A New War

by John G. Cragg

  “Cox’un? I’ve heard the term, but what does it mean?” asked Daphne.

  “It’s short for coxswain, who is the petty officer in charge of a captain’s barge -- that is, his boat. But a good cox’un is much more, for he is often the informal channel between a good captain and his crew, so that the captain is aware of feelings on the lower deck which would not reach him through the usual chain of command. And he often goes with his captain rather than staying with the ship. Carstairs is one of the best.”

  “Where is Mr. Carstairs now?” Daphne asked.

  “He is waiting for us with the horses outside, I imagine,” said Giles.

  “Well that won’t do. The stable boys can deal with your horses, and Mr. Carstairs must come inside. See what Cook can provide him, Tisdale,” she instructed the butler.

  “Captain Giles, you really must do something about Mr. Twilgate,” announced Mr. Moorhouse, abruptly changing the topic.

  “Mr. Twilgate?” murmured Giles, looking puzzled.

  “Yes, yes. The rector from Upper Dipton. You heard him this morning and a greater load of twaddle I’ve never heard, except in other of his sermons. Why he can’t just use ones properly written, I don’t know. It is like that every Sunday. And anyway, the parish needs a proper clergyman.”

  “Ah,” said Giles, who, as was his usual custom, had let his mind wander the moment the preacher entered the pulpit and so had not noticed whether the sermon was good or bad, “ah, yes, I suppose so. I’ll have to look into it. Though I really know nothing about how one finds good clergymen. But I don’t suppose that I could just toss Mr. Twilgate out of the living of Upper Dipton.”

  “Oh, I’m sure the Bishop could find him something,” said Mr. Moorhouse dismissively, “and to be selfish I only care about Dipton itself. But tell me, Captain Giles, when will your wife be joining you to see the Hall?”

  Daphne gave a little gasp at her father’s audacity in asking the question whose answer was the subject of speculation by every young lady in the neighborhood who had learned that Captain Giles was far from being some ancient dullard. Even Daphne had realized that she couldn’t very well ask the question, but had hoped that Carstairs would provide the information in the servant’s hall. Giles, however, seemed not at all surprised by the question.

  “I fear, Mr. Moorhouse, that I have not had the good fortune to find a wife.”

  “You astound me, sir. Why would a young man, who is unmarried with an active naval career, want a remote residence in the country?”

  “There are a number of reasons. Before I was sent to be a midshipman, I spent much of my time with the tenants on my father’s estates and became fascinated with farming ways. Then when I became a lieutenant, and even more when I was made Post, I found that I greatly enjoyed spending my idle time reading works on modern farming and husbandry. So I very much wanted to have some land of my own for when I am ashore. I have been very lucky in the matter of prize money, so I found that now I can afford to indulge my interest by actually carrying out agricultural improvements. And, I won’t be alone here. My older sister is in need of a place to live, so she and her two daughters will be living in Dipton Hall.”

  “How old are you nieces?” asked Daphne, though, if even she hadn’t realized how rude it would be to ask, she would have preferred to explore the strange way in which Captain Giles referred to his sister’s lack of a home.

  “The older one, Catherine, is nineteen and Lydia has just turned eighteen.”

  “And you, Captain Bush, are you married?” Daphne’s impulsiveness once more got the better of propriety.

  “No, Miss Moorhouse. But I do have to provide a home for my mother and two sisters. My father was rector of a parish in Harwich, and he died two months ago, so they have to leave the rectory. My mother does not want to remain in Harwich, so I had hoped to find something where I could be close to Captain Giles.”

  “Captain Giles,” Mr. Moorhouse broke in, “I was surprised that you spoke as if you had a great deal of idle time while at sea. I was always of the impression that naval service is very active.”

