Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey

by Patrick G Cox

  “Helm amidships, Mister Porter. Steer east by east north east and a half east.”

  “Recall the boats, Mister Firebrace, and get the topsails on her.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied the Lieutenant. “Mister Heron! Recall the boats.” He turned back to the quarterdeck rail and called to the s. “Stand by to recover the boats. Get them inboard as quickly as you can.”

  The activity as the launches drew alongside distracted Harry. He gazed with interest as they hooked onto the main chains and secured the whips running through the tackles rigged at the ends of the main yard and the foreyard. It was the first time he’d seen boats recovered while the ship was underway, and it fascinated him. First one launch and then the second were hauled into the air, swung inboard and lowered onto the boat tiers where they were secured under the watchful eye of a .

  These had barely settled in their places when the pipes were again twittering as the s drove the topmen into the rigging to set more sail.

  “Here, Heron, pay attention. Signal from the dock admiral.” Runciman called the number, adding, “Single flags, G-O-D-S-P-E-E-D.”

  “Acknowledge,” replied the Captain before Harry had found the signal number. “You need to learn that one by heart, Mister Heron. You will see it often enough in any engagement.”

  The fore and main topsails filled and the ship gathered way steadily as the tide began to run out strongly. This added speed over the ground but increased the danger in these confined waters as her rudder lost some of its effect in the water. At last, as the river opened out into the great anchorage of the Nore, Bellerophon altered course towards the sea and began to make her way past the line of great ships anchored there, spreading more and more sail as she did so. Harry watched spellbound as they passed the long line of seventy-fours, frigates and even a large three-decker. One of the older signalmen pointed out ships and put names to them as they passed.

  “Them are part of Sir Hyde Parker’s fleet wot bombarded them Danes back in April, sor,” he told Harry. “The one’s wot got in as close as Lord Nelson, like us’n, be all still in dock though, for it was hot work in the narrows there.”

  “Thank you, Bates,” said Harry carefully, acknowledging the information and the identities of the ships. “That is most kind of you. I hope I may one day recognise them all as easily.”

  The seaman grinned, showing several gaps in his teeth. “You’ll be roight, sor! You’m got what is needed see—a good eye and a better head.”

  Continuing down the estuary the ship began to meet the short seas kicked up in the wide estuary that is the confluence of the Thames, the Medway and now the Swale as they cleared the Isle of Sheppey. This introduced a new motion as the ship, with the wind now almost astern, began to dip her stem, then shudder and give a slight corkscrew as wind and wave combined to act on the hull. Many, including Harry and Ferghal, began to feel the first twinges of the dreaded seasickness. At first, busy with their duties, neither had time to notice anything more than feeling slightly unwell. Slowly the Kent shore receded as the Captain prepared to take the ship out into the Channel and clear the lurking danger of the Goodwin Sands lying in wait for the unwary ship just off the North Foreland.

  “We will stand well out into the Channel, Mister Firebrace,” declared the Captain. “I wish to give the Goodwins a wide berth. Mister Porter, I will require a heading to take us clear of the sands, if you please.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The sailing master pulled his pilotage notes from his pocket, consulted them briefly, then hurried to the nettings and took several bearings. “If we hold this course until the Foreland bears west by west sou’ west, we may safely wear ship and make our course to clear Dungeness point. If this wind holds, though, we shall have a task to beat up to make the anchorage at Spithead,” he added.

  The motion increased as the ship drew abreast of the North Foreland, and Harry became aware, now that he was idle, that he was feeling somewhat less than well. This surprised him because he’d not experienced any sickness on the crossing from Ireland. The wind increased slightly as they drew away from the land, and the running tide was producing waves and a motion in the ship that he found very uncomfortable. It was much worse when he was dismissed below at the end of his watch, for now the stench overwhelmed his senses again, and he had to rush to the slop pail used as a toilet, at which point he discovered to his dismay that he was obviously not the first to make use of it!

  His misery increased when the messmen arrived with the steaming kettles of food for their evening meal. Just the scent of it sent his stomach into further paroxysms and saw him rushing to the pail to the amusement of the older midshipmen. He gritted his teeth and determined to beat this ghastly sensation that threatened to overcome his ability to function at all. The boatswain lumbered over to where he’d found a place he could curl up and endure the misery in relative isolation.

