Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey

by Patrick G Cox

  “It is not, and my people have prepared a contribution to feed yours. It is being placed at the gate as we speak.” Major Heron drained his glass. “My compliments to Munro; I hope he will share the bird and the wine I have included for his table with you.”

  Taking the hint, the visitor drained his own glass and stood to his feet. “I’m sure he will, sir. Thank you for the wine; it is a good one. French?”

  “Indeed, and the duty paid on it.” The Major smiled as they walked out of the house. “I wish you good luck, Major. In my experience, luck has its place in any engagement, though it does not do to rely too heavily on it.”

  Two nights later, the rebels marched on Newtownards, intending to drive out the garrison and occupy the town. Unbeknownst to them, however, the small garrison had withdrawn the day before to Bangor, since Newtownards itself had no defences. To compound this lack of intelligence, the rebels had decided to attack in a pincer movement, one advancing from Dundonald, the other from the head of Strangford Lough.

  The result was something of a farce, which the Major, when he heard the details of it, enjoyed in full; not so the rebels.

  The scouts of each division, advancing ahead of their own men, mistook the other division’s leading units as the enemy, and each division’s commander ordered an immediate attack. The result was a rout for both divisions, and both took heavy casualties before retreating along the route of their advance. The Battle of Scrabo would be a source of much amusement for the town’s folk, and for the Major and his supporters for many years to follow.

  By the morning, the survivors had withdrawn from their camp and moved away to join forces further west.

  The Major studied the abandoned camp, shaking his head at the utter waste of it all. “Sean, we may not have seen the last of them, but their campaign cannot prosper if they continue to make such a basic error. I’ll send a message to Bangor, though I’m sure they already know.”

  Sean O’Connor nodded. “Best send a message to Comber as well, sir. They’ll need to know, and I’ll see to rounding up some hands to deal with the bodies if we can find them.”

  “Good idea, Sarg…Sean,” the Major’s mind was on several things. “They’ve destroyed the crops toward the town, but we should be able to recover enough to make do this year. Such fools they are. If they do this everywhere, we’ll all go hungry this winter.”

  Inevitably, the Major’s actions did not meet with universal approval. The Barclay faction, long bearing a grudge against the Herons over a dispute with its origins in the Cromwellian campaigns and purges of the seventeenth century, were quick to make aspersions. Nothing silenced the rumours they assiduously fostered, not even the eventual declaration by General Lake and Lord Castelreagh that the Major had acted correctly and with considerable bravery in confronting an army on his doorstep with no more than a handful of his farmhands in support.

  “I shall leave it to Cousin Henry in London to issue the writs if he considers it necessary,” said the Major to his wife.

  “Wise, my dear. The Barclays have deep pockets, and will defend their libels.” Susan Heron shared her husband’s dislike of the family in question. Her own had, in the past, had a falling out with them over the ownership of certain parcels of land. “Better to let your friends speak for you. After all, Lord Castlereagh was very complimentary.”

  “So he was, but you know the politicians—the most insidious voices often have the most impact, and often the truth is whatever suits their purpose at the time.” He changed the direction of the conversation, his mind on the current state of unrest. “The rebels are now confined to the south for the most part. McCracken’s failure at Antrim has seen them driven out of that County, and Munro’s attempt at Ballynahinch came to nothing.” He sighed. “He and his troops did well, but were outnumbered, out gunned and, in the end, out manoeuvred.”

  “The fate of those taken prisoner cannot help encourage a settlement,” Susan suggested.

  “I agree, my dear. Summary executions, massacres, and destruction of the rebels’ homes may make sense to some in London, but it will win no hearts here, and it will do nothing but fuel the hatred and lay the foundation for future conflicts and uprisings.” He lifted his cup. “I said as much to Brigadier Knox, but he is set on it, and so are those in Dublin and London. A lesson must be delivered, as they say.”

