“Midshipman Burton reporting as ordered for duty, Sir,” he said, and knuckled his forehead.
After another glare directed at Neville, Tripp said, “Tomorrow you’ll both accompany Mr. Eastring, Carpenter’s Mate, into the towns roundabout to post recruitment bills. We’re still twenty-four short of our full complement of two hundred and twenty. Post them where they may be well seen. If we don’t get our volunteers, you’ll be out with a press gang soon.
“Day after tomorrow, report to Lieutenant McLay of the marines at the practice field ashore. Proper uniforms; look sharp. You may go – now.”
The small party set out just after first light with Mr. Eastring, two seamen, a supply of handbills, small nails and little hammers, with all good intentions to walk round all three towns and be done by nightfall. The towns of Rochester, Gillingham, and Chatham were all within a day’s walk. Fortunately, the falling damp had stopped, and the sun shone a trifle more strongly, but the paths were still wet and muddy. The slight breeze that had begun from the southeast, coming off the English Channel just a few miles away, brought a fresh smell of sea air and fish with its chill.
“Let’s have a look at one of those handbills, Mr. Eastring,” Neville suggested. “What does the captain have to say to the good sailors of England?”
* * * * * *
“God Save the King”
MY HEROIC ENGLISH COUNTRYMEN
In fear of the scourge of FRENCH REVOLUTIONARIES
Who might bring their Armies of Destruction
to our English soil, our King, in his wisdom, is seeking
to prepare ships such as the most excellent and very fast frigate
CASTOR
Fifth Rate of 32 guns
Fitting out at Chatham Dock Works
to sail in defence of our Country under command of
Captain Thomas Troubridge
If there be war declared with France, a high chance of prize money
might be the fortune of EVERY HAND ABOARD
Join us NOW if you are a SEAMAN
Who is stout of heart and STRONG of hand
Rendezvous at the Queen’s Stairs, Chatham
* * * * * *
“Ohh! I feel awful,” said Neville in the morning. “My legs ache something terrible.”
“Mine, too, Neville. We just haven’t been doing enough walking. And that mud .…”
“Oh! Who’s this, then?” A small boy entered their mess area following Fredericks. As before, Fredericks quickly disappeared.
“Hello, I’m Aiden O’Hanlan,” said the small fellow with a clear face, twinkling eyes, and brown hair. He glanced curiously about the space that would be his new home. He didn’t look pleased.
“I thought there were to be five of us,” he said. “All in here?”
“Two more?” asked Neville. “We haven’t seen anyone else until you here today.”
“I’m glad to see someone more me own age. I hope you know your way ‘round here.” His chance to talk was obviously cheering him.
“I’m Neville, and my chum here is Daniel. Sorry you’ve just come in, but there’s no time to adjust. We’re all ordered to find Lieutenant McLay for weapons training today.”
“You will work with Sergeant Hycson and his new lads today,” said Lt. McLay, “to receive proper weapons training in the finest of the Marines’ martial arts. Swords and pistols today. What say? Enthusiasm all round? You see them there?” A group of ten or twelve young soldiers, roughly between the ages of twelve-year-old Aiden and a lanky fellow of nineteen, were mustering in front of a swarthy red-coated sergeant on the other side of the cricket pitch.
“I’ll not be blamed for you beginners slicing each other up before we are even aboard,” began Sergeant Hycson. “You’ll use sticks before your own swords; the real weapons will all be from the Castor’s armory. You’ll need to be familiar with them.”
Hycson gave a short demonstration with a seasoned corporal, and then lined them all up in opposing pairs. “Those of you on the left take the offense in this first attack. Ready? You, there,” he said, addressing Neville. “Hold that sword in your right hand, raised this way. And give me your name, please.”
“Mr. Burton, Sir. I couldn’t do as you say and stay alive long,” said Neville in response. “I’m horribly left-handed.”
“Very well, Mr. Burton, prepare to die.”