  “Now then, young sir. There be only one cure for the Mal de Mer as they Frenchies calls it. Take a swig o’ this, but hold your nose ere you do. A good swig now, none o’ that genteel sippin’.” He proffered a large mug filled with pungent liquor.

  Just the effort of sitting up made his head spin and his stomach heave, though he had nothing left to eject. Gratefully, Harry took the mug. It was half-full of a dark brown liquid. An eye wateringly pungent aroma made him wrinkle his nose. Pinching his offended organ as instructed and putting the mug to his lips, he took a large mouthful. It felt like liquid fire burning down his throat, and when it hit his stomach, it seemed to explode.

  He gasped for breath, his eyes streaming and his head already feeling woolly. His stomach made a valiant effort to expel the fire but failed, the effort producing a loud and very liquid burp. Handing the mug back to the boatswain, he tried to focus his eyes, mumbling with a thickening tongue and swimming senses, “Thank you, Mister Rowlings. What is that?”

  “Lord bless you, Mister Heron.” The old man chuckled. “That is grog, best cure for the sea sickness that I know of. Now take a rest, sir, we’ll stir you when it is time to go on watch again.”

  Chapter 12

  Privateer Adventure

  It was some hours later that Ferghal woke Harry. “Master Harry, Master Harry,” he said softly. “It is time to report for your watch. Mister Rowlings sent me to make sure you were ready.”

  Harry surfaced from a dream, his stomach still somewhat unsteady but feeling decidedly empty. “Thank you, Ferghal.” He moved to sit upright and grimaced at the effort. “The grog seems to have settled the sickness, but now I am hungry and unwell.”

  Ferghal grinned. “Aye, Mister Rowlings said to give you a biscuit and tell you to eat it and wash it down with a sup of this.” He handed Harry a platter with a ship’s biscuit on it and offered a mug with a small quantity of rum in it. “I have knocked the weevils from the biscuit for you,” he added.

  Harry accepted the biscuit with caution; the mere thought of weevils formerly inhabiting his meal made his stomach roil. The hardtack went down his throat with reluctance, but his stomach didn’t complain, and he took a swig of the rum, realising at once that this time it had been watered. He finished the biscuit and handed Ferghal the empty mug. “Thank you, my friend.” Easing himself to his feet, he took a moment to let his head stop spinning. “I think I’ll do now provided no one asks me to do any calculations. I should have a hard time of it if they did.” He pulled on his jacket and said, “How is it with you? Have you been smitten as well?”

  “Oh, aye,” Ferghal said with his usual good-natured aplomb. “And had a similar treatment for it, but I’m right as rain now.”

  “Well, let’s hope it is a permanent cure,” Harry with a grimace. Picking up his hat, he made for the companionway. “I fear I could rapidly lose my taste for the life afloat if I had to endure that day after day.”

  “The gunner says if it doesn’t cure us, at least we’ll not care, as we’ll be too drunk to notice,” replied his friend, laughing as he followed.


  On deck, the wind had veered round to the north and east. It had a bite to it and a taste of frost, which turned the watch keepers’ breath to steam. Harry was glad of his coat noticing those men without were feeling the chill. He stayed close to the third Lieutenant, who was the officer of the watch, to follow and learn what was being said and done around him. For the moment, Harry’s task was to make notes on the slate of any alterations to the wind, the ship’s speed when the log was cast, and any other observations the Lieutenant thought necessary. Away to starboard Harry could see the lights of a number of ships evidently running the inside passage of the Downs, while, to port, the occasional light that showed was evidently ashore—evidence of the effectiveness of the blockade.

  “Well, Mister Heron,” the third Lieutenant said, startling Harry when he suddenly loomed at his side. “Are you now recovered from the sea sickness?”

  “I think so, sir,” Harry responded carefully. “But I fear I may not have my appetite back for a while yet.”

  “Mister Rowlings’s patent cure usually does the trick.” The Lieutenant chuckled. “We shall see if it has provided a complete cure in due time.”

