The man’s tone was condescending, in stark contrast to the way he had addressed Harry, but Ferghal accepted this. It seemed to him that everyone had two faces: one for their social superiors or the wealthy and powerful, and one for everyone they considered to be of a lower social status than themselves. Those who, like the clerk, fell at the lower end of the professional and aristocratic classes felt a need to reinforce their own status by treating with rudeness those they considered lower than themselves.
Casting an eye over the chests, Ferghal picked one that had a slightly better finish, and he drew it out. Gripping the handles, he lifted it easily and walked through to where Harry waited, checking his list against the items piled on the counter.
“The coats will be made up in three days, sir, and the breeches likewise.” The clerk moved aside as Ferghal deposited the sea chest next to the counter. “We can have the carrier deliver the chest and all your purchases to the home of Mr Henry Heron as soon as they are ready.”
Examining the sea chest and marvelling at its removable trays, Harry nodded. “That will be best, I think. My cousin holds my father’s letter of credit, and will settle the bill as soon as you present it.” He’d been keeping a running total of the cost of his purchases and knew the credit was sufficient thus far. “There is only one further matter, Mister Grieves. I should like to purchase two pairs of sturdy breeches, two shirts, a jacket, an overcoat and a suitable pair of shoes for my friend here. He joins me on the ship as a volunteer, and will need these items, I think.”
Mr. Grieves was taken aback, but rallied quickly. “Of course, sir, though the attire we normally stock is for officers, I think I may have some sturdy material that will suit.” He produced his tape measure and began to measure Ferghal, who stood straight and tall as Mr Grieves made notes. “I suggest the breeches be made of duck, sir. We have a bolt of suitable cloth in stock. It is hard wearing, easily washed, and long lasting.”
With a glance at Ferghal, Harry agreed to this, and to the provision of a suitable jacket and a heavier coat. In very short order, the two young seamen had all they would need except for one item. Harry needed a dirk, a sword scaled to the size of boys. The Admiralty had not yet issued a standard pattern for these, and Harry was hesitant to buy one without guidance.
He and Ferghal made their way back to Aldwych elated, tired and hungry. All that now remained was to make the journey to Chatham and join the ship.
Chapter 9
A Ship at Last
With Harry’s new uniforms and instruments packed in his sea chest, Ferghal and Tom Sharp, the boot boy, carried it down to be loaded onto the carriage. Self-conscious in his new jacket and greatcoat, Ferghal secured the chest and his own small bag, taking extra care over the stowage of the case containing his fiddle and a fife. Both were gifts from Harry and his father, and their use had kept his (and if he’d known it, Harry’s) spirits afloat for the months they’d been in London waiting for this day.
“Ferghal,” Harry called, as his cousin Henry descended the steps from the front door. “Is all secure? My cousin is ready.”
“Aye, Master Harry,” replied Ferghal. The weather was cold and threatening rain. The coach, a comfortable and well-sprung equipage, provided comfortable accommodation for the passengers inside it. The coachman and footman would ride on the box in front while he would travel behind on the luggage. This offered little shelter if the weather turned nasty, so he’d quietly packed a piece of canvas from an old baggage cover in the mews.
Pulling on his gloves and adjusting his fur-collared coat against the cold, Mr Henry Heron climbed aboard and waited while Harry, resplendent in his new uniform, clambered in next to him.
“Well, well, Harry, a ship at last, eh? We will be in Chatham this evening, and you will be aboard the Bellerophon tomorrow barring mishap.” He paused as the footman spread the travelling rug over their knees, and then he added, “You’ve chosen a hard profession. I hope you do not find it a disappointment.”
“I expect it will be hard at first, sir, but I believe we shall manage.” Harry smiled briefly as the door closed. “Others have succeeded with even less advantage than I have.” His chin jutted. “I am determined, sir.”
Ferghal, taking as his cue the entry into the carriage of Mr Henry Heron, clambered up to his improvised seat. He looked down and grinned as Tom Sharp called, hurrying to the back of the coach.
