"The unfortunates of the profession, one presumes, Captain Murray?"
"Several are men of some slight ability and no family at all, Sir Frederick. Officers who have passed their Board and sailed on one commission with a captain who knew them and then been unable to find another ship, despite being quite adequate in their posts. Others are of a different sort, I much suspect..."
"I am sure I shall discover exactly what sort within a few days, Captain Murray."
Book Seven: The Duty and Destiny Series
Chapter Two
Frederick stood at the Sally-Port, waiting at the head of the stairs, baggage – two sea chests, four leather portmanteaus and an assortment of sacks and boxes of foodstuffs - behind him, Bosomtwi and Ablett to his left, Marc and Jean vast on his right. He was not wearing a drab boat cloak, so as to be fair to his new first lieutenant, and the gold lace on shoulders, cuffs and hat should have been visible to any telescope. It was, fortunately, a warm day and the wind off Spithead was not too chilly, but he had been waiting fifteen minutes and there was no sign of a boat from Acheron, at anchor a bare four cables distant.
There had been a scurry on deck a few minutes back, a running figure disappearing below and a group of men gathering by the stern davits. They were still there, anxiously staring across at him, a boat's crew awaiting orders, unable to leave the ship without orders but knowing that it was the Commodore waiting, and undoubtedly growing increasingly angry. It was, after all, a well-known fact that angry senior officers savaged the first and nearest victims to hand – a volunteer boat’s crew, no matter how well-intentioned, might suffer, and they could not change their minds and find something more important to do now.
A cocked hat came in sight on the quarterdeck, slowly lifted a telescope and peered at the shore, suddenly began to wave arms and shout. A voice could be heard, too far distant to make out any words. The starboard pulling boat came down with a rush and the crew piled into it and set their oars and raced towards him.
"Not the launch, sir, as it should be." Ablett was displeased.
Frederick was a long way past displeasure. He had sent a note out the day before, informing the first lieutenant of his intention to come aboard in the forenoon; everything should have been on top line.
"No midshipman in the boat, sir."
Bosomtwi was peering along the hard at a group of figures beckoning to a shore boat.
"Two lieutenants; three midshipmen; master, by the looks of it, and purser or doctor, isn't it. All trying to get back to the ship before you get there, isn't it, sir. They been having a party, sir, and slept too late!"
"Too late indeed, Bosomtwi! They can make an example for the rest of the squadron."
The small, five-oar boat came neatly into the steps, the crew showing themselves able to row at least; a seaman stepped out and knuckled his forehead.
"Brown, sir, Captain of the Foretop."
A petty officer, one of the most senior on board, and a man who had no business in a boat's crew.
“Thank you, Brown – I am glad to see that the petty officers at least mind their duty on Acheron! I shall know where to look when I need useful men!”
Brown sighed in relief; then he looked at the mound of baggage and the little boat and began to panic again. Frederick saw what he was about and took pity on him – he was doing his best in impossible circumstances.
"Marc, Jean. Stay with the baggage, if you please. The launch will come across very shortly. Ablett and Bosomtwi with me."
Ablett took the tiller, as was his privilege as captain's coxswain, steered them to the starboard side.
The lieutenant, the sole commissioned officer aboard, was still organising the side party as Frederick climbed the short distance up the side.
The boatswain's mates were awake to their duty and their whistles sounded properly and the sideboys managed to stand fairly well in line. The Marines were in place under their officer.
Boatswain, Carpenter, Gunner, shoulder to shoulder and trying to spread themselves wide and look like the whole of the officers of the ship. In front of them the very young and flustered lieutenant, trying to surreptitiously button up his shirt and looking like a man wakened from his first sleep. He had evidently been left in charge of the ship, had probably been awake all night and fallen asleep in expectation that the revellers would have returned at an earlier hour.
The shore boat arrived and came to the larboard side. Frederick turned to the Marine lieutenant.
"Do not permit those people to board."
He watched as a pair of men were ordered to the entry port and stood blocking the way.
Frederick took out his commission and turned to the lines of men waiting in the waist of the ship; a thin crew, he estimated, no more than three parts of the men he needed. Nothing unusual in that. He read out the words that made him captain and master of all aboard. Strictly speaking, he had not had the legal right to give his order to the Marine officer before he had read the commission, but it might have been a foolish man who had refused to obey on such grounds.
The lieutenant's face was vaguely familiar; he had sailed with Frederick before, presumably as a midshipman.
Carthage, that was it.
"Mr Andrews, is it not?"
"Yes, sir. Third lieutenant, sir."
There was a story there - Andrews had come from the flagship when Carthage was on blockade, should have had some influence behind him. At a guess he would have been eligible for his board some five years back, yet he was only Third, low in seniority; he must have remained as a master's mate for some years. It did not add up - there had to be a reason why he had not been pushed further up the ladder, something short of court-martial but nonetheless black on his record.
"What watch are you on, Mr Andrews?"
"Ah... the watches are not quite organised yet, sir. I was given harbour duty while the others were ashore, sir. I preferred not to join their celebrations, sir, knowing something of you. I did warn them, sir, but they told me I was an old woman!"
