Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey

by Patrick G Cox

  The barrage had some effect, since the great triangular sails now had several holes in them, and one of the great lateen yards was sagging badly, evidently held together only by its rigging. The guns were again being run up to fire, and Harry bawled to his gun Captains, “Point your guns. Don’t let him recover.” The guns began to bellow their anger in rapid succession, and cheers from the upper deck suggested that some of the shot at least might have gone home. Eager though he was to see what was happening, Harry had his hands full ensuring his guns were properly loaded and run up to send another series of the big thirty-two pound balls hurtling across the diminishing gap.

  Just as suddenly as it had started, it was ended. Whistles blew on deck and the cry carried down to them. “Cease firing!”

  The fourth Lieutenant repeated the order, his voice cut off by four ragged bangs as the last four guns fired in succession. “Damnation, Mister Barclay! I said cease firing, sir!”

  Harry didn’t hear the response, nor did he want to. His own guns had done well, and his men had obeyed every instruction exactly. He walked along the gun Captains’ stations and said, “Well done, I think we may have winged him.”

  “True, sor,” grinned one of the older hands. “But I reckons ’is mates ’ave gotten clean away.”

  “Maybe,” Harry replied, “but they’ll be a bit more cautious now.”

  There was a heavy thud as two hulls came together and then a burst of musket fire followed by the bang of some heavier swivels. Screams and shouts mingled as the hulls ground together, the dhow now obscuring the forward gun ports and some of Harry’s division as well. A heavier bang told of the carronade on the fo’c’s’le firing, and one of the gunners said, “They’m finding out what the smashers can do then.”

  Evidently this was sufficient, as the noise of fighting died swiftly to be replaced by the moans of the wounded and an unearthly wailing. At first, Harry thought an animal had been injured. Then he recognised it as something akin to the cry he had heard in Colombo from the minarets.

  “Secure the guns.” The order was repeated from deck to deck and supported by the boatswain’s trilling pipes.

  Harry checked to ensure that all the guns in his division were once more loaded and the locks secured beneath their lead shrouds. Then, having checked all the lashings that secured the guns and rendered them immobile while not in use, he reported to Mister Rogers. “All secure, sir. Have we taken a prize, sir?”

  “So it seems, Harry, so it seems. Though Lord knows who will buy her into service from us.” Mister Rogers dodged a party carrying several partitions and said, “Damned handy things these ships on a reach, and weatherly, too, but awkward to tack.”

  “MISTER ROGERS, SIR….” THE MESSENGER WAS OUT OF BREATH. “Mister Bell’s compliments, but you are to take a boarding party and take possession of the brig, sir.”

  “Very well.” The Lieutenant looked about him. “Mister Barclay, Mister Peterson, with me. Mister Heron, Mister Tanner, see to things here.” He led the two midshipmen up the companionway, leaving Harry and Kit alone amidst the busy gun crews as they secured their charges.

  “Well,” said Harry, “I wish he’d picked us. I wonder what the brig has suffered or the dhow for that matter?”

  “Why don’t we try for a look.” Kit grinned. “I doubt there will be any harm in us opening the port for number one.”

  “Good idea,” replied Harry. “It might help clear some of this fog as well, and a little clean cool air will be welcome too.”

  Kit led the way and hauled the lanyard that swung the heavy cover upward so that they could peer out of the opening and see the other ships. The dhow lay close alongside, both her masts fallen, and evidently many of her people were injured, for the Spartan’s men seemed to be almost alone in working to clear the wreckage of the fallen spars. Aft, a group of Marines stood guard over a huddle of the few visible survivors of the crew. Beyond the dhow, the brig was just visible in the fading light. She idled, her sails in disarray and the ship evidently not under any sort of control.

  As they watched, the launch pulled into view and made for the Spartan. “What a shambles,” Harry commented. “No doubt we will know soon enough what has happened aboard both. Come, we had better attend our duty again; our curiosity will see us in trouble else.”

  The word reached them soon enough as they supervised the restoration of the last screens and furnishings on the gun deck.

