In Hostile Waters: The Cruise of USS Argus (Oliver Baldwin Novel Book 3)

by William H. White

  “I assume Helena is the ship-rigged sloop I passed in the harbor? Appeared, from what little I might observe, to be taut and Bristol, yes? Montressor…a whipper, is he?” He raised his eyebrows slightly with the question.

  “Not had any…well, not too many…complaints about that. But he is a stickler. I am sorry to put you in this position, Ballantyne, but I think two ships out looking will be better and he’s all I have, and, with him being senior to you, I have no choice but to put you under his command.” The admiral smiled an uneasy smile, perhaps a bit apologetic but it was hard to be sure.

  The business at hand concluded, the two officers sipped their drinks and shared a few stories and recollections of the “old days” – each admitting that a great deal of water had passed beneath their respective keels since. No further mention was made by either of them of the Convert disaster in the Caribbean or the Pandora foundering and sinking in the Endeavor Straits in 1792. But Ballantyne knew those events were not far from the admiral’s thoughts.

  Thornbrough apologized for not inviting his guest to take the midday meal with him, but pointed out “I prefer to eat early, and take my supper in the first dog watch. Helps me sleep better, you know.” Then, after a pause, he went off on a quite different subject.

  “By the way, Ballantyne,” Thornbrough offered, in a quite offhand tone, as he poured a small additional taste in his subordinate’s glass. “I have a young man I think might fit in with your command. I have promised his mother that I would do my best to look after the chap. Fairly senior mid, he is, and might make it as a master’s mate, though I doubt he will ever stand for lieutenant; not the tallest of masts, you know. But he can manage quotidian matters, once shown, quite capably.”

  Oh Lord! A midshipman with interest! And from none other than the man to whom I report. There’s a fine situation! I pray he’s not a dolt…or at least, doesn’t drag out his connection at the slightest sign of controversy…Captain Ballantyne struggled to maintain a neutral expression.

  “Carlisle! Carlisle! Show yourself, man!” The admiral’s outburst fairly started Ballantyne, in fact he sloshed a bit of the good Jamaican from his glass onto his trouser leg.

  “Carlisle: scamper forward and find Midshipman Bierbak, if you please. Tell him I would appreciate him attending me at his convenience.”

  The steward rushed out, having knuckled his forehead in a silent acknowledgment of the order, and Thornbrough added a few further tidbits about the young man, augmenting Ballantyne’s mounting dismay.

  “You may find that he is a trifle slow to react to a situation…or orders, for that matter. But I think, with a bit of patience, which I am certain you have in abundance, you may come around to appreciating him. You might, even, find him a breath of fresh air, when held up against some of the overly eager young people the service seems to be sending out to the fleet of late. His is a more…deliberate approach to things, and I understand from Captain Somers that he does, from time to time, offer alternate suggestions for accomplishing that to which he has been assigned. Sometimes not as tactfully as he might.

  “Oh!” he added, “You might find that he never seems to be properly turned out; something is generally awry with his uniform.” The admiral smiled, perhaps a bit solicitously.

  Splendid! I wonder what pressure Somers has brought to bear on Thornbrough to get this person shifted off his ship! Not to mention what occasioned his being here in the first place. A bit unusual after this long in the fleet to get assigned to your protector’s flagship.

  “You seem concerned, Edward. Don’t be; the lad is no different from any other of your mids, save being a bit older. I try to keep him out of trouble…as a favor to his mum. He’s actually – ”

  Admiral Thornbrough was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door and his Marine corporal’s voice announcing, “Midshipman Bierbak, sir.”

  And in he came, speaking over his shoulder to the Marine, words neither of the cabin’s occupants could make out.

  A young man – but still older than might be expected for a midshipman, perhaps mid-twenties – slouched into the great cabin, removed his hat, which he held lazily at his side rather than tucking it under his arm, and looked expectantly at the admiral. Ballantyne studied him for a moment, letting his eyes roam from the top of his head to his scuffed boots, taking in almost everything he needed to know in the first glance.

