He made his farewells to those of the passengers staying aboard till Shanghai, raised his hat to Miss Blantyre, who happened to be on deck, and strode off the merchant ship, returning to his own world.
On shore and through the Customs Shed without a halt and a porter led Magnus to the Naval offices just a few yards distant. A Chief Petty Officer was sat a desk in the front office. He stood and saluted; Magnus replied formally, not a sign of slackness.
“Commander Campbell, Chief. I have orders for a Nymphe class sloop on the China Station.”
“Bustard, sir. Released from the dockyard three days ago, sir. Full refit, sir. Tied up alongside, sir, so you will not require a boat. I could send a runner, sir?”
The dockyard was about a quarter of a mile distant. If Magnus wished, he could arrange for porters to bring his trunks and other baggage and walk down to his ship, unannounced. A runner would give the First Lieutenant notice that his captain was on his way. A captain who wished to catch out his officers would arrive without warning, hoping to discover them in slackness, thinking that was the way to create discipline. Magnus thought he would prefer to work with his wardroom.
“A runner, please, Chief.”
Magnus waited while the arrangements were made and the Chief returned, a matter of two minutes.
“Was any great change made to Bustard in the refit, Chief?”
“Slight increase in her bunkers, sir, and some of the guns were changed. She had Gardner machine guns, forty-five calibre, four of them, sir – forever jamming, sir. The Gardner works in northern waters, sir, but it don’t do so well in the tropics, probably due to the cartridges swelling in the heat and damp, sir. Replaced by fifty calibre Maxim guns; far more reliable. The five-inch guns are due to be replaced by newer four-point seven inch quick-firers, sir, but probably not till next year, and possibly not then if anything newer has the need.”
Magnus knew his gunnery well enough to prefer the quick-firers. They used a slightly smaller shell, but fired far more of them in a minute. If it came to a battle with a steel-hulled German or Russian, or French or American, warship, then the old five-inch guns would set him at a disadvantage. When dealing with wooden junks, he suspected that the five-inch would be adequate.
“I was told there were eight machine guns, Chief?”
“Four of one-inch four-barrel Nordenfelts, sir. Getting on a bit, now, but very useful against small craft, sir. They don’t jam, sir, or not very often if the gunners are well trained. Rip a sampan to pieces in a minute, sir, which can be handy on occasion.”
“Any word on the engines, Chief?”
A senior man at Headquarters would know everything; treated politely and given recognition of his importance, he might pass that knowledge on.
“Fourteen knots, sir, and coal for two hundred hours. Ten knots gives three hundred hours of steaming, sir. They say she can make ten knots under sail, sir, with the right wind. Admiral don’t like sloops to coal more than once a month, sir. Believes in sail, sir, does the Admiral.”
Neither man commented on the Admiral’s beliefs.
“I have heard it said, sir, on occasion, that a sloop might coal on a river, sir. The local mandarin chap willing to put a few tons in the bunkers, sir, for help in keeping the peace, you might say.”
“What a strange rumour, Chief! I am sure I have never heard it.”
Neither smiled.
“Runner coming back, sir. Looks like a working party behind him, sir. Midshipman as well. I shall inform the Flag-Lieutenant of your presence in Hong Kong, sir. The Admiral will wish to see you tomorrow in the forenoon, sir. Full dress, sir.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
Without the warning, Magnus would have worn working dress, as was normal practice. Frockcoat and bicorne were normally reserved for the most ceremonial occasion. Greeting one’s admiral for the first time was normally regarded as a matter of business.
The working party, six men under a Leading Hand, not a petty officer as such, quickly loaded Magnus’ six trunks and three leather cases onto a trolley, which they pulled themselves rather than using coolie labour, and left silently. The new captain would wish to change into working dress at the earliest moment; his servant would have the trunks unpacked in less than half an hour, assisted unofficially by at least two other stewards. The midshipman appeared, straight backed and very precise in his salute. He was at least eighteen, Magnus thought, probably two years out of Dartmouth, possibly three, and due to make sub-lieutenant very soon. A sloop was good experience for a youngster, gave him the opportunity to take responsibility that could never come his way in a battleship or cruiser.