  The door opened and Harry and his sister entered. Mabel, two years Harry’s senior in age, was already becoming a woman in her bearing and behaviour. An attractive girl, she looked set to become a real beauty as she matured. “Good evening, Mama, Papa. May we join you? Miss Montgomery is still unwell.”

  “Of course, my dears.” The Major enjoyed the company of his children, and encouraged them to bring books or something they were studying to the drawing room in the evenings. Miss Montgomery, the governess, usually joined them, but was currently suffering an inflammation of the lungs which she had apparently contracted in Comber. “What have you been doing today?”

  Susan Heron watched her husband as he put aside all thoughts of the estate, the rebellion and the problems the nation faced to study Mabel’s latest needlework and discuss Harry’s research concerning the wildlife inhabiting the fields around the farm. Picking up her own needlework she began to stitch. There would be time enough for the cares of the world tomorrow.

  HARRY’S DESIRE TO GO TO SEA DID NOT ABATE. He succeeded in persuading an elderly fisherman and his grandson to teach him, and by default, Ferghal, to row and sail a small and rather ancient boat used for tending the mussel and cockle beds in the Lough. The Major, distracted by the fallout from the rebellion, did not learn of it until it had become an established fact. When he did, he was at first inclined to ban any further activity of this nature, but, having talked to Sean O’Connor, and then to the fisherman, he relented and arranged to make a small payment for the time and trouble the old man took.

  “The boy does seem to be set on this desire to go to sea,” he admitted to his wife. “I have talked to Miss Montgomery, to O’Connor and to Carney, the fisherman. They all say the same; he is mad for it. Carney says he has a natural ability with the boat handling, and Ferghal is very competent as well.”

  “I could wish they smelled a little less of the fish when they come home from these expeditions.” Susan Heron laid her stitching aside. “Morag complains she cannot get the stink out of his best breeches.” With a sigh, she met her husband’s eye. “I wish he would change his mind. You could buy him a pair of colours in your regiment when he’s old enough. Can you not persuade him?”

  “I have certainly tried, my dear. I don’t know where he gets this obstinate nature, but I cannot shift him.”

  Mrs Heron hid her smile. She could have told the Major exactly where such stubbornness came from, but knew it was best to remain quiet on that matter. Their youngest son was remarkably like his father in so many ways, not least his natural leadership ability as displayed in the way he assumed command of his peers. Susan’s face brightened with an idea. “Perhaps a visit to a ship of war might prove that it is not the romantic life he thinks.”

  “Excellent thought, my dear. Excellent thought.” Nodding, he gave the suggestion some consideration. “Yes, I think it can be arranged. There are several ships patrolling the Ards and Antrim coasts, and they sometimes call at Bangor, or work into Belfast itself. I’ll see what I can arrange.”

  THE FRIGATE WAS EVEN MORE IMPRESSIVE than Harry had imagined when viewing it at a distance. HMS Lutine, a thirty-six-gun sixth rate, was new and currently engaged in sweeping up any French transports not yet accounted for following the abortive attempt to land French soldiers to aid the United Irishmen’s rebellion. The Major entertained a number of reservations concerning his son’s desire to enter the navy, but took the pragmatic view that he must be allowed to explore it. Harry was devouring every book he could read on the subject of life at sea, navigation and exploration, which suggested his interest was far more than a passing fancy.


  The visit to Bangor gave an opportunity to allow Harry to see the conditions on board a ship of war at first hand. A note to the ship’s Captain brought a warm invitation to pay a visit.

  The Major watched his son’s eager expression as their boat neared the ship, the watermen at the oars careful to observe naval protocol for visitors.

  The bowman shipped his oars and gripped the boathook. With practiced ease, he snared the main chains. The stroke oarsman shipped his oars, snatched up a second hook and engaged a convenient ring on the hull, bringing the boat neatly alongside at the battens leading up to the entry port.

  “There ye be, sir. Mind the step betwixt t’ boat an’ t’ ship. Oi’ll see t’ lad safe.”