  “That is, of course, the case when we are in battle and sometimes in a storm, but the truth of the matter is that very often there is very little that actually needs to be done by the captain. The crew of a man-of-war is very large for the tasks that are necessary on a regular basis for we need them in battle and to make sure that even with significant injuries, we are still an effective unit. We keep the crew busy with drills of various sorts – and these drills are important for developing a crew that is as efficient as possible in battle. But they largely involve the other officers, rather than the captain. And the officers standing their watch have to be on deck usually, in case they are needed, though in truth there would be no great difficulty in requiring much less of their time. A captain doesn’t have even those duties. He can either be on deck making every one nervous about what he may be thinking and interfering with what the other officers are doing or he can find other uses for his time in his cabin. So I spend quite a bit of time reading and playing my violin. The fiddle is one of the benefits of command. When I was a lieutenant, no one wanted to hear my attempts at trying to master new pieces, but now they can’t object.”

  “And how do you spend your off-duty time, Captain Bush?”

  “I enjoy reading classical history, especially military history. Though until recently, I was only a lieutenant and so did not have as much spare time as Captain Giles indicates is the lot of a commanding officer.”

  “Dear me, classical history is one of my own interests,” declared Mr. Moorhouse.

  At that moment dinner was announced, and when the party was seated, conversation drifted into other areas. Indeed, Giles kept his host talking animatedly about the locale in which he was going to settle, and both Mr. and Miss Moorhouse were more than happy to regale their visitors with the oddities of their neighbors. Just before the final course was served, the conversations diverged and Captain Bush and Mr. Moorhouse began a spirited debate about the Battle of Cannae, while Giles and Daphne discussed the possibilities for draining the low-lying fields where their properties met. Their discussion proceeded so rapidly that they agreed to meet the next day to examine the possibilities more specifically on the site. When Daphne arose to leave the gentlemen to their port, Mr. Moorhouse protested that there was no reason to leave and spoil the good conversation. Daphne stayed, but noting that Captain Bush seemed to be fading rapidly and remembering that he had been injured but recently, she soon suggested that it was time to let their guests depart.

  “Well, Daphne, you have certainly landed a whale where I expected only a trout,” declared M. Moorhead.

  “Whatever do you mean, father.”

  “I was led astray by that old fool George Butler, even though I supposed he had probably got things wrong, or I would have warned you earlier. Your Captain Giles is actually Captain Sir Richard Lord Giles, or some such combination of titles, with the knighthood won as a result of his own activities. He’s the son – third or fourth I think – of the Earl of Camshire.”

  “He’s not my Captain Giles. But he did seem perfectly nice to me”

  “There is no reason why an earl’s son should not be ‘perfectly nice’. Anyway, you have certainly stolen a march on the other young ladies.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” though Daphne’s smile indicated that she knew perfectly well what her father was suggesting, and felt rather pleased with it, even if she had ruled herself out of the matrimonial steeple chase.

  “It did strike me as odd,” continued Mr. Moorhouse, “that Captain Giles – I suppose we should call him that since that is how he chose to be introduced – should be providing a home for his sister. The Earl is still active and Ashbury Abbey should have any amount of space to provide for her. I do seem to recall some bitter scandal involving the Earl about the time you were born, but the details all escape me. Maybe you can find out more about Captain Giles’ circumstances and why he is m
aking a home for his sister from Elsie.”

  Elsie was Daphne’s maid, and Daphne was mortified to realize that her father had seen through her insisting that Carstairs be well entertained, knowing that Elsie was a past master at prying gossip out of the servants of others. But she discovered, when Elsie came to help her when she retired, that this scheme had resulted in nothing. While Elsie was full of what a splendid man Carstairs was and how he had ambitions to keep his own public house, she had found out only that Carstairs had not accompanied Captain Giles either to Ashbury Abbey or to Ripon and knew no more about the circumstances of the Earl and his daughter than her father had already imparted. She could look forward enthusiastically to the meeting on the morrow, but she knew that it was not likely to produce answers to any of the social questions that were running through her mind.

  That rendezvous was not to be kept. Giles and Bush arrived back at the inn to find a courier with a message from the Admiralty for Captain Giles. The message was crystal clear, though its import was totally mysterious. Captain Giles was requested to present himself to the First Lord at the Admiralty as soon as convenient. The polite form was belied by the method of delivery of the request, and on a Sunday no less. In plain English, Captain Giles was to get to the Admiralty as quickly as possible.

