by M. C. Muir
‘Spell in the Haslar Hospital, sir. I got a splinter in my leg.’
The lieutenant resisted asking the man what relationship there was between the splinter in his leg and the facial spasm. However, having watched the junior officers come aboard, he was satisfied the young man showed no evidence of a limp so there was no need for further questioning regarding the injury.
‘Name?’
‘Daniel Green. Passed for lieutenant. Sat at the same time as Mr Wood, sir.’
Green was the last in line.
‘So gentlemen we have two amongst you who have passed the examination but have not yet moved up in the ranks. It would appear, therefore, that Mr Hazzlewood scores seniority with his fifteen years of service. I might add, fifteen years in His Majesty’s Navy as a midshipman is a long time.’ He shot a glance at Mollard who seemed amused by the statement. ‘Do not misunderstand what I am saying, that length of time carries a certain order of distinction. It means that the officer has seen action and managed to survive.
‘I wonder if you will survive,’ he said, looking directly at the Honourable gentleman. ‘Do not be discouraged, Mr Smith, we can put your expertise in arithmetic, to good use. One of your duties from now on will be to assist Mr Hazzlewood with his lessons so that the next time he sits for the examination he will pass. And you, Mr Hazzlewood are charged with teaching Mr Smith how to heave the log and mark the speed and course on the log-board.
‘Mr Tully it is your job to introduce Mr Mollard and Mr Smith to the 360 degree view from the cross-trees. And you’ll get a taste of the bosun’s cane if you let either of them fall. Mr Wood and Mr Green, I will find something suitable for you two in due course.
‘Now gentlemen, if there are no questions, you will follow me and I will introduce you to the midshipman’s berth which will be your home for at least six months.’
‘No second lieutenant come aboard yet?’ Captain Quintrell asked, as he watched the deck activity from the quarterdeck.
‘Not so far, sir.’
‘A frigate such as this usually carries two or three lieutenants, does it not, Mr Parry?’
Simon nodded.
‘Then it would be appropriate to appoint two of the midshipmen to the ranks of acting second and third lieutenant. Tell me something of the young officers the Admiralty has blessed us with?’
‘Six midshipmen, Captain. Two have passed for lieutenant, two know the ropes and have experience but will likely never make it past the examining board, and two others who have never been to sea before; one is a young gentleman and the other a character who I feel may need to take lessons in acceptable behaviour.’
‘We are indeed blessed! So the likely choice for positions would go to the first two.’
Simon shook his head. ‘They would expect the promotion to go their way but I am not entirely sure they have the correct qualities of leadership. I would prefer to establish the calibre of these men first before making a recommendation.’’
‘I leave that matter in your hands, Mr Parry, but I suggest you do not delay too long. You will advise me as soon as you have come to a decision.’
Simon acknowledged the captain’s caution and excused himself, wandering forward to where a group of men were tidying the lines on the larboard side.
Oliver pondered over the man the Admiralty had appointed as his first and, so far, only lieutenant. Perhaps because Parry had entered the ranks under some form of patronage, he was sympathetic with the inadequacies of fellows of a similar background. He hoped that this would not lead to any special treatment or privileges.
But the captain’s view on the matter was firmly fixed. No amount of private tutoring in Latin, algorithms or philosophy could prepare a young gentleman for a life at sea. In his opinion, the best midshipmen came from lads who had grown up on the sea from a very early age; boys who had served with their fathers, as he had done, on a merchant ship, attending classes in navigation each winter when the ship was out of the water. In his estimation, lads from this type of upbringing were worthy of donning the garb of midshipman plus they were familiar with discipline and with being disciplined.
He had to admit that over time most of the pink-faced, velvet-palmed young gentlemen made useful middies and later lieutenants and eventually commanders. Many went on to become post captains; some even admirals – though he believed in many cases their rapid ascendance through the ranks was accelerated by patronage rather than any physical demonstrations of leadership, seamanship or valour.
