Both received the answer that Frederick had yet to read himself in and did not know the exact nature of his midshipman’s berth. Sir Iain Jackman was in the same state. They would be in Portsmouth in a week or so and the gentlemen should bring their sons along to the port then when they might be spoken to together.
It was almost a certainty that the midshipmen’s berth would have vacancies, but neither captain would wish to appoint boys unseen.
“You will come so soon after your wedding, Sir Iain?”
“Duty calls, Sir Frederick. Besides which, the chance of prize-money is always there and I am greedy for more land! The hills across from me towards Weymouth are little more than waste and can probably be purchased, and at no more than a pound an acre! Spend ten pounds atop of that and the gorses can be cleared and the turf reseeded and made more useful, and then it is sheep to the tops and cattle along the valley sides and wheat fields in the river bottom with only a little of drainage. Ten years and there is a fine estate, sir, and us settled as we should be. Two commissions, sir, and I shall leave the sea, I suspect, to sit in comfort on half-pay, climbing the list to become a Yellow Admiral and surrounded by admiring grandchildren!”
The precise opposite of Kavanagh. It was amusing to see the pair, so different in their hopes of life and yet so similar in many ways.
“Winchester is not, I suspect, a good ship and will almost certainly be in poor order.”
“After Arnheim, sir, nothing can unsettle me!”
“You have a point there, Sir Iain – she must compare well to a four-masted, broad-beamed, shallow-draught frigate! Yet if you can do one half as much in Winchester as you achieved in Arnheim then you will be famous yet again!”
They joined their wives at table, ate a baked dinner, aware that it was to be one of the last for some considerable time. The board was unusually lavish, Elizabeth having the same knowledge. Charlotte said very little, not in love with the idea of her husband going to sea so soon after their marriage, but knowing as well that he must take the opportunity or risk three or four years of half-pay before another ship came along. Even Nelson had spent years on half-pay, fretting at home in Norfolk – it could happen to any captain.
The captains sat and talked over their port, knowing that their wives would be in earnest discussion of female matters in the withdrawing room and that they should be left undisturbed for some little while.
“What of David LeGrys, Sir Frederick? Have you seen him of late?”
“I have received letters of him, no more. He is in London, working out of the chambers of Mr Rakeman, the barrister-at-law. They are speculating in land, furiously so. I am given to understand that there are fortunes to be made from coal, for example, and that the man who buys up moorland on the hills that contains coal measures may increase his money ten times over in a matter of months. They have put their efforts into the lower lands of the Midlands, the areas which are within reach of the new canals, and have made some very strategic purchases already in the Counties of Leicestershire and Derbyshire. They have not forgotten the local area either – and, although there is no coal hereabouts, they are actively promoting enclosures in those parishes where they have yet to occur. He will become a wealthy man, I suspect. He is, incidentally, deeply convinced that he has finally washed the sea out of his blood; the time sat under arrest in Antigua, certain that the noose awaited him, has cured him of that romance.”
“Good, on both counts. He deserves to become rich, if ever a lad did! I like what you tell me of Captain Warren, as well. He is a man of much merit, despite the impression he gives. Too old on becoming post-captain to have the real chance of taking a fleet to sea, yet he will do well enough to be happy eventually on land. Have you word of others of our acquaintance?”
“Forshaw has his frigate and is bringing her home from the East Indies, but not, it would seem, in time to join our squadron.”
Jackman laughed and shook his head.
“A very fine seaman, Mr Forshaw, but I shall be glad enough only to have his company on land!”
“My own sentiments, Sir Iain!”
“I am sure Captain Warren would also agree!”
“Other than that, none have come to my attention, though you may remember the boy, Harold-wiv-an-Haitch, who came to me from London a few years ago and became a gamekeeper to Sir Geoffrey Taylor? He disappeared from his estate a few weeks back, I discover, taking a pair of old fowling-pieces which he had apparently sawn short, almost to make them into great pistols. He was seen on the Mail, of all things, going up to London. Wymington, the butler, has reminded me that young Harold was rather bitter about the company he had been forced to keep as a street urchin, they having stolen from him the guinea which I gave him as a reward. I suspect that he may have decided that he is big enough to repay them in a proper fashion. I do hope he may be careful and not himself be shot, or picked up by the constables.”
It was reasonable to expect that the boy – the youth rather – would not come to harm from the authorities. It was rare for a criminal to be taken up except he was nabbed in commission of an offence and the constables never penetrated into the rookeries where felons preyed on each other. The criminal law was hardly a reality in the larger towns and provided the rich and influential were not the victims of crime then there was no prospect of investigation of offences. The Bow Street Runners attracted a little attention, but they worked to a fee and took rewards for the recovery of stolen property – they did not care about mere murders of minor criminals.
A week and orders arrived and Frederick took himself off to Portsmouth; he sent his little group of landsmen by coaster from Bridport, safer and quicker for them than walking across Dorset and Hampshire and being taken up by the Army or a press gang before they reached the ships in Portsmouth. The little brig also carried Frederick’s stock of personal provisions for his larder aboard ship; he had considered adding the chef, Sid, but he was far too happy working the kitchens at Abbey and Boorley Green, he could not fairly be uprooted.
