Shores of Barbary (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 12)

by Andrew Wareham

  “God, no, Sir Frederick. A post-captain dangling from his own yardarm is not what I wish to have remembered in my command. Mr Paget did us both a favour, in fact. What of his Surgeon, though? Should he remain aboard? I am not too certain that I like the idea of a medical man with his hand in the poisons bottle.”

  Frederick was surprised, regarded the statement as a tad naïve.

  “It is part of a doctor’s job at sea, sir. Many a man brought down in action with his guts hanging out of his belly has been thankful for a quick release from his agony, a vein opened or a hand over his mouth and nose. We know it happens, and are quietly glad for it. This was merely to extend the concept of the mercy killing – and I am sure the lower deck will know and be most grateful to him.”

  The admiral knew of such things – every officer must – but might have preferred not to have been reminded of them. He made his farewells and sent Frederick off, wishing him a happy return to Albion’s shores, covered equally with glory and prize-money, laughing a little enviously as he did so.

  Book Twelve: The Duty

  and Destiny Series

  Chapter Four

  The wind was foul, as was commonly the case when making south and west from Portsmouth. The squadron made a series of short tacks across the Channel to the coast of Brittany, and then a series of even shorter tacks almost to Lands End before, at the end of an exhausting week - unbroken sleep for none of the seamen - they escaped into the outer reaches of Biscay and the edges of an Atlantic storm.

  This was when being an admiral was a particularly fine thing, Frederick thought. He took his meals at regular times, slept his eight hours undisturbed, stood high on the poop with his telescope, watching and assessing the seamanship of the whole of his command, all in his distant glory, for he had no ship to sail, no pressing duties to occupy his every minute.

  Conquest was handled most competently by his flag-captain, Arbuthnot. Preston laboured, sagging off the line no matter how Captain Baker tried to make her conform; she was incapable of fighting her way against the wind.

  “Reduce sail, Captain Arbuthnot. Preston will be opening her seams, pitching and rolling as she is. I do not want to see her forced to leave the line and make her own way to the rendezvous – it would be a bad start to the commission, though, indeed, I cannot see her surviving another two or three years in our company.”

  “A sad ship, sir, but fortunate in a captain who is able to get the best from her. A poor best, but many another might have been forced back into the Channel, sir.”

  “Very true, Captain Arbuthnot. A poor vessel, but with a massive broadside that may well be very useful in its proper place inshore.”

  Frederick examined the rest of the line, within reason satisfied with what he saw. The frigate, Lachesis, 32, was just where she should be, an exact four cables astern of the Flag – but any frigate should be more weatherly than a two-decker. The post-ship, Sandwich, 24, followed, unfussed. The four sloops were in line astern of each other and, as far as he could tell, precise in their station keeping. The pair of stores were in place, holding well enough for hired vessels. The three brigs were in a line of their own four cables off the beam and the cutters were free, many leagues ahead, doing their job of scouring the ocean in the faint hope of discovering an enemy – though there should be none in these waters, blockade runners few these days and no report of any ships breaking out from French ports. Harfleur was bringing up the rear, her job to run down on members of the squadron in need of assistance for any reason, and giving Captain Paget the opportunity to take charge of his ship without the admiral breathing down his neck.

  “Three weeks to Gibraltar, Captain Arbuthnot?”

  “Twenty-two days, I expect, sir. Could be worse. Will be if this half-gale turns more southerly, sir.”

  “What does the master say?”

  “He thinks it will blow itself out overnight, sir. In his opinion, there will be a north-westerly to succeed it, a very favourable wind.”

  “Is he a weather-prophet?”

  Captain Arbuthnot admitted he was rarely wrong, which was useful in a master, although he did tend to revel in the fact.

  “He will tell me so at dawn, sir.”

  “What is his opinion of this storm, Captain Arbuthnot?”