But, indeed, if those gentlemen rose up the promotional ladder by way of ability, then the additional background of breeding usually stood them in good stead. He had noted from his own experience that a well-educated officer, who was also a gentleman, was often less ruthless and cruel than a man who had been deprived or beaten as a child. Added to that, the ratings responded better to the lash of an eloquent tongue than the scratchings of the cat at the gratings. Oliver knew that not all men would subscribe to his views, and his findings did not always apply, but it was a general rule which he believed in.
It was eight bells of the forenoon watch and the young midshipmen were at lessons with their sextants. On deck the marine struck Elusive’s series of chimes and Oliver listened and waited. In an instant, as if called to attention by some unseen baton, all the king’s ships on the harbour began their ritual call. Like Church bells within stone spires, the brass bells tolled from the wooden deck-belfries calling the seamen to their regular duties. Ding ding. Ding ding. Ding ding. Ding ding. Eight bells. As one ship’s bell finished, another echoed the chimes, then another joined in, and another.
Quintrell listened to the naval madrigal which was played in full, every four hours, around every fleet, in every port and roadstead in England and abroad. What a wonderfully reassuring chorus it was!
If ever a senior officer had to watch every man-jack of his crew it was on a newly commissioned ship as she prepared to sail out of Portsmouth harbour. Both Captain Quintrell and Mr Parry knew that as every ship proceeded to sea there were fisher-folk on the jetties watching; wives and sweethearts; merchants and beggars too. But they were of no consequence. It was the unseen eyes, peering from the windows of the Royal Dockyard offices, which they had to be wary of.
As most of Elusive’s crew had sailed together on the Constantine, Mr Parry divided them equally; half to starboard and half to larboard watch. The remaining men were split indiscriminately. Over the next few days there would be ample opportunity for them to prove their worth and for him to recognise the malingerers.
With the primary urgency having been one of victualling, there had been little time to test the crew’s skills in ship handling. Elusive was a different class of ship to the one wrecked off the Scillies, but the lieutenant was confident the divisions of topmen from the Constantine would have no problems.
Oliver Quintrell was relieved there were no lubbers on board; men who didn’t know a halyard from a brace. His junior officers however were a different matter. He didn’t know how the midshipmen would perform. These men were his responsibility whereas the working crew of the vessel was the responsibility of the first lieutenant – yet Simon Parry was equally unknown to him as far as seamanship was concerned. Sailing out to Spithead would be a test of his lieutenant’s ability. He hoped he would be equal to the task.
The high of the tide had passed and the strange second high, which was often experienced in Portsmouth harbour, had followed shortly after. Oliver had learned of it early in his career; an unusual phenomenon caused by the tide in the English Channel flowing around The Solent from both the east and west of the Isle of Wight. But now the ebb had begun and they were waiting for the first-rate to weigh anchor before them.
From Elusive’s deck, Oliver listened as orders were issued for the ship to be made ready to sail. On deck, the idlers clustered round the pin-rails while dozens of seamen scampered up the ratlines and spilled along the yards.
Studying the sailors’ movements, he followed their feet as t
hey glided blindly along the foot-ropes, watched their nimble fingers unfastening the gaskets. He watched, as without a word being spoken, without a glance at the man next to him, and with the ease of an albatross laying effortlessly on the wind, the topmen rested their chests on the yardarms and worked in total unison. The captain admired their grace. The Constantines were a pleasure to observe.
It would be soon enough, once they were clear of land, to send unproven men aloft, but Quintrell had made it clear he would tolerate no accidents at this stage; certainly not before they were well clear of Portsmouth Harbour.
With a light breeze blowing from the west-north-west, all that remained was to wait for the man-of-war to weigh. She was moored only a cable’s length away.
‘Silence!’ Mr Parry called, ‘Wait for the order.’
After a quick word with one of the sailors, he strolled purposefully back to join the captain and Mr Mundy. Also on deck were three of the midshipmen who Mr Parry had decided it judicious to keep out of harm’s way.
‘Ready to weigh anchor, Captain,’ he said.