Bosomtwi came up with a compromise, a boy from the estate who had worked under Sid for a twelvemonth and had learned some of his dishes and who could be persuaded out of the kitchen and off to sea. Frederick needed a cook, and he was a hopeful prospect.
The normal farewells and the realisation that Iain was rising ten, might well be a twelve or thirteen years old schoolboy when next he saw him. The old questions arose, whether it was worthwhile to spend so much of his life away from his family. It was too late now, but he left in sombre mood.
His cast of mind was little changed when he saw his squadron.
Endymion was at anchor in Spithead, a mile offshore and farther than most men would wish to swim, which gave an indication of the state of her crew. Winchester was at the Gun Wharf, in the hands of the Master Intendant who had his people scurrying about their business aboard her.
Mr Vereker’s frigate was not immediately obvious but the sloops and gunbrigs were clustered close about Endymion. Mr Dench’s Asp was small, as he knew, and he could see that the other sloop was little bigger while the brigs were neither much greater than one hundred tons. They would be useful in shallow waters – make the best of all that one had!
Courtesy demanded that he make his number with the Port-Admiral first. There had been a recent change and he was unsure just who it might be.
“Vice-Admiral Fenton, sir. I will see if he is available, Sir Frederick.”
The name was familiar, he had met the man, he knew.
The face was familiar, too, and none too welcome a sight.
“Good morning, sir!”
“Good morning, Sir Frederick. One gathers that you have done well since last we met, sir.”
“At the Cape, was it not, sir, in the year ’96?”
“It was indeed, Sir Frederick. As I remember, amongst other things, you took some very awkward soldiers off my hands.”
“So I did, sir, and much to my benefit. They did very well on Charybdis, and some have r
emained almost as followers, appearing in my crews at intervals since.”
“I am so pleased, Sir Frederick! You must hope that they will make another reappearance, for you will have need of them in your present command.”
Fenton appeared quite happy to offer that piece of information.
“Endymion is short-handed, I presume, sir.”
“She is, Sir Frederick; Winchester somewhat less so, Captain Sir Iain Jackman informs me. Captain Vereker’s Fair Isle frigate is well up for men, but poorly trained and the ship not in good repair, but seaworthy, he thinks. The sloops have been in commission these last months and are in good enough condition, and the gunbrigs are much as one might expect of such, tending towards the piratical in habit and looks.”
“That may be amended, sir. Commanded by lieutenants, I would imagine, and strong in comradeship even if weak in the external show of discipline. A long voyage to the Cape will give ample time to bring them together. Are we due a gaol delivery in the immediate future, sir?”
“No, Sir Frederick. There are quotamen due in from Wiltshire and Berkshire in the coming week. How many is debatable, but I shall ensure that your needs are seen to from them, if at all possible.”
That was less generous than it seemed. The two counties were far inland and their quotamen – balloted in much the same way as the militia, conscripted in effect – could be expected to be deeply agricultural. The process allowed for the payment of substitutes, again like the militia, and any of the better sort of men who were drawn would certainly have avoided service and would have hired a destitute labourer or denizen of a town’s gutters to serve in his place. Quotamen were not quite as bad as gaolbirds, but might display a number of similarities; additionally, they were often too old or infirm to make good seamen.
“Are there any from the prisoner-of-war camps who might be solicited to serve at sea, sir?”
Bonaparte’s armies had swept up recruits, more or less willing, from every nation in Europe, and a number from outside as well. It was not uncommon for captive soldiers to volunteer for service with the British forces. There might be a few seamen among them, but most would be landsmen. Frederick had taken released prisoners on a previous commission and had made sailors of them; it was worth trying again.
“I shall send a file of Marines to Portchester Castle to make enquiry and bring back any who are willing to serve, Sir Frederick. The chances are that some will be seeking the opportunity to escape imprisonment, of course.”
“Whatever their motives, sir, they will have two hands and may be pointed in the right direction.”
Admiral Fenton was happy to agree; he still had little affection for Frederick and would not be displeased to see him having to account for the return to Bonaparte of a few dozen of his men. At best Frederick would seem a fool for having given them the opportunity to sail away and desert.
“For the rest, Sir Frederick, all of your squadron have full rations aboard and have watered. Winchester is in process of having her upper tier of guns changed and should be done by the end of tomorrow. She had old eighteen-pounders which have been removed, and sent to scrap, I would add – they should have been taken away five years since, I am informed. Her ports have been relined and she is to carry carronades. Four of them, all that are to hand in Portsmouth, are of sixty-eight pounds; eighteen are of thirty-two; the remaining twelve are twenty-fours. I know this is in the highest degree unsatisfactory, Sir Frederick, but the Carron Works in Scotland cannot promise another dozen of thirty-twos for at least another month and you must sail within the week.”
“Five hundred and sixty pounds on the broadside,” Frederick said eventually after painful mental arithmetic. “Not to be sneezed at, and Sir Iain is a devil of a fellow with his carronades, as all know. The main battery is all of twenty-fours, I presume?”