  “I hope so, sir,” Harry replied with feeling. “When shall we see Dungeness, sir?”

  “We are almost abreast of it now if I make my guess rightly,” came the response. “In another half hour we shall have to alter course to starboard and bear up for the entrance to Spithead. There we shall no doubt receive orders to join the admiral off Brest or perhaps in Tor Bay. We shall see.”

  A joined them. Touching his hat he said, “Wind’s beginning to freshen sir, and is backing further. Tide is still running agin us, but we’re well clear of any shoals here, sir.”

  “Thank you, Evans. If it rises much more, we will have to give thought to shortening sail, but for now I think we will do. Hold her steady as we are, and trim the yards a touch to the wind, if you please.” The Lieutenant was quiet for a moment, then said to Harry, “Make a turn of the lookouts, Mister Heron, especially those up forward. There are many fishing vessels about, and I wish to have those people awake if we meet one.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Harry touched his hat and made his way forward along the gangway toward the fo’c’s’le. Here he found four seamen posted to the duty of lookout and checked that they were alert and evidently performing their allotted task. He was all too aware that he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to do this. He paused on the weather gangway as the s supervised the trimming of the yards to adjust them to the shifting wind, which seemed to have strengthened, and the ship’s motion was livelier as well.

  He mentioned this to a as they walked aft again together. “Oh, aye, sir,” came the chuckled reply. “It is always so in this part of the Channel with the tide making and the wind coming from the north. Wind over tide, see? The two fight one another, and it can get a wee bit rough.” He laughed. “But the old Billy can take it, long’s we keeps her off’n the lee shore on Cherbourg coast and Ushant beyond, that is.”

  Returning to the Quarterdeck, Harry touched his hat and reported to the Lieutenant that the lookouts were alert and in place.

  “Well done, Mister Heron,” the third Lieutenant said approvingly, and grinned at him as one officer to another. “It pays to let the men see you checking from time to time—reminds them that their officers know they aren’t always as alert as they should be.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harry said, but his face creased in a frown. “But how would I know, sir?”

  “You probably wouldn’t unless you surprised them at it.” The Lieutenant’s chuckle suggested this had been a test. “The trick is to make them think that you have seen something.” He turned to face the approaching . “Yes, Evans?”

  “Sir, Dungeness is abeam, we should bear up and shape course now for Beachy Head.”

  “Very good, man the braces then, Evans. Mister Heron, get you to the Captain and inform him we are altering course toward Beachy Head, if you please.”

  “Yes…aye, aye, sir,” replied Harry, quickly correcting himself. Touching his hat, he made his way under the break of the poop past the great double wheel and binnacle to where the red-coated Royal Marine sentry stood guard outside the Captain’s door.

  As he approached, the sentry thumped the butt of his musket on the deck and stood to attention. Harry acknowledged the man and tapped on the door. From within he heard a voice bidding him to come in. Opening the door, he stepped through it to find himself in a wide cabin, a dining table across the forward end and a desk and several chairs beyond. The Captain, in his shirtsleeves, sat at the desk, his back to the great stern windows, his gold-laced coat thrown over the back of another chair.

  He looked up as Harry entered, and smiled. “Good morning, Mister Heron, step nearer and deliver your message, sir.”

  “Sir….” Harry began, but then he paused briefly to rehearse in his head how his message should be phrased. “Mister Brydges compliments. Dungeness Point is now abeam, and we are to alter course to fetch Beachy Head.”

  Captain Lord Garlies looked at him, his face partly in shadow so that Harry could not tell his expression. Then the Captain rose from his seat and said, “Well done, Mister Heron, you are learning fast. You may tell Mister Brydges I shall come up.” He smiled as Harry was about to go and added, “Take a good look, young man; one day, if the Lord spares you, you too could achieve these quarters. Now be off with you to your Lieutenant.”

  Harry touched his hat and excused himself, hurrying back on deck to convey the Captain’s response to the Lieutenant. In fact, he had barely done so when Captain Garlies himself appeared and acknowledged the Lieutenant’s salute.

  “Very good Mister Brydges, alter course if you please.”

