Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey

by Patrick G Cox

  Pale and clearly shaken, Peterson dived to his own chest, unlocked it, and flung open the lid. He rummaged in it and held out the purse. “Here it is, sir.”

  Accepting it, Lieutenant Rae weighed it in his hand as he looked at Barclay, his expression unreadable.

  “Leather, with a silver fastening and your initials embossed I think you said? Stolen by Boy O’Connor I think you declared? Mister Barclay, you have broken the Captain’s express instruction that there was to be no disciplining of any fellow midshipmen without the confirmation of a Lieutenant. You have brought a false charge of theft against a seaman and now, no doubt, you expect me to support and uphold your authority. I will do no such thing, sir.” He held up his free hand. “You will report to me at eight bells in the afternoon watch. You will be fully and correctly turned out, and you will then explain yourself to the first Lieutenant who will, no doubt, be able to think of a suitable punishment. You, Mister Peterson, will make your way to the mizzen crosstrees and remain there until eight bells in the second dogwatch, and you, Mister Heron, will report to the sailing master immediately. The master has a number of charts needing correction, and you will assist him in that task until it is completed.”

  He glared at the three and said, “Well, Mister Peterson? Mister Heron? Must I add refusal to obey an order to my list of charges?”

  Harry was the first to move, exiting the opening in the screen just as the boatswain returned with Ferghal.

  “Nothing found, sir,” he said, his eyes fixed on the purse in the Lieutenant’s hands.

  Harry made his way stiffly to the master’s tiny cabin and knocked. “Mister Rae sent me.”

  “Come in, lad.” The master was a big and rather bluff man who seemed to fill most of the small space. “We’ll go to the chart room and set to work.”

  Harry was not privy to the outcome of Eamon Barclay’s interview with Mister Bell or to a subsequent interview with the same officer and Midshipman Peterson. He did learn that both the accusation and Barclay’s assault on his person had been conveyed to the boatswain by the boy Danny Gunn and thence to the second by Mister Billing himself.

  The second Lieutenant had in fact been at the fore end of the lower gun deck at the time and so had arrived swiftly and timeously. That Barclay had been punished and given the severest warning concerning his future conduct resonated throughout the ship, reaching Ferghal long before it did Harry. When it was repeated to him, he had the wisdom to snap at the bearer of the news and warn him to hold his tongue and cease spreading gossip concerning an officer. But it was hard to hide the glow of satisfaction he felt at the news.

  The bruises faded in due course, but not the memory of the false accusation and the beating. Harry was not one to harbour grudges or to seek revenge, but he now treated Barclay with circumspection, suspicion, and caution. He was thankful that their officers seemed to be taking pains to ensure that they had little opportunity to be alone together or for Peterson to be in Barclay’s company alone. He could not know that Captain Blackwood himself was taking an interest in his and the other midshipmen’s activities and development.

  For his part, Barclay was resentful. He blamed Harry for the failure of what he saw as a legitimate attempt to stamp his authority on the messmen, in particular on Ferghal, and to make the lower deck scum, as he referred to them, respect him.

  “The second had no business interfering in my disciplining that upstart Heron,” he complained to Tom Bowles. “He has undermined my authority completely.”

  “From where I stand, you are to blame for that,” Tom retorted. “I warned you, did I not, that the Captain would not stand for the tricks you used in our last ship.” He frowned. “Falsely accusing a man of theft is hardly the way to win respect. You brought us all into disrepute with that folly. What were you thinking?”

  “None of your business; it is a family matter. Mark my words: Heron will pay for it, and so will that man of his. Scum, the lot of them, and the O’Connors worst of all.”

  Chapter 17

  Sea, Sky and Stars

  As if Cape Tourino had been some sort of line in the sea, the small convoy now found itself making slow progress southward in milder air and under easy canvas. The stormy weather north of the Biscay area seemed to have given way completely to lighter winds and warmer air. Harry now found a way to escape the constant aggression of Eamon Barclay. He took to spending at least some of his off watch periods in the dogwatches in the foretop. From this position, he had a wonderful vantage point to study the sea and distant glimpses of the coast, and to contemplate the stars that spattered the heavens. He also took his sketch pad with him and spent time sketching the men as they worked, the rigging, and the scattered ships they escorted.

