Home to the Big House, so called to distinguish it from Hall and Manor; a repeatedly extended Elizabethan farmhouse, low and rambling and inconvenient, reds and browns under rich pantiles, creeper and espalier, shaded by oaks on three sides, a half acre of roses and lawns to the front, a short drive of river gravel forming an unostentatious loop between two pair of wrought iron gates and leading to the big door on two broad shallow steps where Father and Mother stood waiting, called by the manservant as soon as he had been recognised on the road. Travellers were rare enough that the servants always stopped and looked.
All the greetings that were to be expected – enquiries, exclamations, discoveries that he had grown, filled out, become sun-browned and weather-beaten, reached man’s estate. He was sat down in his mother’s sitting-room, provided with tea and cake, bidden straitly to tell all, to flesh out and make real the melodrama of the newssheets. A difficult task, to dilate on bloodshed and high peril whilst still not seeming to have been in danger, to enlighten a mother without distressing her, the more so when faint worry-lines could already be seen on her happy face, and much more grey in his father.
“Brother George at home, Father?” Frederick mildly enquired.
“Races at Salisbury, I believe, Frederick, and then the Bath, I expect, or perhaps the pleasures of the Metropolis will beckon.”
The heir to the House was not bred to a profession, had not fancied the Army, lacked the intellect to spend his terms at University – and found the Agricultural Life unspeakably tedious. His time at Winchester had sufficed to make him acquaintances of like and limited mind, and at the age of one and twenty he was idle, bored and probably expensive, but in the best of company. Frederick hardly knew his brother, entertained no hopes of reforming him, and could do nothing about his spendthrift ways; he might, however, be of some slight assistance. He changed and they sat to an early country dinner at four o’clock, chops and peas and beans and mushrooms and parsnips baked and boiled followed by wedges of an autumn bread-pudding full of blackberries and chopped apple and open-arse medlar. Mother withdrew and the men remained with their glasses of port, as custom dictated.
“You know, sir, I have never had a great love for port wine, yet most of my gunroom colleagues will imbibe it by the pint, awful stuff, too.”
“I have always found it too heavy and over-sweet, my boy. A walnut?”
“Thank you, sir.” Frederick busied himself with the crackers, nearly defeated by the thick English shells. “I need your advice, sir. I shall have some money of my own, when the Prize Court coughs up, as it were, and need to know what to do with it. The two prizes will sell at around fifteen thousands, sir, neither having been cut up by the great guns. As Johnson was dead I come in for the captain’s eighths of the Athene, his heirs and assigns inheriting from Anemone, of course.”
“A healthy sum, Frederick? I have never mastered the ins and outs of prize distribution.”
“Much simplified, sir, the Admiral who wrote your orders takes an eighth, the Captain two eighths and the watchkeeping officers share an eighth between them. So, as senior officer, captain de facto, when we took Athene, I have two eighths of her value; as one of three watchkeepers I am to receive one third of an eighth of Anemone. Perhaps two and a half thousands between the two, depending on the vagaries of head money and the valuation given to the cargo of one and warlike stores of the other.”
“Head money?”
“A bounty paid on each member of the crew of a national ship taken or destroyed, so as to ensure that something is paid even when there is no prize for it having been burnt or sunk in the action. It serves to promote a proper diligence amongst our seamen who might otherwise be less willing to destroy the foe.”
Frederick saw no need to explain the near-impossibility of persuading Admiralty clerks to agree a count for the complement of an enemy sunk with all hands in a battle under adverse weather, none saved to give number for her crew.
“So, sir, should I buy land or put the money into the Funds or invest on the Exchange?”
“In the Funds – gilt-edged stock carries five per cent at the moment, one hundred and twenty five a year, compounding. If your Uncle Frederick cuts up as he ought, then you could buy a thousand acres of old enclosed land hereabouts, and rent it at thirty shillings the acre, more if corn continues to rise – but a hundred acres is neither one thing nor the other, is more trouble than it is worth to you.”
