Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey

by Patrick G Cox

  “Stay close,” Midshipman Barclay growled. “I don’t want to have to send the bullocks ashore to look for any of you. And don’t trust these damned rogues; they’ll have a knife into all of us in a trice if they think there’s a profit in it.”

  “Know who I’d stick it ter,” growled one of the seamen soto voce. “Anyone lands us in trouble, it’d be ’im.”

  “What are you muttering about, Kemble?” demanded the midshipman. “Any cheek from you and I’ll see your back!”

  “Nuffink, sor,” Kemble said. “Jus’ sayin’ it’s ’ot, sir.”

  Whatever Barclay had intended to say next was cut short by the purser. “I think we are followed,” he said quietly and distinctly. “What is more, I think we are being deliberately steered in this direction. Let us attempt to reverse our direction please, Mister Barclay.” He indicated the empty shops and the absence of stalls in this part of the market. “We are well clear of the merchants whose goods we seek.”

  “What? But we haven’t got half the provisions yet,” protested Barclay. “If we go back now we are running from shadows.”

  The interpreter, who had been looking about him anxiously, added his voice to the purser’s, saying suddenly, “This is not a good place. This is not where we should be, but the roads for our path have been cut off for us. We must go back quickly.”

  The night in the boats had not improved Eamon Barclay’s temper. Grudgingly he acceded to the purser’s insistence, grumbling, “Oh, very well. Turn about, you fellows, and let’s get back the way we came.”

  There was only one problem: the way back was barred, the narrow alleys were blocked by piled goods and the thoroughfare itself was blocked. Several carts had “accidentally” been positioned where they obstructed passage, and the party was forced to make a detour. A second blockage forced another detour, and now they were heading away from the sea again and into a part of the city the interpreter seemed very reluctant to go to.

  Crossing a square that was mysteriously devoid of any other users, the party came suddenly face to face with a body of armed men who blocked their path. It was obvious that more men stood ready in the other exits, and when they turned, it was to find that their retreat was also cut off. Calling the party to a halt, Barclay said to the interpreter, “Speak to them! Tell them we wish to pass through and back to the ship.”

  The interpreter did as he was bid, and a debate followed between the leader of the men and the company’s man that went on for some time. Barclay, unable to follow any of it, became increasingly impatient, and the sun and the heat in the square combined to worsen his temper.

  “Damn these fellows to hell,” he snapped. “The way to the ship is through there. Follow me!” He led the party forward in a determined manner toward the eastern exit. The men blocking it immediately became alert, and when Barclay reached their ranks, he snapped, “Stand aside, you oafs. I am a British officer. Let me pass or it will be the worse for you.” He made to push his way through and stumbled back quickly, tripping and half falling as he bumped into Kemble behind him, a long and lethal looking scimitar blade at his face.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he blustered. “I demand you let us pass.”

  “No, infidel,” growled the leader of the men. “You are our prisoners; you have no business in our city or in our land. We know of you British—you come bearing gifts and you say you wish to trade, but then you send armies and ships like yours.”

  The party was now surrounded, and Ferghal found himself confronted by a swarthy man armed with pistols and a fine sword who seemed intent on marking him out as a piece of property. Memory of the fight with the Corsairs off the Moroccan coast came swarming back. This fellow had the same look, a predator regarding his prey with the intent not to do any damage but to take it intact. The athletically built man said something to his companions in Arabic, and the interpreter next to Ferghal drew a sharp breath.

  “What does he say?” demanded Ferghal.

  “He says you will make a fine replacement for the slaves the sultan has forced them to surrender.”

  “Be damned to that,” said Ferghal, getting ready to go down fighting.

  A shouted order from behind their attackers froze the tableaux.

  “Marines, ready!”

  Around them the Arabs seemed to melt away, the numbers thinning swiftly until only the Spartan crewmembers stood huddled about the small cart they had with them. Away to their left in the direction of the interior came the sounds of a swift scuffle and several shots. Captain Kriesler of the Spartan’s Marines stepped forward. “Mister Barclay, Purser. I rather fancy that lot will give us no further trouble.” Over his shoulder he called, “Sergeant, form up and let us get back to the ship. His Majesty will expect us to be presentable when he pays us a visit later.”

