A Busy Season (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 8)

by Andrew Wareham

  A few minutes later an equerry brought the two captains to the Prince of Wales who smiled his charming best and added his congratulations to his father’s. The country owed much to its seafaring men, he said, and he was humbled to be able to express the opinion of, dared he say, every right-thinking man in the nation.

  They bowed and smiled their thanks and withdrew from the presence.

  “Watch that fat bastard, Sir Iain! He wants something from us.”

  “Nasty piece of work, Sir Frederick. His corsets creaked!”

  They were bidden to the Altons that day, a large dinner party and an evening of music and gossip to follow, a political affair in which alliances were to be forged and broken and the business of the nation was to be unofficially decided. Frederick expected to be thoroughly bored and Elizabeth hoped to be close enough to the violins to hear something new; Viscount Alton had said that the Bridgetower Sonata by Herr Beethoven was to be played and she had never heard it performed. Sir Iain knew not what to expect and was thoroughly nervous of the whole affair, but he knew he must attend and be good.

  “Smile and nod and say ‘yes’ to the men, Sir Iain. Listen more carefully before agreeing to anything proposed by the females!”

  “Thank you, Sir Frederick! I am sure that is useful advice.”

  Mr Russell was present – he was a member and one of Lord Alton’s clan and now also a minister in the government and surprised, but not displeased, at his new existence.

  “To become serious minded, and at my age, Sir Frederick! Who would have expected it? I must say that I did not. I suspect it comes about through the company I am forced to keep – dreadfully earnest, some of these gentlemen, convinced that they have a place in history, I fear me. There is business to be worked upon, however, and I find I have a mind for it. Tell me, Sir Frederick, what should be done with Malta? Should we indeed spend vast sums of money to fortify the island and create a great naval dockyard there, a new Portsmouth in the Mediterranean?”

  “We must have a base, if we are to stay in the Mediterranean, in addition to Gibraltar, that is, Mr Russell. Can we take Port Mahon, and keep it for all eternity?”

  “No. The Spanish have made it clear that they would not tolerate our presence there. It would be continual war, and they are in desultory converse with us at the moment, idly, as it were, establishing the rewards for stabbing Bonaparte in the back. A number of documents that the French might have preferred to remain secret have been unearthed and placed in Spanish hands, to the detriment of their alliance. Some, I am told, were found by a most energetic gentleman in Gibraltar, not unknown to you.”

  “An able man and a good friend, and one who was wounded most severely aboard my ship. I have wondered whether it might not be possible to offer the gentleman a pension for his lost arm, given to the nation in its service. I believe the sum of three hundred pounds a year is not uncommon for a post-captain's arm.”

  Mr Russell had not been aware of the injury to Captain Murray; he promised to nudge the consciences of those responsible for such pensions.

  “I see that Sir Iain is undergoing an introduction to Society, Sir Frederick. The ladies seem almost overawed by his marks of valour; I do believe that his wife-to-be must keep a firm grip upon his arm!”

  “He has very little experience of the company he is keeping tonight, Mr Russell, yet he must learn. He has purchased a small estate in Dorset, and I suspect will snap up more land as it comes available. He is to be a great man of the County, of a certainty, and may well become more. I much hope so – I have a great affection for the man – he is another brother, and far more to me than was the original, poor chap.”

  Russell had not been aware that Frederick had had a brother, raised an eyebrow.

  “Beggars’ Club, the damned fool!”

  “Ah! Not company I would choose to keep, nor any sensible man.”

  “He was not one of the world’s downy ones, I fear, Mr Russell – neither clever nor rich and unaware of either fact, I fear.”

  “Sad, Sir Frederick – but his foolishness is buried in his grave, I doubt not.”

  “Just so, Mr Russell.”

  “Returning to the original issue, Sir Frederick; Port Mahon is not for us, so you believe that Malta must be?”