Neville was particularly successful, however. He and Daniel had practiced some but, without fathers or other teachers at home, their techniques were rudimentary at best. Hycson’s tips and methods were doing wonders for their self-confidence in these skills. Neville defeated one after the other of the redcoats. After the last, Hycson called out to one of the defeated, “Mr. Lomley, what is it? You’ve been one of our most promising recruits, and he bested you in minutes.”
“It’s not me, Sir, it’s ‘im. He comes at me all wrong with ‘is sword in the wrong ‘and.”
“So, Mr. Lomley, your complaint is that the enemy won’t fight you fairly?”
“It’s not that way, Sergeant, but ….”
“You all take a turn with Mr. Burton, here,” Hycson interrupted, looking slowly down the line of young marines, “and find a way to at least defend yourselves. Your enemy will do his best never to ‘fight you fairly’ at all, at all and, in most battles, you’ll be lucky to get one against one.
“Mr. Burton, I am pleased you’re here today. ,If you would be so good as to give them each one more go before we’re on to pistols, I shall watch and critique. Do the same for your navy companions later.”
The afternoon was given to pistol practice at a makeshift firing range facing the river.
“I’ll not do so well at this, Daniel,” Neville said. “Being left-handed is no advantage with these clumsy weapons. I think these things are built for right-handers, and there are too many whimsical variants involved in shooting the contraption: how much powder you pour in, whether you judge right for the wind and the distance, if your flint struck right, and so on. You’ve got to pick a ball the right size for the bore of it, for all God’s love. Who has time for that in a battle?”
“Oh, no, Neville. This is much easier. I never know which way the other man is going to wave his sword, but this I can control.”
“What is with you marines?” Hycson grumbled again after an hour of shooting. “You’re letting another navy bloke school you at target practice … and by that I mean he’s going to help me with instruction now. So you pay attention to him like he was me, and make more of this than a joyous racket.
“Two more days of this, gentlemen,” Hycson announced when he had them all lined up at the end of the day. “Tomorrow is axes; then muskets and, the next day, we’ll get on with pikes and back to swords again. By the end of that time, you should be familiar with your weapons, but practice will continue aboard until I am sure you can kill the enemy and not yourselves. Dismissed!”
The Chatham gates were adorned with a newspaper clipping the next day:
London Morning Herald
WAR LIKELY!
Our British sloop HMS Childers was fired upon two days ago by a French battery at the Port of Brest. Her Captain, Robert Barlow, took immediate evasive action.
There were no casualties, and no damage was done to His Majesty’s ship, but this outrage stands as proof that the French mobs have no love for us, a peaceful country that wishes him them no harm .… etc., etc.
4 January, 1793
“The Childers? That’s father’s ship!” Daniel said.
“It says there are no casualties, Daniel, so don’t worry. Maybe you’ll have a letter from home about it.”
Lieutenant Ratcliffe was becoming visibly less reserved and more impatient with the completion of both the crew and provisions, even to the point that he was making personal visits to suppliers to make demands or even plead for the last of their stores. He gathered his officers again.
“If you haven’t heard it yet, the French have invaded the Netherlands,” Lt. Ratcl
iffe announced to his officers. “Both Spain and Portugal have thrown in with him. More than this, gentlemen, I would consider speculation. We are not fully manned yet, but we must be ready to sail as soon as our captain appears. We’ll be sending some ‘search parties’ out to find a few more bargains for the King. Immediately after that, I am ordered to move this ship to anchor at Sheerness.”
“Look here, Neville, at me mum’s letter,” Daniel said a couple weeks later. “Well, not me mum’s, that’s all how she misses me and how it is so cold in Bury and snowed and all that, but this page here. It’s come to her from Dad in the Childers. It looks to be part of his report about Brest before he wrote it fair for Captain Barlow,” he said, passing it over to Neville.
HMS Childers, at Sea
8 January, 1793
Reconnaissance of the Port of Brest 2 days ago.
