LeGrys appeared in the cabin a few minutes later, reported that he had settled the two lads in, liked the looks of both. They had glanced openly at his crutch and leg and had made polite enquiries, had offered rational commiserations on his bad luck, neither gushing effusions of sympathy nor embarrassed cold shoulder.
“Good – I have noticed how many officers find it very difficult to deal with the problem of what, if anything, to say when they meet you. I shall deal with McGregor’s allowance, by the way, and his mess bill – let him understand that Admiral Farquhar has the matter in hand. What have we got in the way of letters of application?”
LeGrys grinned, opened the folder tucked under his arm, pulled out three piles of paper.
The first, and by far the largest, he waved at a distance. “Boys who have never been to sea, sir. We have two first timers now and that seems sufficient. Besides that, one of them is as old as seventeen!”
“Polite refusals, no space.”
“A couple of dozen, sir,” the next pile, “of boys with one or two or three years, currently on board a ship and wishing to transfer, their captains encouraging them to broaden their sea-going experience.”
“Humph! No-goods whose captains want rid of them and are willing to foist them onto any poor fool who will be so unwise as to take ‘em. Brief thank you and sod off to them, David!”
“Finally, sir, seven who look equally good to me, and Mr Jackman agrees. The top two are actually in Portsmouth at the moment, sir, both recently paid off after a three year commission, Swiftsure and Berwick, sir, in the dockyard for a big refit.”
“Good ships, they will have picked up few bad habits there, and will probably have learned their trade well. Call them aboard, let’s get a look at them. What are they?”
“Green, sir, son of a Marine lieutenant who was invalided in the American War; five years in total. Bennett has been at sea since he was seven, his sole family an uncle who was killed at Camperdown last year, has held a warrant for five years.”
“Was the boy present at the battle?”
“He was, sir, with his guns.”
“Lucky! Fleet actions are so very rare – he can tell us of it at a dinner if his face fits.”
Both faces fitted – undistinguished, somewhat spotty faces though they were, they were adequately naval, coarsened by weather, creased by peering across bright seas, lined by the experience of fear. They were faces older than the boys that wore them, at variance with their bodies’ coltish immaturity; they were faces that belonged to the men they should become, would become if they were not so careless as to die, wasting all the time and effort put into training them.
“We need a master’s mate, sir”, Jackman reminded Frederick at their morning conference.
“Have we none to make up? Could none of the Bombaymen fill the gap?”
They had enlisted a dozen merchant seamen in Bombay, men who had missed ship, drunk, locked up or wallowing in brothels, and some had been mates or apprentices.
“Not one of them I would trust to stay sober, sir.”
“Enough said.”
“Lion is in, sir. Has a master’s mate who would give his eyeteeth to exchange – has fallen out with his captain – Mr Ferrier tells me the owner is very blue-light, sir, ships a chaplain and has prayers every day. Mr Young takes after our Captain Warren in some ways – has no love for parsons – and he finds the Lion’s quarterdeck to be a cold place – no promotion for him, sir.”
“Mr Ferrier knows him?”
“Mr Ferrier knows Lion’s master and has the good word from him.”
“Pull him across, Mr Jackman, he will no doubt prefer the Mediterranean.”
“Lion’s bound for Canton by way of New South Wales, to pick up next season’s tea wagons, sir.”
“Fourth rate, of course, fifty guns, too big and slow to catch a frigate, too small to engage in a battle, but their hold space makes them ideal for showing the flag and long cruises. Bad ships for young officers – convoys, far oceans, no action, no prizes, just long routine – the death to a youngster’s career.”
Young’s service had so far been confined to a seventy four on blockade, a year hand-to-mouth on the beach and Lion taken in desperation for any ship – a heavy frigate under a rich, prize-taking captain was beyond a dream. He came aboard full of virtue, eagerness and glee; he brought a penny-whistle with him.
“There’s a thing now, Mr Cheek!”
“Yes, sir?”
“All the way to the Spice Islands and back again in a silent ship!”