  “It must be a ship.” Bush was full of enthusiasm for his friend, the very tender nature of his backside, produced by bouncing around on the horse, quite forgotten.

  “That doesn’t explain the urgency,” replied Giles a bit morosely. “Maybe they have found some inconsistency in my last report or something equally stupid. But I should go first thing in the morning. Carstairs will come with me. I hope that you can look after some things here that we have started.”

  “Gladly. But that doesn’t include the drainage you have been talking about.” Giles had spent most of the ride back talking about the meeting he was to have with Daphne and what needed to be done about drainage.

  Chapter II

  Early on Tuesday morning Giles alighted from a carriage at the main entrance to the Admiralty. He had spent the night at his father’s London house – to the consternation of the servants since it was not officially “open” -- and took one of the Earl’s carriages to the Admiralty. He rightly supposed that the crest on the door might help him to get past the notoriously unhelpful doorkeepers. Even so, he was surprised when he was whisked away right past the usual waiting room where naval officers from lieutenant to admiral invariably spent considerable time before being seen by any official of the Admiralty. It was rumored that the officers had to endure the wait so that they would know their proper place. Instead, Giles was ushered directly into the vestibule of the First Lord’s room. Moments later, he was shown into the presence of the great man.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, Sir Richard. We have urgent need of the best frigate captain available. And we need to show that we have taken vigorous steps before news of the situation spreads. I’ve already ordered the Channel Fleet to take action, but we also need a specially commissioned vessel with the sole task of dealing with the situation. Three frigates! Three Frigates!”

  “My Lord,” interrupted the Second Secretary. “We hope that Captain Giles has no idea of the subject about which you are talking.”

  The First Lord seemed to swell as his face turned red and Giles expected a violent explosion aimed at the Second Secretary. Instead, suddenly, the First Lord grinned, relaxed and took a pinch of snuff from the box lying on the table in front of him. Giles was much more astounded to see that the fearsome First Lord could grin than he would have been by the explosion that had seemed imminent.

  “Quite right, Newsome, quite right. I can’t expect Sir Richard to be clairvoyant, though it would be most helpful to the mission we have for him.

  “There is a French ship – pirate, privateer, national ship, we don’t know which – which has been taking a large number of vessels in the area of the mouth of the channel. She is fast, powerful and very well handled. Her success against merchant shipping is very worrying, but what renders the situation a crisis is that she has defeated, and in most cases taken, three of our frigates – at least. Another one has gone missing when on route home.

  “Only in one case was her battle with one our frigates such that our ship was sunk. In the others she took them, usually after a short battle that made it quite easy for her to board and make repairs in order that her prize could be safely sailed away.

  “The worst case, and the one that is going to cause the ministry problems if we are not seen to be taking swift action, occurred ten days ago. The frigate Artemis – a thirty-six, I don’t know if you know her – Captain George Ferguson -- was on passage from Portsmouth to Gibraltar in company with the sloop Squirrel when she encountered a large frigate apparently closing on a group of three merchantmen. When the strange frigate did not respond to the private signal, Artemis signaled Squirrel to support her in attacking the stranger. Artemis and the French vessel sailed towards each other, Artemis close hauled while the Frenchman was on a reach on a course that would lead her to pass to windward of Artemis. Just before they would meet, the French vessel opened fire with her bow chasers. They were well aimed – and we have reason to believe that the bow chasers were heavier cannon than is usual on our own ships – with the result that it took the fore topmast. The wreckage in the water slewed Artemis around so that her broadside could not bear on the enemy which was about to cross her bow and presumably fire her full broadside. Artemis at that point struck her colors.”

  “Without firing a shot?”

