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

by Andrew Wareham

  “They will get at liquor, sir,” Jackman warned.

  “Bloody disgraceful, Mr Jackman!” Frederick belched and ambled off, duty done for the day.

  “Pissed as a fart, Mr Jackman!”

  “No head for his drink at all, Mr Ferrier,” Jackman replied. “One bottle and he’s a lost man – which is why, I suspect, he rarely takes more than one glass.”

  “It will be his money paying for this, that’s for certain, Mr Jackman, and he will see little enough change from twenty five guineas.”

  As Ferrier knew, even with a small harbour watch there were still ears enough on the quarterdeck – marine sentry, mizzenmast hands – to let the word go through the ship that the captain had bought them a feast and all out of his own pocket!

  “And for why, we asks ourselves?”

  The question arose over grog in Number Three mess, was answered, naturally, by Goldfarb, its leading hand.

  “Because he likes his men, and he got a value for them. He knows us, and ve knows him. Me, I don’t fight for no king, and I ain’t got no country, ja? But him I fights for, and he knows it!”

  “But, he ain’t no seaman,” a new hand protested. “Warn’t for the master and the First, he’d be hard pressed to get us out of harbour!”

  “He don’t need be no seaman, Bill Jenkins! He’s good at killing Frogs, and that’s what he does, that’s what he’s here for!”

  It was a bleary-eyed, knackered, happy crew that sailed next afternoon – the roasting meats had attracted liquor sellers, as foreseen, and the ladies and boys of the town had soon gravitated to the source of noise and merriment, and had added their mite. Every man with a shilling had spent it, and those without a shilling had borrowed one, for Charybdis was a rich ship and some of her crew still had prize-money in their pockets.

  The three chaplains, who had observed all from the ship, using the master’s big telescope when detail escaped them, were truly horrified, though one, younger, reverend really did want to know exactly what the big seaman had been doing when he… never mind! They would protest to the Chaplain of the Fleet; to the Archbishop; to the King, the Defender of the Faith; loudly to the captain, now.

  The captain had a headache, did not like chaplains at sea, was in no mood to entertain shrill complaint.

  “Bosomtwi! Get Marc and Jean to throw these three noisy gentlemen into the nearest boat and their dunnage after them. I want them off my ship before we sail. If they say one word about Sons of Ham you may do without the boat!”

  “Aye aye, sir! They is only one God, anyway, and his name Al Lah – the munshi tell me that when I am little boy, isn’t it, and he never tell a lie – so all you folks can bugger off right now!”

  Less hungover the following day, it occurred to Frederick that he might have been a trifle impetuous, could well get into trouble for this, but the people had loved the sight of three parsons in a one pair of oars bumboat, Marc and Jean dropping their sea chests down on them. It had been as good as a show, and all for free! Falsetto voices of protest were to be heard at all times of day and night and any unpopular order or rebuke brought an instant sotto voce cry of ‘I’ll tell the bishop!’

  “F**ck the bishop, isn’t it!” was chorused in return by all in hearing.

  Bosomtwi, already well-liked, gained the respect of all: he had given Charybdis a catch-phrase.

  “Sir Frederick! Can I say how very pleased I was to read your Gazettes and then hear of your baronetcy – so very well deserved! Several names were bandied about for the Spice Islands, but when I said you had become available Their Lordships soon agreed that you would do the job and not stop until it was finished – no half measures, no compromises for you, sir! That was a mighty stroke of yours in the Papues! Not a Frog sailor exists who will go thereabouts without wondering whether some savage is picking up the mustard pot to go with his spear! Mind you, from what we have seen of the newssheets bought from the fishing boats, you might be well-advised not to be taken by the French – they seem to have quite a down on you!”

  “It becomes a problem, Sir Iain, when your de facto allies go to war with a knife and fork! However, all came out well enough in the end, sir. I am, it goes without saying, truly grateful for the command, sir.”

  “Tush! The least I could do, Sir Frederick, and your success reflects well on my judgement!”