  “You’m quite the artist, sor,” a seaman engaged in splicing a new eye into a rope end remarked as Harry put the finishing touches to his sketch of one of the swivel guns mounted in the fighting top. In his sketch, he had included the pair of bullocks who would normally serve the gun in an engagement, and the result was a very accurate record of how the gun and its crew would appear in such a battle.

  “Thank you, Yates,” Harry replied. “It makes a record for my family of how we go on.” He smiled. “Though I fear my mother will worry at the thought of our being in danger of attack.”

  “Aye, sor.” Yates grinned a broken-toothed response. “Though the Froggies and the Dons ain’t like to stir it fer a bit an’ not where we’m bound.” The strains of a fiddle drifted up to the top, and Yates glanced down. “Sounds as if yon lad Fergie ’as ’is fiddle out. Lad plays a fine tune, ’e does.”

  “So he does,” Harry said with an affable smile. “I wish I had his talent for music.” This was a genuine wish on Harry’s part. Music was his way of calming down when his temper had been pushed almost to breaking point. It was a joke among his family that Harry’s temper was the most dangerous in a family of strong tempers. His struggle to control it made him appear aloof and too much the perfectionist.

  “’E tells us’n that ’e be from t’ same place as ’e, sor, an’ ye wuz nippers together.” Yates knew he risked being over familiar, but Harry was different from most of the other midshipmen, a “real gent” as many on the lower deck put it—young, but sharp and quick witted.

  Harry glanced at him sharply, but recognised only an honest interest. “So we are. Ferghal has been my friend these many years, though why is beyond me.” Harry laughed. “I think I have been responsible for almost every scrape he has been a party to—not least our present place in this ship.”

  Yates studied the young midshipman in a sidelong glance for a few moments and chuckled. “Aye, sor, so ’e tell’d us.” He finished his splice, whipping the tails neatly and then binding the whole tightly in twine. He looked up to see Harry’s pencil busy recording the work, with little annotations marking each part of it.

  Harry looked up and caught the surprised glance. He grinned. “One never knows when such knowledge may be useful.” He indicated the sketch. “I shall include this in my journal. Who knows? Perhaps even an admiral may need to study it someday so he may replicate it.”

  The sun was now almost half below the horizon, and the chiming of the bell in the fo’c’s’le belfry warned that it wanted but another hour before Harry must report himself on the quarterdeck for the evening watch. He carefully packed his pad and pencils into his satchel and gazed at the early stars. He mused aloud, “I wonder if mankind will ever walk among the stars? The moon is a body that could easily be large enough for men to walk upon. And beyond it—Venus is bright in our skies, but through a telescope has clouds and must surely have water and land much like our own.”

  Yates stared at the moon for a moment. “Not fer the likes o’ us, sor. This earth be havin’ enough t’ keep the likes o’ us’ busy—who’d want to go ter places like that? It be bad enough in Noo Suff Wales an’ Van Diemen’s Land wi’out lookin’ ter go ter places like as the moon, begging yer pardon, sor.”
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br />   Harry laughed at this. “I expect you’re right. Do you think we shall see any fabled beasties in the South Sea? I hear the Great Southern Ocean is desolate with only the great wandering albatross alive upon it—and the great leviathan within it.”

  “If’n it’s the whales you’m lookin’ ter see, sor,” Yates said with a toothy grin, “ye’ll see plenty o’ they as we goes southerly.”

  The stars were now gradually filling the sky overhead with the great blaze of the Milky Way forming a band across the heavens. Harry sat enthralled as the light faded in the west and the moon took her place in the night sky. He barely noticed as Yates acknowledged his departure for the gunroom. Harry was almost too late for his supper, though by some miracle, Ferghal had managed to keep enough aside for his young friend’s appetite.