  “He is glad that we did not meet it further south and west, sir. He thinks it may have been very deep, the tail of a great hurricane lashing itself to death in the waters of the Atlantic.”

  “With Preston in company, that is exactly what we do not need, Captain Arbuthnot.”

  The foremast lookout hailed the deck a little later.

  “Cutter, sir, under full sail, sir. Starboard bow.”

  They wondered what had brought the little vessel in such a hurry. Captain Arbuthnot hurried on deck, calling ‘All Hands’, in expectation of a change of course.

  “Signalling, sir.”

  It would be surprising if she were not, Frederick thought, waiting for the midshipman to offer something more useful.

  “Sail, south-west, six leagues. East Indiaman. Storm-damaged. Assistance required. Privateers in sight at ten leagues.”

  “Clumsy, Captain Arbuthnot – that young man needs to consider how best to word a signal. Lachesis to close Indiaman, assist as possible. Sloops to seek out privateers. Harfleur to tow East Indiaman if needed. She will be too big for a frigate to take her in hand. Cutter to act as runner to Lachesis.”

  The signals were sent and the small ships, all of which had read the signal from the cutter sped on their way.

  “Order Mayhew of Sandwich, to sweep to the south-east until dusk, returning to the squadron in the morning, Captain Arbuthnot. Just in case our attention is being drawn to the west for a purpose. Do you know anything of Captain Mayhew? I saw him to be young and apparently competent, could gain little else of him.”

  “I dined with him during the month we were waiting in Pompey, sir. We shared a table on four occasions. He has a fine singing voice, sir, but I can say little else of him, except that he drinks very little, which is rare, one must admit. He was made from the fourth-rate, Tiger, into a tiny little sloop, sir, as Master and Commander, in the Sugar Islands, some three years ago – nothing extraordinary in that, a cousin of the Admiral, sir – but then he set about a big Spanish private ship in the shallows of the Bahamas and drove her ashore after four or five hours of running fight. Made something of an impression, sir, and he was put into Sandwich, made post captain. Brought Sandwich back and kept her.”

  “A fighting captain. That will do for me, Captain Arbuthnot.”

  “He made no attempt to rescue the crew of the privateer, sir. Said they were too many for his little brig, sir. Too great a chance they would rise and take him. No water on the little cay where they went aground, sir, and more than a week before they were found.”

  “Hard… but one must bow to his judgement, Captain Arbuthnot. Privateersmen in the Sugar Islands tend to be close cousins to pirates, fierce fellows with small concept of honour, and no sense of obligation for being rescued, after all.”

  They waited, holding their course, no further message arriving before the ship changed to night order.

  “Make up my log of the day, Mr Aggers. A disadvantage of being an admiral, you know. I would have much preferred to chase off after the East Indiaman, but must stay quietly aloof, hoping that my subordinates can read my mind and do just what I would.”

  Lieutenant Aggers could not see what the difficulty was; a simple matter of coming to the aid of a ship in distress.

  “Salvage, Mr Aggers. Should we merely offer assistance to a vessel needing a little aid with storm damage, then we are doing nothing out of the ordinary. With Spanish privateers, possibly Frogs, we do not know in sight, the Navy is no more than performing its duty. If, however, the East Indiaman is distressed and demands rescue, in danger of foundering, then the insurance must pay out on her. The Admiralty Court will read her signals and determine just what her level of peril might have been. A
little of ingenuity and one can be assured that she will make clear that she is beyond saving by the exertions of her own master and crew.”

  Mr Aggers had not considered that aspect of the rescue of mariners in peril.

  “The admiral, Mr Aggers, takes an eighth of the prize fund. East Indiamen, fully laden with silks and all of the treasures of India, commonly come in at a quarter of a million; more is not unknown!”

  “So, sir, one way, the Honourable John Company sends a polite message of thanks to the Navy; with the correct set of signals recorded, the insurers drop more than thirty thousand pounds into your pocket.”

  “Precisely so, sir!”

