Born To Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  The younger men were excited – they had been lucky in the Hundred Days, taking four French merchantmen, each of them richly laden, but they had met no national ship, and quick promotion came from fighting, not from prize-taking.

  The First had no expectation of promotion to larger ships or higher command – he was too old, too long in the rank to be considered. The master had no desire to leave his own frigate and the Marine Lieutenant would receive his steps in rank purely by seniority, no matter how virtuous he might be. The three of them thought deeply about the prospect of fighting a heavy sloop and twenty proas, carrying at least a thousand of wild corsairs.

  The sloop on its own, massively outgunned, could be destroyed or taken in ten minutes. The proas, if caught separately, could be outfought, kept at a safe distance and picked off in a chaotic half an hour. Working in conjunction the possibility arose that the sloop could hold them at broadsides for five minutes while the proas boarded, or it might be able to cross bows or stern and pour in a raking fire, destroying rudder or headsails and leaving the frigate to be taken. There was little glory for captain or senior officers in the coming fight – a British frigate was expected to beat any number of pirates, unfailingly. The youngsters could be noticed for their valour and initiative, could profit from the occasion, while their superiors stood more to lose if they were felt to have made an untidy job of it.

  Captain, First and master conferred over the charts, setting their course and determining the best pattern for their search, in the end simply deciding to follow the easterly winds of the season along the northern coast of Java, tacking back from Sumatra on a further northerly track if they found nothing in the first sweep. Merchant ships would follow the winds and the pirates should be expected where the traders were to be found.

  “Do we know anything of this English pirate ship, sir?”

  “Very little, Mr Arbuthnot, except that her captain has named himself ‘Star Rajah’ – presumably the Stella Australis, the Southern Star – an interesting coincidence of names, I feel!”

  “Perhaps he believes he was born under a lucky star, sir.” Arbuthnot chuckled comfortably, hands laced over his spreading belly.

  “He will need to have been very lucky indeed when we catch him, Mr Arbuthnot. I would hope to hold at a distance from the sloop, if that is what she is, battering her with our eighteen pound long guns. She is unlikely to carry as much as a twelve pounder and that a chase gun, almost certainly a broadside of nines or sixes even. The meanwhile the carronades should be able to deal with the nearer proas, the chasers with those within their purview – they are lightly built craft, fast but frail, unable to withstand cannon fire. We must hold the gage, must be able to control the battle, gentlemen – double lookouts, our best and brightest men – promise them a guinea for every sail they report and twenty to the man who sees our pirate first. Hold away from the shore at night – we must not be taken by boarding out of the darkness – blue lights and slowmatch ready to hand from dusk to dawn.”

  It all made simple sense, but if they were caught unawares in one of the narrow channels between the islands or off a reef they could still overwhelmed despite all of their precautions. Not only would it be the end of their professional careers, it would almost certainly be the end of their lives. Pirates never received quarter and did not expect to give it, unless they had particular reason to want some captives to play with.

  They worked their way west, slowly, the winds weak, as they commonly were in the dry season, but reasonably constant. Light winds would favour the proas, skimming over the sea with their fore-and-aft rig catching every puff of air, outreaching the heavier square-rigger, able to tack and run, a few rounds into bows or stern and away, untouched by the massive broadside. Even the smallest of guns, one or two pound patereroes or gingals, would eventually cut up the rigging and the men in those conditions. They overhauled the cannon, chipped scale and rust off the round shot to make them as true as possible, and waited, hopefully.

  On the eighth day gunfire woke them out of their patient dawn routine. A few heavier cannon shots, a low ripple of musketry interspersed with slightly louder reports. There was a small, unnamed island off the port bow and they supposed that a merchant ship had been caught close in with the shore at first light, watering perhaps, and was being swarmed under. Musketry said that the fight was at close range, would very soon be over.

  “Seven cables distant, Mr Arbuthnot, the point?”

  “A fraction less, sir, say six minutes to open the bay, if that is what it is, on the far side. Fighting sail, sir?”

  “No. We must have the speed. Three reef the courses, wet them down. Topsails and t’gallants, master, little risk of a fluke in the wind at the point, I think – the island is low, no hills to give a problem. You agree, sir?”

