The Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Even so, my lord! However, they are wrong in the essentials, I am glad to say – the men in question, though undoubtedly eaten, were never my prisoners. The country ship that the French had armed was driven ashore in the final stages of our fight, the exchange of fire between Charybdis and Nantes still continuing when the local clansmen boarded her and took the survivors, a hundred or so, for the pot.”

  “Very good. There was no possibility of a rescue?”

  “None, my lord. I did not consider it to be my business to lead a party of Marines and seamen straight onshore immediately after the French surrender, before the ships were secured and damage ascertained – for any rescue needed be immediate, before they were jointed up for the oven!”

  “No – they might well have gone the way of poor Captain Cook, outnumbered, tired from battle and on the savages’ home ground. You were right, I am sure, sir, yet it will be remembered, I doubt not, that you remained at anchor for another five days.”

  “We had urgent repairs to make, my lord – and we knew they were not hungry!”

  “You are a hard man, Captain Harris – and you have my respect, sir, for we will not survive this war by being soft!”

  It was raining – England in November, cold, wet, grey, miserable, the London streets unwelcoming, but emptier than usual, the unwashed idlers less in evidence – it was much harder to pick pockets in the rain - the broken beggars of the war huddling away in whatever shelter they could find. Bosomtwi and Ablett scurried with umbrellas and oilcloth, put Frederick almost dry into his carriage, decanted him at the Admiralty, finery intact.

  “Look after that hat, sir! It get wet, the feather droop, isn’t it.”

  Bosomtwi had loved the plumed and cockaded bicorne of dress wear at first sight. It was very similar to a confection worn by the chiefs in his own land under the Sahara, held for him the same aura of the hieratic.

  Frederick agreed, very meekly, to be careful – he could not have borne the silent, long-suffering disapproval that might result from a minute’s negligence.

  “I should ought to be in that coach with you, isn’t it, to keep it dry.”

  “Yes, Bosomtwi.”

  The First Lord appeared, in full civilian Court Dress, satin breeches, silk stockings and a coat embellished with stars and orders and sashes, most impressive to the beholder. A flunkey in lieutenant’s uniform stood a pace to his rear.

  “Lieutenant Lord Augustus Kuyper, eighth son to the Duke of Dogsbollocks, or some such – the first seven took all the old man’s brains and energy and this one had to make do with the leavings. All of the rest of my staff are busy, working, being useful, so this one comes with me. He will have to go to sea, one day. Do you want him, Captain Harris?”

  Frederick glanced pityingly at the young man, scowling and embarrassed, noted his chin to be less prominent than his Adam’s apple and his frame to be apparently wholly without muscle, made an instant refusal.

  “Thank you for the kind offer, my lord, but my wardroom is full – however, I do have a space for a heads cleaner.”

  “I doubt he is fit to shovel, Captain Harris. I will, I am quite certain, find a captain I dislike sufficiently one day. I have no doubt that you would make a man of him or kill him trying, sir, but you do not deserve the bother it would cause.”

  A large, cold salon, full of chattering peacocks, the absurdities of cavalry uniform much evident – gold lace and glitter, scarlet and iridescent bottle-green, sky blue and cherry pink, coats, pelisses and jackets encrusted in braid, skin-tight leathers and breeches. On spare, reasonably athletic young frames the attire could be striking, but spindle-shanked, pot-bellied generals conveyed only the saddest impression.

  Their names were bellowed at the uncaring crowd and the First Lord led the way to a short line moving forward towards the corpulent, red-faced, bulging-eyed, middle-aged, dissipated wreck that represented the Fountainhead of Britannic Honour.

  “They say he was handsome as a boy, Prince Florizel and all that. I expect it was before his first pox cure!”

  Frederick snorted, turned his laughter into a very unconvincing cough, straightened his face in time for the introduction.

  “Very well indeed, Your Highness! May I present Captain Harris, Colonel of Marines, Your Highness?”

  Frederick made his bow.

  “Sword of Honour, I see.”