Much of the lighter clay land in the area had been enclosed – taken out of manorial holding into private farms – in Elizabethan times, hence indeed the Big House, and these fenced and drained fields, owned as often by yeomen as by squires, commanded a high price from the few who had cash to pay it.
“Is Uncle Frederick unwell then, sir? You speak as if he is like to go soon.”
“He writes that he is not in the best of health, and with his way of life …” Harris shrugged and returned to his theme.
“The Stock Exchange is not for us, my son. One has to have an inside knowledge to invest on the Exchange, or your fortune will soon be jobbed away. The brokers are rich men and their fortunes are made from investors, not for them.”
“With an income of my own then, sir, and reaching my majority in three or so years and with expectations, I should, I think, no longer call on your generosity.”
“Not at all, my boy! I know, I think, why you make the offer – and I honour you for it – but your allowance comes from your mother’s portion, secured to her and her daughters, who never came. At her death I believe her portion will be yours, or you may settle it in turn on your own wife.”
“Who may well be a long time coming, sir. I cannot marry as a lieutenant and serving, not in fairness to a wife. Nor, indeed, am I quite in need of a man’s responsibilities yet.”
“You do a man’s work, my son. Think on it.”
They dined with a dozen families in that month, all County and all laying claim to some gentility, past, present, or, in one case at least, potential. They all had some money, not necessarily a lot; none worked for a living, or knew how to; all were Agricultural Tory and some were not stupid; all venerated their Capital, the source of their standing, the irreplaceable, mystical fountain of wealth, status, respectability; they knew of only one real crime – to sell one’s Land or out of the Funds.
The Harrises were becoming tainted in this company, a fraction blown upon – every matchmaking mama had heard of George’s excesses and knew that he was outstripping the Harris income, mixing with the spendthrift sons of far richer men. Eldest daughters had been steered away, their portions not to be frittered away by the heir to the potentially reduced Harris estate, but they were rapidly pointed back in Frederick’s direction.
“Prize Money, my dear! He has already taken two ships! And has been promoted! We must hear what the Admiral has to say.”
“A lieutenant at eighteen with young Mr Harris’ record is a Master and Commander at twenty one, and a Post Captain by twenty five,” opined the ancient Admiral from the sanctuary of his farm. “He is known, and will be looked after – so long as he continues to deserve to be, of course. The service loves him, do you see, because he won – when all was lost he charged home and turned the day. His captain made a noble pose and died a brave man, and a failure. The Dons, as an example, are always brave and noble, and they lose with great honour. The Navy wins. He won, and that’s all of it – the papers make much of him avenging his captain – well done the boy! But that ain’t what was important!”
The Admiral was old but had not lost all his tact: in his mind he knew quite clearly that the ancient saying still held – ‘there are old sailors and there are bold sailors, but there are very few old, bold sailors’. No need to say it, though, not to naïve, hopeful young ladies and their even less aware mamas.
His audience nodded wisely, unable to read his thought and having heard much of rich, young captains. So Misses Lucy and Jennifer and Augusta and Lettice and Hetty and Jane all smiled and posed and bent f
orward to pour their tea – in those cases where leaning forwards in a low-cut, fashionable gown might be seen as a worthwhile activity. But it was Miss Marianne who attracted Frederick’s interest, a fair girl, middling tall and pretty and possessed of large, clear blue eyes and a disconcerting intelligence that caused her lips to twitch at the most inappropriate moments. The maunderings of a nearly half-witted local honourable could be guaranteed to make her eyes dance, and brought Frederick cautiously to her side when a space became available in the withdrawing room after the tea tray had arrived.