“Forty of them, Sir Frederick, and a pair of chasers the same.”
“Is there anything on the quarterdeck?”
“Nothing, Sir Frederick, other than swivels. Her previous captain had shipped his own personal guns and took them with him at the end of his commission.”
It was not uncommon for a captain to carry his own cannon from ship to ship – Lord Nelson had possessed a pair of very large carronades, Frederick had been told.
“We must see what can be done while we are far foreign – all things may be possible in the farther parts of the world.”
“One must cultivate a philosophical frame of mind in the Navy, Sir Frederick. You are short of two lieutenants in Endymion, sir, and the gunroom is nearly empty.”
“A nuisance! Have you young men in Portsmouth who could be offered a place with me, sir?”
An olive-branch – every admiral must be expected to have favoured lieutenants who would wish to be given a ship.
“Thank’ee, Sir Frederick. I can find two able young men who would do well on your quarterdeck, and there is a youngster with two years in who could become one of your mids, if you were of such a mind.”
“Send all three along, if you would be so good, sir.”
Frederick would wait with interest to see the officers; he expected they would be good enough. He also imagined that Fenton would find some way to acknowledge his favour before they sailed.
Endymion was not a pleasant sight to behold – she was everything that Frederick had been warned of. She was old, undermanned and short of officers and much that should have been done had been skimped, for lack of a supervisory hand. Any man with ability or influence had done his best to escape her; many had succeeded and had been replaced by those who lacked their ingenuity or luck. The officers, both commissioned and warrant, who remained were without exception poverty stricken, their pockets to let; a number were too old to find another ship; none looked brilliantly ambitious.
Most rarely, the master was utterly useless, combining age, limited ability and massive drunkenness in spectacular fashion; he greeted Frederick by pulling himself to attention and losing his balance, falling to the deck where he vomited copiously, causing Frederick to dance clear to save his half-boots. Both appeared foolish. Frederick also very rapidly, as he assessed the situation, looked wildly outraged.
“Master-at-arms! Who is he? Where is he?”
The master-at-arms came running from the waist where he had been helping to place the crew in lines to await Frederick’s reading-in.
“Sir! Arrest Mr Coombe, sir? In irons, sir?”
He seemed eager to perform his function.
“Yes and yes. Convey him onshore, take him to the Provost’s lock-up and throw him into a cell.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Quick second thoughts overcame the anger; it was as well to have a very precisely defined crime when charging a senior warrant officer.
“Delay one minute before you leave the ship.”
Frederick turned to the appalled First Lieutenant, saw that he had at least been quick-thinking enough to have buckets of water thrown on the deck and sweepers scattering sand before cleaning the mess.
“Wickham, sir, premier.”
“Read me in, Mr Wickham.”
The crew had watched in absolute silence, suppressing their natural laughter. They knew that this new captain had already been provoked well beyond anything wise; he would be in no mood for more.
Mr Wickham was balding, stooped and skinny, except for a middle-aged pot-belly; he was forty if he was a day, Frederick thought. He had a thin, reedy, parsonical sort of voice to go with it. He was perhaps the least-inspiring lieutenant he had ever come across, but he managed to perform the ceremony.
Once read-in Frederick could lawfully give orders aboard – which would be important when it came to any court-martial. Had he arrested the drunken master without authority then any conviction would be invalid; now he could go through with the business, if he could think of an obvious court-martial offence. He had never heard of a conviction for puking on the captain’s feet; he could make himself the laughing-stock of the Navy if he was not careful.
“Belay that order, master-at-arms. Just get the drunken fool off my ship and out of my sight! Take him to the dockyard gates and boot him out into the street. Tell him never to set foot on this ship again, if he is in any state to understand you.”
“He is starting to heave again, sir.”
Frederick waved a hand in disgust.
“Take him away, master-at-arms!”
Two of the boatswain’s mates fell in and grasped the prisoner’s arms and led him off in solemn procession along the quay, stepping out behind the master-at-arms and trying to keep the master at a distance from their clean, official shoes.
Frederick turned to the premier again, begged to be introduced to the officers.
The single other lieutenant was very young, newly made and possessed of little obvious distinction.
“Mr Petersfield, sir.”
He was of average height, stockily built, perfectly ordinary, it seemed.
Boatswain and Carpenter and Gunner were old but seemed adequate; three master’s mates introduced themselves, two with accents that said they came from the lower-deck, one more likely to be a midshipman by origin. There were two small midshipmen in the line, neither of man’s growth, but not abnormally spotty or stupid at first sight.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I will speak to you all later, one at a time. Boatswain, the hands to clean and polish, if you would be so good. I will wish to see your list when I speak to you."
If the boatswain was competent he would have a written statement of repairs and improvements ready to hand.
"Who is senior master’s mate?”
A man in his mid-twenties stepped forward.
“Mason, sir.”
“I wish you to act as master for the while, Mr Mason. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir. Beg pardon, sir, but I ‘as been doin’ that this last year and more, sir.”
Far Foreign (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 9) Page 3