  “One wonders just how alert to the main chance Captain O’Neill of Lachesis may be, sir.”

  The answer was that Captain O’Neill was not commercially minded. He sent a party of his seamen led by his boatswain aboard the East Indiaman and acted as escort for twenty-four hours while they fished her maintopmast and remade some of the running rigging; he ordered Harfleur about her business when she offered her tow, Captain Paget far his junior on the List. The captain of the East Indiaman expressed his deepest gratitude and assured him that the Honourable East India Company would name him to the Admiralty for his services; that was all the reward he would see, however.

  The sloops chased the pair of privateers, big schooners able to show a clean pair of heels to any square-riggers, and lost them within an hour.

  Sandwich cruised her twenty-four hours and saw nothing.

  The squadron could feel very virtuous, but the prize-fund remained empty.

  Frederick consoled himself that all of his young men had showed well, obeying orders with commendable diligence; it was a good omen for future success, perhaps.

  They watered and victualled at Gibraltar, enjoying the change in the weather, the warmth of the Mediterranean. Frederick refused the lower deck shore leave, just three weeks out of Portsmouth; he did not want them to perhaps be refused time ashore by the Port Admiral next time they called, exhausted after months of duty and needing relaxation.

  “Better they stay sober and afloat, Captain Arbuthnot. We may be sure that some of them would become drunk and riotous – sailors always do.”

  “Where now, sir? What is our target to be?”

  “I do not yet know, Captain Arbuthnot. It is my intention to speak to the Port Admiral’s confidential people – the intelligencers – and ask of them which of the nests of vipers would best be exterminated. We could choose a harbour at random, but I had rather take one that is known to be a menace to our interests.”

  Captain Arbuthnot had not really known such people to exist; Frederick had to assure him that they did and could be of the greatest assistance to a captain, if he allowed them to be.

  The Port Admiral welcomed Frederick, reminding him of the occasions on which they previously met, which was fortunate as he had left no impression at all. They had dined in Bombay, it seemed, and again in Antigua some years later. He was pleased to lend Frederick the services of his confidential people, though he himself had little value for them.

  “Empire of Morocco, forsooth! No more than a bunch of black men with an inflated view of their own importance – was it not for their Lordships of the Admiralty I should put this damned Emperor in his place, I will tell you, Sir Frederick!”

  “Perhaps it is simpler if they are to be allies, Admiral Cotton – we have enough of the other sort on our plate just now!”

  “Well said, Sir Frederick – we have indeed. That damned Bonaparte has armies not so many miles north of here, you know. We keep the Army awake on our land border!”

  “I am glad to hear that, sir. Do your people keep to their old office, sir?”

  Frederick was escorted to the intelligencers, the maze of underground corridors even more complex than when last he had landed at Gibraltar.

  “Sir Frederick, well met, sir! I am told that you are to spread fear along the shoreline of North Africa, sir.”

  “Not quite that, but I am to utterly destroy one of the harbours of the Barbary pirates, in the hope of frightening some of the others.”

  “It might encourage them to draw their horns in, Sir Frederick, for a while. No harm in trying. Along the Tripolitanian shores, Sir Frederick, and indeed across the undefined border of Mauretania, tucked into the Gulf of Sidrah, there is the harbour known as Mars-Al-Brega, distinguished by a great Roman fortress a little inland and by the presence of a rapacious brigand who has returned to the old ways of raiding the Sicilian coast, particularly. The gentleman owes, or acknowledges, no allegiances but is reputed to be accepting rather large subsidies from Bonaparte. It is certain that French ships of war occasionally visit his harbour for water and victuals; it is probable that they supply him with powder and perhaps cannon. There is a French spy network in Malta, of that we are certain, and attacks from the island have been met by sturdy resistance, including the presence of French ships and on one occasion, troops of mercenaries brought in from the Greek islands, or perhaps the shores of Dalmatia. Was you to make your onset from here, there is no reason to expect the French to be aware of your intent. A few days in Malta would be your downfall, however.”