  Harry watched carefully as the watchmen were sent to the braces again, and preparations were made to alter the angle of the yards so that the ship’s change of direction would not cause the sails to lose the wind. The wheel was put up, and the ship began to turn to starboard. As she did so, the motion changed, and the Bellerophon began to heel more steeply to port. Now, Harry noticed, the wind had gathered strength, an observation borne out by the Captain’s comment.

  “Wind’s increasing and still veering, Mister Brydges. It will bear watching.”

  “Aye, Sir,” replied the third Lieutenant. “I think Mister Porter is of a mind that we could be in for a blow. He says the wind has too much easting in it—it will blow up a gale before dawn.”

  “He may well be right. There is an edge to this wind that suggests it will get stronger. What says the glass?”

  A large shape loomed next to the Captain. “It is falling, Sir, and far too rapidly for my taste. We may make Beachy before it strikes, but we will be hard pressed before we clear Selsey Bill and can make the Spithead passage.”

  “Very well, Mister Porter.” Pausing to taste the wind, the Captain added, “We shall hold this course and do our best to beat the arrival of a gale, but we’ll leave ourselves plenty of room to make a run for it if it overtakes us. Mister Brydges, call me if this increases any further.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” responded the Lieutenant even as the ship heeled a little further in response to a stronger gust of wind. “Perhaps we should consider taking a further reef in the topsails, Sir.”

  “What? Like some Johnny Frenchman? Not yet, Mister Brydges, but we will certainly consider it if the wind increases any further.” Harry thought he saw the Captain smile as he said this, but just then there came a cry from the masthead lookout.

  “Deck there! Gunfire on the port bow. Two ships. Could be privateers.”

  Snatching a telescope, the Captain made his way to the nettings and, steadying the glass, peered forward. A flash of gunfire lit the night. “Damned hard to see, but it looks like a pair of brigs.” He called to the lookout. “Masthead, what can you make of them?”

  “Two ships, Sor! One a brig, t’ other looks to be a Dunkee lugger,” came the reply.

  “Right, a
brig and damned Dunkirk Chausee Maree,” replied the Captain. “Get the topsails off her and clear the upper battery. I’ll want the bow chasers and carronades manned and ready so we can engage as soon as we can get some idea of who they are,” he ordered. “But do it as quietly as you can. I don’t want them to notice us until we are ready to engage.”

  In the minutes that followed, Harry got his first taste of the apparent chaos of a ship shortening sail and preparing for action, even though this would not be a full engagement. It seemed to him that someone had disturbed a hornets’ nest. Men raced up the rigging and the topsails rapidly vanished. The ship swung to make for the scene of the fight; her yards once more trimmed to the wind and the gun crews clearing their guns in preparation for an engagement.

  In not clearing the ship for action, the Captain was taking a calculated gamble based on his assumption that the privateer, when faced with the overwhelming firepower of the Bellerophon, would opt to surrender or run. If she ran for it, the larger ship could probably be outrun, but might still be able to disable the smaller ship if her long nines, the long sixteen-pound guns in her upper battery, could be brought to bear before the range became too great.

  A further hail from aloft drew the Captain’s attention. “Deck there! T’ lugger is drawing off and making sail. T’ brig is still fightin’, but there be nuttin’ to show her case, Sor!”

  “Does the lugger show any colours?” bawled the Captain.

  “None’s I can see, Sor!” came the reply. “But she has the look of a Dunkirk corsair.”

  “Very well, let’s see how she responds to a little persuasion.” A Lieutenant handed him the speaking trumpet. “Mister Glanville,” the Captain called through it, his voice sufficiently amplified. “Test the range with one of your guns, if you please.”

  The Lieutenant on the fo’c’s’le acknowledged the order and turned to his guns. For a moment, nothing happened. Harry watched with fascination, fairly holding his breath as the gun crew threw their weight on the tackles and ran the gun up. Then there was some careful adjustment of the alignment, and finally the gun Captain stood aside and jerked the lanyard. There was a flash as the primer ignited followed by the dull bang of the main charge, and then an immediate flurry of activity as the crew threw themselves into reloading the gun. Again, it was run up, and again, it bellowed its spite. All the while, the Captain held the night glass to his eye in an effort to see the affect this would have.