  Neither chose to pursue the topic of patronage further, both were aware of the implications of Farquhar’s open commitment to Frederick. Farquhar was a relatively young admiral and knew he must be shore-bound at the end of his current command, having had his fair share of seatime – his political influence was now quite powerful with the Alton votes and those of other protégés and he could seek a peerage and a place in the nexus of administration, need never go to sea again. He was rich, having had the West Indies command before this, and now he could enjoy an easier life.

  “My godson is well, Sir Frederick?”

  “Flourishing, sir, and a great consolation to me – I had not realised how hard it would be to leave a child behind, not to see him grow through boyhood.”

  “It is the price we pay.” Sir Iain stayed silent a while, considering his own children perhaps, and the son on Frederick’s ship, now so close to him. “What did you bring with you, Sir Frederick? Have you seen the Flag Captain?”

  “I have made the arrangements with him, sir – and my First will be trying to clean the deck even now, I suspect – it is amazing just how much one bullock can produce in a day, sir! We brought eighty and four tons of cabbages – all the markets could provide on sailing day, I understand. Also mail, sir, and a lieutenant and a doctor, but the three parsons did not travel due to an unfortunate falling out.”

  “No loss there! The last seventy four back from Palermo brought only thirty six of bullocks – not much for a fleet growing every week as damaged liners rejoin from the yards. Two meals of fresh beef and cabbage will do all the men good. Well now, Sir Frederick – such a pleasure, that name – orders, sir. Take yourself back to Gibraltar and there you will join with Tartarus bomb – two thirteen inch mortars and six twenty four pound carronades. You will proceed with her to the Isle of Djerba where you will find the harbour, forts and fleet of one Rashid Hassan Bey, in revolt against the Sublime Porte, and independent of Morocco; he has twice taken store ships and raided the Levant convoy last year. He has sailing and oared galleys; a lagoon with a narrow entrance, shallow and crab for the prevailing wind; two, at least, of fortalices and a demilune battery mounting an unknown number of guns of varying ages and calibre. The French are believed to have given him twelve pounders and he is thought to have taken the cargo of a French store that fled Aboukir Bay, and that may have included a siege train.”

  “That could be interesting, Sir Iain!”

  “So it could. You are in command, obviously, and will make your decisions on the spot, but it seems possible that you may be able to anchor off the lagoon on the rear face of the battery and destroy all in harbour in a few hours of bombardment. His fleet is to go, let all understand that attacks on our ships will meet with retaliation. He is a rebel so will attract little sympathy in Stamboul, and the Emperor of Morocco has let it be known that he will not be averse to extending his influence to the east, so you have a free hand in effect, though you should think very carefully indeed before making any significant landing.”

  “Good. That seems within reason clear, sir. He must lose every ship and the forts will be destroyed if and to the extent that they are practical.”

  “Just so, Sir Frederick. I have written your orders – read them tonight and come back to me if there is any ambiguity. You do not sail for Gibraltar for three days, so you have time and to spare. I would wish you to sit on the Court, now that you are here, thus releasing Captain Tulloch who is my Flag Captain and has much better things to do with his time. As well, and importantly in this instance, it will seem more fair when the proceedings come to me for confirmation if my closest junior is not involved. I would hardl
y wish to disagree with him, after all, and although you are known to be a friend of mine, you will be lowest ranking officer in the court, having only just shipped your second swab. We shall dine afterwards, if you will join me.”

  The written orders were clear, concise, simple and open-ended. Charybdis would sail to Gibraltar, thence to Isle Djerba and Rashid Hassan; as necessary, they would then take, burn or otherwise destroy any or all forts, batteries, barracks, boatyards, shipyards, timber stores, ropewalks, sail lofts, armouries, magazines, foundries and other ancillary installations and chandleries and take such other measures as seemed good to achieve the primary task of the total extirpation of Rashid Hassan’s naval capability. As always, he must shrink from no risk whilst in no way hazarding his ship.

  Ferrier and Jackman were brought into the cabin with the appropriate charts to discuss the assault and determine a course to sail on the approach and withdrawal.

