“Only if I live long enough, my love! Everything still is seniority – all of the ranks of admiral to crawl through before I reach the peak. I am to have a sea-going appointment, my last for many years, I doubt not, but the First Lord writes that it is to be ‘substantial’, whatever that may mean. I am to take the cutter that brought the messenger here and report to him at soonest. Will you wish to close the house here and travel south as soon as you may?”
“I shall pay the housekeeper to remain until the lease expires, Frederick, keeping a bare-bones staff to maintain the house in good order. We had planned to make a second visit to the Keartons next month, if you recall. I would wish to do so and return to Long Common and then the Abbey from there. What is to be done for Jerningham?”
Their northern butler had given good service and both were unwilling simply to let him go.
“My mother is less strong in herself these days, my dear. A butler at Boorley Green would take much of the burden of running the house from her. A housekeeper as well, perhaps?”
The housekeeper had shown herself hard-working and competent, would fit in very well, they thought.
“Jerningham is London-bred, at home anywhere in the country, but Arkenthwaite is a North Country woman, might not do so well in Hampshire.”
“Well-thought, Elizabeth. We must speak to both.”
Jerningham was pleased to remain in Frederick’s service and would willingly travel into the Southern parts of England; he implied in fact that in exchange for a place for life he would go to the Antipodes or even warmer regions. Mrs Arkenthwaite had a mother, and a sister as well, and could not bring herself to leave them and go foreign. She thanked them for the kind offer, but was sure that she could find something in civilised parts.
Elizabeth smiled, tried not to seem long-suffering, while Frederick waited as his bags were packed.
“I shall go to Long Common from the Admiralty, my dear, unless I am immediately ordered elsewhere. I hope for Portsmouth ships, of course.”
“But that cannot be a certainty, Frederick.”
“Nothing is certain, ma’am, when it comes to the Admiralty.”
The North East could offer an outrageous stretch of ocean when the mood was upon it, blowing up full gales out of nothing, its shallow waters churning into short, tall seas that could sink its fishing boats and all too often drive larger craft ashore on its many sandbanks, drowning whole crews within shouting distance of land. Mostly, it was a pleasant location to cruise, mild winds, commonly from the south and west, but with sea room to make one’s tacks and, in a fore-and-aft rigged cutter, turn in a swift passage.
“A yachting trip, sir,” Frederick said politely to the young lieutenant whose first command she was.
“A fine little vessel, Sir Frederick, and one that behaves prettily in even the least breath of a wind. I have had her only six weeks, Sir Frederick, cannot tell just how she might do in a winter’s gale, full of snow and on an invisible lee-shore, but I do not think she would ever let me down.”
Frederick kindly agreed – he was sure she would be as stout-hearted a cutter as one could ever find. He had some doubts about her captain, however, not of his valour, but of his judgement; Frederick did not claim to be a great seaman, but he had noticed the hands – mostly older men, long aboard – shaking their heads and sucking their teeth more than once when a tack was called. The boy had much yet to learn, he suspected. He wondered who he was and how he had gained his command.
“Mainwaring, sir, my name. My uncle is Sir Peter Parker, sir.”
The Parkers were one of the greater naval clans – the boy had gained his command through influence, applied probably at too early a stage in his career.
Frederick had no objections at all to a little of genteel corruption – that was the way of the world, and especially of the Navy – but it should, he felt, be applied with a modicum of discretion. Was young Mr Mainwaring to take his cutter to Gibraltar, a common run for an Admiralty packet, then he might well not survive the crossing of the Bay of Biscay, a stretch that was notoriously intolerant of poor seamanship. It was not his personal concern, however, provided the young man navigated the hazards of the Thames Estuary, itself a most dangerous part of the globe, because of its traffic.
They passed Shoeburyness in the dark hour before dawn, entering the busy waters of the Thames under a fine crowd of sail. Frederick had woken early, due to the wardroom steward choosing to whistle a jaunty little tune immediately outside the door to his tiny cabin.
