Fletcher's Fortune

by John Drake

  “I don’t know, Sammy,” says I.

  “What’s the matter with you?” says Sammy, irritated. “Look at you! You’re beat before you’ve started to fight. I’m telling you, lad, they’ll never hang a man who’s got that much money. It just ain’t the way of the world.”

  “Damn the bloody money,” says I.

  “Huh!” says he. “That’s easy to say for them as has it! ’Tis different for the rest of us.”

  Indeed it was. The money had already set me apart. The word had gone round the ship and everyone knew that Jacob Fletcher was heir to an enormous fortune. And it changed the way they treated me. It surprised me at the time for I was young and I didn’t know that wealth means position and influence and power. They were all thinking what I might do for them if they played their cards right ... or to them if they didn’t!

  Even the Captain was wary. He would catch my eye and nod at me, as if he and I shared a secret. And everyone else treated me with a sort of exaggerated politeness. Even Norris did, though he was embarrassed by it and he made the effort to be a messmate as before. It didn’t quite work though. No doubt it was my fault, for I was in a deep state of uncertainty at the time.

  The only exceptions to this were Sammy, who treated me exactly the same as ever, Johnny Basford who didn’t understand, and Kate Booth. Kate I could not understand at all, particularly as she’d finally taken quite a fancy to me and had even begun to smile a bit. So I’d assumed that when I went ashore I’d take her with me and look after her. But when I told her that, she wouldn’t have it! She said that now I’d got money I wouldn’t want a ruined woman, and nothing that I could say would shift her. All in all, an odd piece of behaviour for a lady in her line of business. But then, a blind man could see that there was more to her than the average lady of the town, so I suppose she had her reasons. We both of us shed some tears when we parted, though.

  And there was one other who was totally unimpressed with my wealth: Mr Midshipman Percival-Clive. Once the Surgeon had stitched his face, Percy made a fast recovery and came to thank me. He’d been bred up among money and power. He’d wallowed and frolicked in it, which means he’d never even noticed it, and genuinely thought nothing of it. He treated me the same as before except that he looked a bit sheepish.

  “Fletcher,” says he. “I should like to thank you for your assistance in quelling the mutiny ... ”

  “Aye aye, sir!” says I.

  “Hmm ... ” says he, still looking as if he’d peed his breeches. “Mason led the mutiny ... and I restored discipline, didn’t I?” I understood. Captain Bollington had spoken to him.

  “Aye aye, sir,” says I, “you restored discipline, sir. And a most creditable piece of work for a young gentleman, if I might say so.”

  “And Mr Williams was killed by the mutineers?”

  “Quite so, sir.” He smiled and relaxed. He believed it already. A few more repetitions and he’d forget there’d ever been another version.

  Three days later, Harry Bollington brought Phiandra, Taureus and Bonne Femme Yvette safe home to Portsmouth and duly received a triumph like a Roman General. The Channel Fleet was there as we came in, anchored in long lines at Spithead, three miles out from Portsmouth Point. There were over ten frigates and a host of lesser craft as well as the flagship Queen Charlotte bearing Admiral of the White, Richard Lord Howe. There were two more huge three-deckers, Royal George and Royal Sovereign and lines and lines of seventy-fours and sixty-fours. It was a city afloat.

  Without doubt it was the supreme moment of Harry Bollington’s life to bring before such an audience an enemy man-o-war taken in action. It was such a moment as sea officers sighed and died for. And here it was, not a tale in a story book, not a dream, but hard reality.

  The shot-battered state of the two warships told their own tale as did the Union Flag flying over French colours from Taureus. Compared to this, the other honours that were heaped upon Harry Bollington were as nothing. He stood on his quarterdeck in full dress, with his surviving officers around him and received the thundering acclamation of the Fleet. Each ship manned her yards as we ran past and the Captain raised his hat in salute to their wildly cheering crews. Our musicians thumped out every tune they knew and the bands of a dozen other ships joined in. It was an intoxicating moment and I saw the tears of pride streaming down Harry Bollington’s cheeks.