  “What if the fleet is not there, sir?” Ferrier asked. “Do we go ahead and destroy the harbour?”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” Bosomtwi interposed, in the cabin as ever but officially non-existent. “They will be there, isn’t it, all of them. It is Ramadan, sir, when all the beardies sit on their backsides all day long in the shade and guts it up all night in a big party, and none of them do bugger-all like work at all.”

  “Thank you, Bosomtwi – that removes one concern. I would not like to be at anchor bombarding a fort when a dozen xebecs came up behind me.”

  Brief perusal of the charts suggested that there might be a tidal scour along the coast, the few soundings indicated the possibility of a five or six fathom channel close inshore, but final dispositions would have to be made on the spot – there were few preparations to make other than normal routine.

  “What of this court martial, gentlemen? What’s the word? Every ship sent us a boat and a lieutenant for mail, they must have conversed.”

  “Talked of nothing else, sir, argued, I should say,” Ferrier sniffed, disapprobation strong.

  Jackman nodded. “I thought we would have a couple of challenges made on our own decks, sir, had to bring one gentleman up mighty sharp indeed. Typical of the sort of thing that happens on blockade, I understand, sir, though, thankfully, I have never been on blockade myself, so I don’t personally know.”

  “I do, sir – I had a twelvemonth off Boston in the last war,” Ferrier said. “These two young gentlemen were playing cards and a squabble blew up out of nothing. The captain forbade them to meet until their ship made port, or until they were relieved, nobody seems clear on which. What is clear is that they were forbidden to take a boat on shore and deal with the matter quickly, and still had to share the wardroom and each other’s company. Last week one was found dead, run through, the other with a slash across his chest; in the cable tiers during the dogs – off-watch men up singing and dancing, none below. No seconds or surgeon. Captain says murder, survivor says honour, and opinion equally split in the fleet.”

  “Messy! That would be why the admiral wanted his Flags out of it – could rankle for ever and a day!”

  Frederick had never seen a court martial, the opportunity had never arisen or he would, in the nature of things, have satisfied his curiosity. He presented himself at the appointed time in full dress, as specified in the court martial letter delivered on the previous afternoon, his commission in his pocket so as to formally establish seniority.

  “I am Captain James Paget, President of today’s court. You must be Captain Sir Frederick Harris – all the other captains in the fleet are known to me.”

  “I am, sir, commanding Charybdis, 36.”

  “I think we all know that, Sir Frederick, we have all read the Gazette and have heard the talk. A most enterprising set of actions, sir, most worthy.”

  Coughs and mutters from the other three captains, all senior to Frederick, could be taken as agreement. Captains Fairfax, Bentley and Smythe were introduced, had little to say, were clearly unhappy in the day’s duty.

  Paget gave brief instructions – seating, etiquette, procedure – and established seniority. Judgements were always given junior first, so as to prevent influence being brought to bear, and to avoid the temptation not to tread on a senior’s toes by openly disagreeing with him.

  “Listen to the evidence, gentlemen, and at its end you may ask any questions that occur to you, but only when you are sure the witness has nothing more to volunteer. The Judge Advocate is a professional lawyer and we really must take his guidance on questions of law, but fact is ours alone to determine. At its simplest, we decide what happened and he tells us what the law describes that as. You know the Articles of War, so you know the punishments we can or must give.”

  They assembled in the courtroom, the great cabin of the flagship, and were sworn in before the audience of off-duty officers from the whole fleet, sat in solemn silence while the first case was made ready, prosecutor and defence pointed to their places.

  Four ordinary, everyday cases – seamen taken in drink and knifing each other or the warrant officers who had tried to restrain them; theft from a prize; desertion following a detected theft – two hangings and a pair for flogging round the fleet. Unpleasant but routine affairs, mildly distasteful. Then an officer’s sword was laid on the table, left, right in front of the accused, and the audience sat up straight.

  “Lieutenant George Frederick Julius Barclay, you are accused …”

  A long legal drone and a plea of not guilty entered.