“Oh, beg parding, sir! Seeing as you’re awake, sir, you might like to go on deck for a while, so as to let me to set out a breakfast, sir.”
Frederick was able to listen to that little speech – stilted and carefully planned – and read far more into it than was said. The steward wanted him wide awake and on deck, and had a good reason for so doing.
First light of dawn showing in the east; a single light to starboard, various stern lanterns through the whole of the west, abaft the bows; the cutter laying over and racking up a good ten knots, two hands on the tiller and both watches on deck and coincidentally close to their places of duty. Lieutenant Mainwaring rubbing his hands with glee; the master’s mate who was his second and the only other watchkeeper mute beside him, evidently rebuked. Kavanagh, Bosomtwi and Olsen were stood silently, as they must be on another man’s ship, faces sharing a black scowl, out of the way in the waist; Bosomtwi had in his hand a little, canvas-wrapped package with leather straps to tie on his back, containing all of his valuables, Frederick suspected.
Lieutenant Mainwaring saw nothing that he did not wish to.
“We shall take our berth before eight o’clock, Sir Frederick, the tide still with us.”
“A remarkably fast passage, sir, provided, of course, that we negotiate the lesser hazards of the river, such as what seems to be no fewer than seven of Thames barges tacking across our bows.”
Thames barges were slow, carried almost no crew, and claimed right of way on the River. The wise mariner gave them wide berth.
Lieutenant Mainwaring had seen the lanterns, had not recognised the craft carrying them; he now stripped sail in a great hurry, swearing at the men for being dilatory and hazarding the vessel through their sloth and incompetence.
The master’s mate was informed that he was jeopardising his whole career by displaying such poor seamanship; he was wise enough to remain silent. Frederick waited his chance, spoke to the warrant officer later.
“Your name is what, sir? I am afraid that Lieutenant Mainwaring forgot to introduce you.”
“Parrett, sir. Two years aboard, sir.”
Unspoken was that Mr Parrett knew how to sail the cutter.
“Time to move on, perhaps, Mr Parrett. I am to hoist my flag, as you may know, and will certainly require the services of any number of bright young men. If you present yourself aboard my flag when possible, be sure that I shall not have forgotten you.”
Parrett made his thanks, smiling for the first time since Frederick had seen him.
“Be pleased to, thank’ee, sir. Time to move up to a rated ship, sir, as you suggest. Might be I shall live longer, too, sir.”
They docked just before midday, the tide having turned and made the last few miles tediously slow, but having missed, narrowly, every other of the hundreds of small and large vessels making their passage in both directions. The Thames was one of the busiest waterways in the known world – Canton and its river were sometimes thought to match it – and collisions were a commonplace and drownings not infrequent; Frederick was content to have survived.
The First Lord was, he said, delighted to see Frederick, that he had made so swift a passage.
“I took advantage of the cutter, of course, my Lord. The young gentleman in command is one who has a belief in a full suit of sails, my Lord, almost irrespective of conditions.”
“Ah! I see. He has a little to learn, perhaps. A cutter will make him a very good school.”
“It will indeed, my Lor
d, but I might not send the most important of messages in his custody, for fear that they might end up cast ashore or rolling along the sea bed.”
“There’s blunt for you, Sir Frederick! You might say that he has a lot to learn, in fact?”
“In the Naval Alphabet, my Lord, I doubt he has passed the letter ‘B’.”
My Lord laughed, and spoke to his secretary, suggesting that the young gentleman might be found other employment as a matter of some urgency.
“An Admiral’s opinion of a junior officer, Sir Frederick, is not lightly to be ignored! Now, sir, your orders, and the means with which you will carry them out. The Board has given much thought to the problems of the Barbary Coast, Sir Frederick, the more especially for the villain Bonaparte having stirred the Rovers back into piratical ways again. Indeed, there is reason to suspect the presence of a number of French vessels in their ports, and possibly French crews stiffening the gunners of some of their galleys and xebecs. You have some knowledge of the Levant, and this is what you are to do, sir…”
A post-chaise to Long Common where they settled for two nights before descending on Portsmouth. Frederick made his call on his mother, discovered that she was aging – but so, he suspected was he; she could not hold back her tears at the sight of his arm, had been unable to reconcile herself to the wound in the nearly two years since she had first seen it.
