Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey

by Patrick G Cox

  Harry looked about him and chose the most vocal of Ferghal’s accusers, who was still trying to argue that Ferghal being Irish meant he must be guilty of something. “You, sir…yes, sir, you! You seem to think that my companion is lying—a lying Irishman, I believe you called us. Very well, I shall ask you to open my portmanteaux and unpack it. Place each item where I can identify it, if you please. I would not wish to spoil your sport, sir, so you shall have the pleasure of discovering what has been concealed.”

  The man hesitated, but his companions gauged Harry correctly and pushed him forward. Retrieving the portmanteaux, he placed it on the coat Ferghal spread quickly on the ground to receive it, and began to unpack it, urged on by the ribald comments of a bold few among the crowd.

  It did not take long to discover an oblong box among the contents, which did not belong to Harry. Pushed in among his folded small clothes, it was ornate and valuable by appearance.

  “There! That is not mine, and it has not come from Ferghal’s hand either, of that I am very sure.” Harry turned and studied the wounded man with a frown. “From whence has this been stolen, sir?”

  He paused as a pompous and slightly inebriated man in the semblance of a constable’s uniform arrived, loudly announcing his intention to arrest “this mad Irish thief.” Harry studied him with an expression of intense disdain, an expression Ferghal had never seen on his face before. It made him appear much older, but there was something else, and it sent a chill deep into those who had the benefit of observing it. “If you are the constable, sir,” Harry said, his voice cold enough to freeze the air, “then I suggest that you look more carefully to the facts. My man has prevented that felon from secreting the evidence of his crime in my baggage, and you have the temerity to accuse my companion of the crime? How dare you, sir! And how dare you, guard, permit the interference by a felon with another passenger’s baggage. Make no mistake; I shall report this to both Bow Street and the Mail immediately on arrival in London.”

  “But, sir!” the constable blustered, trying to avoid Harry’s freezing gaze. “I was summoned by the report of an Irish vagrant attacking a passenger, and came at once. Jus’ doin’ my duty, sir.”

  “Your informant was a liar.” Harry was now very angry, and he glared at the crowd. Those who knew him well would have backed away at this point, but the crowd seemed mesmerised at one so young speaking with such commanding authority. “My companion is no vagrant. He has caught a thief in the act of committing a crime, and you have the audacity to accuse him of the crime just because he is Irish, as am I.”

  He hurled that statement into the silence, and let the silence continue.

  “So all the Irish are liars and thieves, are we? You can say that without ever setting foot in Ireland, or meeting any of those who live in poverty under the hand of absent landlords? I congratulate you.” Again, he paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd. “Constable, do your duty; that man is a thief, and I demand he be arrested. He has interfered with my bag and attempted to plant that box, which I make no doubt is the property of some unfortunate from near where he boarded the coach this morning. If you do not I shall lay information myself with the magistrates against you.”

  At this point, Mr Beauchamp emerged from the inn looking very flustered and slightly dishevelled. Belatedly, he weighed into the fray at Harry’s side, but was completely outclassed and, not being in full possession of the facts, of little help. His arrival only lent weight to a battle Harry had already won. Ferghal listened in well concealed amusement as the clerk apologised to Harry saying, “I had no notion of this trouble, sir. I had just gone to make use of the outhouse and take a little refreshment.”

  The end of the little farce was supplied by a tall elegantly attired gentleman who had been watching from the seat of a curricle. Stepping down from the curricle as the constable and his companions carried the wounded man toward him, he stopped them and held out his hand. “I believe that box is mine. I have followed this rogue since I discovered its absence this morning.”

  Confused and nonplussed by the speed of events, the constable attempted to argue, but met with a stare so haughty it reduced him to incoherence. He handed over the box, mumbling an apology.

  “Thank you,” the gentleman said. “Now be so good as to give my groom the direction of the magistrate for this town, and inform him I will call on him directly to lay a charge against your prisoner.” Pocketing the box, he turned away and looked ’round for Harry. Leaving his groom holding his team as the crowd dispersed, he strolled across in a leisurely fashion, stripping his glove.

  “Well done, young man! That showed remarkable pluck if I may say so.” He extended his hand to Harry. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Burnham. And your name is…?”