“Yes, sir. The old captain, sir, he hated music – said the best place for cats’ guts was in a cat’s belly, not yowling on his bloody decks.”
“It’s a point of view, to be sure, Mr Cheek. Could we get a violin or trumpet aboard so that the people can sing and dance of an evening?”
“There’s a couple of blokes, youngish fellows, landsmen, what plays for pennies down on the Hard of a weekend, sir. I’ll take a party of reliable lads and we’ll get they to volunteer to come aboard, sir.”
“Very good, Mr Cheek. You will be sure they are willing, won’t you?”
“Out of course I will, sir. They’ll be willing enough!”
Frederick gave brief consideration to the German Band that played at the Assembly Rooms, decided that while Cheek would certainly have no qualms in bringing them aboard, it might possibly lead to trouble, and messing them would be difficult in a frigate.
“Beg pardon, Sir Frederick!”
The formal address alerted Frederick that Cheek was about to broach a very serious matter.
“Did you see what they sent I, sir, they Patriotic Fund people?”
“No, Mr Cheek, when was this?”
“Today, sir, late in the forenoon, just before eight bells, bloke comes offshore, tips ‘is ‘at to I and ‘ands this across!”
‘This’ was a bos’n’s call in massive silver with a gold mouthpiece on a silken lanyard, Mr Cheek’s name engraved, and a written address eulogising his bravery.
“I reckons as ‘ow I better get married after this commission, sir, so as to ‘ave a son what I can leave this to.”
Frederick very gravely agreed, inspecting the presentation and bringing it to the notice of all on the quarterdeck.
Father-in-law Paget arrived on his day, brought Iain out to Charybdis, made a full tour, both fascinated, Iain made known to Goldfarb and thanking him for the model, most politely. Iain was especially in favour of the Indian monkeys, hardy survivors warm in their knitted winter woollies and with a tidy nest of blankets in the galley. The monkeys liked the little boy and in any case deeply approved of all things ceremonial – they insisted on standing in line at Divisions – joined in the tour, hand in hand and gravely peering – the occasion only spoilt when the ship’s cat swore at them and they made gestures they considered appropriate in return.
Paget found the tour enlightening – for the first time he realised that the ship was not a mere extension of the land, a sea-going workshop, but was an entirely different life, its own hermetic world, and that the denizens of one world did not naturally understand the other. The ship had its own language, hierarchy, theology and purpose, only tenuously related to the land-bound; the landsfolk could prate of their civilisation, but the sailor cleaved to an older, warrior code – there might be a place for a gentle Jesus on land, but the sea was the domain of Jehovah.
Book Three: The Duty and Destiny Series
Chapter Five
At the height of the tide, sailing signal at the Port Admiral’s yardarm, Blue Peter flying and all on a vicious midwinter morning, gloomy, a strong westerly with just enough north in it; bitter cold, sleet down the wind in spatters, salt burning lips and eyes, the certainty of tack after tack down Channel, of a cruel Biscay, of a fight to make a westing off the Spanish coast.
“Who would be a sailor, Mr Jackman?”
“The poor, the dedicated and the bloody stupid, sir!”
Frederick wondered for a
moment which of the final two was aimed at him, then forgot the question as a stronger gust came close to freezing the tears in his eyes.
“Relieve the lookouts at half hourly intervals, Mr Jackman, and send them down to the galley for a warm while the fires are lit.”
If the roll or pitch grew any more pronounced then the cook’s coppers would become unusable, the boiling water slopping out and drowning the flames and scalding the mess hands. Two or three weeks to Gibraltar, all hands every watch to make or shorten sail, two consecutive hours of sleep a rarity, four or five out of the twenty four if they were lucky; biscuit and cheese and beer their diet, with the occasional slab of pease-pudding or cold duff – the purser had had the boilers going for the whole of the last day in harbour, having assessed the weather prospects. With luck none of the men would die – none of them were recently pressed, clumsy, unwilling, despairing – but there would inevitably be injuries, fingernails ripped off and mouths and noses smashed by flailing canvas; fingers broken, cold and unfeeling and slipping on ropes’ ends; there might well be a rupture or two, men heaving on the braces and losing their footing, twisting and straining and destroying their strength for ever. It would be a bad start to the commission, but winter was winter, each worse than the last over the whole of this miserable decade of ruined harvests and poorly animals.