  “For the taking of the Hercule, 74, Your Highness, as a lieutenant.”

  “I remember – two frigates led by a ship-sloop that crippled and boarded. I read of it in the Gazette, with amaze, sir, absolute amaze! I would that I had been there to share such glory! Tropical sun tan I see, Captain.”

  “Captain Harris has lately returned from the Spice Islands, Your Highness.”

  “Ha! Marat and Nantes, I saw! I always read the Gazette and follow at second-hand the deeds of the valiant!”

  An aide whispered from behind the Prince.

  “Yes, indeed. A threat to East Indies trade that could have crippled the country. Thanks of the Company. You are to be congratulated, Captain Harris, and in recognition of your valour are to be made baronet – you may, indeed, style yourself Captain Sir Frederick Harris as of this day.”

  Frederick, surprised, gibbered incoherently for a few seconds, was rescued by the First Lord’s congratulations. Royalty smiled at its most benign.

  “I am sure Lady Harris will be delighted, Sir Frederick!”

  The royal entourage, all remembering their briefing, froze; their master, insensitive as ever, the man who had taken his cronies to listen to and laugh at his father’s ravings, noticed nothing, smiled and turned to the next in line. The First Lord nodded to Frederick, stepped backward, led the retreat from the presence.

  “He is, of course, a very busy man, Sir Frederick.”

  “So he is, my lord.”

  “I wish you joy of your new name, Sir Frederick!”

  “Thank you, my lord.” The first pride was gone, would never, Frederick suspected, return – but he was now a titled commoner and any success as an admiral would certainly make him baron; he would be a minor power in the land.

  A few of the throng made an attempt to offer their congratulations, almost all of them serving officers to whom the war had a meaning. Inevitably, Critchel appeared.

  “May I wish you joy, Sir Frederick? Your son will be even more proud of his father now, sir. I envy you!”

  Critchel was not wed, as far as Frederick was aware, and he had never seen him in the company of man or woman.

  “You are a political patron now, Sir Frederick, I understand, with the nomination for the borough of Old Bridport effectively yours.”

  “I was not aware of that, Mr Critchel – I really should have been, should I not? I do not even know who the member is. Are we soon to have an election, do you know?”

  “Not yet for a while, but your member is very old and increasingly unable to cope with the hardships of an active life.”

  “I must make contact with my uncle, I suspect, sir.”

  “You must indeed, Sir Frederick – he may well have a young name to suggest. If not, then I am sure I could assist.” Critchel bowed, smiled in the friendliest fashion and made his way towards another acquaintance, unending in his pursuit of the powerful and the well-connected.

  “I had forgotten Critchel was a friend, Sir Frederick,” Earl Spencer commented, “the Pursenett affair had slipped my mind. Did you know, by the way, that the elder Pursenett was taken up last year, decorated the gallows outside Newgate not six months ago? Like son, like father, in this case!”

  “I had not heard, my lord, but it will no doubt make all tidy. I knew he had run, thought him to be in Holland.”

  The First Lord said that he had been but had had to flee the French.

  “I believe that the Prince’s advisers were very strong for you when your name was put forward by the Company as being deserving.”

  “Thus clearing themselves of any taint by taking up the man who hanged Pursene
tt’s son – it is quite obvious, such being the case, that the Royal Household can have had no dealings at all with the villain, can certainly never have dirtied their hands by taking his money. Did Mr Critchel, by any chance, inform the authorities of the dubious nature of Pursenett’s dealings?”

  “I do not know, in the sense of having evidence, but am given to understand that a guinea-boat was taken up by one of our cutters, following information, and that the member of the crew who turned Evidence to save his own skin was able to name Pursenett, and thus attaint him of treason.”

  The guinea-boats were very fast rowing galleys, able to outrun any sailing vessel in near calm conditions; as their name implied they ran cargoes of gold coin across to France, where bullion was at a premium even higher than in England, to pay for smugglers’ protection and buy French brandy, lace and silks. They were accused, possibly rightly, of conveying French agents in both directions as well, and were afforded little mercy by the land authorities when, rarely, hauled before the courts. The great bulk of prisoners condemned to death could expect commutation, as few as one in ten commonly hanging, but those associated with the guinea-boats rarely had the opportunity to reoffend.

