Eventually the First pushed his bowl aside. “Phew.” He beamed, his face flushed. “As good as I remember it. I was your age, gentlemen, when I first tried it.” He signalled the attendant. “Another tankard, gentlemen? Before we repair to the ship?”
The party acquiesced and sat supping their tankards and enjoying the street scene below as the sun settled. Bats, larger than any Harry or Kit could recall seeing, flitted between the pillars supporting the roof, and mosquitoes buzzed about their ears. Finally, the First pulled his watch from his waistcoat and said, “Time to return, I fear, gentlemen. The streets down to the waterfront are not the most salubrious once darkness falls.”
Harry glanced over the veranda screen and saw the rickshaw man, Guptah, waiting patiently. He said, “Our rickshaw wallah is waiting for us. Perhaps he can be persuaded to find another and take us all.”
“Sound idea, Harry,” said the first Lieutenant. “See to it while I settle our account.”
THEIR ARRIVAL AT THE LANDING STAGE COINCIDED with the arrival of a dishevelled and evidently injured Midshipman Barclay and an equally dishevelled Midshipman Peterson, the pair escorted by soldiers in the uniform of the HEIC Infantry.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mister Bell demanded, drawing the conclusion that his two junior officers were under arrest.
The Sergeant in charge saluted. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but we found these gentlemen astray. They’ve been robbed an’ another murdered. If’n you’ll take ’em back to the ship, sir, I can take my men to the scene and retrieve the other. I left two men to watch the body and take care it comes to no further injury until I get back, sir.”
Mister Bell looked at the dishevelled pair and nodded. “Mister Rogers, go with the Sergeant and see to the return of our man—who is it, Mister Barclay?”
“Ware, sir.” Barclay looked frightened.
Harry stiffened at the name. Sebastian Ware was one of Eamon Barclay’s cronies, though he was more a toadie than a henchman. He had been pleasant enough away from his mentor, though Harry had always been wary of placing any trust in his being able to keep any confidence from Barclay.
“We were returning to the ship, sir, and were set upon by footpads,” Barclay added. “They was in the opium quarter, sir. Full of Chinamen there, sir. Not a good place to flash a full purse.” The Sergeant was obviously not impressed by his brief acquaintance. He saluted. “If I kin go now, sir, I’d not wish to be leavin’ my lads there too long, sir.”
Of the twelve who had started out on this voyage, there remained now eight: one had fallen from the rigging and died presumably of drowning in the Great Southern Ocean. Then had come the loss of Joshua Pelham to the snake in Botany Bay and Richard Trehearne to the heat stroke in Port Jackson. Harry wondered who would be next. He was distracted by Dick Peterson, who folded slowly into a faint at the feet of the Lieutenants. He realised suddenly that Mister Bell was speaking to him. Embarrassed at his inattention, Harry said quickly, “Sir, I beg pardon, I was not attending you.”
“So I noted,” the First said drily. “I want you and Mister Tanner to accompany Mister Barclay and Mister Peterson to the ship. Get them to the Surgeon. Mister Beasley and I will await Mister Rogers’s return. Inform the Captain of what has happened, if you please, and tell him I will make a report as soon as I am aboard.”
THE CAPTAIN WAS ANNOYED WHEN HARRY REPORTED the matter to him. Having first seen Barclay and Peterson below and roused out the surgeon from his game of whist in the wardroom, he found Captain Blackwood reading his despatches.
“So Mister Peterson has a stab wound and Mister Barclay was beaten with a cudgel or some other instrument. Where were they when this happened, in some drinking den?”
“I do not know precisely, sir. Mister Bell will no doubt have the details on his return. I heard only that it was in a quarter of the city where there are opium houses and many Chinese.”
“Very well. Tell the surgeon I wish to see him as soon as he is free, and send Mister Rae to me now.” The Captain’s frown promised stormy weather for someone in the near future.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Harry touched his forehead in salute and retired. The Captain was clearly angered by this turn of events. Harry was glad that he could hand the matter on to the second Lieutenant who would no doubt bear the brunt of the Captain’s displeasure until Mister Bell returned. He did not have to look far to find the Lieutenant. He had been one of the whist players and was now taking the air on deck.