  Taking the hand, Harry looked him in the eye and said, “Harry, sir, Henry Nelson-Heron of Scrabo Manor Farm, County Down.”

  “Well, Mister Nelson-Heron of Scrabo Manor Farm, I commend you.” With a smile, the man regarded Harry kindly. “I trust that you will have no further interference on your journey. What takes you to London?”

  “I hope to join the Royal Navy, sir, and my father’s cousin has been kind enough to agree to assist me in obtaining a warrant as Midshipman.”

  “I see,” drawled the newcomer. “Well, Mister Heron, and who is this cousin?”

  “Mister Henry Heron of The Inns of Court at the Temple, sir.”

  “Ah. Indeed. Well, you will certainly be in good hands there. Do give him my compliments—oh, and here is my card; should you need a commendation from anyone, you may apply to me, young man. I like your pluck, and I wish you very well.” He cast an eye over Ferghal and asked, “And does your man go with you to sea?”

  Harry looked at Ferghal with a smile and then responded, “Indeed he does, sir, though why he follows what is my ambition I fear he will have to answer for himself.” He laid a hand on his friend’s sleeve and added, “Ferghal has been my friend and companion since we were small, and I have got him into many scrapes. I hope he does not regret this one.”

  Ferghal was conscious of the scrutiny of a pair of very piercing green eyes as the tall man studied him. Then the man smiled. “I see. And what, Ferghal, say you?”

  “Why, no question, your honour,” Ferghal managed, touching his forelock automatically. “If Master Harry goes to sea, then I go with him, your lordship.”

  “Indeed.” Giving Ferghal a searching look, he hesitated then left his question unasked. Changing his direction, he gave peremptory orders to the still hovering constable and then to another man standing by before turning to Mr Beauchamp and addressing him. “Well, well, Mr Beauchamp, I believe? I see you have been having a lively journey thus far. Please give my compliments to Mister Heron when you deliver your charges to him. Be sure to tell him that I am much impressed by his cousin’s pluck.”

  “I shall do so, my lord.” Mister Beauchamp seemed to fold himself in the middle as he bowed. “I am sure Mister Heron will be pleased to be remembered.”

  “Hmm.” His lordship nodded and addressed Harry. “Do not forget, young man, should you need it, my endorsement is yours. Good day to you. I think your coach is ready to leave, and you may safely leave this felon to me; my people will take care of the matter.”

  Helping Harry into the coach, Mr Beauchamp seemed to expand with importance as he told his charge, “Viscount Burnham is a well connected gentleman; his family are clients of great importance to our Chambers.” His chest expanded in pride as he added, “And he remembered my name.” He patted Harry’s knee absently, causing his companion to stiffen at the familiarity, the first the clerk had shown. “Fortunate encounter, young master…a very fortunate encounter. You may rely on His Lordship’s support. Indeed, you may. Should you desire it, I’ll be happy to convey any communication on your behalf.”

  Struggling to keep his sense of humour from overwhelming him, and equally aware of just how important to anyone’s career such a fortuitous meeting was, pa
rticularly those like himself and the clerk, who did not have the advantage of being born to wealth and position, Harry nodded. “Indeed, I shall, Mr Beauchamp. Thank you for the offer.”

  The remainder of the journey to London was accomplished without mishap. Those sharing the roof of the coach with Ferghal went out of their way to be polite to him, in marked contrast to their earlier attitudes.

  The coach drew to a final standstill at The Bull and Mouth in what appeared to be the most chaotic streets Harry and Ferghal had ever seen: people rushing about, shouts and cries filling the air as traders cried their wares, and everywhere there was a crush. They both kept close to Mr Beauchamp as he led them out of Posting House and into the street where he hailed a hackney carriage.

  “Put the baggage at our feet,” Mr. Beauchamp ordered Ferghal. “You may ride the step at the rear.”

  Harry was about to protest, but Ferghal shook his head and grinned. There were only two seats inside the carriage, and Ferghal correctly gauged he’d get a better idea of this unbelievably crowded city from his perch than Harry would inside the carriage.

  Despite the noise, the smell and the jolting of the carriage, Harry’s eyelids drooped, and he slept most of the way to the quiet close near the Strand and the house of his father’s cousin.

