“Remain there, Mister Heron.” Mister Beasley’s voice carried aloft over the noise of thundering canvas as the topsails and topgallants where reefed. “Report any change in their disposition.”
Harry acknowledged the order and settled himself securely on the narrow platform. He was feeling the chill even through his coat, waistcoat, shirt and undershirt, yet he was aware that the lookout, one of the older seamen, was clad only in shirt and breeches. “Dawn soon, Kennard, and hopefully a little warmth with the sun.”
The man chuckled. “Aye, sir. But darker afore t’ sun comes up.”
“And colder,” Harry said absently, his eyes on the ship farthest in the distance. “I think that must be the Virago. Where are the Swift, the Pelican and the Kestrel?”
“That be the Indiaman Minerva, sor. Virago be to loo’ard o’ ’er. T’ brigs be t’ loo’ard o’ all t’ rest an’ Swift be there.” The seaman indicated a light in the centre of the scattered lights. “’Er light rides lower coz ’er poop be lower than t’ ’ell ship ahead o’ ’er, sor.”
Harry nodded, noting the positions. Already the faintest change was occurring in the sky to the east; a greenish line seemed to be spreading along the horizon, and the darkness above it seemed paler. He glanced up and noted with satisfaction that the cloud wrack was apparently breaking up as bright stars blazed in the gaps appearing to the west and south while the east appeared to be clear already. He scanned the scattered ships again. One seemed to have changed position.
He asked the lookout, “One of our charges seems to have tacked. Can you see which?”
“Aye, sir.” The lookout braced himself and peered into the gloom. “It be the Duchess Indiaman; ’er master be cautious, I reckons. She be standing across t’ others now.”
“I thought so.” Harry cupped his hands to his mouth again and sang out, “Deck there, Duchess has tacked. She’s standing across the convoy.”
“Very good,” the fourth Lieutenant’s voice sounded faintly from below. Minutes later the pipes were once more twittering, and the rigging swarmed with men racing to obey the shouted orders. The lightening skies allowed Harry to see sharper outlines and to note that two more ships had tacked. He reported this even as a string of coloured lights soared aloft followed seconds later by the bang of a gun. This was followed several minutes later by a port fire, its bright but eerie light casting the sails into colourful relief.
“T’ brigs ’ave seen it, sor, an’ Virago,” Kennard reported. “Swift ’as tacked an’ is closing Duchess, sor.”
The sun turned the eastern horizon gold as it began to rise, bathing the sea in its light and illuminating the undersides of the scattered clouds. As it crept higher, it caught the upper masts and yards of the ships that were at last responding to the Spartan’s signal. The brigs on the far side of the convoy acted like sheep dogs, snapping at the heels of the sluggards until finally, with the sun now fully above the horizon, all were once more standing on the same course.
A new lookout clambered into the crosstrees and grinned. “Mornin’, sir, Tom. Mister Beasley’s compliments, sir—’e says you can go to breakfast now.”
“Thank you.” Harry grinned and added, “Something warm will be welcome; sleep would be better, but I can forget that now. Are you coming, Kennard? Thank you for your assistance.” He swung himself onto the ratlines and began the descent.
“I’ll see ye below, sor,” the seaman Kennard replied as he swung himself onto the long backstay and slid hand over hand to the deck.
Harry raced down the rigging and reached his position at Mister Beasley’s side just as the helm went over and the ship swung ponderously through the eye of the wind, its sails slating and banging. Around him, men swirled in a chaotic dance as they hauled on the braces and sheets to trim the yards and sails to the best setting for the wind. The tack now placed Spartan to windward and astern of her brood of reluctant charges. As they settled on the new course and he supervised the men stowing the lines, he noted that at least all of their rag-tag fleet were once more in a group with the brigs harrying the laggards.
“Mister Bell,” Captain Blackwood called. “We will exercise the upper battery after breakfast. The Frogs may be talking of peace, but I do not intend to allow our people to forget their drills. I do not expect this peace too last much longer than it takes Bonaparte to replace his losses and recruit new blood to his service. He is an ambitious man.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Thomas Bell touched his hat. “Our landsmen will need to learn their new trade I expect. I shall speak to the gunner and ensure they have the opportunity.”