“Mister Heron.” The Lieutenant called to him as he emerged from behind the great double wheel. “Over here, sir.”
“Captain’s compliments, sir. Would you attend him?”
“Aha, so it isn’t just a case of brawling.” The Lieutenant straightened. “Very well, better tell me quickly what you know.”
Harry gave a quick summary of the little he knew and finished by adding, “The First and the others will be coming off soon, I expect, with Mister Ware’s corpse, sir. Mister Rogers went with the soldiers to retrieve him, and the First and Mister Beasley await his return.”
“Very well.” The Lieutenant frowned and said softly, “What the devil was Barclay doing taking any of you to that area? Never mind, I expect—no, I know it will soon be known. Off you go, Harry; tell the surgeon to come to the Captain as soon as he can.”
IT WAS STIFLING BELOW DECKS, AND THE GUNROOM WAS especially warm, being below the waterline and having no direct ventilation. So, having delivered his message to the surgeon and seen for himself the smouldering anger of Eamon Barclay and the wounds inflicted on Dick Peterson, Harry went back on deck and climbed to his favourite perch in the foretop when the boat returned late in the first watch. The blaze of stars across the sky seemed to add poignancy to the rather sombre party who clambered aboard without the body. He made his way to the deck and stood next to the . “Did they not bring off Mister Ware’s body, Smales?”
“No, sir,” said the big . “There’s talk o’ holding an inquest. ’Sides, sir, no point really; we’d on’y ’ave to take ’im ashore ag’in to bury ’im.”
“Of course, I had not thought of that,” Harry acknowledged. The fo’c’s’le belfry rang out the eight bells for the start of the middle watch, and several seamen began to move into position, some going below, others to their stations. He stepped away and said, “I’d best get some sleep. I have the morning watch. Carry on, Smales.”
It transpired that Harry and Kit had been fortunate in their rickshaw man Guptah. Barclay and his party had selected badly. Then they had argued over the price, and several of the officers in question evidently refused to pay at their destination. Tempers flared, and that led to the party trying to make their own way back to the harbour. They had got lost and stumbled into a thoroughly disreputable part of the town at an unfortunate hour.
SEBASTIAN WARE’S MORTAL REMAINS WERE BURIED in the churchyard of the newly constructed church and the matter closed with a severe warning to Barclay and his companion. Harry and the other midshipmen received an equally severe caution from the first Lieutenant who made it plain that any future visits ashore would be very strictly monitored and subject to restriction. In fact, the ship did not long remain in Colombo after this. New orders saw her sailing for the west coast of the continent and the city of Bombay two days after the funeral. A sombre mood descended on the gunroom, and even Eamon Barclay seemed withdrawn and subdued.
SEATED IN HIS FAVOURITE PERCH DURING THE FIRST WATCH as the ship ploughed steadily up the west coast of the sub-continent with the last of the monsoon, Harry reflected on the different experiences between the members of the gunroom. Some of them had a very pleasant time ashore while others had found nothing but trouble. He lay back and stared at the stars wheeling above him. How bright they seemed and how near, yet so cold and distant.
He glanced across to where Ferghal, who had recently taken to joining him here, sat on the leeward side of the top, peering toward the invisible coast. “So what think you of the Eas
t, my friend?” he asked.
A chuckle accompanied the reply. “Hot, fly blown, filled with heathen gods and poor, such as I had not thought could exist, and as full of rogues as anywhere at home.” There was a pause before Ferghal added, “Mind, not all of us had the chance to see it as you did, Master Harry.”
Harry smiled warmly. “True, my friend, I forget sometimes that you do not have the opportunity that I have. I wish it were otherwise.” He hesitated. “If chance serves, I will see if I can arrange for you to accompany me ashore in Bombay. After the unfortunate business with Mister Ware, the Captain means to keep us under tight rein I’m thinking. We may have little chance to go ashore at all.”