  The master grunted – he thought it probable that the captain was right, but preferred it to be his decision if it came to court-martial. He had chosen to sail the ship, he could take the responsibility.

  “Long guns load ball, carronades grape, Mr Arbuthnot.”

  “With respect, sir, we could double-shot the long guns, grape over ball. We shall probably be at close range judging from the sound.”

  “Make it so.”

  Double-shotting was dangerous – if the loading was not precise, the two rounds rammed firmly against each other, then a gun could explode, killing its crew and quite possibly those on either side, severing its breeching and running loose in the worst instance. The officers and midshipmen ran along their sections of eighteen pounders, watching and calming, calling out encouragement, hoping that all was well, able to see nothing wrong.

  The boarding netting was draped over the sides, loosely so as to entangle the first few to attempt the climb – they would rip it apart in their death-throes but it would serve to provide a very useful delay.

  “On deck!”

  The foremast lookout was able to see over the low point, started his description, hoping for his twenty guineas.

  “At four cables, sir, two European ships, sir, one at anchor, t’other across her bows at pistol shot. Still fighting, sir, but there’s got to be a dozen small craft at her sides and more closing. They’ve managed to turn two of their stern broadside guns, sir, six or eight pounds. She’s navy, sir, Dutch, by the build of her, and she’s got her marines or soldiers in line, sir and they’re just about holding the quarterdeck. Ship-sloop, sir.”

  The pirates were not disciplined. There were no lookouts high in the masts watching the sea about them; their whole attention was turned upon the Dutchman.

  “Silence on deck! No shouting! No cheering! Close to a tight half cable, master, put us on the Englishman’s quarter. Carronades, choose your target from the proas. Broadside to my command. Reload grape, forward section, ball to the stern. Mr Arbuthnot, the forward guns are yours, sir, after the first broadside.”

  Three silent minutes, the Dutch forced back and back to their stern railings, man after man dropping. The master called his commands, brought the head round, eighty yards off the English pirate, just at the edge of the cloud of powder smoke that had shielded them from the pirates’ view.

  Matthew raised his sword, the ready signal, cut down in a sweeping slash. The broadside fired as one, ripping across the target at deck height, eighteen balls smashing into sides and planking, throwing out a wave of splinters, fist-sized, razor-edged chunks of seasoned oak ripping men to pieces and more than two and a half thousands of grapeshot spraying out as if from giant shotguns and knocking down nearly half of the crew. She fell silent, apart from the howls of agony.

  Two minutes to reload the great guns, one for the carronades, six firing thirty-two pound charges of three-ounce grapeshot, each hitting and sinking a proa, shattering their thin sides, twelve of the small vessels gone in less than ninety seconds, the boarders suddenly aware that they were isolated, lost, had nowhere to run and scrambling to escape, to get onto the five of their craft still hooked on. The twelve-pound chase guns,
long-barrelled, accurate pieces, pointing forwards on the forecastle, fired, one then the other, carefully aimed, hulling one of the pirates which had not yet boarded and was now trying to escape.

  They closed the Englishman, marines firing their muskets and the swivels in the tops, aiming at any movement they saw, keeping the guns clear, the eighteen pounders getting in another round apiece, butchering the survivors.

  Matthew Star stood on his quarterdeck, trying to seem calm and controlled, calling out encouragement and congratulation to his gun crews. The master pointed, shouted.

  “By her wheel, sir, there’s a European man, wounded, blood over chest and shoulder, look, trying to get his people together. Must be her captain, sir. Sir?”

  Matthew stared at his young brother, his favourite, the one he had always been able to talk to about his career and his ambitions, forty yards away, clear and standing upright, saw the recognition, and hope, on his face, saw his mouth open, heard him shout, “Matt! It’s me! Help me, Matt!”

  “Stern section, at the enemy quarterdeck, point your guns!” He waited fifteen seconds while they spiked their guns onto line, raised their hands, his brother watching, realisation showing on his face, his mouth opening to shout, to scream, to plead... “Shoot!”

  The quarterdeck, and John Star, disappeared and the pirate lurched as she took on water, the guns from the taller frigate pointing downwards and ripping through her side, opening her to the sea.