There was the sound of loud vomiting from the boat alongside - the harbour waters were choppy, tide running against the wind, and it seemed that one of the party felt delicate this morning.
Frederick turned to the Marine lieutenant, observing him to be, as expected, precisely turned out.
"I am sorry, but the normal introductions have not been made."
"Haversham, sir."
"Thank you. Have you an ensign aboard?"
"Due to report from barracks tomorrow, sir. A replacement, sir, the original gentleman having chosen to ride a horse for exercise last week and falling off to the detriment of his leg, sir."
Frederick remained grave faced.
"Very unfortunate, Mr Haversham. Please to permit the gentlemen alongside to join us, sir. Mr Andrews, dismiss the hands to their business, please; I am glad to see you again, sir."
He glanced at Andrews' uniform, saw it to be well-worn - he had made some two thousands in prize money on Carthage, had no excuse for poverty. Perhaps that was the story...
The party from the shore boat came aboard, stood uncertainly on the quarterdeck, waiting to hear their fate. Frederick turned his back on them, speaking to the standing officers, asking their names and begging the boatswain to await his convenience.
"The midshipmen will have some business with you, Mr Finch."
Finch knuckled his forehead in response, permitting not the least trace of a smile to cross his face.
Frederick turned back to the guilty seven.
The midshipmen flinched - they were made by the captain and could be turned off by him without further recourse. Their chance of a career lay in Frederick's hands.
"I shall speak with you young gentlemen later. For now wait on the boatswain's convenience. One dozen apiece, Mr Finch, and give them something to remember."
None of the three were squeakers - fourteen and fifteen years of age, by the looks of them, and old enough to know better. He could rely on the boatswain t
o drive the lesson home.
"You, sir, I presume to be the master."
In his thirties, out of uniform in shore dress, but weather-beaten, a deck officer, while the other man in civilian clothing seemed more protected from the elements.
"Yes, sir. Naughton, sir."
He had a distinct accent overlaying his speech - Northern Irish perhaps. There was a powerful odour of spirits and tobacco on his breath.
"Where are your mates?"
Naughton chuckled, shook his head.
"Ashore, sir, left them in the knocking shop, sir, making the most of their last few days."
"Are they, now. Mr Finch! Place Mr Naughton under arrest as under the influence of alcohol, if you please. Mr Andrews, my launch, sir."
Frederick stared at his next victim.
"Meredith, sir. Purser."
Pursers were anomalous and stood outside of the direct disciplinary chain. They came under the Articles, as did every man aboard ship, but were responsible to their own Board.
"I will wish to examine your books with you later, Mr Meredith. I trust there will be no repetition of this incident, sir."
Meredith shook his head nervously and trotted below, running to produce the official set of books and to hide his own accurate records.
Finally, the lieutenants, waiting for the axe to fall.
"Your name, sir?"
"Powell, sir, First."
"And you, sir?"
"Baker, sir. Second."
"Both of you will go ashore and will report to the Port-Admiral's office. Your servants will pack your dunnage and bring the bags to you at the earliest moment."
Frederick waited until they turned to the pulling boat, still hooked on at the entry port, and then ordered them to call a shore boat - they no longer had rights on Acheron.
"Mr Haversham, Naughton to be taken ashore and delivered to the office of the Captain of the Port for his disposal - your sergeant can do that, sir."
The Marine gave the orders, turned away quite happily. He had no liking for the inefficient and the idle and even less for drinkers.
"Ablett, take the Marines and their prisoner ashore then pick up Marc and Jean."
Ablett made a show of running - the crew could see that even the Commodore's own, personal coxswain jumped when he spoke. The whole ship was probably slack, needed to be brought into order, though the petty officers were efficient enough – he must be careful not to be unfair and create grievances.
The cabin was small compared to what he had become used to in Trident; it was not in good order yet, having been unoccupied while Acheron was in dockyard hands. Bosomtwi was busy.
"A damned nuisance, Bosomtwi! Two lieutenants and a master to replace. Two master's mates to have the fear of God put into them when they finally come aboard. Hardly their fault - they are merely following the example of their betters, but they still must be pulled up short."
There was a sudden outburst of howling from the stern.
"That boatswain surely got a strong arm on him, sir!"
"Again, not really their fault at all, Bosomtwi - but they must learn this lesson hard and quickly. A drunken mid is of no use to man or beast. One repetition and they are ashore."
"I let them know, sir. No booze on this ship, not in the gunroom."
"I must speak with the Port-Admiral as soon as Ablett returns. Have a quiet talk with the boatswain and some of the senior men, will you? What the word is on Mr Andrews, particularly. You will remember him from Carthage, I am sure - he should not be as poor as he appears, Bosomtwi."
"Ah... I knew I see his face before, isn't it! Long time back, sir, and all they boys look like the same, sir."
Vice-Admiral Girton was fuming when Frederick reached his office.