  “Thank you, Fionn.” Catching the bolt ropes, the Major judged his step nicely and hauled himself quickly up the tumblehome to the entry port. Behind him, Harry got a quick instruction in how best to make the transfer, and a helping hand to mount the battens, firmly gripping the trailing bolt ropes.

  Always nimble, he quickly discovered the trick of it and scrambled up the ship’s side to arrive grinning and a little breathless in the entry port where a waiting seaman helped him avoid the pitfall of missing the step down to the deck and measuring his length.

  “There ye go, yonker.” The man grinned, “Yer raises yer ’at ter t’ orficer an’ t’ quarterdeck aft,” he added in a hoarse whisper.

  “Thank you.” Harry returned the smile, straightened himself and raised his hat dutifully, receiving a very punctilious salute in return from the Lieutenant standing next to his father.

  “Welcome aboard His Most Britannic Majesty’s Ship Lutine, Master Heron.” The Lieutenant smiled. “Captain Harding awaits you, Major, if you’ll follow me, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Smiling at his son’s awed expression as he gazed about the ship, taking in the soaring rigging, the spotless decks, the polished brass work, and the pipe clayed decorative knots on various fittings, he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and guided him as they followed the officer beneath the Poop, past the great double wheel and the binnacle.

  The Major had to duck his head beneath the low beams, as did their guide, but Harry was able to walk upright as they approached the door guarded by a smart Royal Marine. The sentry thumped the butt of his musket twice and stiffened to attention as the Lieutenant reached him.

  Opening the door in response to the bark of “Come,” from within, the Lieutenant stepped through. “Major Nelson-Heron, sir.”

  “Major, welcome aboard. A glass of hock, perhaps?” Captain Harding gestured toward the bench seat beneath the great stern cabin windows. “Please join me.” His eye fell on Harry, who was eagerly taking in the great cabin, the curtained alcove where the Captain slept, the desk, and the pair of heavy eighteen-pound cannon squatting on either side of the Captain’s desk, which also served as a dining table. “Welcome aboard my ship, Master Heron. I understand you are considering joining our service.”

  Tearing his eyes from the details of the cabin, Harry focused on the splendid figure of Captain Harding. “Yes, sir,” he said with confidence in his voice. “I think I would like to serve on a ship such as this one.”

  The two adults smiled. “Then we shall see about making sure you know what it involves.” The Captain paused to accept a glass of wine from his servant, and addressed the Major. “If you are agreeable, I will have one of my midshipmen show your son over the ship.”

  Glancing at Harry, the Major smiled. “I should think I would need to be utterly heartless to withhold my agreement. I am sure that would suit Harry very well.”

  The tour of the ship exceeded Harry’s expectations in every sense. The midshipman had been at first amused then engaged by the eagerness his charge showed and the thoughtfulness of his questions, which demonstrated that he was not only listening closely to everything, but was extremely observant as well.

  Seeing several small boys his own age or younger, Harry asked, “What do these boys do? If I am too young to join a ship, why are they old enough?”

  Surprised by the question, the midshipman followed Harry’s gaze and grinned. “Oh, they are the powder monkeys. They fetch the powder cartridges from the magazine in the hold and carry them to the guns on the main deck or the quarterdeck carronades. When we are not in action, they clean the messes and assist the surgeon, the cook and any of the other Master’s Mates who have work for them.”

  Digesting this, Harry noted the hatches and ladders the boys would need to negotiate to perform their tasks. “I see. Do they come from the workhouses?”

  “Some, perhaps. Most are volunteered by a relative or a friend of the family.” The midshipman glanced at his visitor. “Aboard a ship, they get fed, clothed and an education.” He shrugged. “Ashore they would be gallows bait—petty thieves with no proper trade or master.” He led the way up to the gun deck and then forward beneath the fo’c’s’le. “This is where those recuperating from injury or the ministrations of the sawbones are housed.” Indicating the massive bits and the heavy cable currently secured to them, he added, “The anchors are secured to this, as you see, and the capstan just aft of it is used to heave the cables inboard, or to haul up the yards when we set sail—oh, and a host of other tasks.”

