Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey

by Patrick G Cox

  THE REVEREND MISTER CARRIGAN PROVED TO BE A MAN in his middle thirties, very tall, and spare of build. He quickly built a rapport with his charges and soon had them eager to study the subject chosen for the day. Under his careful tutelage, Harry rapidly built upon his love of drawing and painting and his understanding of the science of mathematics. Ferghal showed his aptitude for music and for the creation of small and delicate miniatures of all manner of things, and a deep taste for reading the literature the Reverend put their way. He was very quick to show his competence in mechanical matters, which surprised Mister Carrigan.

  Ferghal’s extra chores, as Harry’s attendant and companion, hardly imposed upon him, since Harry was naturally tidy and needed little assistance in taking care of his clothes and person. Their friendship deepened, and Ferghal made sure he never presumed upon his good fortune. He knew all too well how easily it could all be undone. Most mornings Harry, without being asked and despite assurances that it was not his station, would appear at the stable to help Ferghal with his regular chores, something the Major watched with interest.

  He told his wife, “I am most pleased with Harry, my dearest. Since his scrape with the renegade, he has shown greater maturity than any boy of his age I have ever seen.”

  “He has a good model in his Papa.” His wife smiled. “Look at him, dearest, he has your nature and your way with people. If God spares him, he will be a son to be proud of and one that all of Ireland may take pride in.”

  As the autumn gave way to the rain and cold of the winter, news arrived of the taking of Wolfe Tone in another failed attempt by the French to land an army. Later still came news of his trial and sentence of death by hanging, and then the shocking news that he had attempted suicide by cutting his own throat, subsequently dying a painful and lingering death.

  “Well, the Society now has a martyr,” exclaimed the Major at this news. “I cannot credit to the stupidity of those in Dublin who could not see the danger in that course. I fear we will all now pay the price for London’s refusal to recognise the need to address the real concerns of the people here. It is shameless to see so many starving, so poorly housed and so meanly provided for. And what does Pitt do? He seeks to fill our parliament with his corrupt cronies so that they will vote for this Union he demands. I have no doubt he will get his union, but at the price of more Irish blood and more hatred. Have we not enough of that?”

  “My dear, you sound quite like one of the Society yourself,” exclaimed his wife. “Pray do not say as much as this in the hearing of any Magistrate.”

  “I hope I have enough sense for that, my dear.” The Major smiled. “But it does anger me to see those fools in Dublin living so well and so callous of the hardship around them. Mark my words; they have now lit the fuse for the destruction of the very things they have striven to create. It may not be in our lifetimes, nor even our children’s, but it will come, and it will sow seeds every bit as damaging and poisonous as Cromwell’s Puritans did under their Commonwealth.”

  “I know you are right my dear. But I fear there is naught we can do to change it.” She sighed. “Perhaps our children can undo some of the harm. We can but hope.”

  As the troubled year of 1798 ended, Mrs. Heron had no way of knowing that the friendship forged between her son and Ferghal, one Protestant and of a landed family, the other Catholic and possessed of neither land nor access to power, would span the idylls of childhood and beyond—far beyond.

  Chapter 5

  Perilous Journey

  After all the upheaval and the rebellion of 1798, life settled down to a more normal pattern for Harry and Ferghal. Their education fell into a routine, with Harry excelling at mathematics and Ferghal in the practical application of logical principles to solving tasks and problems. The Reverend Mr Carrigan proved to be an exceptionally able tutor, and by the time Harry entered the small naval academy in May 1800 at the age of eleven, Ferghal was easily able to move to a private school in Bangor.

  Harry exceeded everyone’s expectations at the naval school, which was run by a one armed Captain assisted by several half-pay Lieutenants and a former sailing master. Captain Ferguson took an interest in his pupils, personally teaching the arts of leadership and command, and quickly recognised that in Harry, he had an apt pupil.

  The mathematics of navigation fired the boy’s imagination, and he tackled every task with determined enthusiasm. At the end of the prescribed year of study, and with the added task of learning everything he could of seamanship in the small boats available to the school, he received his certificates and commendation with a glow of pride.

