Fortune And Glory (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  The Prince, slightly fatter than when Frederick had last seen him, and much redder in the face, was delighted to greet them - he must have been, he said so loudly. He inspected Elizabeth minutely as she sank into her curtsey - court dresses were low-cut and his eyes bulged even more than normal.

  "Sir Frederick! When last we met you had just given the Frogs a drubbing in the South Seas. This time it has been the Greek waters, I understand! Where next, one wonders?"

  "Wherever my duty and orders take me, Your Highness!"

  "Well said, sir! I see you are wearing the great star presented to you in recognition of your glorious acts, sir!"

  The French Ambassador, coincidentally present, was hard-pressed to maintain an impassive face.

  "England has little to fear while our brave sailormen rule the waves, Sir Frederick." He turned to Jervis, at his side. "Do you not agree, my lord?"

  "I have said before, Your Highness," Jervis replied, "that I do not claim an invasion of Britain to be impossible, but that no army will come by sea!"

  "Well, just as long as no inventor produces air-ships, there will be no fears, I believe. Ah, Mr Critchel, a pleasure to see you again, sir, and in such good company."

  They moved on, exchanged greetings with their acquaintance, stood and talked for the mandatory thirty minutes before they could ease their way out of sight. Jervis left the Prince's side as the line came to its end, joined them near the doors.

  "Sir Frederick, you have raised a unit of Sea Fencibles before, have you not?"

  "I have, my lord."

  "Good. I would wish to see a force on the Dorset coast - Poole, Portland, Weymouth and Bridport - able to respond to an invasion, in part. More likely would be to deal with disabled troopers that came to shore after an engagement with a French fleet. A few thousands of French soldiers could do a deal of harm if they got ashore and in the few days before they were mopped up."

  "Men to crew their own small craft, my lord, with a few cannon, and some sort of marines to be land troops?"

  "Half a battalion, if you could find them?"

  "Paid or volunteer, my lord?"

  "A bounty of ten pounds on joining, and two shillings for each of two days a week of training. The masters of small craft to be paid more, and with a fee for the use of their own bottoms."

  "I shall begin to recruit as soon as I return to Dorset, my lord."

  "Good. Documents will be sent to you and to the Lord Lieutenant, Sir Frederick. The position will be full pay in captain's rank, of course."

  "More work for you, my love!"

  "Occupation for three hundred single men. Four shillings a week is not much, but it will buy them their dinners, and if they are living at home will mean all the difference between misery and getting by. The bounty will help greatly as well. No riots this winter, not on our coast!"

  The Little Season was as tedious as the Great, but there were compensations. The Opera was open and there were concerts and a few of the masters were to be heard. London had its bookshops and music sellers, and there was always the temptation of the fashionable stores and tailors and even, during the peace, of up-to-the-minute French couturiers.

  They retired to Dorset before the end of the Season, bored by the fuss and the incessant round of small and large parties and balls. The first few were entertaining enough, but hearing the same people say the same things and exhibit the same quirks and mannerisms grew very dull.

  "I understand that the countryside is boring, Elizabeth - but how much more so is Town!"

  "We are not doomed to be creatures of Fashion, I fear me, sir. Possibly that is as well. Though Mr Russell, who undoubtedly is wholly a city-dweller, seems to delight in his Fate. He has promised us his company again in the late winter, by the way."

  "He will be wholly welcome. He will be a source of relief after a fortnight of entertaining Mr Fox. As well, I value him as a friend."

  "So too do I. Fortunately, I am free to enjoy his company without the least fear of scandal - there are certain advantages there!"

  Whilst still in London Frederick had five hundred of placards struck off, announcing in bold print the formation of the Dorsetshire Sea Fencibles and detailing the benefits that would accrue to its bold volunteers before admiring the courage and undoubted heroism of those men who would join.

  In lesser print, but still very visible, it was pointed out that no member of the Fencibles might be Pressed, should war break out, and that they would be exempt from the lottery for the Militia.

  "Four bob a week and a finger raised to the Press Gang - that should bring in the bodies!"