“Back to sea again, Mother. I am Rear-Admiral now.”
“Your father would have been so proud, Frederick! I do not doubt that he is looking down in delight now. A pity that your poor brother could not have lived to see your glory!”
“A shame indeed, Mother.”
Frederick reflected that his poor brother would by now have been an insane, dribbling wreck if he had survived another twenty years; it was as well that he had fallen from his horse and then to the pneumonia when he did. He did not say so, however, merely commiserated with his mother’s loss, sadder to her now, perhaps, than it had been at the time.
The estate was in good shape, he saw, the agent well on top of the job. There was no need actually to venture into his office, which both men preferred.
He returned to the house to make his farewells.
“I am to venture into the Mediterranean, Mother, may well not be back for two or even three years, depending on the progress of the war.”
“Then you must take my blessing with you, Frederick, and my dearest love, for I know not that we shall meet again.”
It was a gloomy parting, but soon cast into the background by the simple delight of raising his flag at Portsmouth.
He had entered the Port Admiral’s office to discover what his ships were to be, had been made very kindly welcome. He did not know the admiral he found in command, had not made himself aware of all the changes posted in the Naval Gazette over his two years ashore, which was rather slack, he discovered; he should have known better. It was a Vice-Admiral of the White, which was not unexpected in the greatest naval base, but the name was unwelcome.
“Parker, Sir Frederick! How do you do, sir?”
Frederick much hoped that Lieutenant Mainwaring had yet to make contact with his uncle; the greeting might easily sour thereafter.
“I am well indeed, sir. I trust I find you in good health?”
“Touch of the gout now and then, Sir Frederick – the old enemy. It seems to catch us all, you know.”
The illness certainly seemed to run in some families, Frederick knew, but it was commonly those families with a habit of hitting the bottle, he believed.
“Now, Sir Frederick. I have the bulk of your squadron in the dockyard or moored in the harbour. The last of them left the dockyard’s hands only last week and is still making up its guns and stores. I have to say that I shall be glad to see you sail, Sir Frederick, for the space that you will leave me. The squadron has been gathering for two months now, inevitably – one cannot bring so many ships together in just a day or two. Your Flag Captain has been appointed and has the orders in hand. It is known that the bulk of your people remained in the Med in their appointments when you were invalided, so the Admiralty has not scrupled to send their own choices aboard.”
Frederick had expected nothing else; very few of his favourites were to be discovered in England.
“I have yet to see my orders, Admiral, so I shall be glad to sit down with them. The First Lord gave me the verbal, of course, yet it is as well to be familiar with the written, I believe.”
“By God, it is, Sir Frederick! Many a man has come unstuck for relying on what was said to him rather than the exact words written down. You are very wise to know that, sir. I shall signal your flagship for a boat, Sir Frederick. She is the Conquest of eighty-four guns, a two-decker and one of the greatest of the third-rates, and with a suite for an admiral, in the Spanish fashion. She was taken off Santo Domingo in the last war, in the Year Ninety-Five, and has been remade twice, is very English in many ways, but has the Spanish predilection for spaciousness. I believe you will find her a fast and powerful ship, Sir Frederick. Indeed, I would like her for my flag!”
Frederick did not know Conquest, and noted that she was the better part of twenty years old – but Victory was fifty, as an example, and none the worse for it.
“What else have I, sir?”
“A pair of two-deckers, Sir Frederick, 74 and 64; a frigate of 32 and a post ship of 24, both useful ships, I believe; no fewer than four sloops and six of brigs and cutters, for there will be much of inshore work, it is supposed. Fifteen sail, Sir Frederick! Add to that, a pair of stores whose main function is to carry a half-battalion of Marine soldiers and their necessities. You may note, Sir Frederick, the word ‘soldiers’, for these are not in the ordinary way of Marines, having been only recently added to the strength – but they have experienced officers, in part.”