Book One: The Duty and Destiny Series
Chapter Two
Four weeks was too short a time at home for a young man who had been three years away; it was long enough to revive childhood memories but too brief to create an adult attachment. The old house was no longer ‘home’, only in part because younger sons did not inherit, could not expect to continue to live there when adult so that Frederick had insensibly distanced himself from the house, if not from his parents. The main problem was that Frederick had never grown up in the conventional sense of slowly maturing away from the nest, instead, like all seamen, he had gone away as a boy, had come back at long intervals for a few months at a time and had retained a boy’s imagery of home, inappropriate to a man. He would have resented his inability to find an instant niche in his own home, if he had not found it necessary to ride out to Durley almost every day, to the Rectory or Manor, or Old Hall where the young people – those eligible and idle – foregathered in quiet parties of old friends. That Miss Marianne was one of them was apparent coincidence, but they seemed to meet very frequently, just happening to visit the same friends at the same time.
Nothing was said between them, but the observant, of whom there were a few even amongst the young, smiled quietly and often seemed to make way, that one should not be separated from the other by any accident of seating or grouping in a party.
On the last evening of his leave Frederick escorted his parents to dine with the Pagets at Old Hall, built less than twenty years before in the Gothic style so fashionable at the time. Old Hall boasted pointed arches and black, iron-strapped oaken doors and a number of elegant and wholly redundant turrets, all performed in modern red brick; inside was walnut panelled and light in incongruous contrast, resulting apparently from the conflicting demands of Squire and his wife, who had cleaved to different dictates of fashion. The whole confection had been the result of the then Squire’s nabob uncle returning to England with a fortune and malaria, bequeathing the one after rapidly succumbing to the other. He had shaken the pagoda tree to great advantage, had Uncle Paget, quadrupling his nephew’s acres and enabling his son, the current Squire, to become Member for the County and dip his finger in all manner of pies. Marianne as a result was sufficiently well-dowered that her parents had no fear of her catching a good husband, were in no hurry to snaffle the first pretender to her hand.
Polite conversation at table made it clear to the Harrises that, whilst they were still eligibly genteel, they were not quite the force in the County they once had been. Enquiries were made about the health of dear Viscount Alton, an acquaintance at Westminster and an occasional ally and political mentor, but these were balanced by references to ‘young Mr George’, also met in London, but not in the company of the Great and the Good, or at least, not on business matters or in Public Affairs.
Matters were clarified further over the Squire’s port, the ladies safely withdrawn.
“Three years is the normal length of a West Indies commission, I believe, Lieutenant Harris? A notably unhealthy station, too.”
“Famous as such, Mr Paget, yet full enough of prizes to be well-loved in the navy. Pirates, privateers and national ships as well, sir, sufficient to provide honourable service for smaller ships.”
“So, promotion, fame and wealth – provided only that you live, sir!”
“A fair exchange, Mr Paget. Ours is a hard service and its rewards can be rich to compensate for the effort in attaining them. But, of course, sir, only a few are so fortunate as to reap any reward at all.”
Paget nodded, smiled, urged the decanters round.
“You will expect to have some chance, Lieutenant Harris, with your record. You will, I doubt not, have much to tell us on your return, still a young man, sir. No doubt your letters will acquaint us all with your progress when Miss Paget reads them out to us.”
In masterly fashion, of which he was rather proud, Paget thus gave Frederick permission to correspond whilst strongly suggesting that passionate declarations would be somewhat out of place in the withdrawing room after tea.
In that drawing room, under cover of a younger sister at the pianoforte assaulting Scarlatti with vigour, glee and an utter lack of sympathy, Frederick farewelled Marianne with the news that he might write to her, asking whether this would be welcome.
“Welcome indeed, Lieutenant Harris, though I fear my parish pump replies could contain little of excitement for you. You will be able to tell me of the Tropics, of the extremes of weather and vegetation and wildlife, of gold-laden Spanish argosies and the miseries of the poor slaves, of the sea and sun and coral strand! And I? That we danced at the Assembly and entertained the Denhams to dine, and of the sermons preached by the new vicar. An unfair exchange, sir!”
“Yet one that I look forward to, Miss Paget, for I will see your face as I read your words.”