“Midshipman Hawkes, sir. I am to escort you to Bustard, sir.”
“Very good, Mr Hawkes. Carry on.”
Magnus turned back to the Chief Petty Officer and thanked him for his assistance before following the Mid.
“Have our sailing orders arrived, Mr Hawkes?”
“Not yet, sir. Ship has still to make all of her stores, sir, and is due to go to the powder hulk tomorrow.”
The navy had not used gunpowder in barrels for twenty years, but that that was no reason to change the name of the ammunition store.
“A hulk as such, Mr Hawkes?”
“No, sir. On land, sir, offshore on a small island. Deepwater wharf, sir.”
The First Lieutenant was waiting on the quarterdeck, commission and warrant officers lined up behind him. The bulk of the crew was assembled on deck, interested observers of the ceremony. There would be a few watchkeepers in the engine room, probably a signals party watching the Admiral’s mast, but all who could be free would be lined up to see the new owner. They would have heard rumours already – inevitably, they would be much exaggerated; Magnus had no doubt that half of the crew firmly believed he had molested the First Lord’s wife on the steps of Buckingham Palace. That was no problem, provided they approved of his initiative.
“Lieutenant Whyte, sir. Welcome aboard, sir.”
The First was six inches shorter than Magnus and ten years older, must already have been passed over for promotion – which could possibly be a case of his face not fitting but might be because he was no more than mediocre as an officer. A potential nuisance, Magnus thought.
“Mr Roberts, sir, Second Lieutenant. Mr Prosser, Third. Mr McGurk, Commissioned Gunner, sir. Mr Burton, Engineer, sir”
Roberts and Prosser seemed unexceptional young men, in their twenties, neither dressed expensively, their clothing adequate but no more. Surprising in Hong Kong, where good tailoring came cheap and very quickly, and suggesting slackness. Burton was a full lieutenant, perhaps the same age as the First, but promotion came slow in the engine room; he looked intelligent, as engineers often were, which might make him feel out of place in the wardroom. McGurk was a typical Commissioned Gunner, a hard-working and bright man between the age of thirty and forty who had forced his way up through the ranks by persistence and ability; the way was open for further promotions, though command of a ship was not a possibility.
“My pleasure, gentlemen. Bustard looks surprisingly smart for a ship that has just escaped the dockyard. The crew must have worked hard to clean her up. Dismiss the men to working routine, if you please, Mr Whyte. I must change my dress and will be pleased to take your report in fifteen minutes.”
“Carter, sir. Captain’s steward to Captain Parkes, sir.”
It was unusual for a commander to have his own steward who followed him from ship to ship, so it was no surprise that Carter had remained aboard when Parkes had left.
“Very good, Carter. I drink coffee in preference to tea – black, strong, no sugar. Keep me turned out smart and tell me when I need new tailoring and I shall demand no more of you.”
Carter relaxed from attention, relieved that his privileged existence was to continue. Some captains made a point of changing stewards, to emphasise that the old regime was gone, the new had taken over. Carter was past forty and had no desire to become a deckhand again; he much prefer
red to spend his days tucked away in the cabin, cleaning and polishing and presiding over the captain’s pantry.
“Working uniforms, sir. Tropical. Still hot in Hong Kong at this time of year, sir.”
“Very good.”
Magnus changed and sat in his working cabin. His quarters were small – a sleeping cabin barely eight feet square, working and dining cabin twice the width, but still not palatial, except when compared to the wardroom of a battleship, eight times as great but with up to twenty commissioned inhabitants.
“Come in, Mr Whyte. Let us start at the beginning. My predecessor, Captain Parkes, how did he leave Bustard?”
“On a stretcher, sir, liver disease and very yellow and unlikely to recover, so the MO said, sir. Only a Sick Berth Attendant on Bustard, sir, and not a physician; good for dressing wounds, sir, but limited otherwise. He was very glad to give the Captain into the hands of the Medical Officer on reaching harbour, sir.”