Captain Barlow, having put me to the task of observing the French Squadron in Brest carefulley with a long glass, decided to enter the Harbour, as we could do so without aide of boats because there was almost noe breeze and, what little there was came out the Northe. He said we should not fear the French, as we are not at Warre, but there were several Forts guarding the narrowe entrance that gave us to worry. We did enter the inner Rade with our ensign abroad at near 2 bells in the Forenoon Watch and saw numerous Vessels, bothe Navy and Merchant. I counted twenty and seven ships of seventy-four Guns, two of more, and thirty and three smaller.
Before we could see clearly the Extent of the activity, a Cannon was shote from the Northern Head. The ball passed thru our Main Course and damaged one of our guns, but noe one was injured. As the route to escape is so narrowe and well-guarded, the Captain declared we shoulde take noe more chance of Ruin and sail to sea. By that time, we had the fortune of a lite Nor-easte winde whiche arose to carry us free with noe delay whatsoever, and we passed into the Ocean at 2 bells in the Afternoon Watch. Both forts fired upon us, but we were soon out of range, so we did not return the shotes. There was noe injury to our People, nor theirs, as a result of our intrusion.
The Captain was quite Outraged that a Nation at Peace would take ….
Three more came aboard the next day. A Lieutenant Froste, who was to be the new First Lieutenant, came up the ladder first. He carried the news that the previous First Lieutenant Nellis had died from complications after a carriage accident. The missing two midshipmen were with him: Arthur Colson and William Hunt. Froste hurried aft.
“Welcome, you two. I’m Daniel Watson, Midshipman of the Watch today. There are three of us already aboard, so now we’re five. That’ll be all of us, I think.”
“Name’s William Hunt,” announced the skinny one, holding out his hand. “From Penzance.”
“I’m Arthur Colson,” said the larger, older one. He didn’t offer his hand.
“Let’s go down, then,” said Daniel, and started below. He repeated the trip down to the cockpit that he had been shown months before, with two seamen carrying the new mids’ sea chests.
William’s face fell when he saw their allotted space. “We can have a chat later,” Daniel said, “but I’ve got duty now.”
Arthur Colson was not as green as Neville and Daniel still were. He was obviously familiar with a navy ship, if not a frigate. He expressed no surprise at the size or appearance of his quarters and probably could have found them himself. He was a relatively big fellow of between eleven and twelve stone, with a large head, short hair, a double chin, and dark complexion. His corpulent frame supported, unfortunately, short arms, giving him the look of the king in childrens’ marionette shows. He asked no questions about shipboard life other than, “Wot’s cap’n like?” to which Daniel could only reply, “I’ve no idea. We haven’t seen him yet. Please excuse me, but I must return to my post.”
The younger midshipman was quiet. He appeared miserable, indeed. He might have been younger than Aiden, but was no heavier for his four inches taller. He had a bookish look, with spectacles, stringy brown hair, and a thin face.
News in a navy ship travels faster even than rumor on land. Before Daniel had even arrived topside, he had been told three times by passing sailors that ‘the new lieutenant has brought news of war.’ Neville was waiting for him in the waist.
“It’s war, I hear,” said Neville. “France has declared war on England and the Netherlands, but that’s all I’ve heard. What of these new midshipmen?”
“Arthur Colson’s the older one, the fat one, and William Hunt the tall, skinny young one. Can’t tell what they’re about, but Colson worries me.”
Lieutenant Froste put the ship to exercise the very next morning. Supper found the tired young gentlemen sitting in their mess below decks.
“What’s the date of your commission, Burton?” Colson asked coldly.
“Ahhhhh ….” he stammered, and then pulled out the letter that he and Daniel had received from the Admiralty.
“Ho, ho,” laughed Colson, “you don’t even know? You’ve a thing or two to learn about the Navy, haven’t you? And you, Mr. Watson, what’s yours?”
“Neville’s lookin’ it up, ain’t ‘ee?” he replied.
“You, either? Oh, we’ve got a bunch of green hands ‘ere, upon my word. Well, Burton, what are they?”
Aiden and William sat quiet as church mice in the corner.
“My commission date is third October, 1789. Daniel’s is 12 April of 1790,” read Neville.