  “We have not completed the purchases of our stores, sir,” Midshipman Barclay protested as they marched away between the two lines of red coats.

  “No, I should be surprised if you had.” The Captain was as irritatingly laconic as always. “However, our agent has obtained the supplies the ship required, and the sultan has sent gifts to both the wardroom and the gunroom, which will more than make up for any shortfall, I do assure you.”

  “How did you know where we were?” Barclay couldn’t resist voicing the question all of the party were thinking. “Are we not forbidden to land in force like this in a sovereign state?”

  “As you say,” the Captain said in an off-handed tone. “We are indeed forbidden to do so unless invited by the ruler, of course. The sultan invited our Captain to send us ashore to assist him in a delicate matter. He had intelligence that an attempt was being planned to cause an incident. His spies have had you in their eyes since you set out. They sent word, and the commander of the sultan’s guard led us straight to you while his men blocked the other fellows’ escape route.” He eyed Midshipman Barclay casually and said, “You were, it seems, intended to be a fuse in a diplomatic powder keg our French friends have set up here. The sultan was not keen to have it blown by anyone but himself.”

  A very thoughtful party returned to the Spartan in silence. The waterfront was now open before them, and the group marched smartly down to the waiting boats. The Marines boarded in their usual impeccable order while the seamen loaded the stores they had obtained and then themselves.

  The sultan timed his visit to the ship impeccably, arriving in some state with his entourage aboard an ornately decorated dhow. In the usual courtesies, a gun salute was fired as he ducked through the entry port, and the Royal Marine detachment stamped to the present arms in a cloud of pipe clay and accompanied by the twittering of the side party’s pipes. Then, with a great crashing of drums, the Marine band launched into their salute as the sultan’s personal flag broke at the forepeak. As the noise abated again, Captain Blackwood stepped forward and welcomed the royal visitor.

  “Your Majesty, welcome aboard His Most Britannic Majesty’s Ship Spartan. May I present to you my officers?”

  Passing along the line of Lieutenants, the sultan acknowledged each in turn and then moved on to the midshipmen. He paused when he reached Harry. “I thought you should see my clasp in its proper setting.” He indicated the exquisite silver brooch in his turban. “I think you see now why it is regarded as so precious to the sultanate.”

  Harry bowed, blushing at being singled out and conscious of the glowers of Barclay and his friends. “I do, Your Majesty. It is singularly beautiful in its workmanship and in its intended purpose.” Already in his sketchpad there was a rough sketch of the sultan’s face and his robes with annotations describing colours and textures. Harry could barely wait to add a sketch of the magnificent turban and its clasp.

  The sultan moved on, and the Captain led the way up onto the poop, sensibly having decided that this offered the best place for the style of dinner that would best suit their guests. Overhead an awning shielded them from the dew, and the addition of screens along the ship�
�s sides left the tent airy and pleasant, far more pleasant than the fetid heat trapped below decks even with all the ports raised and wind scoops set.

  Thanks to the efforts of Mister Tanha and his staff, the repast was bountiful. A variety of delicacies adorned the trestles erected by the carpenter and his mates, with fresh tea, coffee and to the midshipmen’s delight cocoa. Dishes of fish, sliced venison, peacock and other birds were presented to their ravenous gaze and made all the more desirable by the stricture that their guests must have first choice of everything, and the midshipmen must stand back until all the visitors and the more senior officers and guests had eaten their fill.

  “Just our luck,” grumbled Kit Tanner. “The feast to end all feasts, and we’re allowed only the crumbs from the tables.”

  “Cheer up,” said Harry. “At least the crumbs are like to be worth waiting for.”

  “True,” said Kit, “but my stomach wants to sample it now!”

  “Well, we should get there before Barclay at any rate,” Harry replied. “I gather the expedition to the souq was hardly a success.”

  “Hello,” said Kit. “Look out; one of the sultan’s people is heading for us.”

  “He is bringing food,” said Harry. “I think we have been singled out for some compliment. Mister Tanha was explaining the matter of dining to me—you select and send choice dishes to someone you wish to honour.”