  “We must have access to the Red Sea and the routes to India, Mr Russell. More correctly, we must ensure that the French do not. Eventually it would make sense for Egypt to be a colony, of course, but for the while we must simply maintain a strong presence in the Eastern Mediterranean. That predicates a base, sir, and Malta is perfectly placed for the purpose. A dockyard and a dozen of seventy-fours at minimum, and a brigade of infantry in garrison together with batteries of the largest of our cannon. Expensive indeed – but how much is India worth?”

  “You are talking of millions that we do not have to hand, Sir Frederick.”

  Frederick shrugged – the supply of gold was not his concern – that was for the politicians to deal with.

  “Where the bullion is to come from, I really do not know, Sir Frederick. There are simply too few gold mines in the world, or so it would seem.”

  “Find more or take the ones that already exist, Mr Russell. How well defended is South America?”

  “We are seeking to pry Spain away from its alliance with France, Sir Frederick. Stealing her colonies is not the way to do that, I believe!”

  “Then an unofficial expedition to create apparently independent states must be the answer, Mr Russell – one that may be disavowed in case of failure.”

  “I was under the impression, Sir Frederick, that it was politicians who were meant to be underhand in their dealings with the world! I see your lady is lost in the music, Sir Frederick – should we join her?”

  “She will not notice, I suspect, Mr Russell. I believe that a piece new to her is to be played tonight, from one of the Austrians.”

  “I wish they were as able at war as they are in music, Sir Frederick. The word is that Bonaparte is once again out-manoeuvring them and that he is herding them to a place where he will bring them to battle on his terms. Mr Pitt believes that the Austrians have all of the advantage on this occasion – larger armies and better generalled than in the past, but there are many of us who have doubts. The leadership of the Austrian army is chosen more for its pedigree than for intelligence or understanding of war – and I fear that Bonaparte’s peasant generals, brought up from the ranks for ability as soldiers rather than for having an aristocratic birth, will again carry the day.”

  “I hope not. Is there word from Cadiz?”

  “Villeneuve is to be superseded, we understand. Another admiral is en route from France, sent secretly and to take command without prior warning. In absolute confidence, Sir Frederick, Villeneuve has been informed by our people – not that he is aware that is who they are – and is expected to order the Combined Fleet to sea immediately, so that his successor will arrive at Cadiz to discover an empty harbour. Villeneuve does not believe he can defeat Lord Nelson, but intends to die bravely rather than be disgraced, or so we are told. We are also quite certain that some part of the Spanish fleet will lag behind and will avoid any battle if it possibly can with the intention of allowing the French and the English to fight each other to the death and then to mop up the much-weakened victors afterwards, or quietly retreat if that seems better. The effect will be, if they are successful, to re-establish Spanish supremacy in their own waters and to throw off, simultaneously, the yoke of France and of England.”

  “Understandable, but short-sighted. A year and another British fleet will deal with all that Spain can offer – for they lack the wealth to keep a large enough fleet in being. Spain is no longer great, despite the deluded beliefs of its leaders.”

  “They will never accept that, Sir Frederick, not while they retain their Empire.”

  “Can they do so?”

  “No. They will, if necessary, be assisted to lose it, much as you suggested. Then will come the question of who shall become th
e new masters.”

  “Can the South Americans not achieve independence, sir?”

  “Yes, of course they can. That will mean they must simply accept a mentor rather than a master, for they will be too weak to retain any true liberty. The Americans seem to believe that the New World is to be entirely theirs; eventually, it may be, but not in this century. If France is defeated, and that is by no means a foregone conclusion, then the world will be ours; if Bonaparte forces us to accept terms then the European and Asiatic land masses will be his and the seas will remain ours. Britain will wish to take Africa, whatever happens – though what we will do with it, God alone knows! India will remain ours, as will Botany Bay and its continent, which will bring us back to the question of South America and its gold and silver mines. In the end, we need influence over South America at a very minimum, so Spain must be crushed, preferably by the French.”