“’Ere, Fergie mate!” He winked. “I’ve got summat fer ya.” With a quick glance at the door of the coach and the footman, he continued, “An’ ta for all yer ’elp these last munfs, matey. They’re notsa bad—they’ve jest never met the likes of ya beforwer.”
Surprised, Ferghal smiled. “Thank ee, Tom, just watch out for yourself. I won’t be here to rake the stove and wake ye when you sleep o’er the hour in future!”
“I know it.” The boot boy made a face. “Mebbe I’ll need a place on yer ship.” Shooting a glance over his shoulder at the butler talking to the coachman, he said under his breath, “’Ere, Mister ’eaff (which Ferghal understood to mean Mister Heath, the very superior butler), reckoned you’d be needing this on t’ road. Sip it slow like, and it’ll keep ya toasty.” He slipped a small bottle from his sleeve and pushed it into Ferghal’s hand. “Quick now, don’t let ’imself be seeing it—it’s some of his finest brandy.”
Gratefully, Ferghal took the bottle and slipped it into his pocket. Already the footman was mounting the cab, and he had to grip the bindings on the luggage as the coach started. He was surprised at the gift of the brandy, as the butler had never condescended to address him directly, even when they played music together. “Thank him for me!” He managed even as the carriage gathered speed. “And may the saints look out for you too. I’m thinking you’ll need a few to do so now.”
Tom laughed and waved as the coach drew away, and Ferghal turned his attention to the city of London slipping into the distance as the carriage rumbled along. Perhaps, he reflected as it began to rain softly, it was not such a bad place after all. At least some of the people in it could be friendly.
THE CARRIAGE LURCHED INTO THE HIGH STREET of Rochester, dominated by the ruined castle and the adjoining cathedral. To Harry’s relief the coachman advised that their destination would be reached within the hour. His cousin had dozed fitfully for much of the final part of the journey along the road to Canterbury. This followed the Roman road to Strood, on the Medway, then across the ancient bridge to the ancient city of Rochester. Looking out of the carriage window as it rolled steadily along the river road, he studied the ships laying in the stream. Drawing nearer to their destination, he noticed a change. Now the ships were larger, some evidently fitting out, others laid up with their masts drawn and their upper decks covered by a roof construction.
The daylight was all but gone as they dismounted from the carriage in Chatham. The earlier sleet had turned to rain and become heavier. Worse still, it was now backed by an unpleasantly cold wind.
“Make haste, Harry,” said Cousin Henry, propelling him toward the entrance. “This rain is like to bring an ague upon us.”
As Harry entered the door, he caught sight of Ferghal collecting their bags and his sea chest. He’d have liked to speak to him, but could not resist the direction of his benefactor without appearing rude. Catching Ferghal’s eye, he signalled his wish to talk. Then they were in, and the publican was fussing over accommodating them.
Harry was slightly angered by his benefactor’s refusal to engage a room for Ferghal in the loft while ensuring that he obtained the best room available for his own use. Waiting while this was settled, he was determined to give Ferghal bedspace in his own room if necessary as soon as he could arrange it. His father’s cousin, while generous in his assistance to family, had fixed ideas of religion and proper behaviour towards what he called the criminal classes. In his view, Ferghal, a Catholic, belonged firmly in that category.
“Now, Harry, ensure your luggage is all accounted for,” Henry ins
tructed. “Your man may not have taken good care of it on the journey.” This was said with an arched eyebrow and cold disdain even though Ferghal, his coat dripping water, was stood within earshot.
Harry flushed angrily. “Ferghal will have taken good care, sir. Of that I am certain.” He hesitated. “Ferghal, I’d like to have my chest up to my room, and your coat needs drying; you cannot remain so, dripping wet. Ask if it can hang near the fire. Then I must speak with you regarding our joining the ship.”
“You are the same as your father!” Henry Heron exclaimed. “Always taking concern for those who can shift for themselves. Humph. Very well. I shall expect you to join me for dinner in an hour.” He turned away primly and followed the innkeeper up the stairs.