  “The brig’s crew ’ave been carried off by the pirates,” a told them. “This bugger we ’ave under our lee would have made a clean pair of eels of it too ’ad we not shot away ’is masts.”

  “What could they have been after?” Harry mused. “Surely pirates would have taken the ship and her cargo.”

  “Perhaps they abandoned her when they thought there was a chance we would overhaul them,” said Kit.

  “Perhaps,” said Harry. “No doubt we shall soon hear more. Come, the work is done here. Have you checked the lashings on the guns? Good, then we can report all secured to Mister Bell and perhaps hear what is afoot.”

  “A DEAD FRENCH OFFICER ON THE DHOW, YOU SAY?” Captain Blackwood frowned. “Now what mischief are they planning here?”

  “He was not alone, or so I am told, sir,” Mister Beasley added. “It is my understanding that they were aboard these dhows to intercept the brig. The dhow’s Captain speaks French and admits that they were under orders to prevent her reaching their intended destination, but whose orders he cannot say or will not.”

  “What did they take from the brig then?”

  “The master’s orders, the crew and the agent, together with the diplomatic pouch, sir.” The Lieutenant frowned. “I think the intention was to sink or burn the ship once they had what they came for. We seem to have spoiled the plan by appearing unexpectedly.”

  “So it appears,” Captain Blackwood replied frowning. “The rain squall which masked us did its work well; we were upon them before they knew, and the dusk was in our favour. So now we have the brig recovered and a capture to our credit, but we have lost the agent and the documents he carried. Can the dhow’s masts be set up to sail her, do you think?”

  “Unlikely, sir. Her fore went just above the deck and the main not much higher. Both her lateen yards have broken in more than one place, and the carpenter says they cannot be adequately fished to carry sail even if we could set up the masts. A tow is the best option, sir.”

  “Then let us see to it. We will return to Bombay since our orders were to find and protect the brig and her passenger. Once in Bombay we will be better able to discover what is afoot here.”

  Chapter 33

  Mission to Muscat

  The Spartan and her charges eased into the great natural harbour of Bombay on the first of the monsoon. Overhead great columns of cloud threatened lightning and rain. The wind was so gentle that the ships were barely making headway. The recovered company brig led the way with the Spartan towing the captured dhow. The ships edged deeper into the crowded bay, a guard boat dancing ahead as they neared the city and sought the anchorage assigned them. It had been a short and challenging voyage, and even now the dhow’s original crew were confined below decks. Their strange prayer habits, refusal to eat almost all the meat put before them and loose cotton clothes, so alien to Harry and his companions, instantly set them apart from their surroundings.

  The guard boat signalled and Spartan heeled into a turn even as her sails vanished under the hands of the topmen.

  Mister Beasley called, “On station. Let go.” The anchor plunged into the murky water as the ship completed her turn into the wind. The cable was only just belayed when there was a great flash of lightning from the piled clouds overhead followed by a tremendous clap of thunder, seemingly shaking the ship itself. Then the heavens opened in a downpour that soaked everyone on deck to the skin in seconds.

  “Welcome to the East, Mister Bell,” remarked the Captain, taking shelter beneath the break of the poop. “I a
m told these deluges seldom last, but I think it would be wise to ship our awnings while we are here.”

  As he spoke, the rain began to ease and the sun once more broke through to raise steam from the rain-slicked decks. Mister Bell gave orders for the awnings to Lieutenant Beasley, then he turned to the Captain and asked, “What of the prisoners, sir? Shall I arrange to have them sent ashore?”

  “Perhaps the best option.” The Captain considered a moment. “But hold off the transfer until I have seen the governor and the company agent. The company will no doubt wish to discover the reason their diplomatic agent and the crew of the brig were seized.”

  “THAT IS EASILY ANSWERED, CAPTAIN BLACKWOOD,” said Governor Duncan, welcoming the Captain to the well-appointed and airy office. “Our agent was en route to the Sultan of Oman. It seems our agreement with His Majesty is now to be subjected to an attempt to frustrate it by the French. I have had word today that Bonaparte has broken the terms of the Peace and is amassing the Grande Armee on the channel coast. No doubt the King and Parliament will be even now re-arming the ships laid up in Portsmouth, Chatham and elsewhere.” He frowned. “It is, of course, possible that they hope to form an alliance and revive the late war in Mysore, though with Tipu Sultan dead and his henchmen scattered and hunted, I doubt they can hope to achieve much.”