As close to a declaration as could decorously be made in the drawing room, particularly as Scarlatti, pounded into submission, was coming to a thankful termination. Suddenly aware of herself and, most peculiarly, of her body, she flushed, sought for words of maidenly propriety – and strong encouragement.
“That will please me much, sir. I will remember your face, too, and count the weeks until I see it again!”
The party broke up soon after with affectionate farewells, prayers for a safe return and no further opportunity for conversation.
A cold, wet, gloomy October dawn saw Frederick set off with the Harris groom – a northcountryman strayed south long since – back across the mud to Portsmouth, looking forward determinedly; domestic bliss was all very well, he would be happy to return to it, one day, but the Sugar Islands beckoned, and he was still very young.
He had had the forethought to go to his bankers in Bishop’s Waltham and to draw one hundred guineas in gold from the accumulation of his pay and allowance – prize money would be months coming yet.
The Athene was still in the hands of the dockyard and grease would be essential. Government and public service was more than usually corrupt at the time; the familiar nexus of backscratching and mutual favours had given way to a crude, overt buying of advantage, and the dockyards were held to be exemplars of the arts of extortion, misprision, fraud and simple theft. As second lieutenant Frederick would be responsible for the boats, and if he wanted them to have oars, masts or sails he would need to bleed gold; to be fair, once properly bought the dockyard would supply the best it had, stealing outrageously from other ships in the fleet to meet its obligations.
The Athene was moored off Gosport, conveniently inshore, and well ahead on her stores to judge by her low freeboard. Frederick stayed at his inn a bare two hours, long enough to eat and change into best reporting uniform and to arrange with a long experienced landlord for a hamper of small luxuries the whole wardroom would welcome to be sent out next day.
“Pickles, sir, jam and marmalade; nuts and a bushel of good keeping apples; a cheese and a well-salted flitch of bacon. All of the best, sir, my word on it!”
Thruppence to a waterman, with a promise of as much more if he rowed dry, and aboard ship by late afternoon, formally saluting the quarterdeck as was right and proper, though he knew not why.
“Reporting aboard, sir. Harris, if you please.”
This to the First Lieutenant, Horley by name, a tall, thin, stooping individual, a pleasant smile and a soft, unmuscled handshake and a distinct aura of expensive spirits.
‘The ship fitting out a
nd the premier with not a speck on him, never a blister to his hands in his lifetime’. Frederick was not impressed. As for the brandy – well, they were in port, after all …
Horley led him to Captain Atkinson, a Master and Commander of no more than twenty five, a little younger than Horley, at a guess, equally as tall, towering over Frederick, but offering a bustling contrast to the First’s languidity.
“Mr Harris! Well met, sir! You presented the service with a fine vessel, sir. An auspicious beginning which we must build upon, do you not agree, Mr Horley?”
Horley did agree, long and effusively, heard out with a barely civil patience by his captain.
Out of the corner of his eye Frederick saw his sea chest come aboard, carrying down to the wardroom.
“Permission to shift into working rig, sir?”
He disappeared below on the nod, slipped a pair of shillings into the hand of the mess servant, an old, rheumaticky seaman no longer capable of safely working his mast, able-bodied only by courtesy now.
“Thank’ee, sir. A wet ashore’s always welcome.”
Twenty four nips of gin in one of the longshore parlours, unconsciousness guaranteed, blindness an occasional extra, the spirits distilled through lead piping from a mash of fermented potato and sugar and flavoured with spirits of salts and nitre, served up in thick shot glasses washed in harbour water at least once a month. He might, of course, choose to stay part sober and buy a pox for a tanner instead; either way he would enjoy himself.
“I’ll see to your servant, sir.”
Frederick had hoped that he would – an experienced and willing hand as a servant would ensure there was always a clean, dry shirt in his chest, a pair of stockings neatly mended, a towel warmed at the galley stove, a polish on shoes and halfboots, a hot drink as he came off watch, all the difference in fact between living and merely existing in a cold, wet, draughty small ship.
The Friendly Sea (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 1) Page 3