  They examined the charts and identified the hazards of the shoreline before Frederick returned to the squadron, carefully not informing Admiral Cotton of his destination; the old man had an open mouth, Frederick thought.

  ‘How best to deploy the squadron’ was the next question. Frederick sat to his great dining table with charts of the coast spread out upon it. He called Conquest’s master, Mr Relph, to his assistance.

  “A broad bay, a little more than a mile wide between a pair of headlands. A single deep-water passage leading in from the west. Reefs along the eastern shore, but freshwater currents along the west which have killed the coral. A fort or battery to each headland, carrying what we know not, sir.”

  “We may assume modern French guns, Mr Relph. One must expect more to the west than to the east.”

  Mr Relph added that assumption to his list.

  “The land behind the shore seems to graduate into desert very quickly, Mr Relph. There seems to be some farmland, though how much the chart does not make clear.”

  “There are normally wet winds off the sea in our winter months, sir, which fill the wells and enable little creeks to flow for part of the year. Water enough for olives and oranges and dates, probably vegetable gardens, sir, with maybe a few fields of barley or other grains. Not sufficient to feed a town, sir. They must trade along the coast – which is perhaps why they turned corsair, for lack of income from anything else. It is surprisingly cold in the winter here, sir. The men will feel it. The water will be useful to us.”

  “So we may assume that the people of the town will flee along the coast rather than into the desert. No coast road as such is shown. They will wish to escape by boat.”

  The plan made itself as they examined the charts.

  “There is a great Roman fort, but it is inland by a mile.”

  “The shore rising, sir, and the sea retreating. It was probably a water-fort, fifteen hundred years ago.”

  “We must assume it to be used more as a residence than as a castle, unless it is wholly ruined. There must be batteries along the wharfs, I imagine.”

  “Might be, sir, but just as like to be a barracks, the local lord relying upon his infantrymen to keep the harbour clear of villains. A pity we have no local information – it would be useful to know the location of the slave quarters, for example.”

  Frederick sketched out his rough plans for the assault and paid another call on the intelligencers.

  “No, Sir Frederick. No town-plan for Mars-Al-Brega. I could, perhaps, loan you the services of one of my people who is fluent in the languages of the coast. Was you to take a boat or two and bring the savages aboard, then he could persuade the crew to talk to him.”

  “Not on one of my ships, sir! I will not have ‘persuasion’ on my decks.”

  “As you wish, Si
r Frederick. It is an old procedure and one that has often brought results.”

  “No, sir. Neither thumbscrews nor the rack in my squadron.”

  “So be it, sir. The Spanish in Algeciras might have some better charts than we do. I shall, with your permission, Sir Frederick, beg of them anything they have for Benghazi and the ports close to and for Tunis and Tripoli and its immediate hinterland. That may suffice to hide our intentions and might provide some of the information we require.”

  To Frederick’s amazement, the charts appeared next day, the gentleman being rowed out to Conquest carrying a portfolio full of papers.

  “I had thought the Spanish required six months at minimum to accomplish the least task, sir.”

  “They do, Sir Frederick, they do indeed. It has not occurred to them, however, that their cartographer’s office is of sufficient importance as to need a guard overnight.”

  “You burgled it, sir?”

  “Only a little bit, Sir Frederick. I left the great bulk of their charts wholly untouched, tempted though I was to pick up some snippets of information relating to their fortifications in the New World, where there must soon be revolution. The man who gave the revolutionaries of Chile and Peru plans of the Spanish forts might be well-loved.”

  “Yes, but why, sir?”

  “To keep the Americans out, Sir Frederick, by making the new governments grateful to us.”

  “Could we not cooperate with the Americans, instead?”

  “We could, of course, sir, but why? Better far to slap them down while they are still young, to save the need for doing so when they have grown powerful.”