  The man stood casually, as if he were anywhere besides in the presence of an admiral. He was overweight, likely by several stones, and his ill-fitting knee britches were dingy, not quite filthy but far from pristine white. The britches strained at their fastenings, as did his shirt where it enveloped his paunch. His left stocking was marred by a small rent below the knee. His hair, tousled from the removal of his hat, was loosely tied in a poorly executed queue, and his cheeks and chin were covered with at least a day’s stubble. But what Pelican’s captain considered most disturbing was the man’s close-set eyes and beetle-brow, and he had to concur that the midshipman was clearly “not the tallest of masts.” While he seemed to acknowledge that little was expected from him, it was his shifty-eyed appearance that put Ballantyne in mind of a weasel.

  “You wished to see me, Uncle…I mean, Admiral? Carlisle seemed to think it was some urgent.” The midshipman corrected his form of address only when he noticed Ballantyne’s presence. At least he had the grace to color slightly at his error.

  Uncle? Oh my God! The old bird never mentioned he was related! This is going to be a trial of the first order. Why could be not have sent him to Helena?

  “Jameson, let me introduce Captain Ballantyne, an old friend and commander of the brig Pelican, which has just arrived. You will be shifting to the midshipmen’s berth in Pelican. You will want to know that Captain Ballantyne is anxious to get underway soon, so collect your belongings and wait for him at the entry port.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Cap’n. I have longed to get back on a fighting ship for some months now, and I am glad the admiral saw fit to transfer me to yours.” Bierbak now straightened up, stood stiffly. He shifted his gaze between the two senior officers.

  “The pleasure is mine, Mister Bierbak. I hope you will find satisfaction with your fellows in Pelican. And perchance the action you appear to crave.”

  Lord in heaven. This is going to be a trial! I shall turn him over to the master, quick as ever I can!

  Jameson Bierbak bowed stiffly from the waist, first to his uncle and then to his new commanding officer. Without a further word, he turned and took his leave. A short, awkward silence filled the air, as both men seemed to wait for the other to speak. Finally, Admiral Thornbrough cleared his throat and offered what Ballantyne took as an apology.

  “Seems I neglected to mention that Bierbak’s mother is my younger sister. Sorry about that. She married a Dutchman and managed a significant brood, three girls and two lads; Jameson is the youngest. Her eldest, my nephew Jason, was in the sea service and doing nicely – number three on a well-respected frigate – until he managed to alienate a colleague and discovered he was an inferior hand with a pistol. Likely the reason my sister seeks to keep her youngest offspring out of any such difficulties. She took Jason’s death – especially at the hand of a shipmate – some badly. It was a real pity; he was a bright lad and showed real promise…” Thornbrough’s voice seemed to drift off a bit, remembering his other nephew, but he had the grace to look a bit abashed, Edward thought.

  Ballantyne took the admiral’s tone and musings as his cue to collect his new midshipman and get back to his ship. He had much to do, including meeting with his new commodore, Montressor, whom he assumed would be aboard the Helena.

  “I shall take my leave, now, sir, with your permission. I will be ready to sail as quick as ever possible, but I must take on some provisions and make our water. As my first knows nothing of these new orders – indeed, he fully expects to be here for a fortnight or so – I would doubt he has done little to accomplish either. Shot and powder will not be necessary, as
we only fired scant rounds en route from Barbados, and then only for a bit of practice. I thank you for your guidance. I shall keep you informed of our progress and that of your nephew. Good day, sir.”

  Thornbrough stood, shook Ballantyne’s hand warmly, and offered a final word of apology for saddling him with Jameson Bierbak, and sat down at his desk, placing a pince nez on the end of his nose. And that was that.

  The rain had not let up; if anything it seemed to be coming down even harder than when Pelican arrived. Ballantyne pulled his boatcloak closer about him, turned up the collar, and hastened to the entry port where he expected to find his new midshipman.

  Who appeared to be absent.

  “Have you seen Midshipman Bierbak, lieutenant?” Edward inquired of the officer standing under a jury-rigged tarpaulin shelter and looking some miserable.