  “That is fortunate for our case. But why would they travel in these dhows? Unless it was to escape notice somewhere along this coast….” Captain Blackwood replied.

  “As you say, and perhaps that is the intent.” The governor was silent a moment then he said, “Captain, I must ask you to take a new agent to Muscat on my behalf. I had wished to send a more powerful ship in the first place, but none was available. Perhaps a show of strength will nip this in the bud and arrest the French efforts to stir the Arabian princes into joining their unholy alliance.”

  “As you wish, sir. My ship can be ready to depart within two days; we must obtain some replenishment of fresh supplies while we are able.”

  “Have your purser supply my clerk with the list of your requirements, and I will instruct our victuallers to supply these at company rates.”

  FOR HARRY, KIT AND THE OTHER MIDSHIPMEN, Bombay was a fascinating place, a thriving hub and a meeting place for several cultures. Brightly coloured saris rubbed shoulders with sombre robes on some of the men, whereas lower caste men and women wore less exotic garb and in some cases almost nothing at all. Here and there Muslim women went about their business in variations of the veil, burka or simply a headscarf covering their hair. Intricately decorated facades fronted the bay, one large building being identified by the First as a palace.

  “A maharajah, I think the owner is styled. A sort of prince under the former Moghul emperors,” he told the midshipmen as they stared in awe at the crowded quays and buildings along the frontage.

  As in Colombo, mosques rubbed shoulders with temples and even churches, though these were decorated in a manner Harry was sure old Mister Paisley, the minister in his home parish, would not have approved. Even the ship’s own parson, a man of liberal outlook on matters of faith for the most part, was shocked at the decoration of one church he visited.

  “I saw no difference between it and the heathen temples with their false gods and goddesses cavorting in every niche,” he exclaimed as he settled in the sternsheets of the launch to be rowed back to the ship. “I am not sure that they even understand the good book’s strictures against idolatry.”

  Harry, in charge of the boat, held his tongue and let Mister Bentley run on. Though soon the clergyman drifted away from his shock at a church filled with carved images all brightly decorated and painted, some even dressed with garlands of flowers, and launched into a discourse on the local flora and fauna. He had, it appeared, encountered a team of elephants engaged in dragging goods to a warehouse, and had taken the opportunity to examine one of the beasts at close quarters.

  “Remarkable animal,” he told Harry. “They respond only to their handler, though the beast purloined fruit and some specimens from my satchel with its trunk while I examined its hide.”

  Harry had to suppress his smile. Knowing the parson as he did, he could well imagine him becoming so engrossed that he would not notice the beast engaged in examining the contents of his bag. “A bold thief, sir,” he managed as they swung alongside the ship and he gave his attention once more to the task of managing the boat. “Toss your oars. Bowman, hook on.”

  THE APPROACH TO MUSCAT WAS A TORTUOUS one. The wind was favourable, though it required them to enter with every sail braced hard round so that the ship lay as close to the wind as possible. They slipped past the ancient battery guarding the entrance with the early light of a clear dawn and made their way up the harbour toward the fort occupying the crown of a rocky islet joined to the mainland by a low sandy isthmus.

  “A pity we could not use the southern entrance,” Mister Wentworth told the Captain. “But the channel there is too shallow for anything larger than a small dhow. I doubt that even a cutter could make the passage without striking ground there.”

  “Worth remembering,” replied the Captain, studying the shoreline. “These islands are deceptive; without them this harbour could not exist.” He swung the telescope again. “We will anchor where those dhows will be betwixt us and the battery at the fort. What is its designation?”

  “Fort Jallaly, sir,” responded the master. “The residence of the sultan lies between it and the Fort Al Minari atop that outcrop, or so I was informed.”