  "Is it entirely wise, Frederick, to give these young men money whilst still failing to occupy them for five days of the seven?"

  "Not at all, my dear - they will quite certainly get into mischief, many of them!"

  "But..."

  "Better mischief than trouble, my dear! I am sure that three or four will get together and use their bounties to build a copper still and buy sugars and the other ingredients they need. By next spring there will be well-aged gin or brandy or rum selling in all of the nearby hostelries. Rye whiskey was always a local favourite, I recall. The Excise men will not love them, but their neighbours will. One or two will set up cheeseries, I expect - the old Blue Vinny will be on sale again on market day, hopefully will not poison too many. Most of them will simply drink too much and potter about harmlessly until they get bored by the life - then some will sign on as sailormen again and others will take another bounty from the Navy or Army. Some will take to poaching and will be caught - others will get away with it. What they won't do, I sincerely trust, is form into mobs and go out burning and rioting - they will have just too much to lose."

  "It is not the way things ought to be, sir."

  "I know, but the only remedy for the lower orders seems to be 'lead or gold' - shoot 'em or bribe 'em, but don't expect 'em to lead a Christian existence of self-abnegation!"

  It was not good enough - something should be done in the longer term.

  "Better schooling, perhaps, husband?"

  "An excellent idea! Who is to pay for it?"

  Captain Jackman appeared at their front door soon after they had returned from London, begging a lodging for a few days, if they would forgive the liberty. He was heavily tanned, skin well browned by the tropical sun, as was only to be expected. He made Elizabeth a present of some ivories he had happened to come across in his travels. She made him most welcome, as did Frederick, and ensured that they enjoyed a busy local social life.

  She was openly delighted when he confided that he was in consideration of purchasing a 'little place of his own' in the County, perhaps with a few acres as well. Mr Hartley was instantly instructed to take over the search, and to use all of the influence of Abbey to assist him.

  "No ship until the war starts up again, Sir Frederick. I am to be translated to a frigate then, I understand, the post ship Nymphe too small for a captain of my standing!"

  The war flared up again before the winter was out, and well in advance of either side making any formal declaration. Gunfire was exchanged between French batteries and British ships on more than one occasion and the garrison on Malta, far from readying itself to leave, busily extended the harbour fortifications, emplacing extra cannon which appeared from the holds of innocent merchant vessels.

  In February Frederick received a letter from Mr Murray of the Admiral's staff in Valetta, thanking him for his efforts with prize money - a very welcome benefit and a more than ample reward for the little he had been able to do. He was informed that Trident had left the hands of the dockyard and was to return to Portsmouth, with some improvements made to her rigging and masts that were beyond Mr Murray's understanding but which should serve to increase her turn of speed. Captain Backham had made something of a name for himself by putting his sloop in the way of a flotilla of Barbary xebecs raiding the coasts of Sicily and taking, burning or otherwise destroying all seven in twelve hours of pursuit and action. Frederick
would be pleased to hear that his young midshipman, Mr Kent, had been named in his official report of the business and had been singled out by the admiral as a most promising young man. The sloop was expected to remain on station for the immediate future and it was thought that Captain Backham could expect to be made as soon as a vacancy in a post ship arose, as he would wish to remain in employment in his rank. The good captain was a married man now, having wed the Greek girl who had been his interpreter, much to the pleasure of all those who knew and valued him.

  "A very pleasing letter, my love, and a very good chance that I might just be put back into Trident when her acting-captain has brought her into Portsmouth. Far better than being given some lump of a seventy-four! I must see Kent today."

  Kent listened to Frederick's report of his son, allowed a smile to cross his face.

  "There will be a few pounds of prize-money there, I should expect, Sir Frederick, and he will be master's mate just as soon as may be. Named in a despatch! There's something for you, sir, and the boy not yet fourteen!"

  "The war is starting again, Kent. I would expect to see him lieutenant before he is sixteen at this rate of progress, commander before he is one-and-twenty. There will be many more ships at sea and too few officers to man them all - the chances will be there for lads of his ilk."