  “Well, you seem to have a friend in high places then, for I think this platter is for you,” Kit said enviously. “Eamon is looking murderous. You’d best watch your step for the next few days.”

  The man stopped in front of Harry and presented the platter. Mohammad Tanha appeared as if by magic at Harry’s elbow. “The sultan has personally sent this platter. You need to accept it and return the compliment.”

  Harry accepted the plate and said, “Thank you, please convey my thanks to his majesty with….” He looked about desperately at the nearest trestle. “What do I do—choose something to return?”

  “Not immediately,” the agent said. “First eat the food he has sent, then make a selection yourself and respond.” As Harry sampled the delicacies, Mister Tanha said quietly, “His Majesty was most impressed by your loyalty to your Captain. He admires loyalty in those he meets, and pays you a high compliment.”

  “I’m deeply honoured I am sure.” Harry tried to think how he had shown loyalty that the Sultan might consider commendable. He spotted Ferghal standing ready to serve the guests and the hosting officers, looking sharply turned out in striped shirt and clean duck trousers with shoes on his feet and a black neckerchief tied at his throat. Harry signalled him to come over. The platter was by now, almost magically, empty. Such was his hunger he had swallowed most of it almost without tasting. “Ferghal, I need to choose the choicest things here for the sultan; what is on offer?”

  Ferghal chuckled. “Better fare than any we have ever seen, Master Harry, but I suggest the goose breast yonder, perhaps with some of this.” He indicated a platter of small fishes dressed with fragrant herbs and slices of lime. “These quail eggs may find favour as well.”

  Harry quickly selected several items and presented this to the waiting attendant. With a small bow he added, “My thanks to His Majesty, and I hope he will find these dishes to his taste.”

  This was quickly translated, and the servant made his way to where the sultan sat with the Captain and the company’s diplomat.

  Mister Bell joined the two midshipmen as the sultan accepted the platter and acknowledged Harry. “Well, well, Mister Heron, quite the diplomat, I see.” He smiled. “Gentlemen, it is now open season on the dinner. I see you are quite starving, Mister Tanner, best eat before you waste away entirely.” He moved on to speak to several important looking Omanis who had come with the sultan, the local agent accompanying him and translating on his behalf.

  “Phew,” breathed Harry. “I did not expect that. Here, what happened ashore while I was running errands to the palace?”

  “I don’t have the full story,” Kit answered, checking that Midshipman Barclay was elsewhere. “But it seems they were more or less pushed away from the market they were supposed to be in and set up for capture, though whether as hostages or something else, no one seems to know. The sultan’s spies got wind of it or expected it, and sent to the ship inviting the Captain to send the bullocks to fetch them home. He sent some of his own soldiers with them, but the word is that he used it as a diversion while he dealt with other matters within his own court. You may notice that the battery on Al Minari has been moved.”

  “I hadn’t,” Harry said. “But I am not surprised. I am willing to wager that it was the sultan’s uncle, who does not appear to be present, and his French friends who were behind that plot.”

  Ferghal approached as they talked, and Harry asked, “What passed in the souq? Where were you when the bullocks found you?”

  “I think they intended to take at least some of us as slaves, Master Harry,” Ferghal replied. “One at least had his eye on me in the manner of the slavers we fought on the voyage from Gibraltar, and I could near enough feel the slave irons on me. I heard Mister Tanha tell the fourth Lieutenant that we were next to the slave market and the dungeons they hold them in before selling them.”

  “A good place to hide those you have seized,” said Kit. He spied Midshipman Barclay making his way toward them. “Batten down, Harry. Here comes our senior, spoiling for a fight if I read his expression right.”

  Eamon Barclay was indeed spoiling for an argument. But Harry refused to give him that satisfaction and ignored his barbed comments and thinly veiled insults, steadfastly refusing to allow himself to be baited. It took all Harry’s willpower not to punch his antagonist or to lose his temper. However, in the effort this cost him, he did inadvertently crush a rather fine pewter tankard he had been holding.

