high efficiency; other frigates and sloops shepherded convoy after convoy, if they cruised made their patrols in barren waters, demonstrating their lack of prowess by their empty-handed return – the Admiral wanted success, his captains must give it him, if they expected his patronage. Magpie and a few others were reliable – three years in the West Indies was often argued to be worth a hundred thousand to a flag officer, and these ships did their very best to prove it true.

  Farquhar sailed home, his flag gracing Hercule, coincidentally released by the dockyard, repairs completed, his confidential briefing to his successor praising Frederick to the heavens; the new Admiral, knowing none of his captains on station, accepted his recommendation and sent Magpie off cruising, smiled beatifically at his bank balance and despatched her to the richest waters again.

  Magpie cruised the Main, the Louisianas, the waters of Cuba; she circled Martinique every couple of months, it seemed. Rogers was sent in with a prize brig, fell in with a pair of schooners in the dawn, overawed them into panicked surrender, entered English Harbour in triumph, left with a commission in his pocket, Third on the William, his captain promising Frederick that he would keep an eye on his young man, for the love he bore him.

  Fraser remained, in piratical heaven, counting his prize money and his blessings quite equally, working furiously to be the best premier a captain could want; he expected never to be promoted now, was not too concerned at the prospect, his future was secure, he would go to half-pay in his forties and his retirement would be comfortable. The crew worked together as well, commonly in an alcoholic or venereal haze, conversation almost entirely who had done what or drunk what or had how many on the last run ashore, and what they were going to do again, at even greater length, next time. A few of them sent their money home, and they were happy, too, but much quieter about it.

  In August of 1795 Frederick was called formally to the Admiral’s presence, the day after Charlotte had limped into harbour, storm-battered, jury-rigged and pumping hard.

  “Charlotte was caught by a squall, Captain Harris, off Martinique. A great electrical storm was bearing down, and all eyes to starboard, when a white squall blew down off the mountain – as has happened before in those waters. On her beam ends, main and mizzen topmasts gone, Captain Marston struck by a falling block. A little luck and a great deal of seamanship by master and first, and they recovered, though not before the hull was thumped something cruel by the butt end of the maintopmast. She is here, however, and Captain Marston is in the hospital and will, I am told, be invalided if he should recover at all – his intellects disordered, shoulder smashed and right arm powerless, and the doctors shaking their heads and pouring laudanum into him for lack of any other treatment.”

  “Poor fellow,” Frederick said, feeling he had to make some comment.

  “So, Captain Harris, Charlotte is yours, and you are made post into her. Not an unalloyed blessing, I regret to say, for you are to take Charlotte home to Portsmouth, and I shall be amazed if they do not sell her out of the service, to firewood, I expect. You do not have to take the appointment, of course.”

  He could remain as a cruising Master and Commander, for ever, for the chance of promotion would not come again, once turned down: evidently the Admiral felt he must make the offer in justice to Frederick, but would not object if he refused. Intriguing! There must have been pressure, influence brought to bear – presumably Farquhar, possibly Lord Alton, who had political ‘clout’ – Frederick thought that was the word. He could not refuse without causing offence to the unknown wielders of power who had aided him, in any case wanted desperately to be made, to move on to a bigger ship, to greater things. He would not object to returning to England, had been more than two years away, had unfinished business there, and the wherewithal to put down his roots. He made his thanks, accepted with real pleasure.

  He was on the List, and promotion could cease to concern him for the next fifteen to twenty years, for seniority alone ruled his rise now. An Admiral’s flag came with pos
ition on the List, only the most unlikely of Royal interventions possible to hasten his progress. As men senior to him died, or themselves became admirals, or, rarely, were dismissed or left the service, so his name would rise until, quite inevitably, one day he would be Rear Admiral Harris, hopefully of the Blue Squadron; possibly he would be deemed unfit for employment, would be ‘yellowed’, without Squadron, but that generally occurred because of advanced age or infirmity – although political unreliability could supervene. He would be young enough, easily; injury and illness were outside his control, so, provided there was a war, he could reasonably expect to fly his flag. There was always a war, somewhere; if the French did not oblige, the Spanish were available and the Dutch had a large navy while the Turks and Barbary pirates needed slapping down at intervals, and the Americans would always be the better for having their arses kicked. Professionally he was home and dry, unless politics became involved – a dirty business and one the navy did not like, and this was a very early promotion, and he did have connections…

  Nothing to be done about it until he was home, and very little then in all probabilities – make the most of it, live for today. Two months would see him unemployed, he suspected – the most junior captain on the list, his ship paid off, in England before his time. There were always more captains than ships, there had to be, to guarantee there would be a choice available, so that Their Lordships could match man to ship to task in hand – he would be some months, at least, ashore. Well, he was not poor and he had things he could find to do.

  “Lieutenant Fraser, sir, my premier, has shown himself capable and energetic.”

  “And old.”

  “Well into his thirties, sir.”

  “I will give him the cutter, Able, as lieutenant in command. If he has the dash, he will make a job of it, and I will make him in six months, and he will have a few guineas in his pocket.”

  “He will have his chance, then, sir. I do not know Able?”

  “Hired vessel, four four pounders, a half dozen swivels. We have a use for a shallow-draught, handy little vessel to work the cays, roust out the little nests of pirates and privateers and pick up merchantmen working their way from reef to reef under local pilots.”

  A young man’s craft – not for the older, less flexible, more responsible men, this was for wild boys who thought risking their necks to be great fun. It was the only chance Fraser would ever get, and it was a hard service.

  “The Lord giveth…”

  “And the Lord taketh away, Captain Harris.”

  “So be it, sir. May I tell him, sir, in full?”

  “Make it so. He will read himself in tomorrow, you the day after. What of your Jackman?”

  “A good lad, indeed, sir. If he should come to England with Magpie when she pays off, next year, perhaps, sir? Then he could come to me again, for I ought to be at sea then or thereabouts.”

  “Four years on station, it will be time, I expect.”

  “Gleeson and Arkwright, sir, are both deserving young men and I beg that you will bear them in mind.”

  “They are already on my list, Captain Harris, for the letter which is on their file for Hercule. You may be assured that they will face their Board at the earliest possible moment.”

  # # #

  Thank you for reading Book One of The Duty and Destiny Series. Please take a look at my other novels highlighted on the following pages.

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  Thanks once again, Andrew

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  About the Author

  I graduated from university in 1968 with a degree in Politics, Economics and Economic History, taught Economics and Economic History for ten years, including a spell in Papua New Guinea, got bored and returned to PNG as a trainer and operational police officer. I remained there with my family, still keeping up my interest in Economic History - including Australasia - then worked contracts in the Middle East until my wife's ill-health and eventual death meant setting up a family base in the UK. History, and collecting Victorian glass, my sole hobbies, apart from looking after three St Bernards. As long as people continue to read my books, I will continue to write about history - a subject close to my heart.

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