  THE CLASSROOM WAS HOT AND STIFLING AS HARRY and the other younger midshipmen sat in the cramped confines. The parson, Mister Bentley, had a very soporific manner of speaking, which Harry considered typical of a parson. His sepulchral delivery could turn the liveliest subject into pure purgatory, especially in the overcrowded and overheated classroom. He droned on while his charges struggled, some unsuccessfully, to remain at least attentive and awake.

  His lesson today was on the subject of mathematics, a subject Harry excelled at, though now he was struggling to follow the trigonometry as explained by the parson.

  “I can scarce follow this,” whispered Kit Tanner. “He confuses me—or the air in here is so stale my wits have taken leave of me.”

  “Both, I think,” replied Harry. “I need to recall what Mister Carrigan, my tutor, taught on this or I will not understand it at all.”

  They were spared a few minutes later when a cry filtered down to the classroom. “All hands, all hands, to make sail!”

  The pipe’s twitter was drowned by the torrent of midshipmen hurriedly packing their slates and rushing to respond, the relief at their release and the prospect of some fresh air on deck making them more boisterous than usual.

  Mister Bentley sighed and mopped his brow. He did his best, he really did, and some of the boys responded well. Others, in his view, were blockheads who would never grasp anything esoteric or scientific. He tugged at his neck cloth; perhaps if he could persuade the Captain to allow them the use of a cooler space in the ship as a classroom, it might be better. He had to admit that he was struggling in the close confines of this space, and the heat was oppressive. He would apply to the first Lieutenant and see what could be done.

  On deck, Harry hurried to his station and reported himself to the Lieutenant. The fresh breeze was a delight to his senses as he watched the bustle about him.

  “Make the most of your escape from the classroom, Mister Heron.” The Lieutenant’s voice startled him. “I imagine it must be pretty warm below decks now.”

  “It is, sir!” Harry grinned. “I think many of us are almost asleep in it.”

  “Aye, the parson has that effect even in the open and when you’re stood up.” The officer laughed. “What is he teaching at present?” He paused to call to a , “Take care there! Take that man’s name—that halyard is not properly secured.”

  “Trigonometry, sir,” Harry replied when the Lieutenant turned back to him. “A favourite of mine, though I confess I am now somewhat confused and must consult my textbook to see where I have misunderstood Mister Bentley’s exposition.”

  “Ah, well, I am not surprised. Have a word with the master; his mathematics is of the practical kind, not the pure scientific stuff Mister Bentley teaches.” He turned away again. “Make all secure, and....”

  The voice of the first Lieutenant cut across their conversation. “Mister Heron, lay aft if you please.”

  Ferghal with his red hair and pale skin was suffering in the constant sunshine. Even though he was used to the outdoor life, the harsh glare from the sea and the brilliant sunlight had given him and a large number of others, including several of the midshipmen, bad cases of sunburn until the older hands had shown them how to protect themselves with fat from the cook, tallow, and broad-brimmed hats.

  The surgeon complained in the wardroom. “These men are fools—they see no harm in exposing themselves to the sun in this manner, and several are burned badly enough to warrant a spell in the sickbay.” He snorted. “Some of the young gentlemen’ are no better: I caught young Houghton without his hat at midday! As a result, he needs lotion for the burn to his face, and his eyes are affected too. Have they no sense at all?”

  “You cannot blame them entirely, Mister Spenser,” Thomas Bell remarked. “Many have not enjoyed such warmth or sunshine in their whole lives.”

  “Aye, I’ll grant you that, Mister Bell,” the surgeon said. “But if they do not take care, it will be the death of them. Some have burns such as I would expect from a flame, and they suffer for it.”

  “Well I shall rely upon you to ensure we do not lose any men or boys. As it is, I am sore tempted to visit the prison ships again with a call for hands. Some, I am sure, will be eager to escape the holds of those floating hellholes.”

  At Cape St. Vincent, the convoy swung south and east sighting the great port of Cadiz in the early dawn. Mister Bell remarked casually, “It seems strange to pass that place and not have our passage hindered by some vessel they’ve dispatched.”

  The Captain stepped on deck.