Chapter 16
Confrontations
Major James Heron strode into the house on the shoulder of Scrabo, a bundle of letter packets in his hand, and sought his wife. “My dear, we have letters from Harry.” He handed over the largest package. “By the size of the packet, perhaps he has included some of his sketches of shipboard life.”
Mary, their housemaid, and also the sister to Ferghal, slipped into the sitting room and set down a tray. “Your tea, ma’am, and a coffee for the major.”
Mrs. Heron smiled and said, “Thank you, Mary. I have letters from Harry, so there will be news from Ferghal too. I shall share it with your mother later.” She opened the package and carefully extracted the contents. Her husband had been right. There were three letters and several sketches, and she knew it would have cost Harry no small part of his meagre pay to send these. The letters were numbered, so she found the first one and read it eagerly. When she had finished, she passed it to her husband.
“Now that the peace is signed, it seems his ship is to be placed in reserve,” she said mildly. “Perhaps we will see him home again soon.” She opened the next and stopped midsentence to check the date. “Of all the infamous things,” she exclaimed. “He has been transferred to another ship—the Spartan—and speaks of sailing for the prison colony at Botany Bay.”
“That will be an adventure for him,” remarked her husband, who was still immersed in Harry’s first letter. Then the import of this news struck him. “Botany Bay, did you say?”
“The same,” his wife replied. Reading further, she exclaimed, “Ferghal goes with him. At least we may be easy on that score, but I am told that it is a dreadful place, barren and populated with savages and creatures unlike any we know.”
“Well, he is not going to stay there, my dear.” The major smiled absently. “Unlike those they are no doubt escorting to that place.” He frowned. “Six months ago there were several from this county condemned as poachers and rebels to be transported. I wonder if any of them are among those on this voyage.”
“If they are, it is unlikely Harry will encounter them, I should think.” His wife looked distressed. “Was not the Murphy boy among those condemned?”
“You are right! I had forgotten.” The major’s frown deepened. “I will enquire as to his fate, but I doubt that Harry will encounter him, and even if he does, there is little he can or should do.” He accepted the letter and read it for himself as his wife started the third letter.
Suddenly the major exclaimed, “Of all the infamous things! There is a Raholp Barclay aboard the Spartan, and Harry’s senior too. He shall have to tread warily, as will Ferghal.”
“I am sure we may trust Harry on that score,” his wife replied. “He is at least aware of the history, and his Captain is from these parts and will know it too.”
“As you say. I know Robert Blackwood, and I am sure he will permit no underhand dealing,” the major said. “I shall write, but it will be months before it reaches him.”
THE WINDS STAYED STRONG AND ADVERSE AS THE CONVOY beat its way to the south. Biscay was avoided, as the convoy had made a long tack out into the Atlantic, and when it closed the coast again, it was south of Cape Tourinan on the Spanish coast. Even so, the winds remained perverse until the fleet reached the latitude of Cadiz. Then, just as suddenly, it eased and became gentler, giving the tired crew of Spar
tan an opportunity to dry their clothes and make good the myriad minor defects that had developed in the long slog southward.
“Heron!”
Harry stiffened at the hectoring tone in Eamon Barclay’s voice.
“Get that traitor of yours to clean my shirts. He’s idle and needs a taste of the rope,” he added viciously.
“He is our messman. I feel sure you can instruct him yourself,” Harry replied coolly, his temper simmering at the calculated insult. “I have no doubt that he performs his duties to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Barclay laughed harshly. “Typical—always defending him. See to it my shirts get washed or it’ll be the rigging for you, my lad.”
Harry bit back a retort. Barclay was the gunroom senior, and he had already suffered several watches tied to the rigging for his refusal to kowtow to the bully. Instead, he said, “I’ll speak to Ferghal.”