The wind built as they forced their way down Channel, gained more and more north, colder and colder, the sleet showers turning to snow, but easing their passage to the southwest. The Charybdis was a heavy ship, round bowed and broad in the beam, theoretically designed for North Atlantic waters, able as a result to carry a press of sail that most frigates would have found untenable in these conditions. Single reef topsails, two reefs in the courses and a single, anxiously-watched jib and she raced south, a stampeding coach-horse rather than a galloping thoroughbred, but pushing hard for warmer waters.
They reached Gibraltar in fourteen cold days, rounding to in the lee formed by the harbour under the Rock, protected by the beginning of the great breakwaters slowly pushing out from east and west, the convict labourers working in all weathers, dying uncared for, worse treated than slaves for having no sale-value. They made their respects to the port, were informed by signal that the fleet was thought to be based on Naples, but might be off Toulon or at Palermo in the Two Sicilies – best they should make Port Mahon their next call, and better not to delay because the westerly was dying and the easterly that always followed would leave them blackstrapped, unable to claw through the Gut.
“Which means, Mr Jackman, that we have called at Gib, and the dockyard will record us as having stored here, whilst we are sent on our way without ten minutes onshore between us. Fresh from Pompey they know we will have no need of water and will have eaten up only some three thousand or so rations, which will be the better part of forty pounds into their pockets, a useful little bonus and so small as to be quite undetectable. Salute the Flag and make sail.”
Frederick was only slightly upset, dockyards would be dockyards, after all, but was annoyed enough to wish to cock a very mild snook at the powers-that-be.
“Course for Port Mahon, Mr Ferrier – our best track at this time of year, I believe, will be to follow the Spanish coast north to Barcelona and then make good our easting?”
“Why, no, sir… that is to say, sir, it is certainly one of the alternatives, though not the… but, now I think of it, aye, aye, sir!”
Not very quick on his feet, the master, unable immediately to comprehend why an unfavourable wind might drive a frigate into the richest sea lanes in the Mediterranean.
“Full dawn routine, Mr Jackman.”
“Old ways, sir? Lookout to each masthead, all guns loaded and slow match to hand. Clean sweep fore and aft.”
“Cruising ways, Mr Jackman. There won’t be much about – bad weather this close to the holiday will keep most mariners in port, but it behoves all sailormen to be ready to meet the King’s Enemies at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackman saw no need for further comment.
The sea was empty but the weather was easing, the westerly rapidly falling away, becoming no more than an idle land breeze veering more and more into the north and pushing more east, the northerly bearing increasingly difficult, into their course.
“On deck! Sail almost due ahead, hull down, same course as us, sir. Seems to be a two master under courses alone, sir.”
“Mr Green, a glass to foremast, if you would be so good. Topgallants, Mr Ferrier?”
“And stun ‘sails, sir, if you wish.”
“Make it so, but in deference to Mr Warren’s old habits, not royals.”
“Nasty, fragile things, if I remember, sir. No great gain from them in this wind, sir.”
There was a delay of three or four minutes, sufficient to create irritation.
“Mr Green! Would you wish me to send your hammock up to you?”
There was much unsubtle elbowing of ribs among the gun crews, any number of half-smothered guffaws, regrets that old Fatty Warren was no longer there to damn his eyes and give them all free entertainment.
“Beg pardon, sir! Three masts, sir, but lateen-rigged, sir, very queer to see, and pole masts, no tops, very stumpy. No change in sail or course, sir.”
“Stay there, Mr Green, tell me if she makes any changes.”
“We are closing at about three knots, I estimate, sir – about two hours, if she makes no change,” Ferrier reported.
A stern chase was commonly best for the pursued, but only if her rig was the same as the predator behind her.
“What will she do, Mr Ferrier?”