Harry grinned at Ferghal. “Fear not, my friend,” he said in a quiet voice. “Bring my things up to the room, and I will see to your accommodation as soon as I may speak privately with the publican.”
Ferghal grimaced. “I shall not be sorry to get a sup of ale and a place before the fire. This rain is wetter than our own in bonny Ireland, I am persuaded.” Grinning, he added, “Though the nip o’ brandy Mr Heath slipped me helped keep me warm.” Picking up the sea chest, he nodded. “Lead the way, Master Harry, lest you anger your cousin.”
The room allocated to Harry was small, and was situated at the very end of the corridor. It adjoined the back stair, so it was convenient for Ferghal, who hefted Harry’s sea chest up the stairs and deposited it at the foot of the small bed. Checking that his cousin was ensconced in his own room, Harry went in search of the innkeeper. Finding him in the taproom, Harry asked if there were a suitable bed available for Ferghal. On being told there was not, Harry demanded a folding bed be set up in his room for his friend.
“Ah, young sir, I’d be happy to oblige you, but your guardian was most adamant that he would not pay the extra fee.”
“Sir, Ferghal is my companion, and I shall pay the fee,” declared Harry, acutely aware that his purse was very thin indeed. “And for a bite of supper for him.”
The innkeeper studied him for a moment then smiled. “Well said, young sir. It’ll be four pence for the bed, and tell your lad to seek me out. He shall have his dinner with my goodwill.” He turned to glare at the surprised maid behind him. “Well, what are you standing there for? Take up the cot bed to Master Heron’s room.” To Harry he said, “Send your man to me, young sir, as soon as he’s ready.”
HARRY HAD LONG SINCE FINISHED HIS BREAKFAST and was waiting with suppressed frustration for his elderly cousin to be done with his. Cousin Henry seemed to be dining with more leisure than necessary, as though he sensed Harry’s eagerness to waste no time finding his way to the dockyard and a transport to where the Bellerophon was moored in the Medway. Mister Henry Heron, however, insisted on Harry joining him for breakfast and then on waiting for everything to be collected and checked before he would even consider venturing from the inn in the direction of the dockyard. Ferghal helped the porter to push a barrow on which lay Harry’s chest and his own bag containing his worldly possessions.
The dockyard gate was a short distance from the inn, and the day was clear and bright, although the wind, blowing up the river from the sea, was blustery and sharp. At the gate, they were directed to the Dockyard Office and here Harry presented his orders to a clerk.
“Joining the Bellerophon, sir?” The clerk gave Harry a friendly smile. “Your first ship? A fine ship, but she lies in the stream. Your best hope is to take a boat from the dockyard steps. Turn left at the end of this walkway and follow the edge of the number three dry dock, and you will come to the steps at its end. There are always several boatmen about; hail one and he will take you to your ship.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, accepting his orders back from the man. “I shall do as you say.” Joining Ferghal, he said, “To the steps at Dry Dock Number Three. We need a boat to take us to the ship.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Ferghal grinned. He’d spent a very informative evening in the tap while Harry and his cousin dined and then talked in the private parlour. He’d been entertained by some old seamen, and then he’d joined an old shipwright in a little impromptu music. Harry had been asleep when Ferghal crept up to the room and laid himself down on the cot bed, but it had been a profitable evening. He’d learned a great deal, and earned a few pennies besides.
Turning to his cousin, Harry said, “I must thank you, sir, for your assistance and hospitality these weeks. I shall write to my father as soon as I have the opportunity, and will ask him to reimburse any expenditure that you may have incurred as a result of my business.”
“Nonsense, young man.” His austere cousin smiled. “It has been both an education and a pleasure to assist you.” He held out his hand and offered a small purse. “I am all too well aware that you will find the pay of a midshipman somewhat limited, so I think you may find this small gift useful.”
Surprised, Harry accepted the purse, saying, “I thank you sir. You are most generous to me, and I shall be sure to tell my father just how much you have done.”
“It is a small thing, my lad.” The smile appeared again. “You are very like your father, you know. Though I may disagree with his views on many things, I admire many of his qualities.” Placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder, he added, “Just as I do not approve of your having arranged for your companion to share your room, but it is just the sort of thing your father would have done.”