Every instinct Frederick possessed shouted the alarm at that point – just what was the nature of this anomalous half-battalion?
A flag-lieutenant appeared, brought himself to the languid attention suitable to a youth of his standing, and announced Sir Frederick’s boat. Frederick looked the boy up and down and smiled very gently.
“Thank you, sir.”
He turned to Vice-Admiral Parker, stiffened and raised his hat fully from his head.
“Thank you for your courtesy and help, sir. Good day, sir.”
He left, hearing the Admiral’s raised voice demanding to know why, if a Rear-Admiral could offer such courtesy, his flag-lieutenant could not. Frederick grinned and made his way outside to be picked up by his entourage and led in the proper direction.
Kavanagh, as coxswain, stepped into the launch in front of Frederick while Bosomtwi and Olsen waited to load the baggage into the cutter following behind. Frederick accepted Kavanagh’s arm as he shifted from the Steps into the boat, last in as senior officer; he wished he could have shown independent, but was certain he would look very foolish if he fell over the side, would probably never recover his dignity for the rest of his career. The story would have spread throughout the whole fleet within the month, he knew, ‘Fearless Fred so drunk he fell out of the boat’.
The Spanish built two-decker was tall, the ladder up the side high, the tumble-home slight until the final few feet. As senior officer, Frederick must be first out of the boat; that was tradition that could not be broken; it was impossible for Kavanagh to go before him and give him a hand across the gap. He shrugged, stood and stepped casually across, was taken by surprise as the bow oar leaned forward and grabbed him around the legs, out of sight from above, until he had his balance. He took a step up and Kavanagh followed close and made sure that he could not fall back. He continued up to the top, the pipes starting and ceremonial commencing as his hat brim appeared level with the deck.
He stepped forward and the captain saluted him, matched by every other man on deck, and his flag was hauled to the mizzen masthead and the guns began to crash, every ship in his squadron within the second of each other; thirteen guns apiece thundering ac
ross the whole harbour.
It was delightful, the pinnacle of his ambition reached, the final hurdle overcome; nothing now stood between him and Admiral of the Fleet, other than longevity, and that was out of every man’s control.
“Welcome aboard, sir!”
His Flag Captain ventured a smile, Frederick being known for not standing too much on his dignity.
“Arbuthnot, sir. May I introduce my officers, sir?”
“I should be very pleased if you would do so, Captain Arbuthnot. No fewer than five lieutenants, I see.”
“Yes, sir. Conquest is heavily gunned and, as you see, has a poop, a partial third deck, demanding an extra man to the guns. I believe in fact that Conquest is the greatest of our two-deckers.”
The five young men were named and lifted their hats; they seemed very typical of officers – young, within reason athletic, gentlemanly in deportment – all as it should be. Frederick listened to their names and promptly forgot them – he would pick them up in the years to come. The master came next and was familiar, but Frederick could not put a name to him.
“Relph, sir. I served aboard the bomb, Etna, in your company some years since, sir.”
“So you did, Mr Relph, and have made your way rapidly in the profession, sir.”
“I have been fortunate, sir.”
“It is said that men make their luck, Mr Relph. You are very welcome here, sir.”
Frederick took a glance at the rows of faces of the lower deck men, all at their places for Divisions and in as close to parade order as seamen could ever come.
There was no gain to making a speech and nor would he order an extra rum issue to celebrate their seeing his face. When they had achieved something, had a victory to celebrate, then he would splice the mainbrace; not now, however. He glanced again at the men, realised that there were familiar faces there; a few seamen who had served with him before and had happened to be in Portsmouth would have fiddled a transfer to Conquest, or have simply deserted their own ships and come aboard.
“Thank you, Captain Arbuthnot. My people should have reached my quarters by now. Would you come to my working cabin in ten minutes, sir?”
Shores of Barbary (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 12) Page 7