  “I cannot say that I am sorry, my lord.”

  “Nor I, Sir Frederick, yet you should be aware that Mr Critchel is a perilous friend. He is a squirrel, I believe – you must have seen them in autumn, they store up ten times as many nuts as they need, and forget most of them. But some they eat.”

  “Favours, my lord?”

  “Just so, Sir Frederick. An energetic, busy man can do favours for all, be loved by a few, owed by many, and will, sometimes, call in his debts. Some will never fall due and most will be collected in part only – I suspect he loves the possession of power more than its use and if one repays, one is no longer in his debt.”

  “Tortuous, my lord!”

  “He is truly a sophisticated man – complex, full of hidden depths, essentially impure. He believes in nothing and so can do anything – he has aspirations to lead his party, and then the country, one day. God help us all if he succeeds!”

  “So, my lord, the name he suggested to me for the borough of Old Bridport would be one of his people?”

  “Not necessarily – it might be a follower of his, but is more likely to be a younger son of an acquaintance, an able, honest, devout young man with service to offer his country, and a sense of obligation to his patrons.”

  “Thus he would have the gratitude of an honest man in addition to the normal allegiances of those like to himself. What an unpleasant prospect, my lord. Politics is not my world, I am happy to say!”

  “You chose to buy Abbey, Sir Frederick.”

  “And so I made it my world, you would say, my lord?”

  “Land is power, Sir Frederick and power must be exercised responsibly, or it will be abused. If the honest men all withdraw in disgust from the political world then only the rogues will be left. This war cannot last for ever, Sir Frederick, no war can last for more than seven or eight years, I suspect, without bankrupting both parties to it, and this war is six years old now, and you have become a public man. You should consider your future, sir.”

  They made their way quietly towards the doors, drifting through the mob of braying courtiers, placemen, whores, courtesans and open-mouthed idiots who comprised the society of St James.

  “You may have noted, Sir Frederick, that cream rises towards the top; scum, of course, merely floats to the surface. We should go – we need take no farewell for it is lese-majeste to leave before His Highness; we shall not be noticed, for those who must work are hardly worth noticing at all!”

  Their carriage was waiting, Lord Augustus beside it, showing that he was capable of doing something useful; he opened the doors for them.

  “Bloody half-boots! My feet are killing me, Sir Frederick! Is Charybdis ready for service?”

  “I do not know her ration state, my lord, but that can be brought up in two days. I need midshipmen and thirty foremast jacks.”

  “Volunteers - they do exist and crack frigates get them. As for mids, you will be inundated by the offspring of genteel mamas and would-be genteel merchants and will be able to make your choice.”

  Back to his inn and a thankful shift into easy civilian dress, distinctly provincial in cut, unfashionable in frock-coat and breeches. A brief note written and despatched with one of the landlord’s boys to Mr Critchel’s dwelling, sufficiently well-known to need no other address.

  Five minutes of explanation to Bosomtwi of the change of name and its significance, brief persuasion that the new dignity did not demand a bodyguard to enforce prostration on all those he passed – in Bosomtwi’s land it was the case that the common folk all knelt when a great personage passed by, a custom he felt worthy of introduction into England.

  “Do you need a valet now, sir?”

  Ablett seemed quite certain that all important gentlemen had to have a gentleman’s gentleman to wait on their every need, felt that neither he nor Bosomtwi quite matched up to the specification. They discussed the matter, decided that a valet would be out of place on board ship – they might, perhaps, add one to the staff when they left the sea.

  “What’s the time, Ablett?”

  “Half past midday, land time, sir.”

  “Too late to make a start back to Long Common today. Shopping, I think. Bookshop, sword cutlers, gunsmith.”

  The landlord furnished directions and called a hack for the three, bowed them out of the door, smiling obsequiously. He was still smiling as he turned to the potman.