Quintrell again studied the activity onboard the first-rate ship of the line. Watched the sailors from the eight hundred crew move about the web of rigging like bees over a honeycomb. There were few sounds save the rattle of canvas, squeaking of lines through blocks and the patter of feet on the decking. Every man knew his duty and performed it without question.
How different, he thought, to the French ships he had come alongside – the shouts, the banter, the arguments. Such a cacophony of noise the foreigners made, he wondered how an order was ever heard.
The calls on the man-of-war rang out loud and clear. More canvas was loosed. The capstan was turned and slowly the anchor, dripping with mud, was wound from the harbour bed. For a moment, as if considering its direction, the great ship started to drift back then almost as quickly, with the helm hard over, the staysails luffed and filled bringing the head of the 100-gun warship around.
With her topsails taut, and her forecourse loosed, the first-rate was under way assisted by the fast out-flowing tidal current. Prompted by the movement of the man-of-war, the barges, wherries, yachts and bum boats scattered in all directions. They knew better than to get beneath her bow as she commenced her slow passage out of the harbour.
‘Take her out, Mr Parry!’
‘Aye aye, Captain,’ he said, touching his hat and stepping forward. ‘Weigh Anchor! Loose topsails! Ready on tacks and sheets! Man the braces!’
The messages were quickly relayed along the ship and the task of getting the frigate underway began.
As the capstan creaked and the falling squares flapped like the wings of a flock of angry geese, Elusive’s anchor was sucked from the silt of the harbour bottom. The iron pick broke the surface. The rudder responded. The staysails filled and firmed and the frigate’s head came around. Creaking and groaning, Elusive slowly made way, and as more sail rattled down and was sheeted home she took her position behind the first-rate. With the wind in her sails, the 100-gun ship swam ahead making four of five knots. On deck, Captain Quintrell inhaled deeply showing no signs of the satisfaction he was currently feeling.
‘Give her space to breathe,’ Oliver said, gazing admiringly at the magnificent man-of-war sailing out ahead of them.
Elusive followed in her wake while several smaller ships formed a procession behind, all waiting their turn to sail through Portsmouth’s narrow entrance and out onto the Spithead roadstead. Like a swan leading a clutch of cygnets, the majestic triple-decker moved gracefully down the harbour. As she sailed past two ageing French corvettes anchored in the shallows, the disrobed foreign prizes rocked on the rippling wake, dipping their yards respectfully to the might of the Royal Navy as it glided by.
Chapter 5
Buckler’s Hard
It was five weeks since the summer solstice and the days still broke early at Buckler’s Hard on the banks of the Beaulieu River.
Being an early riser meant Will Ethridge had half an hour to himself before work began at the shipyard. It was a habit he had acquired from his father and grandfather, and Will followed their example in more ways than one.
Walking briskly through the small village, with its row of tall red brick terrace houses on either side, he headed down the inclined track. Ahead on the Hard’s slipways were the hulls of two new ships, their massive bulk hiding the rising sun and casting long shadow across the riverbank.
The Starling had been almost completed to the level of work required by the yard. Very soon she would be slipped into the Beaulieu River and floated down to The Solent. From there she would be towed to Portsmouth for fitting out. In the Royal Navy’s dockyard, the masts would be stepped, ballast layered in the hull, standing rigging fitted and the iron cannons and carronades mounted on the gun deck. Only then would she assume the guise of a naval vessel.
Rising tall beside Starling was the undignified skeleton of Euryalus. With her inside as clean as a scrubbed half-barrel, the wooden shell lacked any indication that in the coming year she would be commissioned as a 36-gun fighting ship.
In his lifetime Will had seen several famous ships launched on the Beaulieu River. From the very first time he had been allowed to visit the yard with his grandfather, he remembered every ship which had been constructed there. He even recalled some of the ancient oaks which had been carted in from the New Forest to build them.