  Chapter 7

  Patronage

  Cousin Henry was a spare and rather austere gentleman. A barrister of some note and a widower, he kept a modest house by London standards, tastefully furnished and decorated, and staffed to ensure his comfort. He entertained infrequently, usually his close acquaintances, business partners, and occasionally his clients. Now he greeted his relative in his library, rising to do so from a comfortable leather armchair.

  “Welcome to my home, Harry.” Noting the weariness in Harry’s face and the dark rings under his eyes, he shook hands then steered him toward the door. “A very tiring journey, I think, and not without its discomforts. Come, I will show you to your room. I’ll have some supper sent up to you, and we can discuss your plans in the morning.”

  “Thank you, sir. That will be most welcome. But I must see to Ferghal’s accommodation first, I think. He was directed below stairs to the kitchens.”

  “Ferghal? The O’Connor boy? He accompanied you?” The older man stiffened. “Does he remain here with you?”

  “Why, yes, sir. I believe my father wrote of this to you.”

  “He indicated you would be accompanied. Humph. A Catholic, is he not? I’ll see to it my butler makes some arrangement for him.” Tugging the bell cord, he waited until the butler appeared. “Robins, I am informed that my cousin is accompanied by a servant. See to it that he is accommodated. I believe there is a spare cot near the scullery.”

  “There is, sir. I’ll see he is settled.” The butler hesitated. “Does he stay long, sir? The cot in the scullery might not suit for a long stay.”

  “It will suffice for the moment.”

  His face blank, the butler bowed. “If you say so, sir.”

  Satisfied his friend had a place to sleep, Harry allowed himself to be led upstairs and ushered into a small bedchamber at the front of the house. It faced onto Aldwych, and the steady rumble of traffic might have disturbed him had he not been suffering from real fatigue, though the noise wouldn’t help his throbbing headache. Left to his own devices, he shed his coat and poured some water from the jug into the basin on the marble-topped washstand. He scrubbed his face and neck until he finally felt clean of the dust and grime from the long journey. He was drying his face when he heard a light tap at the door.

  “Come,” he called.

  The door opened and a woman in a starched apron over a severe black dress entered followed by Ferghal. “Your supper, sir. And I’ve showed your man the way to your room.” She smiled briefly at Ferghal. “Mister Henry says he is to be employed in the household when you do not require him.”

  Surprised, Harry hesitated. “Is that so? Does that suit, Ferghal?”

  “Aye, Master Harry. It suits well.” Ferghal smiled. “I’m to be paid fer it, they says. Shall I see ter your things now? I’ll come up in the morning to see you awakened in time for breakfast.”

  HARRY OPENED HIS EYES RELUCTANTLY against the early morning light streaming in through the window. His pleasant dream vanished like the mist as Ferghal placed a tray of tea and a toasted bun on the little table next to the bed. “What? Oh, Ferghal, it’s you. Is it time to get up already?”

  “Lazy bones, we servants have been astir for above an hour already.” Ferghal laughed as Harry threw off the covers and stood, looking around. “There’s a pot for it on this side of the bed,” Ferghal said with a grin, rightly assessing Harry’s urgent need. As Harry hurried ’round the bed, he gathered the travel soiled breeches and stockings, underwear and shirt and handed them to Ferghal.

  “Right, I’ll give these to the laundry lass. I’ve put out fresh smalls, shirt and breeches for you there.” Ferghal planted his feet and stood with his hands on his hips. “Don’t expect this in the Navy now,” he said with mock sternness.

  Having relieved himself, Harry laughed. “Rogue, I do not expect it here.”

  “Nay, but your Cousin insists, and the servants here think it proper. We must keep up the ruse.” Ferghal laughed. “You shouldn’t tarry dressing; your cousin breaks his fast at nine of the clock, and expects your company. Shall I fetch you for it?”

  “Yes, please…no, wait.” Harry washed his face, neck and chest quickly in the basin. “Have you a comfortable place in the household?”

  Ferghal shrugged. “I’ve a bed. ’Tis in the cellar, and damp. I share the space with the boot boy, and we’re cosy enough, though he says it adjoins the cesspit.”

  Harry looked shocked. “I’ll speak to my cousin. That will not suit.”