Liver disease did not have to be caused by alcohol, Magnus knew; it was merely the result of habitual drunkenness in nine cases out of ten.
“Liked his bottle, did, he, Mr Whyte?”
“Several bottles, sir. Gin in the forenoon, whisky in the afternoon, brandy after dinner. Always used to say that he never drank more than a third of a bottle a day, sir. Of each.”
“I am surprised you were able to maintain discipline, Mr Whyte.”
“It was sometimes difficult, sir, but Bustard normally sat at wharfside in one of the smaller ports, tied up and idle, sir. Sail from Hong Kong on patrol, make a northing and then call in and wait for a week or two. Sometimes nothing happened but most often we would be asked out to ‘assist in maintaining order’ in a village or small town in the province. A quick bombardment, twenty or thirty rounds expended, and the local warlord’s tax collectors would find that resistance to their demands had ceased. Back to port and there would be a feast for the lower deck and a few crates aboard to the wardroom and captain’s cabin and we would finish our patrol and return to Hong Kong. All very satisfactory, sir. I am sure that the captain received a present or two as well. The hands would not step out of line for fear of being transferred away, sir. Captain had a pair of petty officers who made a fuss put aboard the Flagship, sir, Centurion, second-class battleship; all spit and polish and bugle calls, sir.”
“That will not continue, Mr Whyte. We shall make our patrols honestly, of that I can assure you.”
“Warlord won’t like it, sir. Make complaints to the admiral, sir. The province is quiet, sir, and the warlord is favourably inclined to England, sir. If we don’t provide what he wants, he’ll use the services of Germany or Russia, sir, and that won’t go down at all well. If I might recommend, sir, a discussion with the admiral might be helpful. Not very likely that he wouldn’t know, sir. There’s missionaries and such who are forever shouting their mouths off – must have come to his attention, sir.”
“That is unbelievable… is it?”
Magnus found his initial certainties undermined. The Navy did not behave that way, or so he had believed. He wondered if he might be able to bump into Mr Cecil before he took Bustard out – he would value the older man’s knowledge of the world, his understanding of the actualities of existence out in this alien universe.
“I will bear your advice in mind, Mr Whyte. Now, sir, about you – have you been aboard Bustard for long?”
“Since commissioning, sir. Captain made me up. Third four years ago, sir, then replaced the Second when he was shot suppressing a riot in Shanghai. First Lieutenant was promoted out last year, sir, and I took over. I was a Sub-lieutenant for six years, sir. On a battleship, sir, King George, sir. I made a report that the captain was buggering the midshipmen I was responsible for, sir. Captain was court-martialled and broken, sir, ended up in civilian prison, in fact. I was called disloyal.”
Magnus remembered the scandal, almost hushed up, but inevitably spreading by whisper; there had been many to say that the business should have been dealt with quietly, should never have reached a court.
“What happened to the midshipmen who gave evidence, Mr Whyte?”
“Posted, sir, out of Home waters. I doubt they are enjoying rapid promotion, sir. All of them will be known to their admirals and will be in bad ships in the worst stations.”
“I will speak to the admiral, Mr Whyte. What can you tell me of the other commission and warrant officers?”
It was part of a First Lieutenant’s duty to train up and bring on his juniors, or to ensure that their failings were recognised by the captain. Many Firsts found this the most difficult part of their job; others enjoyed it.
“Mr Roberts, Second, is fit for promotion, sir. He could go to one of the small gunboats as lieutenant-in-command, sir. An able young gentleman, sir. Mr Prosser, Third, needs more experience yet, sir. He might benefit from service in a big ship, sir – he has only knowledge of sloops and lesser vessels. He is inclined to be a little casual in the way he does things, sir – he needs to discover a modicum of, shall we say, ‘sharpness’ in his duty.”
Magnus would remember both recommendations; if he agreed with them then he would put them into effect as quickly as the admiral would permit.
“What of our gunnery specialist?”