Harry’s surprise that his cousin knew of his arrangement with the innkeeper showed as he replied, “Well I could not leave him to sleep in the tap room or stable, sir.”
“Exactly like your father,” replied the older man dryly. “Well, I cannot quarrel with that. I wish you every success, young Master Harry. It is a hard life you have chosen to follow, but there, I think you have the pluck for it.”
Falling in alongside Harry, the tall soberly dressed man walked with him to the boarding steps at the end of the dry dock. Threading their way between the workmen and the piles of cord, rope and timber awaiting installation on the frigate currently in the dock, Harry’s eyes were drawn to every activity. His companion chuckled as he tripped on a heavy ringbolt, almost measuring his length. “Easy Harry, you need to keep your eyes on the path here.”
“Indeed, sir, but I feel I have so much to learn. Where to begin is the question!”
“I suspect that will be determined for you,” replied the barrister in a somewhat droll tone. “Well, here are the steps, and you have a wide choice of boatmen to assist you on this first step of your journey.”
Chapter 10
The Billy Ruffian
As the clerk had said, there were plenty of watermen ready at the steps to convey officers and visitors to the ships moored in the river. Harry picked out a man with calloused hands and the air of a sailor, and engaged him and his partner, all of which was watched with interest by his cousin. The dockworkers manhandled the sea chest and Ferghal’s dunnage aboard then settled Ferghal in the bow while Harry took his leave of his host and benefactor.
“Once again, thank you for your hospitality and your assistance in finding a patron, sir. I am deeply indebted.”
“Nonsense, Harry. It is no more than is due to family.” Gripping Harry’s hand in a firm handshake, he said, “In the event, you made the task an easy one. I doubt many boys of your age would have been noticed by Lord Burnham, let alone been able to draw from him an endorsement.” Hesitating a moment, he added, “As you have seen, there are those who are prejudiced against those of Irish birth, especially those of Ferghal’s faith. I have no doubt you will encounter them among your new colleagues, and you will need to tread very carefully there. Now, your boat awaits you. God speed in your career, young man.”
Excited yet nervous, Harry clambered down to the boat and took his seat in the sternsheets, suddenly aware of the chasm opening between his position as midshipman and that of Ferghal, who sat at the opposite end of the boat.
With
a carefully gauged familiarity, the waterman nodded to his passenger. “Ter t’ Billy Ruffian, sor?
“Billy Ruffian? No, I’m assigned to the Bellerophon, Captain Lord Garlies’s ship.”
“Bless yer, sor, them as lives forrard calls ’er t’ Billy, sor.”
“Oh. I see.” Harry smiled. “Thank you. To the Billy Ruffian then.” He settled himself so that he could take in everything possible of the ships they passed. The journey lasted some twenty minutes, long enough for Harry to recognise that there was a great difference between the fine frigate he had visited with his father a year earlier and the great ships they were currently passing. The boatman drew his attention to the three prison hulks moored on the opposite bank and from which there seemed to emanate an air of indescribable misery.
“Them hulks is where they keeps them as is condemned to transportation,” the boatman informed him. “They’s pretty full now, an’ there’s talk the Billy Ruffian is to take a convoy of ’em to Botany Bay er or another.”
“To Botany Bay? That will be a long voyage,” said Harry, trying desperately to appear indifferent to such gossip, but failing. He stared about him, fascinated, and tried to take in the ships of all types and sizes clustered in the river and in the docks or on the “ways” and under construction.
As they swung under the stern of a massive first rate at a respectful distance, Harry noted the fresh gilding on her gingerbread, an officer peering down at him from her poop as they passed. Approaching the next in line, her great stern windows reflecting the wintry sun from the water, Harry read her name with a thrill: Bellerophon. The next few minutes passed in a blur as the wherryman answered the challenge from the ship with her name.
Having paid the fare, Harry faced the tricky business of climbing the tumblehome after the dangerous transfer from the wherry to the ship’s side.
Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey Page 8