  “Very well, fire the usual salute to a sultan if you please, Mister Bell. Twenty-one guns I think should satisfy diplomacy. Once we are at anchor, have my gig hoisted out and I will take myself ashore to call on the sultan’s residence.” He turned as the company agent appointed in Bombay joined him. “We are about to anchor, Mister Stewart. I expect we will need to call immediately on the sultan; would you agree?”

  “Certainly, Captain.” The agent was self-assured and spoke with a drawl typical of a scion of a noble family. “We do have an agent here, a native, Mohammad Tanha is his name. I would expect him to come out to the ship and to accompany us to the palace. In these matters one has to oil the wheels a trifle, you understand, and we employ the agent to do that.”

  “I understand that an exchange of gifts is usual in these parts,” the Captain said.

  “That is so, with His Majesty at least. But smaller tokens for the intermediaries are necessary to reach the sultan.” The agent shrugged. “One purchases one’s position in the administration and then recoups one’s capital by means of these small fees charged for the performance of one’s duty. Not dissimilar to some matters in our own society.”

  The first of the saluting guns began to bang out as the ship rounded into the wind and the great anchor plunged beneath the surface; the reply from the fort was ragged by the standards of Spartan’s gunner. Mister Spink ferociously recited a rhyme, which ensured that each shot was exactly evenly spaced as his chosen crew worked frantically around him to reload the pair of bowchasers used for the salute.

  The last shot was still reverberating when the lookout aloft in the main crosstrees called, “Deck, there, boat putting off from the shore.”

  THE BOAT CARRIED THE COMPANY’S AGENT, Mohammad Tanha, a swarthy man with an open face and a polite manner. He was dressed in loose cotton robes and loose fitting trousers with a turban on his head and his feet clad in finely made shoes. He greeted Captain Blackwood with a slight bow and a hand placed over his heart. “Welcome, Captain, to Muscat. May peace attend your stay.”

  Robert Blackwood had already been primed for the greeting and acknowledged it by raising his hat and returning the bow saying, “May peace attend you. Welcome aboard my ship.”

  The visitor smiled and said, “I have already sent word to the sultan of your arrival and your desire to meet him. There is much business to discuss, yes?”

  “Indeed there is.” Mister Stewart stepped forward. “Peace be with
you, Mohammad. Do you have any news for us?” He glanced at the Captain and suggested, “Perhaps we could retire to your cabin to hear it, Captain.”

  “Certainly.” Captain Blackwood stepped forward and signalled his visitor to precede him, then followed the agents, now speaking Arabic, beneath the poop and into the great cabin. He signalled the servant and asked, “Some refreshment perhaps? I have tea recently acquired in Ceylon, or perhaps some wine; our water is almost undrinkable, Mister Tanha.”

  Mister Stewart took control and said, “Tea will be acceptable for us all I think. If we are to call upon the sultan, we should avoid wine. He is renowned for the strictness of his observance of the rules regarding wine in his faith, Captain.”

  “Tea, then.” Captain Blackwood nodded and the servant withdrew silently.

  “And now to business,” the Captain said briskly. “Mohammad informs me that the two surviving dhows that attacked the brig Mowghli are at anchor farther up the coast in Mutrah. The French have recently established a consulate there, and officers have begun arriving from Ile de France, taking great interest apparently in the trade that passes through these waters.”

  “It is fortunate that you arrive at this time, Captain,” Mohammad Tanha interjected. “They have the ear of the sultan’s uncle, a man the Sultan listens to in matters of trade.” He glanced at his fellow company agent. “It is he who owns the dhows involved in seizing the brig.”

  “I see,” said Captain Blackwood. “What word is there of the men who were also seized?”

  “The Lascari seamen are apparently held for sale as slaves,” Mister Stewart said. “Our agent is held in the uncle’s palace according to our information. It is certain his message or the treaty drafts have not reached the sultan.” He paused. “As I have no doubt you are aware, Captain, the Sultan of Oman rules much of the Arabian peninsula, as well as the eastern coast of Africa in the vicinity of Zanzibar from which they draw a great deal of wealth in the form of slaves and the spices cultivated there. He also rules parts of the Persian coast and is a powerful figure in the Makran coast of India. His good offices are a major concern to us. He is a most important trading partner for ourselves and the French.”