  “Extraordinary effort, Major Heron,” the elderly Captain confided after the ceremonial award of the treasured certificates. “He’ll go far if he maintains his enthusiasm and has a patron able to advance his interests.”

  “Good of you to say so, Captain Ferguson; it is the matter of a patron that troubles me.” Harry’s father shook his head. “I’ve applied to several, including Lord Castlereagh, but my refusal to declare for the government two years ago, when the rebels gathered on Scrabo, is being held against my son, I think.”

  “Humph. Damned fools. What else could you have done with a rebel army camped on your doorstep?” The older man watched the latest graduates of his school mingling with their parents and guests. The oldest, he knew, was just fourteen, and Harry, the youngest at twelve, were a mixed group, some very able, some arrogant and able, and some arrogant and complete dunderheads. In his view, young Heron, being the most able, was also the most likely to make a positive mark, despite being the least well connected.

  “I’ve a few friends still in the Admiralty,” the Captain mused. “I shall write to them and commend him.” He smiled and said with a trace of sarcasm, “One or two might be encouraged to support him, though they all should leap at the opportunity to work with such a bright young man. Are you taking him to the metropolis? I will give you an introduction to the Admiralty and the names of a few who may take kindly to him.”

  THE DAY OF PARTING FROM HIS FAMILY ARRIVED LATE in the spring of 1801. Impatient to be away and seeking his hoped for post, Harry found himself torn by doubt and sadness at leaving home. There were tears from his mother, admonishment from his father, a hug from his sister, and a firm handshake from his brother. The one consolation came from Ferghal, who had announced his intention to follow him and to join the navy so he could remain with his best friend. The Major had hoped to accompany his son, but pressing affairs prevented it, so Ferghal’s escort was a welcome one. He arranged for the boys to travel on the regular packet brig, first to Douglas on the Isle of Man and thence to Liverpool in the care of the brig’s Master.

  Stepping from the gangway onto the quay, Harry stared about him feeling rather overwhelmed and determined not to show it. Liverpool was vast, the river crammed with shipping, and the docks thronged with people, ships and cargo from all manner of exotic places. He was to be met, he knew, but by whom and where they might be stood waiting for him, he knew not.

  “Mister Harry Heron?” queried the sober young man hurrying toward them on the quay.

  “I am he,” Harry confirmed.

  “Joshua Beauchamp, clerk to Mister Henry Heron of Temple Inn. I have been sent to escort you to London. Glad to meet you,” the newcomer declared without looking in the least bit as if he meant it. In fact, he looked rather put out, and his suit showed signs of wear and travel as he looked over the two boys. “I assume this fellow is your man?” He spoke with disdain, indicating Ferghal.

  He would have said more, but the brig’s Irish Captain wandered over just then and said quietly to Master Harry, “Take care, young sir, these English are not to be trusted.” He gave a huge wink. “Especially those of a legal persuasion.” He laughed loudly and shook Harry’s hand. “And the very best of luck to you in finding a position in His Majesty’s Navy, Mister Heron.” Glancing at Ferghal, he added, “They are lucky to have you both.”

  The clerk’s
face was a study, and Ferghal saw that Harry was having trouble keeping his composure, so he said, “Master Harry, I have our bags; could you tell me where you wish me to put them?”

  Harry gave him a strange look then nodded, realizing it was best to play along with Ferghal’s ruse. “That I will, Ferghal, as soon as Mr Beauchamp tells me.” He looked at the clerk and asked, “Please direct me as to where we should go, sir.”

  The man struggled to regain his temper, and said acidly, “Certainly, Master Heron, please accompany me,” adding to Ferghal, “Follow closely, my man, one can easily go astray in this place.”

  Harry was not well pleased by this rudeness, but held his tongue when Ferghal managed to catch his eye and signal that it was better left for now. It was not a long walk to reach the inn. The clerk had taken rooms for himself and Harry in it. Harry was not pleased when he discovered that no arrangement had been made for his friend. Anyone who knew his father would have recognised both the look and the thrust of his jaw as he demanded a bed for Ferghal. Even that worthy friend, who knew Harry better than anyone, found himself a little awed as Harry made his wishes very plain, and the clerk, in some surprise and flustered embarrassment, did as he was bid.