  “Without firing a shot! That’s where the scandal lies. Commander Stevens, in command of Squirrel, tried to interfere with the French ship’s taking Artemis, but a well-placed broadside into her meant that all Squirrel could do was to make emergency repairs and try to avoid being taken herself. The French ship was not interested in Squirrel further. The wreckage was quickly cleared away on Artemis, and the French got her under way with the French frigate placing herself so that Squirrel could not interfere. They headed to where the merchant ships had disappeared over the horizon. Commander Stevens decided to follow, though keeping a safe distance from the French frigate. They soon overhauled the merchantmen and it then became obvious that, far from the arrival of Artemis preventing the capture of the ships, it had simply induced the French frigate to draw Artemis and Squirrel away from ships that the Frenchman had already captured. The French then set a course towards the French coast. Darkness by now was approaching and Squirrel lost sight of them during the night.

  “We cannot let this continue. Quite apart from the stain that Artemis’s surrender puts on the Navy, this ship is wreaking havoc in the merchant fleet. An adequate convoy system would require many escorts – more than we can really spare – and would still be subject to the basic problem that this ship presents us…”

  The First Lord paused, clearly expecting Giles to fill in the gap. For a moment he felt again like a fourteen year old midshipman confronted with a loaded question from his captain. As was the case then, he guessed that a wrong answer would be better than no answer at all or even worse a toadying answer that merely tried to draw out the questioner. Anyway, Giles thought he had a good answer. “Any ship stronger than her, she can out sail; any ship faster than her, she can defeat.”

  “Yes. Furthermore, we usually have the advantage that our ships are at sea and well-practiced, while the French ships have usually been bottled up in harbor and so are inexperienced. That is clearly not the case here.”

  “What do we know about this ship?”

  If the Earl of Finisterre was surprised at the temerity of a junior captain asking a question, he did not show it.

  “Quite a bit – at least if we have identified the type of ship correctly.

  “A while back, an émigré from France showed up with what he claimed were the plans for a new type of frigate that the French were building. The design was somewhat radical and most ship builders who saw the plans
labeled it as completely impractical. Here, I have the plans on that table. Have a look.”

  Giles joined the First Lord as he unrolled a set of plans. The first was a deck plan, the second was an elevation including a sail plan. Presumably subsequent sheets gave more detail.

  After studying the plans briefly and referring to the scale, Giles remarked. “She is certainly different from your standard 36. A good bit longer and a bit narrower. And it looks as if she has a deeper draft. That’s what strikes me. I expect that those features would make her faster than any of our frigates of similar size. She is almost more like a sloop – though with very different rig – than a frigate. Speed does seem to me to be more a function of how well a ship is designed – and how clean her bottom is – rather than how she is rigged. I would fear, however, that the narrow beam would make her somewhat unstable, particularly when she tried to fire a broadside. It does look as if she is designed to have larger bow chasers than usual, but I’d have to see how that is to be achieved.”

  “That’s what most of the experts we consulted thought. Indeed, most were quite contemptuous of the whole layout of the ship, predicting that she would be slow – something about the amount of hull in the water – crank and, indeed, useless in a fight or for any other use. There were one or two, however, who doubted the analysis of the other experts, and made a case that she would be faster, and that the instability in battle could be effectively and efficiently overcome. One man even went so far as to predict that she would be the better ship in a scrap with another 36 or even 42.

  “The argument went back and forth, focusing on whether we should try to build a ship from the plans. I was swayed by two considerations. The traditionalists became quite shrill about how right their evaluation was and what a silly set of notions was embodied in the French plans. Those who saw merit in the plans were much less dogmatic about the superiority of their views and that in itself made me think they might have considered the matter more objectively. But more importantly, I realized that if we were to build to this plan and the ship was a failure, it would not be the first poor ship we have built nor would it be the last. If it were a success in French hands, and we had done nothing, we would be vulnerable for a while to the damage that the ship could do – and any others they might build. Presuming that the ship, which is causing all the problems I have mentioned, was built to these plans, that danger is now realized, though we are not completely caught out. I was finally persuaded by the argument that the French have long tended to build better ships than we do, and that their advantage has only been overcome by capturing large numbers of them.