  The prosecution built a tidy case – body found, wound that matched the accused’s bloody sword; blood on the deceased’s blade and a wound on the accused’s chest. The officers on his ship stood one by one and testified that they had not acted as seconds, were followed by an equally negative surgeon. The original challenge was described and Barclay’s captain stated that he had categorically refused them permission to meet – he had known it would be at least six months before they made port, had hoped the offence would have cooled, would no longer be a killing matter by that time.

  Barclay insisted on making a statement to the court and proceeded to destroy himself. Before he spoke the evidence was all circumstantial and a willing mind could find the case not wholly proven, could be content to break Barclay for insubordination, but he was not prepared to fudge the issue. Yes, he said, he had fought the deceased – he had the right, he had been given the lie, the captain had had no business interfering in his honour; yes, he had killed the man, and glad he was to have done so – he had the right to kill any man who so impugned his honour. As for seconds – a mere formality, he did not need the services of a second to ensure that he behaved correctly, they insulted him who implied otherwise.

  The court retired.

  “If it was a duel – which may or may not be legal but must be accepted in a military court – then he can claim self-defence. He disobeyed his captain and must be dismissed his ship, but no more. If we say it was not a duel then he committed murder. Correct, Judge Advocate?”

  “Not, sir, my choice of words, but, yes, in essence that is so.”

  “Let us gather our first opinions before we discuss the matter in detail. Sir Frederick?”

  “Murder, sir. No seconds, no witnesses, no surgeon – no duel.”

  Fairfax, Bentley and Smythe with varying degrees of reluctance agreed – there had been no duel, merely a vulgar, private brawl, the very thing that the code of the duello sought to supplant and control.

  “As President I find I must agree with you, gentlemen – the duello cannot be a hole-in-the-corner scuffle – it has rules and propriety, and this nasty business had neither. There can be no lesser punishment, Judge Advocate?”

  “Death by hanging, sir!”

  “Not even a firing squad?”

  “By hanging.”

  “Then let it be so.”

  They returned to the courtroom inside fifteen minutes, to the dismay of those in the audience who had sought a leisurely refreshment, expecting long discussion.

&nbs
p; They turned the sword, point towards the defendant. He knew he must be found guilty of the lesser charges of insubordination, was still confident.

  “Captain Sir Frederick Harris, how say you?”

  Frederick took care to make his voice firm, precise, clear – no abashed muttering for him.

  “Guilty of murder, Mr President.”

  There was a collective indrawn breath in the room, quickly suppressed.

  The three more senior captains gave the same answer.

  “I concur. Lieutenant Barclay, you have been found guilty by this court of the heinous crime of murder of a fellow officer. You shall be taken from this place and, on confirmation of sentence, you shall be carried to your ship and there you shall be hanged by the neck from the main yardarm until you are dead. And may God have mercy on your soul.”

  Barclay shook his head but said nothing – he knew that the sentence would never be confirmed, that he would be in London inside the month with a story to tell. He stood bolt upright and motionless as Marines placed irons on his wrists and ankles, an officer no more, merely a felon, and shuffled away, back straight.

  Sir Iain was waiting in his cabin, confirmed the sentence instantly.

  “I dinna’ like the duello, I willna’ thole brawling!”

  It was the first time Frederick had heard him lapse into the vulgarity of Lallans, a measure of his anger.

  “When, sir?” Tulloch asked.

  “Now! If it was good enough for Nelson then it will do for me.”

  They put Barclay into a boat from his ship and rowed a course that took him past all eight of the line of battle ships, their crews already assembled to view the floggings. At his ship’s side they put a whip round his body and hoisted him undignified like a ration bullock, dropped him on the deck. They stood him between two Marines, tugged a nightcap over his face and rapidly fashioned a noose for his neck. The ship’s chaplain, appalled, gabbled such prayers as he could improvise and they tailed onto the line, within five minutes had him kicking his life away in view of all. It was brief, brutal and a very public example.