Any further conversation was cut off by the pipe and cries of, “All hands, all hands muster on deck.”
Weeks before, the sight that greeted them would have required the ship’s clearing for action. Bearing down upon them were two frigates flying the colours of the Spanish crown.
Harry arrived on the quarterdeck to hear the Captain’s orders to the crew. “Prepare to render passing honours, Mister Bell.” He snapped his telescope shut and handed it to Kit Tanner, adding, “They are preparing to do the same, I see; we shall show them how it is done properly.”
The s were already driving the men into action, sending some aloft to man rigging and spars, and others to line the nettings. The Royal Marines formed a solid block of red and white on the quarterdeck with the band drawn up on the poop. Harry found himself detailed to take charge of the men controlling the halyard for their great ensign streaming proudly from the gaff as the Spanish ships closed on an opposite course, their spotless sails in sharp contrast to Spartan’s own weathered canvas, the great red and gold ensigns on display.
The band struck up an unfamiliar tune, and Harry saw the leading ship’s ensign descend slowly. To the waiting seamen he said, “Dip the colours.” The first sharp bang of the gun salute crashed out from the bow as he said this; the boom of the Spaniard’s gun answered it almost simultaneously. The ships passed one another less than a cable apart, and across the water, he heard the faint sound of the Spanish band playing a tune that he barely recognised as “God Save the King.”
“Look at them, Thomas,” Captain Blackwood said. “Neither has spent much time at sea recently, I would wager. Their canvas is new. See? It shows harbour weathering, and their gun crews are slow on the loading by the sound of their salute.”
He raised his hat in response to the frigate Captain’s elaborate flourish as their quarterdecks passed.
As the great ensign returned to the peak of the spanker gaff, he added, “You may stand the men down, and then I think it is time for a little more gun drill. I shall want the ship cleared for action in under ten minutes this time.”
Lieutenant Bell smiled. “I believe we may achieve that, sir.” He saluted and turned away calling to the nearest .
“Harrison, stand the men down. Then I shall want you to beat to quarters. I want the ship cleared for action in nine minutes, but do not open the ports until I give the order to do so.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The raised his pipe to his lips and sounded the men to stand down then followed it with the bellowed order; his cry was taken up throughout the ship.
Mister Bell watched as the men descended from the rigging or returned to their previous tasks. The Spanish ships were still hull up when he nodded to the waiting and ordered, “Beat to quarters!”
The rattle of the drum sounded loudly on the quarterdeck, its rhythm picked up by the drummer boys on the decks below who beat their own tattoo.
Ferghal heard the drum and quickly stowed the shirts he had been carefully folding into a canvas hamper the sail maker had provided for carrying the midshipmen’s laundry. He stowed the hamper in a safe place where the shirts would not be soiled. Then he raced to the hold to receive the fittings, furnishings, and other items struck below when the ship cleared the gun decks of everything not needed to fight the guns. He reached his post as the first items arrived. When everything he and the other boys could stow had been pushed, pulled, or lashed into its place, he ran with the others to collect his sand bucket and then sanded the deck around his guns. With this task complete, he raced below to collect the pair of wooden cartridge buckets he was required to bring to the guns he served.
He reached his station at the number eight gun just as the order was given. “Open ports and run out.” He skidded to a halt and waited out of the way of the recoil as the gun crew hauled on the tackles and dragged the heavy gun up to the port.
“Nine and a half minutes,” wheezed the fourth Lieutenant. “Not good enough—not good enough by a long way. You mark my words: we’ll be doing this again and again until you fellows get it done in under nine.”
On the quarterdeck, Harry heard the first Lieutenant report to the Captain, “Nine and a half, sir. With your permission I shall get it under nine minutes now that we have weather more conducive to drills.”
“Very well, Mister Bell, see that you do,” Captain Blackwood acknowledged. “I know I may rely on you. Secure the guns and the ship; we will exercise again after dinner.”