"Powell and Baker were both put ashore from the Channel Fleet only last month, Sir Frederick, for drinking to excess. I spoke to both, personally, laid down the law, gave them their last chance and both swore to change their ways and take advantage of the opportunity I so kindly was giving to them. Now this - at the very first chance they are back to their old habits! They will go to a court, Sir Frederick, and shall be dismissed the service, see how much they can find to drink without their half-pay!"
"Drink is the curse of the Navy, sir."
"It is, Sir Frederick. What of the master, Naughton?"
"Is it possible to treat him less stringently, sir? One might argue that he was in the company of more senior men whose example he followed."
"Masters are more difficult to find than lieutenants, and he has a good enough name professionally, to be sure. I shall wheel him in front of my desk, Sir Frederick, and inform him that he is to be transferred into an unrated vessel as a last chance. There are three bombs in harbour and soon to sail - a direct exchange and you will receive a young man, new to the rank but probably very grateful indeed, Sir Frederick."
"That will cost Naughton as much as eight pence a day, sir. More than four shillings a week off his pay until he makes his way up again - if he does. A sharp lesson, but better than breaking him."
Girton agreed - Naughton was still young enough to work his way up in the service, would still be master of a line-of-battle ship one day, provided he behaved himself.
"Lieutenants now, Sir Frederick. I can find you a first easily enough from one of the sloops in the squadron, there are two young men known to me who could take the promotion. For a second or third, depending on the seniority of your man still aboard, I must trawl through the men who have been begging for a commission with you. One at least has served with you before, was made by you, in fact - through the hawsehole and unable to find another wardroom to take him since the Peace. Luscombe, his name."
"He served with me in Charybdis, in the East Indies, sir. Came to me as an AB turned mid, and showed well enough that I had him made in Bombay after the cholera emptied the wardrooms there. He went to Captain Warren in Nantes frigate, as I remember."
Girton glanced at the papers on his desk, picked out the summary of Luscombe's record.
"Good report from Captain Warren, as well. But he has not quite the accent and deportment of the gentleman, and that outweighs his ability in the eyes of many."
"Not in mine, sir. I would beg of you to send him to me."
"He is yours, Sir Frederick. You have space for one more mid, I believe, a youngster."
"I have, sir, and would be very willing to take a boy of your recommending."
"Good. I have a very young fellow who needs a first berth - and would become a follower, I trust, after this probably short commission."
"Provided he survives, sir - your last youngster was unfortunate, I remember."
"Young Paulet? Bad luck - and part of our trade, I fear me."
It was harsh, but death was part of the profession, among the boys as much as the men.
"What of the other vessels in the squadron, sir?"
"I have been able to find you three sloops, Sir Frederick, each with a Master and Commander on the quarterdeck and thus having some experience to guide them. Blackbird and Robin are both of sixteen guns, nine-pounders and thus among the more powerful of the class. They have as well carronades, which should be of twenty-four pounds; four apiece. I am damned sure I saw a larger muzzle staring me in the eye yesterday as was I rowed past Robin. I shall ask no questions and shall thus be told no lies, Sir Frederick, but I know that Robin picked up a pair of merchantmen off the Bordeaux stream soon after we went back to war with France, and put a pretty sum in prize money into the owner's pocket."
"Some of which is now weighing down the purse of the Master Intendant, no doubt, sir. I shall say nothing, either, for I may well be forced to do the same!"
"That, Sir Frederick, was spoken into my deaf ear!"
"What of the third sloop, sir?"
"Taken in the Mediterranean immediately before the Peace, Sir Frederick, a privateer under Spanish colours, Señora all that remains of her original name. Twelve guns, six-pounders, but carrying also a pair of car
ronades and a long twelve-pound brass chaser, very straight in the bore her captain assures me."
"That might well be of value to us, sir. It must be hoped so, at least. Brigs, sir, and a cutter?"
"A schooner rather than a cutter, I am afraid, Sir Frederick, recently bought into the service. Baltimore rig and very fast indeed. A lieutenant in command and armed with no more than a few of two-pound swivels - how many will depend on his initiative, of course."
"Very useful little vessels, sir, when well handled by a good seaman, but easy to overset by the clumsy handed."
"I know nothing of the young man, Sir Frederick. For brigs, better than I had hoped, you have four, all bought in from the merchant service and designed to carry a cargo slowly, and therefore able to take a substantial complement of Marines as boarding parties. They will have much to recommend them when landing on a coast at night, for they are of shallow draft, in the nature of things. They have been equipped with boats, of course."
"I presume a four-pounder or two, sir?"
"No, Sir Frederick. It was thought that twelve-pound carronades might suit them better and each has four. They will be better able to fend off small boats, I believe with grape than with a four-pound ball."
"Agreed, sir. I am not sure of the virtues of fireships - they smack of Sir Francis Drake, after all."
"They do, but you are to have access to a pair if you need them for a specific operation. You will hardly want them sailing in line in your squadron as a rule."
"True indeed, sir. Eight vessels in total, a useful number together with Acheron. How many of Marines have been allocated in addition to the normal ships’ parties, sir?"
The Odd-Job Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 7) Page 4