  “Hicks, all three! But rich, open-handed and bloody dangerous! Them two jack-tars would kill you – or me – at a word from ‘im, or off their own bat if they thought as ‘ow it was a good idea, so none of your tricks, Billy-me-boy! Try the old badger there and you’ll get dead and my ‘ouse will get a bad name!”

  “Ain’t never done a badger in me life, Mr George! Wouldn’t never dream of such a thing, any’ow, not with that black bugger of a man of ‘is! Might, just per’aps, buy the ‘uvver one, though I thinks ‘e’d laugh as ‘e kicked me face in if I tried it, but that Bose, ‘im! Stick ‘is ‘and down me bloody throat and rip me ‘eart out, ‘e would!”

  The landlord nodded, it seemed only too likely a prospect.

  “Don’t you bloody forget it, then!”

  The badger was a popular form of extortion normally involving the rich, famous and naïve: a prostitute would be procured for a lonely traveller, sometimes for a less innocent straying local worthy, a normal enough service in any inn, and, at the last possible moment, would disclose ‘herself’ to be a very young boy who would scream rape as outraged members of the public burst in calling for constables, the Watch, the Runners, the newssheets, the magistrates. A fool could pay hush-money for years, might even be driven to suicide, as happened to one very prominent politician of the day, but a carelessly chosen victim prosecuted or killed his blackmailer. It was a profession not without risks.

  All unawares Frederick bought books and pamphlets and a new working hanger for himself. His old sword had been sharpened too often, was ready to snap on a thick skull or elastic breastbone.

  “Heavy, slightly curved, single edge except for three inches to the point. Plain hilt and broad quillons, undecorated. About thirty three inches on the blade has served me well in the past.”

  The cutler displayed a dozen examples – war was good for his trade and he kept a large stock. Ten minutes produced the comfortable weight and balance Frederick wanted, an extension of his arm.

  Henry Nock had been recommended as the best of military gunsmiths. The Mantons produced outstanding sporting guns and duelling pistols; Durs Egg was the man for specials – fancy pieces, pocket pistols, unusual calibres; Nock produced working tools.

  “Two pairs of heavy pistols, if you please, sir, for my man and my cox’n, to their hands.”

  Apprentices came with blocks of beech wood, quietly carved them into models for grips, left and
right, for the two men.

  “We shall make them up in hickory, sir – better for sea service than walnut, for example. What bore, sir?”

  Bosomtwi was unsure but Ablett suggested a ten.

  “One and three fifths ounces, sir, a very heavy round.”

  “It means that you do not have to hit dead centre on your man, Mr Nock. Snap off a shot and it will stop anything it hits.”

  “Double barrel, over and under, sir?”

  “No – two barrels mean two locks – hard to holster and they can snag in the clothes.”

  “Unfortunately true, sir. I have heard of something called a ‘percussion system’ invented in one of the German states which will do away with the flintlock – not before time, I believe – but I have yet to see one and do not understand its principles.”

  “Write to me when you do know, Mr Nock, if it seems apt to sea service. You may find me at Abbey estate near Dorchester or at Long Common near Botley in the County of Southamptonshire. My name is Captain Harris.”

  “No it ain’t, sir,” Ablett muttered.

  “Neither it is! It only changed this morning! I am Captain Sir Frederick Harris.”

  “’Bart’,” Ablett added.

  “I don’t think you say ‘Bart’, but I am not really sure yet.”

  “I wish you joy, sir – a well-deserved honour for your service in the Spice and Sugar Islands, if I may say so, sir! My man will bring your pistols to Charybdis at Portsmouth, if you are keeping her, sir? Two weeks this day, Sir Frederick. No, no, sir – I will forward my account quarterly, to Long Common or Abbey, sir?”

  Interesting, Frederick mused – Captain Harris paid cash, but Sir Frederick, equally prominent in the newssheets, was sent an account. For the same amount or did honour have its price?

  “Abbey, if you would be so good, for the attention of Mr Hartley, my agent.”