  "But only because you would take him in the first instance, Sir Frederick, and that is not to be forgotten. What of that other damned fool son of mine, sir? He is in the village, that I know, but has not darkened my door - for knowing all I had to say to him. He is one of your Fencibles, is he not?"

  "He is, and I have rated him, Kent. He has made himself into a reliable seaman, I believe, and he is a good corporal of the land detachment. It is hard to blame a youngster with no prospects for becoming angry, you know, Kent. I have often wondered what I might have done in like case. You know that Martin's boy died within weeks of being pressed? Lost from the rigging in the first gale they met."

  Kent was not especially interested in Martin's son - a weakling, at best.

  "I had no prospects, Sir Frederick, and yet I am sat here in a rich farmhouse. My son could have worked for the same... Maybe... Perhaps I would not wish him to have trodden the paths I took... Can the word be passed to him that he might wish to call upon me some day?"

  Father and son met, and, if not reconciled, came at least to speaking terms. A few weeks later and the young man walked off to Poole, a brief letter from his father in his pocket, and there met with the owner of a laid-up privateer, a small brig that was being refurbished in anticipation of receiving her Letter of Marque just as soon as the war was made official.

  "Kent? Your father, you say, knew me of old. A Bristol man, I believe. You have a note from him, you say?"

  He read the letter, laughed aloud.

  "Well, I'm damned! I thought he would have swung from a noose well before he could have taken to the land. Two years of the navy, but you would wish to sign on as a boarder? If you are half the man your father was, then you will do me, sir. Three shares, as a leading hand, starboard watch of the boarders, will that suit you?"

  It would, very well.

  "Good. Food and drink but no wages. Five hundred shares, half to the ship, the rest between the eighty of the crew. Pull your weight and you will get more shares. Show yourself useless and your arse will be kicked ashore at the next port. Satisfy you?"

  Kent put his bag aboard ship ten minutes later, then reported to the boatswain and asked what he was to do the meanwhile.

  "You're a boarder. You don't have to do anything in port, other than look to your own weapons."

  "All very well, master, but there must be jobs that would be better for bein' done afore we sails."

  "There are too, what's yer name?"

  "Obadiah Kent, master."

  "What do they call you, 'Baddy'?"

  "Mostly, yes, master."

  "Less of the 'master', Baddy - we don't go for it on a private ship of war. Men who can work calls me Jim. Lazy sods calls me bastard. The Gunner is down below and he's bound to 'ave work to be done, and you belongs to 'im more than to me, except when it's 'All Hands'."

  "Thank'ee, Jim. Do you know where we'll be bound for?"

  "French and then Spanish coast, first off. If so be we're still lookin' for trade then down to the Slave Coast, pick up Frenchmen who ain't been told there's a war on. After that, make port and then off to the Italian coast."

  Spring saw a marine astride a very tired horse enquiring whether he had found the Abbey and Sir Frederick Harris. Bosomtwi took him to task for overworking his horse, ordered him to the back door and led the animal into his yard.

  "Beg your pardon, sir. Which, I has got a order from the Admiral at Portsmouth what I got to put into your 'and personal-like, sir."

  Frederick took formal acceptance of the letter, checking its seals in the Marine's presence as was correct and to confirm that he had properly carried out his duty.

  "Go to the kitchen with my man. You will be fed and given a bed for the night - it is too late to start out again today."

  "Thank'ee, sir."

  The Marine would have been able to commandeer a bed at an inn, but would fare much better at Abbey than he would be begrudged by a landlord who would not be paid for at least a year.

  "A Marine, Frederick. Orders?"

  "I can only imagine so, my dear. We are close to war and it may well be seen as wise to get our ships to sea at an early moment."

  He opened the canvas-wrapped package, carefully waterproof.

  "'From the Commissioners of the Admiralty' - all of the normal rigmarole, orders it must be. Let us see... yes, here we are. My word!"

  Elizabeth debated a demure cough to remind him of her presence; she poked him in the ribs instead.