HARRY ENTERED THE GUNROOM IN TIME TO HEAR EAMON Barclay say, “Someone’s been in my sea chest! There’s a purse gone from the ditty box.” He slammed the lid down and locked it; the clean shirts Ferghal had placed upon it not five minutes before were now scattered across the deck.
Midshipman Peterson exclaimed, “I saw O’Connor at your chest. He’s the thief, I’ll wager.”
“How so?” Harry asked; his voice was dangerously quiet. “He has neither a key to the chest nor the desire to enter it. Are those not the shirts you wanted cleaned? The ones you have now flung on the deck and soiled?”
“What? How dare you defend him? He’s a thief because I say so,” Barclay retorted angrily. Seizing his dirk’s scabbard he advanced on Harry and sneered, “I’ll teach you to respect your elders and betters.” He grabbed Harry and flung him onto the table, raising the scabbard to administer a beating. “I’ll deal with you first and then see to O’Connor; the cat will make him know who his betters are.”
Harry braced himself for the beating, biting his lip as the first blow landed across his buttocks. The second made him gasp, and the third brought his anger to cold fury. He was about to take action when the voice of the second Lieutenant rang through the space.
“Back to your old games, Mister Barclay?”
The tone of Lieutenant Rae’s voice was cold and dripping in sarcasm.
“I suggest you release Mister Heron immediately and explain yourself. You know the Captain’s instructions regarding disputes in the gunroom. Why have you taken it upon yourself to disregard them?”
Barclay released Harry and faced the Lieutenant, his attitude conciliatory and his voice wheedling. “He was insubordinate, sir, and defended a thief against my charge.”
“What thief would that be? And what charge?”
“O’Connor, sir. He was seen taking a purse from my chest.”
“That is a lie, sir,” Harry interjected through gritted teeth. “Peterson said that he had seen Ferghal at the chest—a reasonable enough thing since he was returning Mister Barclay’s clean shirts, the same ones he has now soiled by flinging them on the deck in his accusations.”
“Well, Mister Peterson?”
“I….” Peterson glanced at Barclay and then stared at the deck. “Heron is correct, sir, I saw O’Connor place the shirts on the chest. No more.”
“And you, Mister Heron? How have you provoked Mister Barclay into this action?”
“I have done no provocation, sir. I also know that Ferghal did not steal anything from Mister Barclay, sir. He stands falsely accused.” Harry glared in defiance at the now conciliato
ry Barclay. “And I say any man that says he is a thief is a liar.”
Ferghal entered the gunroom, his arms laden with the laundry of several other midshipmen, which he had retrieved from its safe wrappings, and stopped when he saw the tableau. He had heard the voices and been told that Harry was in some trouble. Now he found himself the centre of attention as the Lieutenant said, “O’Connor, what do you say to Mister Barclay’s charge that you have stolen his purse?”
“That I have not, sir.” Ferghal frowned. “I have never seen the gentleman’s purse. There was no purse among the things he ordered me to clean for him, sir. When I returned them, I placed them on top of his chest, sir.”
“Then you can have no objection to the boatswain searching your person or your duffle.” Mister Rae held up a hand to cut off the protest from Harry and Barclay. “Enough! Mister Billing, take O’Connor forward, please, and search him and his duffle. Report to me as soon as you have done so.”
Mister Rae paused as the boatswain, Ferghal, and the almost unnoticed boy Danny left the gunroom, and then he said, “Now, Mister Barclay, describe the purse if you please, then be so kind as to open your chest and unstow its contents. You may have simply displaced it within.”
Reluctantly, Barclay replied, “It is made of leather, sir, with a silver fastening and my initials embossed upon it. There were ten guineas and forty shillings inside it, along with some small coin.” He moved to his chest and fished for his keys, bending to unlock it.
“I thought it might be,” Lieutenant Rae said. He held out a hand to Midshipman Peterson. “You may now hand me the purse Mister Barclay gave you this morning when the ship was cleared for action.” He frowned when he saw that Peterson looked frightened and confused. “I am neither blind nor stupid, sir. You know very well the purse I mean. Now hand it to me.”
Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey Page 14