  Seeing this and reading the murder lurking in Harry’s eyes, Eamon sensibly, for once, left him to join his crony Midshipman Peterson further along the table.

  “Phew,” breathed Kit as he joined Harry. “I thought I’d see you call him out or drive your dirk though him—well done on holding yourself in check. He’s insufferable!”

  He would have said more, but at that moment, the sultan indicated his desire to depart. The officers and warrant officers hurried to their posts to see due honours performed as their royal guest departed.

  As the barge pulled away from the ship, Captain Blackwood turned to the Lieutenants and said, “Thank you, gentlemen. This visit has been a great success thanks to the efforts of everyone aboard. We shall have a stand easy tomorrow in the afternoon watch and, Mister Bell, you may splice the main brace.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, THE SPARTAN SET SAIL AND WORKED HER WAY out of the bay, the smoke from her gun salute drifting astern in the gentle breeze as she left the anchorage with the thunder of the reply from the battery on Al Minari sending the sea birds scattering.

  “A great success, Captain,” Mister Stewart said as they went below. “The sultan is a hugely important ally in these parts, and your ship and your men have left him with a good impression. Our French friends have been sent packing with their tails between their legs, and their ally is banished from the court.”

  “Ah, I had wondered what became of him.” Captain Blackwood shed his heavy coat and eased into his chair at his desk. “Did his banishment perchance happen to coincide with a certain entertainment aboard this ship?”

  “It did,” Mister Stewart said. “The sultan accepted the invitation because he did not wish to be available for an appeal.” He smiled. “Their ways may not be ours, but they are effective. Mister Al Qatari will not, I think, be able to assist his French allies for some time.”

  “We have recovered the Lascari crew and the master of the Mowghli. I trust that Mister Downing has suffered no ill effects either. It was generous of the sultan to offer compensation for his injured prestige.” Captain Blackwood allowed himself a smile. “Though I have no doubt t
he French will find themselves paying it.”

  Chapter 36

  Excursion to the Hill Country

  Bombay, now that the monsoon season was in its full throes, was wet and steaming. From their anchorage just below the Fort on Cross Island, they had a good view into the city and its ever changing and colourfully dressed population. To seaward lay the Middle Ground battery, the first line of defence of the anchorage, and to the east, the low-lying Jawahar Dweep to the English Butcher Island and the larger, and more hilly, Elephant Island that almost vanished into the background of the hills beyond.

  Within days of their arrival, despatches and orders had arrived for Spartan, the frigate Rajasthan and the sloop Swallow, both currently at sea, to return to Portsmouth. The opportunity was being taken, while they waited for their consorts, to complete the ships’ repairs and stores for the long voyage home.

  “At least,” said Third Lieutenant David Rogers to the master, “the monsoon brings cooler temperatures to this place.”

  “Aye, Mister Rogers, that it does,” agreed Mister Wentworth. “Though it also prevents our sailing; we’ve another month at least before the wind changes direction and blows favourably for us.”

  “Our parson has requested the Captain’s permission to lead an expedition of the midshipmen to some caves he has heard of to the north; Kanheri, he calls them.” He paused to watch the stowing of the halyards for the main course. “Manmade, I believe he said, and filled with idols and fabulous carvings.”

  “I’d not object to seeing them myself,” the master replied. “I have heard tell that they are a wonder indeed, though I think I’ll leave the journeying in this weather to younger heads.”

  The third Lieutenant laughed. “Do the attractions of this city not appeal then?”

  “Aye, they do, but only those closer to hand. I’ve a fancy to visit the cloth makers here; their wares are finer than our own and more to my pocket.” He tapped the side of his nose. “And can bring a nice profit for a small investment on our return to England.” Several of the officers and senior warrant officers were also thinking this. The more astute members of the gunroom, the wardroom and the warrant officers’ messes were always looking for items they could purchase at a bargain and sell at home for a profit. Some had already managed to obtain small stocks of exotic carvings, cloth and pieces of ivory which were carefully stowed under the purser’s or the boatswain’s control against the day of their return. A number of the midshipmen, Harry included, wished, in addition, to find new uniforms and other items to replace garments many of them were growing out of or had simply worn to an end.