  It is worth pointing out that this was July of 1793, well before any of the great victories of the war. There had even been some defeats. The fear was abroad that French revolutionary zeal might overcome British seamanship. In that case they’d sooner or later come ashore at Dover with their enormous armies. And that would mean the extinction of our nation. So when the Fleet cheered us, they were cheering with mighty relief, and from the heart, at a bang-up victory in the grand old style. It showed God was an Englishman after all and was still damning the Frogs. At least, He was damning them at sea where it mattered.

  Finally, we hove to alongside Queen Charlotte as a perfect swarm of boats put out towards us. It seemed as if every officer in the Fleet was trying to come aboard and our three ships were ringed with thrashing oars and bumping boats. In the midst of this, Captain Bollington went across to report to the Admiral, the swarthy-faced, gruff old Lord Howe. By all accounts “Black Dick”, as the tars called him, received our Captain like a darling son and port wine flowed like water. Then Phiandra and Taureus were ordered to proceed around Spit Sound and into Portsmouth harbour to be docked for repairs.

  By nightfall, Phiandra was in the hands of the dockyard people and her present commission was at an end.

  Between them, Thermidor and Taureus had inflicted enough damage to put her out of action for many months. Her permanent cadre of officers: Master, Bosun, Gunner and Carpenter, would stay aboard and the rest of us, from Captain to ship’s boy, would be posted to other ships. There was far too great a demand for men for two hundred prime seamen to stand idle. Phiandra would sail again as soon as she was ready, but with a different Captain and crew.

  But I would be gone before that could happen. I’d made my mind up over the last couple of days and I went to speak to Captain Bollington that very night to redeem the favour he’d promised me. Once, I could never have dreamed of simply arranging to speak to him in his cabin, but now it was easy. He even offered me a chair and a glass of wine.

  “Will you not reconsider?” says he. “It would be my pleasure to advance you in the Service.”

  “Thank you, sir, but no,” says I.

  “I understand,” says he. This time he accepted it more readily. “I suppose you have your responsibilities ashore to occupy you.”

  “Yes, sir,” says I.

  “Then what may I do to assist you?”

  “Sir, I shall need a certificate of honourable discharge to enable me to pass through the dockyard without being pressed again.” He smiled.

  “Certainly. I shall have my Clerk prepare one immediately.” “Then, as I am due my pay, and as I might expect to receive prize money in due course ... ”

  “Of course, of course,” says he, leaping in to relieve me of any awkwardness. “I should be happy, personally, to advance you a sum to cover your immediate expenses.” He licked his lips, balanced one consideration against another and plumped for generosity.

  “Would one hundred pounds be sufficient?”

  “You are most generous, sir, but twenty would be adequate and you could easily recover that from what’s due to me.”

  “Oh ... ” says he, “as you wish, of course.”

  He was as good as his word and I had the money and his certificate within the hour. Then I had to say goodbye to Sammy and my mates. This was much, much harder than I had expected because I knew that they valued me only for myself and not for any hope of gain. They’d shown that a thousand times over.

  Sammy said the same thing the Captain had said.

  “I suppose you’ve got your responsibilities ashore to take care of now, lad.”

  “No,”
says I. “I don’t want any of it.”

  “What?” says Sammy. “You’re not still frightened of trouble over Dixon, are you?”

  “No, it’s not that,” says I. “Not entirely. Though I’m not as sure as you are that they can’t hang me. So I don’t intend to give ’em the chance. But that’s not it. The thing is that all I’ve ever wanted was to make my own way in trade. You all know I can do that ... ”

  “Aye!” says Norris. “You got more grog and baccy than the Purser!” And they all laughed.

  “I want to make my own way,” says I, “and I can do it. I don’t want someone else’s money. I want my own. So I’m going ashore, and I’m changing my name and I’m going into business on my own account.”

  “And good luck to you mate!” says Sammy.

  “Aye!” said the others.

  Last of all I said goodbye to Kate. I tried once more to change her mind, but she refused, even as she kissed me. If I’d had any sense I’d have snatched up the poor little thing and took her with me, whether she wanted or no. She didn’t exist far as the Navy was concerned, so nobody would’ve stopped me. But I didn’t. And by God didn’t I just live to regret it?