“Well, that’s brilliant, then. I’m first,” Colson said. “I’ll be signals, if this captain is at all by the book, and probably mainmast. And I’ll need another pot of ale,” he concluded, looking straight at Aiden.
Daniel had noticed Colson’s comment about signals and looked to Neville, but Neville’s question had been asked so flatly that Daniel could not surmise Neville’s acceptance of it.
“I’m second?” Neville mumbled in an apparent temporary bewilderment. This last comment was a bit distressing to him, as he had thought the duty would be very interesting and had studied it seriously over the past few months. He knew that Colson would not be on duty at all times, however, and expected he would be given an opportunity to display his knowledge at some point. Only a moment later did he think, Colson’s not going to use O’Hanlan as his servant if I can ….
Aiden scurried out of the cockpit.
Calmly, Neville asked Colson, “Hold on. What’s yours?”
“I’ve got a year on you, matey,” boasted Colson: “November of 1788, it is. And, I’m in charge of this mess, and I’ll have signals duty then, hey? Don’t you lot think otherwise.”
Aiden returned with Colson’s pot full of ale, leaving Neville to wonder how he had accomplished this bit of magic. He didn’t ask, though, and when Aiden saw him staring, he plainly winked.
Midshipman Colson had seniority not only in date of service, but also in first-hand knowledge of being at sea, and he was quick to let the others know it. He had joined the Navy at eleven, first serving as cabin boy. After that, he was rated ‘able seaman’ in his second two ships, and finally was able to volunteer for midshipman.
“I’ll get my rating as lieutenant one day,” he announced at one meal. “I was two years as a ‘Midshipman-by-Order’ in my previous ship, and I got on with me captain well enough. He put me forward to take the examination. I didn’t pass, though, and I ain’t got any fancy title in me family, so it might be a while before I get another chance at it.” He didn’t seem angry about his situation, but he claimed his favorite seat in their mess and demanded they help with his mathematics. It soon became apparent that he was neither a particularly intelligent being nor a mean one, despite an odd and unpredictable quirky vengefulness.
The bookish-looking Mr. Hunt turned out to be just that: studious and reserved. This earned him his assignment as captain’s clerk, at least for the time being. Things could change rapidly once the captain himself appeared.
“We are still under complement by twenty-four souls,” stated Lt. Froste in mid-February. “I need the two of you
to take a party of six loyal seamen ashore tomorrow and press as many as you can. There is not an Indiaman or navy ship due in within the next fortnight that I know of. As you are senior, Mr. Colson, you are in charge. Have Mr. Finche, Bo’sun’s Mate, name the seamen for the party. Mr. Tillman tells me he knows which of them we can trust. Mr. Burton, I understand you led a posting party ‘round not long ago?”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Very well. Direct Mr. Colson to follow your path in the hope you find someone interested.”
“Aye, Sir.”
“I don’t like even being seen with a press gang,” Neville grumbled to Daniel that evening. “I understand why we’ve got to do it, but it’s a great injustice much of the time. In my mind, the end barely justifies the means, as they say, even with a war starting. The Navy’s hard up for men, but I think we’ve done well to be only twenty-four men short. I’m told that almost every ship leaves here a few men short. And these towns ‘round here get searched by whatever ship is next to leave.”
But Neville had no choice. The next morning found Castor’s gang comfortably dry ashore, thankful for the onshore breeze that provided a swift and sprayless sail to the Chatham sally port. They followed their previous path through Brompton and off toward Gillingham, during which time a fine drizzle began. On this cold February day, the weak winter sun did not provide much warmth.
“I’ve had this duty before,” said Colson, “right here in this town, and I have my eye on one special pub – the ‘Rose and Thornes’ on High Street. I found this place during my search for a proper establishment in which to have my pot of ale in those leisure days before I had to report for duty. The ‘Rose’ seems to attract a ‘sailorly’ crowd in the late morning. They bragged, ‘…We sailed the Spanish Main …’ and ‘…we outwitted the bo’sun …’ and a slush bucket of other nonsense. But the pub serves a fine ale.”
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 2