  “Then, you suggest, Britain makes Spain free again, but weakened beyond recognition.”

  “Exactly so, Sir Frederick! Spain’s day in the sun is over and ours is about to begin, unless Bonaparte casts us into the shade. The fate of the Combined Fleet will not be unimportant, I believe – because that will determine Bonaparte’s strategy for the next decade. His choice is to defeat Britain or to isolate us until a much later date. He is almost convinced already that he cannot invade without taking massive losses to his best troops; should the French and Spanish fleets be well battered then he will turn to the east where he does not need unreliable sailors to assist him and he can rely upon his own genius.”

  “Then our future is in effect in the hands of Bonaparte?”

  “It is, Sir Frederick. And of Lord Nelson. The two between them will determine our course for the next fifty years.”

  “Then let us rely upon Nelson’s genius at sea, Mr Russell.”

  They spent another week in Town, showing their faces and being bored by the butterflies of Mayfair.

  “Cultured; pretty; witty; and essentially unwise, Sir Iain – we have it in mind to return to bucolic isolation in Dorsetshire. What is your intent?”

  “To flee, Sir Frederick. These are not my people. Do you know, I was invited yesterday to attend an ‘event’ in Hyde Park due to come off tomorrow – a race between a gander and a turkey-cock, no less, over a course of one hundred yards. One gathers that scores of the younger men will be present and the betting is high; the gentleman who invited me has placed a monkey on the gander.”

  “Five hundred pounds? The man is a fool!”

  “He is convinced he is onto a sure thing, could not understand why I would not join him. He said that I had made my fortune by a sort of gambling, after all!”

  “What an ignorant brat he must be!”

  “Very much so, Sir Frederick. Bridlington’s heir is in Town, by the way, or so my acquaintance told me. He will no doubt pay a call.”

  “George Hackett’s wife’s brother – he must show his face in courtesy, to the Partingtons at least. Do you know if they stay in Town much longer?”

  “Lady Partington has patronised a dressmaker for the first time in some years, much to her pleasure. I believe there are deliveries to be made during this week, and they hope to leave Town on Friday, to be back in Dorset by Saturday afternoon, thus to avoid Sunday Travelling. I shall accompany them, naturally.”

  Frederick called his lady wife to join them, told her of the tentative plans.

  “Friday, very early, gentlemen. Excellent! I shall be happy to shake the dust of Town off my feet. I have done all that I wish.”

  The post-chaises were booked.

  Frederick’s last minute shopping plans were turned upside-down on the Wednesday when a messenger came hot-foot from the Admiralty.

  “To the Admiralty wharf, you say, sir?”

  A flustered young lieutenant, despatched by the First Lord in person, repeated his verbal message.

  “I am to go there myself, Sir Frederick, to act as your aide, if such be needed.”

  Frederick informed Elizabeth of his inability to accompany her to Bond Street and joined the lieutenant in his cab.

  “What is it, do you know, Lieutenant? I am sorry, I do not know your name.”

  “Beauchamp, Sir Frederick.”

  Frederick vaguely recognised the name as that of one of the noble houses – the young man was a son of the aristocracy, which explained why he was to be found gracing the halls of the Admiralty.

  “It is the Moroccans, Sir Frederick, but exactly what, I do not know.”

  They progressed though the commercial traffic of the Riverside, slowly made their way to the wharves.

  Two merchantmen were tied up. The one was a battered and ancient brig, vaguely northern in appearance, a Dane or a Swede by original build; the other was a far smarter and better kept xebec wearing a green ensign, presumably the colours of Morocco.

  Hatches were open on both ships and stevedores were emptying their holds of a relatively small cargo. Nearly two hundred men were crowded together at the end of the wharf, silent and fearful.

  The wharfmaster came trotting across, hand to his hat brim in salute.

  “Sir Frederick Harris? There is a Moorish gentleman what wants to talk to you, sir, before the tide, sir.”