  Firing ceased from all except the chasers, aiming as precisely as they could, not too difficult a task in the sheltered waters of the bay, battering one last running proa. Four rounds apiece and it was gone. The English ship sank in the shallow water a few seconds later, before they could board her, lay with her topmasts showing, a few stern timbers sticking out above the waves.

  “Mr Arbuthnot, lay alongside the Dutchman. Mr Rogers, put your boarding party together, there may well be pirates still aboard her. No quarter except they are wholly disabled, sir.”

  He had to remain on deck.

  He stood, hands clasped behind his back, ignoring the master who had seen and heard everything and who was well capable of putting two and two together.

  ‘If I had taken him, he would have gone to trial and hanged. I saved him from the noose… I saved Mama from the knowledge, for it would have come home to England… It was for the best, for his own good as well… Poor little Johnny…’

  The boarding party was too late – none of the Dutch had survived. They found a few Malays and half a dozen Englishmen aboard her, all more or less wounded, left behind by the rest of the boarders in their futile rush to escape. All went over the side, welcomed by the great party of sharks which had come to the cornucopia.

  “Bring her in, Mr Arbuthnot. Tell off a party for your crew. Master, course to return to the Dutch admiral, if you would be so good. What is our bill, sir?”

  “None lost, sir. We took no fire at all during the whole fight. A pity, in a way, sir, for our Admiral will be convinced that there was nothing to it if we lost no men. However, it will do me, sir!”

  Matthew finally retired to his cabin, out of sight. He shrugged out of his heavy uniform coat, slumped down at his desk. He had been there for less than a minute when his servant entered the cabin, placed a half-full brandy glass in front of him. He never drank in daylight hours, and hardly ever at all at sea, Wellcome knew that.

  “Drink it up, sir. You’ll be better for it.”

  “Thank you. Does everyone know?”

  “Those that don’t will be told, sir, over their rum. Them that knows already will pass the word, bound to. Bos’n already told us that he’s goin’ to put the message round that he was a no good, would ‘ave hung if he’d been taken – best thing for the family, doin’ for ‘im that way. Keep it to ourselves, no need to tell it round the fleet. The word’ll get out, sir, bound to, but it won’t be shouted out from the rooftops, like.”

  “Thank you.”

  He did not sleep at all that night, and very little for the next few, running the vile minute over and over in his mind, convincing himself that he had had no alternative, that he had been right, failing to believe himself.

  The Dutch admiral was grateful, regretted that they could not have saved his men but accepted that there could be no survivors if the pirates once made a boarding. He would express his thanks to the British admiral, he said, and inform his government of his deep satisfaction with the conduct of the Royal Navy, their efficiency in the removal of a potential embarrassment and cause of conflict. The question of prize money would be dealt with ‘sympathetically’, he said.

  They made Calcutta a month later. By that time he had conquered most of his demons, had slept enough for the black bags to disappear from under his eyes. Then he had to think of what, if anything, to write in a letter home, knowing that his mother would read all that he sent, he could not keep it confidential to his father. The only solution he could come up with was a letter to Lord Andrews, his father’s dear friend and a man for whom the whole family had the greatest respect – he would know how, and what, to tell Papa.

  Fortunately for Matthew, the cholera had visited Calcutta in his absence, had played havoc in the squadron’s wardrooms. Within six hours of making his number in Calcutta he was reading himself in on Conqueror, 74, and receiving orders to make his way to the rendezvous in the South China Sea, there to pick up and escort the tea wagons to the Cape of Good Hope where he would leave them to sail independently to Portsmouth, the Atlantic waters being safe now the wars were over. Conqueror had been out for five years and was in need of the dockyard for a long refit, was more likely to be sold out of the service now that the navy was being reduced to peacetime establishment. Whichever was the case, Matthew could expect to go onto half-pay in England for some years, a half-pay that would be substantially greater for the captain of a 74 than that of a frigate.