  "Oh! I am so sorry, my dear, I was taken by surprise, was trying to discover why. I am to take command of Trident again, which is as I had hoped, but I am also to have another frigate and a pair of sloops and a gunbrig. I am to be a Commodore, though of the second class, without a captain under me. Sailing in about three weeks time, I am to make my way to the Spanish Main, specifically to Tobago and Amboina where an invasion will later be mounted. Once on the coast I am to close all ports, interdict the movement of troops, bring an end to all commercial traffic, discover which harbours are best protected and which may be the best places to land. I may expect to be on station by the middle of May and will be at liberty to assume that a state of war will exist with France and Spain. Prizes should be sent to Antigua, not Jamaica. I wonder why?"

  "Three weeks, husband!"

  "And some of them must be spent in London, for my uniforms must be made correct. I must spend some days in Portsmouth, too - there is no mention of what ships I will have and I must discover them, and their captains. Best will be for you and the boys to come to Long Common to be as close as can be. Perhaps to stay in Pompey for the last week... There is no time!"

  Frederick wrote a letter to Mr Critchel, innocently enquiring why he had been so favoured - the appointment stank of politics, for Jervis had already more than met any obligation he might have felt.

  # # #

  Below is an excerpt from the start of Book Six, Sugar and Spice which follows Frederick as he is given command of a small squadron of ships with orders to sail to the Caribbean at a time when who is at war with who is never quite certain. He suspects that for political reasons the mission could turn out to be a poisoned chalice.

  Kindle Link: http://viewbook.at/SugarandSpice

  A Commodore of the Second Class wore the uniform of a Rear-Admiral – a star on the epaulette and a line of wavy lace at the cuff to distinguish him from a mere post-captain. It looked very imposing to Frederick, and the tailor’s bill would no doubt be proportionate to its glory. Commodore was an appointment, not a rank, and the fortunate holder would return to his role of post-captain on completion of the particular commission given by the Admiralty, but it was a mark of distinction and would normally lead to
a number of outstanding commands while he waited his time on the List. Frederick’s tailor was much aware of his client’s golden future and was happy to let it be known, discreetly, that Sir Frederick Harris, the distinguished naval gentleman, was often to be seen in his premises; he still did not reduce his bill, however.

  A commodore, whether formally appointed or simply senior captain of a particular squadron, took an Admiral’s share of all prize money picked up by the ships he commanded. A captain detached by a thousand miles who made a lucky capture would hand over one of his eighths when the prize court coughed up; there was much to be said for being a commodore.

  That being the case, why had Jervis made him? What political deviltry lay behind this appointment? Was there a sting in the tail? It was vital to discover just what was being hatched in the back-rooms of Whitehall and Westminster.

  The first step was simple; he made his way towards Westminster and sent his name into the House. Mr Russell came to him within minutes, greeting him with pleasure.

  “My dear Sir Frederick! Do not tell me! You have this moment come from your tailor and the glories of lace and bullion-covered epaulettes! I am, no doubt, to stand in awe of your martial splendour!”

  “That I rather doubt, sir, but I have certainly been closeted with my tailor. It occurred to me, while I was standing with my arm crooked and he measured and re-measured my every proportion, to wonder exactly why I had been singled out for this particular distinction.”

  “And so you came to the most reliable single source of information available to you!”

  Frederick bowed in acknowledgement.

  “It is, in fact, a problem easy of solution, Sir Frederick. Our dearly beloved First Lord of the Treasury, the Prime Minister himself, Mr Addington, has discovered his grasp on the reins of power to be uncertain – in the extreme. It is in fact obvious even to his nigh impervious self-conceit that he must resign the office within a year, at most two, probably to make way for Mr Pitt again. This, you may be thinking, is all very well, but what has it to do with my appointment at sea? The answer is, Sir Frederick, that it is normal for an outgoing Prime Minister to be rewarded with an earldom – but only where he has made some claim to distinction, which the great majority in the past have. Poor Mr Addington is distinguished solely by being perhaps the least able ever of all our Prime Ministers. His claim to fame is that he is the most commonplace man in history to reside in Number Ten!”