Chapter 32
New Orders
“Schooner’s signalling our number, sir,” Tom Bowles called. “She signals they have despatches and orders for us.”
“Very good,” the third Lieutenant replied. “Hands to braces. Prepare to heave to! Mister Tanner, my compliments to the Captain, we are heaving to for despatches and orders.”
The schooner’s mailbags were soon on board and the little messenger wasted no time in resuming her voyage. The orders she carried brought news of developments in Europe and warned of the possibility that the Peace of Amiens, scarcely two years old, was about to be broken.
“It seems we are to delay our arrival in Bombay, Thomas. I have orders here to find and escort a company brig carrying one of their agents.”
“No small task in these waters, surely.”
“Not really. Her track is well known; a regular passage I expect.”
“Anything else, sir? There must be a reason for such a request.”
“There is, Thomas,” said Captain Blackwood, laying aside the despatch he had been reading. “It seems the French are once more stirring. The Fleet is being prepared at home for a resumption of hostilities. Locally there seems to be a threat to the company communications. It seems the ruler of the Arabian coast—a Sultan he styles himself—has a number of large armed dhows at his disposal. These are being used to raid some of the company’s smaller trading craft. Their cargoes are looted and the crews are sold into slavery there. We are to make a show of strength against them if we can.” He grimaced at the prospect of such unpleasant business. “At the very least I would hope to smoke out their nest and persuade them of the error of their ways in these waters.”
“Shall I see if Mister Wentworth has any sailing directions for that coast, sir?”
“If you please, Thomas,” the Captain added. “Our orders are to avoid a direct conflict. Damned politicians. They demand you do a task then try to dictate how it shall be done without any understanding of the exigencies we may encounter.”
The master had some charts of the general area of the Gulf of Oman. He spread them across the Captain’s table so that all the officers gathered ’round could have a look. “I was fortunate to be able to acquire these charts of an uncle now retired from the company’s service,” he explained. “He was Master of the Indiaman Earl of Sarum until shortly before our departure on this commission, sir.” This was directed to the Captain, who was perusing the charts with his usual sharp-eyed scrutiny. After a moment, the master added, “I took the opportunity to obtain some further charts of the trade routes and ports on that shore while we were in Colombo. Among them is a detailed chart for the harbour of Muscat.”
“Well done, Joshua,” said Captain Blackwood, the approval resonant in his voice. “That is worth more than all the rest.” He studied one of the charts. “The approach looks tricky, confined and from the north directly into the wind. And here is a battery, I see, placed to sweep the entrance.”
“Indeed, sir, though it is rarely manned, or at least so I am told, and seldom are the guns exercised.”
“It would not require any great effort to man them quickly though,” the third Lieutenant commented. “Even a blind man should be able to hit any ship attempting to force the entrance.”
“Then we shall have to exercise great care in our approach, gentlemen.” The Captain looked thoughtful. “Our first task is to meet the brig and then to accompany her to this Muscat.”
The discussion swiftly turned to how this might be achieved, and a number of suggestions were examined and discarded before the First suggested that a reconnaissance by boat might provide useful information. “It will give the opportunity to spy out the lie of the land and gain knowledge of the trade on this coast, sir,” he said.
“The winds do not generally favour a ship such as ours except at certain times of the year, sir,” the master told them. “This is the beginning of the monsoon season; traffic is presently from east to west at this time. In another month or so, it will reverse, and then the trade will be east bound. If we enter the bay of Muscat, the harbour lies north to south, and the wind will be difficult for us in either state unless we make use of the land breezes at nightfall.”
“Then we must pray that it favours us when we enter and depart,” the Captain concluded.
FATE IN THE FORM OF A SHARP-EARED LOOKOUT intervened near the entrance to the gulf just at sunset.
“Gunfire to Larboard,” the hail floated down from the main topmast crosstrees. “Four sail—look like Arabies!”
“Alter course toward them,” the Lieutenant ordered. “Hands to braces there,” he added as the alteration made necessary the adjustment of the sails. As the Captain emerged from beneath the poop, the Lieutenant turned and saluted. “Lookout reports an engagement between several ships, sir.”