  “Cadiz, sir,” Mister Bell informed him. “I thought you would wish to be on deck when we detach the brig and the colliers for the Rock.”

  “You are very right, Thomas,” said the Captain, a spyglass to his eye. “With our flock, beating out of the entrance to the Mediterranean would be difficult. We will wear ship and shape our course southwestward once Cape Trafalgar is abeam. Pelican and the colliers may continue from there. I do not think the Dons will interfere, though I do see several ships ready for sea in the outer roads.”

  “Shall I signal our intention to Pelican’s commander, sir?”

  “In due time, Thomas; I shall breakfast first, I think.” The Captain swept the convoy with his glass noting with annoyance that the Maid of Selsey was lagging badly and seemed to be pumping her bilges yet again. “I am now certain that transport’s master is determined to irritate me. I have not met so truculent a man in these many years or one who cares so little for the fabric of his ship.” He snapped at the signal party. “Signal that ship to make more sail, and keep proper station on the convoy.”

  Even as the flags soared aloft, a cry from the masthead reached the deck. “Deck there, ship in sight on the starboard quarter.”

  Before the Captain could train his glass, the lookout called again, “Deck there—a first rate and four smaller ships.” A pause followed and then, “Looks like Dons—a whole squadron of ’em.”

  “Mister Bowles,” the Captain said, his tone brisk, “take a glass and get aloft. See if you can identify them and their intentions.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Tom Bowles snatched a telescope from its rack and swung into the mizzen shrouds. Soon he was perched on the mizzen top and sighting the telescope on the new ships. After a moment he called down, “A three-decker and four seventy-fours, some frigates too, sir. From her size, I think it must be the Santissima Trinidad.”

  “Thank you, Mister Bowles, and her course?”

  “On her present head, they appear bound for Cadiz, sir.”

  The deck had filled with curious onlookers, the majority of whom were quick to occupy themselves as soon as any of the Lieutenants, now also peering aft, glanced in their direction.

  Harry overheard the master speaking to the third Lieutenant. “A hundred and twenty guns, Mister Beasley. The largest ship in any navy—and a fine prize for any bold enough to attack her.”

  Tom Bowles landed near Harry and grinned. “A Spanish fleet no less, Harry. She wears an admiral’s flag at her fore and there are frigates beyond her too. Let us hope they are content to make for their home and leave us be.” He hurried away to make a further report
to the Captain.

  With the growing daylight, the great ship’s royals could be seen from the deck by those with sharp eyes, the snowy canvas golden in the early light. Harry wished he could see the ship in its entirety; he was sure it would make a fine picture for his parents. He watched with envy as Tom Bowles scrambled aloft to the crosstrees, where he could see and report the full strength of the Spanish squadron. Harry remained at his post, tasked with recording the rough notes for the master’s log on the slate beside the great double wheel.

  Harry heard his name called. “Sir?” he responded.

  “Fetch your drawing materials, Mister Heron,” Captain Blackwood ordered, “and get aloft. I want you to draw each of those ships; the admiral at Gibraltar will wish to know what he has on his doorstep. Quickly now!”

  Harry ran below, grabbed his satchel of sketching supplies, and raced back on deck. As he swung into the ratlines the third Lieutenant thrust a telescope at him and said, “Take this, you’ll need it to get the detail.”

  “Aye, aye, sir, thank you.” Harry grasped the telescope and slipped the strap over his head then began the long ascent to join Tom Bowles on the crosstrees. This platform was small, almost too small, but there was sufficient space for him to sit and with his legs dangling over the sea, he studied the huge three-decker.

  Carefully he noted the arrangement of her gun ports, the cut of her sails and the gilding and painting of her massive hull. He sketched quickly, pausing occasionally to use the glass to study the details afresh. Tom Bowles watched in envy as the image in Harry’s eye was transferred to the page, tiny details annotated where they could not be drawn in the main picture. Other ships joined the flagship on the page as Harry sketched.

  “Damn impressive, Harry,” Tom Bowles said. “You almost bring her to life. My efforts to draw always look childish by comparison. How the devil do you do it?”