  Harry’s display of the iron at the core of his being frequently surprised those who hadn’t seen it before, or who had been misled by his normal friendly politeness. He’d learned very early to control his fiery temper, and that strengthened his resolve when he was thwarted or wronged, or when he felt that someone he cared about was being wronged. His moderate appearance disguised pure iron—iron worked and worked by a blacksmith who knew his trade and made the finest steel, for that was Harry when he would not be pushed or was determined upon a course. And nothing, as Ferghal had good reason to know, and could have told the clerk, brought that to the fore in Harry more than any wrong he perceived as being done to someone he felt responsibility for.

  THERE WAS ALMOST ANOTHER CONFRONTATION in the morning when Harry discovered that the clerk had bought two inside tickets and one for the roof of the coach.

  “Master Harry, let it be. It is proper this way.” In an effort to divert him, Ferghal grinned, adding, “Besides, I’d rather ride on the roof than crammed inside with the fat mistress yonder an’ the gentleman there with his breakfast in the mug he holds.”

  Glancing at the flushed complexion of the man holding the beer mug and at the lady with multiple chins, Harry saw the good sense in Ferghal’s observation. Mischievous as ever, he replied, “No, I’ve a better idea. I shall ride on the roof, and you may keep Mr Beauchamp company.”

  Laughing, Ferghal shook his head. “Nay, Master Harry, you cannot wish that on me.”

  “Rogue, I’ve a mind to do it.” Harry grinned, his sense of humour winning. “I believe you’ll have the better view. Have you a scarf? You’ll need one, and your warm coat.”

  FERGHAL’S PREDICTION PROVED CORRECT. Those inside were close packed and overheated. Harry looked flushed and rather cross when they disembarked for luncheon near Chester. The roof of the coach at least was cool in the breeze, and Ferghal could see the country as the coach rolled through it. The luncheon, when the coached stopped for it, which was limited to hard cheese and bread with pickles, was more than enough for both their appetites. The passengers on the roof were a jovial group, which, after another stop to change horses, included a pair of young blades much the worse for some strong ale and their own belief in their prowess at almost anything. They gave the coachman a merry dance as they tried to persuade him to allow them to drive. Everyone was relieved he would not, and the passengers were treated to his opinions of such antics when the befuddled pair dismounted at the next large town.

  “The Mails do not stop for anything other than to change horses, set down and take up passengers and the mail,” Mr Beauchamp advised Harry. “Unless there is an accident, of course. We should be in London by this time tomorrow.”

  Harry, who was experiencing some discomfort, felt his heart sink. “How do we…er…relieve ourselves if the coach does not stop?”

  “Ah. I had forgotten—you are not used to this mode of travel. Most provide themselves with a suitable receptacle for use, but at the next stop, you should make use of the privy, or find someplace out of sight.” He smiled. “The Mail is the fastest coach. The Stage is slower and stops overnight, but it also takes a longer route. Mr. Heron felt we should use the fastest means of transport.”

  With no choice in the matter, Harry made himself as comfortable as he could. Fortunately, the next halt proved convenient, and he was able to relieve himself while the horses were changed. Emerging from the privy, he was just in time to witness two post boys attempting to pick Ferghal’s pocket.

  “Here,” he called. “Look out, Ferghal. He’s after your purse.” Running toward them, he noted the heavily reinforced boot that both wore on their right leg. Realisation dawned. “Watch out for the boot!”

  The warning was timeous. Ferghal side stepped in an attempt to kick his feet from under him, grabbed the offending leg, and wrenched. The years of working with the ’smith and the heavy work in the stables had given him a strength his attacker couldn’t match. When the other one saw his companion slammed head first into the wall, he shot a desperate glance at Harry and took to his heels.