“Lateens point up much better than square riggers, sir, provided always she has crew enough to make a series of fast tacks. The ordinary merchantman polacre will not have the men. If she starts a tacking match then we will know she is a privateer or Barbary pirate.”
“Lateen rig is as handy as a lugger for a merchantman – the crew can haul up the yards, one by one and they can be dropped quickly by a couple of men in emergency. They will never need to make sail in a hurry, except when a large, hungry frigate appears of a sudden.”
“Four hours of daylight, sir.”
“Good. Confident, is she not? Smacks of a neutral with nothing to fear. Mr Jackman, warn Bruce to go with the boats, he will miss very little.”
“He says she is American, sir. Not a man of them speaks English, except the master, and him poorly. He says he is lost, is sailing north to fall in with the land and fix a position, dropped his sextant in the big storm. No damage to his rigging, sir and one small boat on deck at the stern and hardly lashed down at all. His cargo is brimstone, sir, and he says it is for Naples, but he lost his cargo manifest in the storm, it was in his mate’s pocket when he fell overboard.”
“He is carrying volcanic sulphur to Naples!”
“So he tells me, sir.”
“Bring him in, Mr Bruce, coals to Newcastle is as nothing to this man! Take a good dozen men with you and keep a sharp watch for knives in the back. Suggest to your men that they might wish to talk to each other, loudly, about false colours and untrue bills of lading, evidence of piracy under Admiralty Law, all to hang on reasonable suspicion, or, indeed, on any suspicion at all in wartime.”
They docked at Mahon two days later, the prophesied easterly making the long inlet easy. Both Frederick and Ferrier knew the port well from past Mediterranean commissions, glanced about them at the familiar town, taken and retaken from Spain so often as to look half-English, a sort of bastard of Pompey begot on Gibraltar.
“And so, sir, I was blown north of my course and was making my easting when I came upon a merchantman, a polacre, the Boston Virgin, American, carrying brimstone to Naples. I judged it best that she should come in with us for further investigation, sir. Only her master has any English.”
“Boston Virgin? Owned by a syndicate of Irish immigrants, no doubt! Taking brimstone to Naples? There’s no powder mill at Naples, and if there was, they’ve
got a bloody great big volcano all of their own there! No English? My Major Duncan speaks most languages hereabouts, and he has clerks who have all the rest between them. You were right to bring her in, Sir Frederick, even if, as I strongly suspect, you had no damned business being where you were! Vice Admiral Farquhar has the blockade of Toulon and you are to join him in the first instance. Ration here and take a couple of dozen, or more if you can, of bullocks on deck and all the greenstuffs you can cram aboard for delivery to the fleet. Mail from the office. Also, you will oblige me by giving passage to three chaplains, a lieutenant and a doctor to put on board the flag to go to their new ships. I say, Sir Frederick! Would you like a chaplain, sir? The Archbishop of Canterbury wrote recently, was most anxious that the people’s moral and spiritual welfare be protected.”
“Sod the Archbishop, with respect, sir.”
“How does one do that respectfully, Sir Frederick?”
“I am sorry, sir, I have no experience of molesting Archbishops and cannot answer your riddle!”
“Hah! You lack imagination, Sir Frederick – dip your weapon in Holy Water first!”
The admiral’s manservant, cued by the roars of laughter, brought in the wine tray at this point, deciding that business was over for the day.
“Mr Ferrier, Mr Jackman, we sail on tomorrow afternoon’s tide – not that there is much tide but the ebb will help us out. I want pens on deck to take as many live bullocks as we possibly can, with their water and hay. Also, at least two tons, and preferably twice as much, of cabbages – and that will barely be a pound a man for the fleet. Mail for the fleet, off Toulon. Swing cots for three bloody chaplains and a lieutenant and a doctor going out as replacements; make sure the lieutenant and doctor are comfortable. Party ashore to kill, butcher and roast the two bullocks you see by the Steps – somewhere on the foreshore. Purser to buy soft tack and greens and fruit. Watch and watch about – those who were going to run will have done so in Pompey, so we need not fear for them.”
The Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 3) Page 14