“Commissioned Gunner, sir, Mr McGurk. Made up and posted to us last year. From the flagship. Very smart, sir, and precise in his ways. I believe that it was his reports that resulted in the Gardner guns being replaced, and he may be able to obtain quick-firers in place of the five-inch guns, sir.”
“That was well done of him. Can I speak to him next?”
“No, sir. He has to go ashore, sir. He is to give expert testimony at a Board of Enquiry into an accident on Prince William cruiser, sir. A misfire, sir, in a four-inch gun. The round blew when the breech was opened. Lost the Gunnery Officer and three of the gun crew and four more men severely injured. On a firing exercise, sir, and waited only three minutes before opening the breech, sir.”
“Who gave the order?”
“The admiral signalled, sir, asking what was the delay, why was Prince William showing so poor? The Board is to establish what happened next.”
Magnus knew the procedure for a misfire, as should every officer. The gun must be left as it was until the barrel had fully cooled and the possibility of ignition of a damaged propellant was reduced to a minimum. A misfire could occur for many reasons, all of them uncommon, but which might involve a split forming in the silk bag encasing the charge; opening the breech permitted oxygen to flood in. If there was heat, the cordite could then blow.
“Four hours, Mr Whyte?”
“I would prefer six, sir, even with a four-inch.”
So would Magnus; he had asked to establish whether Whyte would be willing to correct him. There were First Lieutenants who would never disagree with their captain – many of them – and it was useful to know what sort Whyte was.
“Who appointed the members of the Board, Mr Whyte?”
“Why, sir, the admiral, of course.”
They discussed the petty officers, saying no more about Prince William’s tribulations.
Chapter Thre
e
The China Station
“Commander Campbell, Bustard, reporting for duty, sir.”
Everything of the most formal, uniform precise, half-boots polished to a high gloss, salute rigid.
“Thank you, Captain Campbell.” Admiral Seymour sat down behind his desk, did not offer Magnus a chair. The admiral was flanked by his Flag-Captain on his right, Flag-Lieutenant to the left, standing and frowning. Magnus knew neither man. He glanced about the office, trying to get some measure of the admiral from his surroundings; it was no more than the characterless creation of the clerks at the Admiralty, furnished according to the laid down scales for an Admiral in a building that tried its very best to deny that it was located away from London, still less that it was actually in China. There were no personal touches – perhaps his cabin aboard Centurion, or even h
is official residence might reflect the man.
The Admiral opened proceedings.
“I expect you to take Bustard in hand, Captain Campbell. Lost her captain, then three months in the yard – bound to be a bit of slack, and I won’t have it in my ships, sir!”
Magnus stared firmly back at the tall, lean, heavily bearded sixty-year old, knowing that he must take the correct line with him. He might be one who valued strength in his subordinates, he might want yes-men; Magnus decided that he would prefer to go down fighting.
“If there is slackness, sir, it will not endure. My officers seem well up to the mark, sir, the Commissioned Gunner particularly so at first sight.”
Made up in the flagship and recently posted to Bustard, it was a good bet that McGurk was a favourite of the admiral.
“He is. A good man, McGurk. You are content with your other three, you say?”
“Within reason, yes, sir. The First, Mr Whyte, might well take a promotion, sir, as might the Second, and very soon. They will be useful to me, but the good of the service says they might well rise this year or next. The Third Lieutenant, sir, has only served in small ships… I am a battleship man by service, sir, and suspect Mr Prosser would benefit from a year or two in a larger wardroom.”
Admiral Seymour knew exactly what Magnus was saying.
“Could be a good man, but needs his backside kicking, eh, Captain Campbell? Three battleships on station just now, all second-class, of course. Ten-inch gun ships, sufficient to deal with anything Russia or Germany has on station and great enough that there is always a place in the wardroom of one or the other. I agree with what you are saying, sir. Merely because a ship is small, is no reason for it to cut corners – discipline starts in the wardroom and must be ingrained in everything a ship does, sir!”
The China Station (The Earl’s Other Son Series, Book 1) Page 5