  “Not since he scurried forward perhaps half a glass back. He did seem bent on something or other. Perhaps an errand for his uncle?”

  Hmm. So it would appear that the relationship is common knowledge. I wonder how long it will be before it becomes so in Pelican.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant, have you had any truck with him? Admiral Thornbrough just put him in my brig. If you were facing my sailing master, what might you tell him? In all confidence, of course.” Ballantyne kept an eye forward, half expecting the see Bierbak chuffing down the deck, lugging his sea chest.

  “Well, Cap’n. That’s a bit of a puzzle, isn’t it. Not sure how to exactly put it into words, save that I suspect many of his mates in the cockpit will be most grateful to the admiral! Young Bierbak drags his interest astern of his person much like a rat drags his tail. And from time to time, he twitches it, as it suits him, in case any of us forgets who his uncle is.” The watch officer smiled, possibly at the cleverness of his analogy or, more likely, at the thought of being shed of the midshipman.

  Captain Ballantyne groaned inwardly, his concerns accurate.

  “I was afraid of that, Lieutenant. Without the admiral being in range all the time, perhaps the young man won’t find it so convenient to ‘twitch his tail’ as you so succinctly expressed it.”

  “Wouldn’t know about that, sir. But I would be remiss were I not to warn you about it…you did ask…”

  “Aye, indeed. I did ask. And here comes our midshipman even as we speak.”

  Walking – or more accurately, strolling – down the deck, apparently oblivious to the rain still coming down in torrents, came Admiral Thornbrough’s nephew, followed by a sailor lugging what had to be the midshipman’s sea chest. As he approached the entryport and clearly saw his new commanding officer waiting for him, one might have expected his pace to pick up; in Jameson Bierbak’s case, not a jot! He continued as though he had not a care in the world.

  Ballantyne waved to his cox’n, who was laying off in the jollyboat, to come alongside. The captain nodded to the lieutenant with whom he had been chatting, doffed his hat as he passed again through the assembled sideboys, and clambered down the battens to his boat. Bierbak followed, having instructed his porter to lower his chest down to one of the sailors in the bow. Without so much as a word, unless one counted the grunt that issued forth as he made the final step into the small craft, he took his seat in the sternsheets next to his captain.

  “Mister Bierbak will be joining us for this commission, Mister Weiss. Have someone show him to the cockpit, if you please, and see that his chest gets there rather sooner than later.” Ballantyne was pleased to see that his second lieutenant held the watch and was alert to his captain’s return from the flagship. He was also pleased that Weiss had not found it necessary to rig a shelter to keep him out of the weather, as the watch in Trent had done.

  Of course! My people are seamen. Not caretakers of a ship that stays attached to the bottom! Little more than an office for the admiral.”

  The thought brought a scowl to his face as he thought about his new midshipman. The alert second lieutenant took notice and inquired.

  “Something wrong, Cap’n? We got her snugged down pretty well. The master seems to think we might be getting a bit of weather. As if this pleasant Irish afternoon was not enough!”

  “No. That’s fine, Mister Weiss. I shall be in the cabin. Inform Mister Welch of my return, should you not yet have done so, and have him attend me at his convenience, if you please.”

  Keeping his collar pulled up against the ‘pleasant Irish afternoon,’ Ballantyne made his way down to the berth deck and his cabin, where Stokely – alert to anything in the ship, as a good captain’s steward should be – had laid out dry clothes and a towel, along with a carafe of hot coffee.

  “I am rather sharp-set, Stokely; the admiral prefers to ‘take his midday meal early’…helps him sleep, he says. See if you might scare up something besides this coffee for me – there’s a good fellow.”

  Thomas Welch, the ship’s first lieutenant and second in command to Ballantyne, stepped in as Stokely quit the cabin but before the Marine guard could announce his arrival. Ballantyne had just disrobed in his sleeping quarters and told his visitor to “take a seat, if you will. I shall be with you directly.”