  “Thank ’e, Master Harry.” Ferghal retrieved his slim purse and hauled the groaning post boy to his feet. “Get off wit’ you, an’ tell yer friend I’ll not take so kindly a second try wit’ yon boot.” Watching the man stagger away, he turned and walked back to the coach with Harry. “They offered a sup o’ ale, but when I went wi’ them, they tried t’ stall me.” He grinned. “I guessed then what they planned, but I’d forgot the boot.”

  He climbed to his seat on the roof as Harry re-entered the coach. As it resumed its journey, Ferghal had the satisfaction of seeing the miscreant post boy being ministered to by his erstwhile companion. Smiling, he waved as they looked up.

  By the time the coach rattled into Banbury in the early afternoon, Harry was beyond tired. Even the streets and the new buildings were of little interest. Ferghal, though extremely weary, stared about him with interest born in part from a native wariness. Having dismounted to relieve himself, he was returning to the coach when he saw a new passenger inserting something into Harry’s portmanteaux, which had been removed from the boot at the rear of the coach. Rushing forward, he called for the guard and tackled the felon, snatching the open valise from his grip. “That is my master’s bag!” he yelled. “What are you doing with it?”

  With an oath, the man turned and fought back, fumbling in his pocket for a weapon, but Ferghal was too quick for him and threw him hard against the coach. There was a flash and a bang inside the man’s coat, and now the guard ran up demanding to know why Ferghal had attacked the passenger.

  The man slumped against the wheel, the bullet from his own pistol having gouged a path through his leg. Passengers, visitors and bystanders seemed to emerge from everywhere and converged on them to gawp at the ruckus. There was uproar as everyone demanded to know what was happening, and some even accused Ferghal of attempting murder and robbery. Accusations of the “wild Irish” and “rebels” filled the air along with calls for the constable. Ferghal’s protests that he had seen the man interfering with Harry’s baggage were simply brushed aside.

  “You can’t believe an Irishman!” the guard proclaimed loudly to the approval of the crowd. “They’re thieves and murderers the lot of them!”

  Chapter 6

  Harry Makes a Stand

  Into the maelstrom of accusation, counter accusation and general confusion strode Harry with the bearing and demeanour of a young man far older than his twelve years.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice inexplicably commanding despite its boyish pitch, and his eyes fixed on the wounded man. Everyone attempted to tell him what transpired, all accusing Ferghal of attempting to rob or murder the wounded felon. Showing his breeding, Harr
y stood tall, glaring about him and giving the impression of being in complete control, his face a mirror of the Major when he was displeased. When the hubbub died away, he demanded, “You sir! Are you not the guard? You will tell me what has happened and why you accuse my companion of a crime.”

  “Well, sir,” the guard began, then he gauged Master Harry’s bearing a little more closely and paused to consider his words. “This passenger,” he indicated the wounded man, “asked to have his luggage from the boot. I opened t’ boot fer ’im, an’ he took out what ’e said were ’is. That un there.”

  “This one?” Harry indicated the fallen portmanteaux.

  “Aye.” The guard was recovering his authority and felt on firmer ground now.

  “That valise belongs to me.” Harry’s voice was now quiet. “And you allowed this man to remove my property from the coach? On whose authority did you act?” He paused, allowing the silence to extend. “Not mine.”

  The guard blanched. “I’ve no way o’ knowin’ whose luggage is whose, sir. He took it down sayin’ it were ’is.”

  “Did he indeed?” Harry’s expression showed he didn’t believe a word as he turned to Ferghal. “Well, Ferghal, what do you say?”

  Ferghal told him what he’d seen, adding, “He looked to be putting somethin’ in the valise, Master Harry.”

  Harry nodded. “That I believe.” To the guard, he said, “That portmanteaux is mine. Kindly place it on the ground. Let us see what has been placed within it by your friend there, and then let us ask him why he mistook my bag for the one he did not have when he boarded the coach this morning.”

  There was a gasp from the crowd, and the man glared at Harry from his position, propped against a wheel of the coach. The ostler and the maid from the house worked on his wound, trying to staunch the bleeding from his leg.