  His father made him an allowance in addition to his pay, had told him, privately, that he would be pleased to buy him a house and ‘a bit of land’ if he should wish to set up for himself on shore. Half-pay would amount to some fifteen shillings a day, five guineas a week, which in itself was not to be sneezed at, and he would have his prize-money as well, the proceeds of his captures as a Master and Commander in addition to the four he had taken in the last war against Napoleon. He was probably worth twenty thousands in his own right, he estimated, and that should give an additional income of seven hundreds or thereabouts. He rather thought that unless, a very unlikely event, he was immediately sent away again, he would look for a wife and enjoy a few years of rest, or he might, perhaps, seek employment in a land post, a naval dockyard or at the Admiralty itself, rather than ever go to sea again. The life had lost its charm, there was no longer a romantic boy in him. He would speak with his father, see what he had to say, next year, when he had reached home.

  For the while, there was the task of sailing an aging and cranky line of battle ship back to England. Like much of the fleet, Conqueror had been kept at sea far too long with too little in the way of dock time, and she was rapidly coming to the end of her days, needed be nursed, cosseted, persuaded to her duty. First lieutenant, master, boatswain and carpenter all agreed that they should never fire a whole, simultaneous broadside, her hull would never stand the shock of it. If shoot they must then it should be each deck in turn, the fire rippling, each gun a few seconds after the one next to it, reducing the strain on the timbers and knees. Practice should be kept to a minimum. They should miss the typhoons of the China Seas and the hurricanes of the Atlantic because of the time of year, and they must be prepared to sail away from any building storm – not the navy’s way of doing things, but a course more likely to bring them home.

  The crew was another worry – Conqueror had been out long enough to have taken aboard a quite remarkable number of foreign seamen, many of whom did not fancy the prospect of being paid off in an English harbour with no sensible way of ever returning to their homes. There were Indians, Chinese and M
alays, as was not unusual, but there was also a round dozen of South Sea Islanders, picked up from a piratical canoe off the Friendly Isles, and two Aborigines taken aboard in Botany Bay and six large, heavily tattooed, mid-brown gentlemen rescued from a sinking whaler in the waters of the Pacific, and where they came from, none could tell. There were the normal Spanish and Italians and Poles and Germans, and a number of discontented Americans, but they would be able to cope for themselves in European waters. The Orientals presented a problem, one which they proposed to do nothing about, for they could think of nothing to do with them, other than point them towards Poole and the whalers when finally they reached Portsmouth. Fortunately, Portsmouth was a town used to the waifs and strays of the sea – they would probably find something to do.

  Christmas had come with the ordinary festivities on the estate, gifts to all, a problem in some cases, it being difficult to decide what might be given to Alec Fraser, for example. The servants’ boxes were easy, followed tradition – clothing, a favourite foodstuff - sugared almonds eagerly looked for - a keepsake purse or wallet or prayer-book or clasp-knife – but the staff were a different matter, the presents needing to be tailored to the individual. Inspiration struck – Fraser would not accompany them for their month-long visit to the Stars, so a pair of tickets for the Edinburgh Mail, outward and return, and twenty guineas in his pocket for his holiday was very welcome and wholly unexpected.

  He arrived in Edinburgh in mid-January, undecided, a rare state of mind for he was generally absolutely certain of himself. He could, he knew, beg a night’s lodging with an acquaintance from the university and make his way on the carrier’s cart to his father’s manse at Haddington in the morning, and that was what he ought to do, duty demanded it of him. But he had no great desire to share a dinner of oatmeal and a herring with a penny-pinching schoolteacher, he had become used to eating well and had discovered that he preferred wine to water; he also liked sleeping in a warm bed. He had my lord’s twenty guineas in one pocket and as much of his own in another, and he should offer it to his father, the bulk to be invested, family savings, a proper tithe to be put in the poor-box. Four shillings, however, would buy him a bed and respectable dinner at an inn, and five more would pay for a ticket to Glasgow where he could for the expenditure of ten pounds or so take a room and visit at the yards and furnaces and engine-makers for a fortnight, or three weeks even, returning to see his parents for one final, dutiful week and handing over the pound or two that remained. He owed it to young Joseph, in fact, to discover all he could of what was new in their world, would be derelict in his duty to him if he did not, so it was a question of which duty came first… Work must come before pleasure, that was indisputable, so he must go to Glasgow. He refused to ask himself whether a visit to his parents qualified as a pleasure.