  “Easy, Master Harry, it suits for now. Wi’ a wee bit of luck, we’ll not be here long anyway.”

  HARRY WENT DOWN TO BREAKFAST FRESHLY AND NEATLY dressed, slightly overawed by his cousin’s household. The house was bigger than its facade suggested and built over four storeys with a basement and an attic in addition. Besides the butler, there was a footman, two chambermaids, the cook, a housekeeper and two laundry maids, plus a boot boy, all to take care of the needs of one man. His parents managed with a cook, a housekeeper and a maid, provided you didn’t count the grooms, the cowman, the ploughman, the landsmen and the shepherd, who were needed to keep the farm productive.

  “So, Harry, I trust you slept well,” Cousin Henry said. “Today I have several cases to attend, but I have arranged for Mr Beauchamp to attend you and acquaint you with the city. Tomorrow, I will draft some letters to those I know to enquire regarding your hopes of a position in the navy.” Dabbing his mouth with a spotless white napkin, he sipped his coffee as the butler removed his empty plate. “I have high hopes that one gentleman, Captain, the Lord Garlies, will favour you with an interview. Unfortunately, he is out of town at present.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Harry helped himself to a slice of toast as the butler removed his now empty plate. He’d enjoyed the serving of fried eggs, bacon, brown beans in sauce, a sausage, blood pudding thinly sliced and fried, and the bread rolls. Now he demolished two slices of toast and marmalade, an unheard of luxury at home.

  The older man watched this with amused interest as he replaced his cup in the saucer and accepted a refill. “I believe there was an…ah…incident at Banbury. Mr Beauchamp informs me a highwayman or some such scoundrel attempted to steal your luggage and had concealed something within it.” His raised eyebrows indicated his desire to hear more.

  “Yes, sir, Ferghal apprehended the thief. There was a scuffle, and the man’s pistol went off, wounding him. There was a little confusion among the bystanders, who thought Ferghal the thief. I was fortunate to be able to resolve it.”

  The barrister remained silent a moment before taking a note from beneath his side plate. “So Lord Burnham informs me.” He smiled. “It seems you imp
ressed his lordship, and he writes offering to be your sponsor should you need one.” Inclining his head, he watched his young visitor’s face. “Impressive, I think. Congratulations.”

  Blushing slightly, Harry lowered his eyes. “I did no more than I think my Papa would have done in the same situation, sir. I am glad his lordship approves.”

  Henry Heron laughed. “Approves? Oh, he does that all right. As for doing what your father would have done, yes, yes, I can see the model. Oh yes, you are your father to the life.” Putting aside his napkin, he rose. “I must leave. Chambers awaits, and then court. I recommend you remain here until Mr Beauchamp calls. The library is yours, and the garden, of course, though I suspect it will rain later.”

  THE STREETS OF LONDON TRAPPED THE HEAT of the summer. With the thick layer of horse manure covering the roads, there were masses of flies to accompany the smell. The streets seemed to never free of a throng, and the noise of the traffic was sufficient to disturb Harry’s sleep until he got used to it. Ferghal found it impossible to sleep, his bed being in a poorly ventilated part of the basement that trapped the heat and the stench. When the boot boy fell ill, the butler took it upon himself to move both youths to the attic. At least there they were able to open a window.

  “The miasmic vapours aren’t as powerful in my new quarters.” Ferghal grinned. “An’ Tom the Boots is already feelin’ a lot better.” With a laugh, he added, “I’ll not be sorry when he takes back all his own duties.”

  “I am very glad to hear it,” Harry responded, ever amazed at Ferghal’s good cheer despite his circumstances. For his part, Harry had endured yet another sleepless night. The noise in the street was increasing, at least it seemed that way to his ears, which craved the peaceful silence of his family’s farm at night.

  He was disgruntled for another reason: six weeks in the metropolis, and still no sign of the opportunity he craved. He’d been taken to see the Tower of London, the Palace of Westminster, Whitehall and Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece, the great cathedral dedicated to St Paul on Ludgate Hill. He’d been introduced to numerous sea officers and to the rich and powerful in several of the more affluent houses, and was sure he’d been forgotten almost as soon as he’d been introduced. The words “from Ireland, eh?” were a constant theme.