How could he forget the day Sheerness was put in the water? He remembered how wildly she had swayed on the slipway. How every man in the yard had held his breath for fear the hull would topple, turning twelve month’s work to splinters. How the sounds had stuck in his head – the unnerving squeal of timber on timber as she slid slowly into the water stern-first. The thunder of chains. The splash. The rippling waves which radiated right across the river. The cries of relief and the resounding cheers as the small boats warped her around and moored her to the jetty. Despite having neither masts nor rigging, she already had the makings of a fine ship.
As a small boy, he had watched his uncle at work painstakingly carving the ship’s ornate figurehead. In awe, he had asked permission to climb up and touch the dove cupped in the woman’s outstretched hand. The carved wooden bird had looked so life-like, he had enquired if it was real.
Though he had never seen a cannon or carronade at close quarters, Will had seen Illustrious at its launching on Portsmouth Harbour. That occasion was the fondest in his memory and he often recounted the day when the master shipwright took the Estate’s carpenters and wrights, together with their families, to witness the official launching of his Majesty’s latest warship.
What an event that was! The long journey on the back of the timber cart. The harbour at Portsmouth filled with ships of every size and description. The pomp and ceremony and music. He had never seen so many people; heard so much noise or seen such a kaleidoscope of colour – the signal flags and pennants flying from every ship; the marines’ scarlet uniforms, and the gold lace glimmering from the naval officers’ blue uniforms. There was such an assortment of hats and powdered wigs, frills and flowing gowns. Everyone was dressed for the occasion – including the ship itself. A few months in the Royal Dockyard had transformed His Majesty’s Ship Illustrious from the plain wooden hull which had floated from the Beaulieu River to a magnificent fighting vessel – a 74-gun ship of the line. She was fully rigged and ready for battle. What a sight to behold!
Though his favourite would always be Illustrious, Will often considered some of the other ships his family had had a hand in building. Names like Agamemnon, Gladiator, Hannibal and Indefatigable came to mind – ships which had been built around the time he was born. And though he had never seen them, like every one else in the village, he was always eager to hear news of their exploits during the long years of war with France. The shipwrights of Buckler’s Hard held a special place in their hearts for the hulls they had shaped, and if any one of them was lost at sea it was grieved as deeply as a son or brother who failed to return ho
me from battle.
Will was proud in the knowledge his father, grandfather and great grandfather had helped build some of the best ships in the British fleet, for though the Royal Navy built fine ships, it was widely accepted that those launched from the slipways of private yards were equally as good, if not better.
His grandfather, Tobias, said it was because old Lord Montagu, the First Earl of Beaulieu, was such a good man and because the shipwrights’ skill had been passed down from generation to generation. He said the men took pride in their craft and were equally proud to be part of the Montagu Estate. In the Royal Dockyards things were different. Shipwrights and carpenters came and went, and in times of war, men left their benches to sign as carpenters on fighting ships. But sadly, the old man said, many good men never returned from the sea.
Having grown up on the Beaulieu River, Will’s only wish was to be as skilled as his grandfather, the man who had raised him after his father died. Tobias Etheridge had lived and breathed timber all his life and swore he would not stop working until the day he died. Now, his back was bent like a sapling in a strong wind, he had lost the strength in his arms and his elbows were worn out from the constant blows of the adze. Despite that, everyone on the Estate respected and admired him almost as much as they respected Mr Edward Adams, master shipwright at Buckler’s Hard.
Now, with little more than a few months of his apprenticeship remaining, Will’s ambition to be a shipwright was almost achieved.
As he passed through the shadow of the two great hulls, Will glanced back up the hill. His grandfather had started early, carving a frame from the limb of an oak bough which had been specially selected when it was still growing in the forest. Knowing he had little time for himself, Will ran across the grass to the bank near the old jetty where his hand-made boat was sitting. It was a small clinker-built craft made from the off-cuts of the finest timber; chips – the discarded lengths which the shipwrights were allowed to help themselves to. Most men converted their chips to furniture; beds, tables, chairs and chests. In Tobias’s case, it was small boats. Over the years Will had helped his grandfather build three. This one he had made on his own.