“Very good, Mister Rogers.” Captain Blackwood glanced around the quarterdeck and spotted Kit Tanner. “Get aloft, Mister Tanner. Take a glass and see what you can spy out.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Kit hurried toward the gangway and the main shrouds, the big telescope slung on his back.
A few minutes later the flat rumble of a ragged broadside reached them, the sound interspersed with sharper bangs of smaller guns. The question on all the officers’ minds was whose ships and who was under attack. Kit Tanner’s voice reached them from aloft.
“Company brig, sir. She is being harried by three big dhows.”
“One of John Company’s, eh,” the Captain murmured. “Is she the one we seek to support?” Looking upward to Kit, the Captain called, “Very good, Mister Tanner, remain where you are and keep them under your eye.” To the first Lieutenant he said, “Clear for action, Mister Bell. We may yet deal these fellows a crippling blow if we are fortunate. With luck they may not have seen our approach.” As he spoke, rain began to fall heavily over them, and he added, “Providence seems to have decided to play our part as well. This rain will mask our approach even better than the gathering dusk.”
WITH SPARTAN HIDDEN BY THE ENCROACHING DARKNESS and the heavy cloud overhead, she escaped notice by the protagonists as she approached. The rattle of the drums sent men racing to their tasks. Tables were stripped and stowed, the galley fire tipped overside from its metal grate, bulkheads were taken down and struck below or simply folded to the deckhead. The gunroom was stripped, and the midshipmen’s chests gathered into a central position to become an operating table for the surgeon. Powder monkeys raced along the decks with buckets of sand, which they spread around the guns to ensure the gun crews had an adequate grip on the planks as they served their charges. Then the boys ran to fetch their cartridges as the apparent chaos descended into order and the Lieutenants reported their guns ready.
At his station near the mainmast and in charge of the guns of the midship division of the lower gun deck, Harry waited in the semi-darkness for further instructions. He had already checked that his gun Captains were ready, their flints checked and their guns primed and ready to fire, the big thirty-two pounders as yet hidden behind their closed ports. On the deck above he could imagine the twenty-four pounders arrayed and ready, and the quarterdeck carronades, the dreaded smashers, would be ready to deal out their death and destruction once they closed the range sufficiently. For now, it was a waiting
game. Idly he watched the young powder monkey serving the gun to which Ferghal was assigned, and he recognised him as Danny Gunn, the urchin they had taken aboard in Portsmouth all those many months ago.
Shouts from above snapped Harry back into readiness. The rain seemed to be easing away, though the curtain of water still partially concealed the dhows farthest from the Spartan.
“Prepare to run out,” the fourth Lieutenant called as he hurried along the line of guns. “One of the devils is making a run for it, but the other two are still engaged. Mark your target well.”
“Aye, aye, sir, “Harry responded, then moved to speak to his gun Captains directly. Having made sure they understood him, he resumed his position behind the number twelve gun. From here, he could see all his gun Captains and be seen by them. More importantly, he could be heard by them. The nearest, Bates, grinned and adjusted his neckerchief tied about his head and over his ears.
“You’m need ter stick summat in yer ears, sir,” he said. “Yer’ll be deaf else.”
Harry mentally kicked himself and said, “Thank you for the reminder, Bates, pass me some spare wadding.” He had barely finished filling his ears with the cotton wads torn from a spare gun wad when the order arrived.
“Open ports and run out!”
The squeal of the gun trucks and the growled orders to the men handling the guns lasted only a few seconds before silence descended again.
“Fire as you bear!”
Harry ducked and peered along the gun. At first, nothing showed, then the ship lifted slightly and he saw the low hull, with its high stern and the pair of raked masts, the great lateen sails even now being sheeted home by her frenzied crew. The range was a little extreme he felt, with the target still several cables distant, so he gave orders for the guns to be individually pointed. Satisfied he stepped back and ordered, “On the up roll—fire!”
Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey Page 30