  A glance showed two hours in hand before the height of the tide.

  Frederick made his way to the xebec, was greeted at the gangway, before he could board.

  “Sir Frederick? I am sent from Morocco, sir. My message is verbal, sir, and my name is not to be given, as the events that occurred recently are not recorded, sir.”

  Frederick vaguely understood that statement, though he wished that Captain Murray, or Mr Russell, had been at his side.

  “The Emperor has, out of love for King George of England, set free a number of slaves discovered to be of English nationality. They are to be seen here, sir.”

  Frederick stared at the unfortunates on the quayside; at a glance not one was under the age of fifty. What was he supposed to do with them, other than arrange with the nearest workhouse to open its doors? Lord Barham was the great Abolitionist – they were going to be his pigeon!

  “Will you express my deepest thanks to the Emperor, sir? The kindness of his act will be much applauded in England. I will ensure that His Britannic Majesty King George is made aware of the event.”

  The Moorish gentleman - anonymous in his full beard and white robe, could have been any of a thousand men Frederick had seen in Tetuan - bowed his head briefly in acknowledgement.

  “There is also a small gift made personally to you, sir, in thanks for your action. Each of your officers has been identified as well and has received a token appropriate to his rank, as has Captain Murray.”

  It was Frederick’s turn to bow.

  The flow of stevedores ceased a few minutes later, leaving a stack of bales and wooden boxes on the wharf.

  The two Moroccan vessels cast off, not even taking water aboard. The emperor might be favourably inclined to the English but it seemed that his seamen were not.

  “Mr Beauchamp, I would be obliged to you if you would inform Lord Barham that there are some two hundreds of released slaves here at dockside, and I do not know what to do with them.”

  The wharfmaster begged his pardon and asked what was to be done with the cargo that had been discharged.

  “Atkinson and Young act as prize agents to me. Have they a warehouse, do you know?”

  They had and the gentleman could, two guineas in his hand, organise drays to convey the goods to them.

  Frederick waited until Beauchamp returned, at a loss for what to do with two hundred bereft and bewildered men, many of whom had been half a lifetime in servitude and had never expected to see England again.

  “Sir Frederick? A pair of clergymen from the Anti-Slavery Society will be here within minutes, sir. They will lead these unfortunates to a church where they may find food and shelter for a while; what will finally become of them, I do not know. They may have families still, some of them. N
o doubt parishes throughout the country will take some in.”

  Frederick expressed his pleasure at the outcome and left to consult with his prize agents.

  “Mr Young, I have a problem, sir!”

  “I have in the last few minutes received a message from the warehouse to that effect, Sir Frederick. What is this cargo that has suddenly appeared, sir?”

  “A gift from the Emperor of Morocco, it seems, Mr Young. I was able to perform a service for him – a most delicate matter, in fact. He has now sent this token of his regard. I have no notion what it might be!”

  They took Mr Young’s town shay down to his warehouse and peered at the array of wrapped bales and boxes.

  “The outsides tell us remarkably little, Sir Frederick. I would suggest that we might open them.”

  There were bales of fine leathers, the best and rarest to be found – Mr Young ran his hands across them, said he had never seen better.

  “These will go to auction, Sir Frederick, and the bidding will be fierce. Upholsterers and book publishers will beg for them; luggage makers will pay dearly; bootmakers will queue up to bid – I shall inform Hoby personally – he makes boots for all of High Society. I do not know how many thousands there are in these bales alone. What else is there?”

  They discovered finest apothecaries’ hemp and sacks of Grains of Paradise brought north across the desert; there was Persian opium as well, equally welcome to the medical trade.

  Among the made goods there was silverware and pewter and a number of heads in bronze, ugly but no doubt of interest to antiquaries and such. There were a few items of jewellery, mostly in silver and amethyst, but a few of other stones, unknown at a glance but probably valuable.