  Following the midshipman further forward Harry found himself standing on the grating extending forward over the beak head and beneath the massive jib boom. To port and starboard, small enclosed cuddies housed simple seats.

  When the midshipman saw Harry’s perplexed expression, he said, “The heads for the crew and the likes of us.” With a chuckle, he added, “Our Lord and Master, the Captain, has a pair all of his own in the quarter galleries of the great cabin. The trick is to always make sure to use the leeward one. Otherwise your doings are likely to come back to greet you.”

  There wasn’t any part of the ship that Harry had not seen by the time they returned to the quayside at Bangor, this time in the Captain’s own gig.

  “Well, my lad?” Settled on his saddle and with Harry’s pony trotting alongside, the Major smiled as he looked at his son. “Still determined to make the sea your career?”

  Harry stared at the expanse of Strangford Lough as they crested the ridge above Newtownards. He frowned, and for a few moments, he seemed far away. “Yes, Papa…I feel drawn to the sea by some force I cannot explain. It will not be easy, I expect, and I will have a great deal to master, but I think it is what I wish to do. I think I must do it!”

  Chapter 4

  Renegade and Blackmail

  Following the visit to the ship, Harry wrote a very careful letter of thanks to Captain Harding and to Midshipman Long. Far from having lessened his desire for the sea, his brief time aboard the Lutine had reinforced it. He talked of nothing else.

  “Oh, Ferghal, I wish you had been with me. Did you know these ships have a smithy? And they have cribs for livestock aboard. There are many tasks you would find easy employment at.”

  “Aye, no doubt, Master Harry, but I’m thinking the life of one such as I would be very different to what you’d experience.”

  Harry reluctantly had to concede that his friend was correct, but he didn’t give up on his attempts to persuade Ferghal. Now the sailing expeditions and lessons with the old fisherman took on a new purpose.

  On a fine morning in late September, Harry had begged his father to allow him to ask for Ferghal’s company on an expedition down the hill to explore a ruined Elizabethan guard fort near the head of Strangford Lough. It had taken a fair bit of wheedling to gain his father’s consent, especially in view of the uncertainty of the times with bands of disaffected and dispossessed men on the loose. But with Miss Montgomery still unwell and unable to conduct lessons, the Major had consented, seeing it as something useful with which to fill Harry’s time. It had then been necessary for Harry to apply his charm to the much less easily persuaded Sean O’Connor to allow Ferghal to accompany him.

  “But, Master Harry, he has
his chores to complete, an’ sure I cannot be letting him go until they are done now.”

  “But, sir, surely they can be done when we return.”

  “No, Master Harry, the horses cannot wait for their straw to be cleared or their mangers to be cleaned. The hens must be fed and their eggs collected, and all of that must be done before I can let him off gallivanting with you.”

  “Well, if I help him and we finish quickly, will you permit him to accompany me?” begged Harry.

  Sean O’Connor smiled at Harry’s earnest expression. “Why, Master Harry, if you are willing, how can I say nay to you. If all Ferghal’s tasks are completed, he may go with my blessing.”

  AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, ALL THE WORK COMPLETE, the pair set out upon their adventure, Harry having persuaded Mistress Ferson the cook to put up a small parcel of food for their lunch.

  They were more than ready for a day of sport.

  The first part of their adventure took them down the hill through the fields being prepared for the winter crop of beet, parsnip and turnips. A mile or so below the house, they crossed the road leading to Comber, and in another half-mile came to the shore of the Lough. Here they explored the water’s edge, seeking out the small hermit crabs and shrimp found in the pools, and sharing the enjoyment of the sun, the fresh clean air and the excitement of being young and carefree. For a while they watched the fishing boats sailing down the Lough in preparation for the changing tide, which would allow them to leave the treacherous entrance between the hamlets of Strangford and Portaferry.

  Watching them, Harry said, “I think I would like to go to sea when I am older. I want to see faraway places. Would you not like to do it?”