  “We will be sailing forthwith, Welch, as soon as we make our water and take on some provisions. We will sail in company with Helena, the ship-rigged sloop to the east of us. Fellow named Montressor in command. He’ll be acting as commodore, as I am given to understand he is senior to me, though how, escapes me just now.” Ballantyne had the grace to laugh at his self-deprecation, serving to put his second more at ease.

  It was no secret in the gunroom – and likely elsewhere in the ship – that, while surely senior enough to command a frigate, their captain’s lack of interest at the Admiralty conspired with his age to keep the choice commands out of his reach. His being involved in two shipwrecks some twenty years before only exacerbated the situation. He had confided to Welch some weeks earlier that once this “bloody war with those upstart colonists” was done with, he would “swallow the anchor” and return to Whatley (in Exeter) to live out his days. As he put it, “twenty-five years commissioned and six years a midshipman prior, was quite sufficient for any man.” Moreover, he had seen action in some of the more significant naval engagements, mostly involving England’s perennial conflict with France. And, of course, there were the shipwrecks. More than any one should have to endure.

  “Aye, sir. I will see to getting the men moving with those chores straight away. What will our orders be, if I may be permitted to know?” Welch sipped at the coffee Ballantyne had poured him, looking expectantly at his commander.

  “The admiral claims to have had reports of American privateers are in these waters, disrupting shipping on the north side of Ireland. Our commission, as you might surmise, is to find them and put an end to their depredations. I will have to meet with Montressor rather sooner than later to plan our cruise – or listen to his plan for the cruise. Admiral Thornbrough wants us under weigh as soon as we have reprovisioned. Once again, there’s not a minute to spare!”

  But I suppose this holds more promise than acting the postman for the Admiralty between Plymouth and the bloody Caribbean! I should be glad of the opportunity. That’s what Thornbrough would say, I am sure!

  Ballantyne acknowledged his mood had turned sour – decided it was hunger gnawing at his disposition – and dismissed Welch so he could carry out his duties.

  “Aye, sir. I shall see to it.” He stood, bowed slightly from the waist, and, with his hand on the doorknob, stopped when the captain spoke again, an edge to his voice.

  “One more thing, Mister Welch. The admiral will be sending us a few hands from the flagship. He graciously offered them when I pointed out we were a bit short-handed. Not sure how Cap’n Somers might feel about losing the men, but I am sure the admiral could not care a fig! And he also gave us another midshipman. An older chap, he is, apparently not the brightest of the lot, but with some well-placed interest behind him. His name is Jameson Bierbak. He came back in the jollyboat with me and I had Weis
s send him to the cockpit. Seemed some surly to me at first impression, but maybe he’s not. Let the master know, if you would, and tell him, ‘no special treatment.’ Assign him watches, divisional duties and all. Just keep an eye on him.”

  And Welch, his eyebrow shooting up at the mention of ‘interest’ composed himself and took his leave.

  Not more than a quarter hour had passed before Stokely appeared with a tray bearing several plates of restoratives for his captain. He set it on the table, pulled out a chair for Ballantyne, and added a knife and fork to the setting.

  “This looks delightful, Stokely. You are surely as much of a sorcerer as was my man Black. Sailed with me for close to twenty years, as you know, before his rheumatism got the better of him and he took himself ashore. You make a fine successor, I’d warrant.”

  Black had indeed gone ashore in Plymouth, just about the time that Ballantyne was given the brig Pelican last November. The veteran steward had sent for Stokely – his sister’s son, who was then employed as a houseman in Portsmouth, to take his place in the service of his captain. Black gave his young nephew a careful briefing, prior to sending him to Plymouth, enabling Stokely to slip right into his new employment with hardly a missed step, something the captain was most appreciative of. That said, he still missed his old steward and his remarkable ability to read his captain’s mind, his skills in the galley, and his dedication – but most of all his companionship. A steward and his employer, if they stayed together long enough, often developed a close relationship, a comradery that transcended the traditional officer/enlisted relationship. Perhaps Stokely would achieve that, but Ballantyne doubted it, not because of Stokely but because he fully expected this cruise to be his swansong command, and there would not be enough time for a close bond to develop.