  And that was the end of my time aboard Phiandra. As I climbed over the side, I felt that my heart would break. But I went anyway. Young men do these things. They think they’re going to live for ever.

  37

  Hail noble Bollington,

  Bold England’s champion!

  Conq’ror at Sea!

  Bless’d be thy Victory,

  O’er Foreign Tyranny,

  God’s Blessings fall upon,

  Great Bollington!

  (First verse of a song, to the tune of “God Save the King”, composed and sung by the boys of the Ludgate Orphans’ Charity School at the Lord Mayor’s Banquet given at the Mansion House, on 17th August 1793 for Sir Harry Bollington. There were another twenty-three verses.)

  *

  “Lady Margaret!” cried Patience Bollington.

  “Lady Patience!” cried Margaret Percival-Clive, and the two ladies flew to each other’s arms like the old friends that they were. Servants ducked and bobbed as the ladies proceeded in triumph up the marble stairs and through the Palladian portico which dignified the entrance to the London house of Sir Reginald Percival-Clive, the sugar millionaire.

  Both ladies were in the upper reaches of ecstasy. Lady Patience Bollington was ecstatic because an hour ago she’d seen her husband knighted by the King, and had then sat at Sir Harry’s side while their open carriage was drawn round the city by sailors from Phiandra, to the deafening adulation of the London mob. And Lady Margaret was ecstatic because she was hostess to Lady Patience and Sir Harry Bollington (the lion of the hour), and every other society hostess in London was tortured with envy.

  Meanwhile the lion himself was giving a guinea a man to each of the dozen Phiandras who’d been trusted to accompany him to London and were now in charge of his carriage. This money would enable them to get properly drunk in celebration. His friend Sir Reginald Percival-Clive instantly called for his purse and added a guinea a man from his own pocket. At this, the tars gave three cheers and headed for the grog shops at a wild run with the carriage swaying dangerously behind.

  Sir Harry was somewhat dazed. He watched the carriage disappear with a flushed, silly smile on his face.

  “Grand fellows!” he said, with emotion.

  “More power to their elbow, say I!” agreed Sir Reginald and grabbed Sir Harry’s arm as he staggered on his way into the house.

  “Make sail!” bawled Sir Harry. “Get her under way and she’ll not roll so!” And he laughed loudly at his own joke.

  Already that day, Sir Harry had met the King, the Prime Minister, the First Lord of the Admiralty, and a string of lesser dignitaries, and the Lord Mayor’s banquet was yet to come, later in the afternoon. He was drunk, not only from the port wine that he’d been offered but from the honours that were being showered upon him.

  Sir Reginald smiled indulgently and led Sir Harry into the withdrawing room and ordered tea, judging that his friend had taken enough wine for the present. Sir Harry sat down with his head swimming and a grin on his face. He nudged Sir Reginald and they nodded benignly at the familiar spectacle of their wives buried deep in conversation.

  Lady Margaret Percival-Clive, sister to the Prime Minister and the First Lord, and whose intelligence upon Naval matters vastly exceeded that of mere Sea Officers, was ticking off points on her fingers.

  “So dear Sir Harry shall be given Taureus which shall be taken into the service and renamed as Sandromedes and shall mount carronades in place of her brass nines. Mr Webb, the Master’s mate shall be promoted Lieutenant. The senior Marine Lieutenant shall be promoted Captain, and best of all ... ” she broke off and looked at the gentlemen, “dear Sir Harry!” she cried, “Now do pay attention, for if you’re quick you might be the first with the good news. You must write to him at once!”

  “To whom?” said Sir Harry.

  “To poor Seymour. Lieutenant Seymour is to be given Phiandra and made post. He shall be a Captain. By all accounts his recovery proceeds well, and the good news will speed him on his way to health.”

  “’Tis only a pity that Lieutenant Williams was not spared,” said Sir Reginald.

  “Indeed,” said Sir Harry and began to examine the star and sash of the Bath that hung across his chest.

  “I read your report in the Gazette,” said Sir Reginald, “and I believe that Williams died a warrior’s death. Mutineers are no less perfidious enemies of England than are the French themselves. God save the brave memory of Lieutenant Alexander Williams, say I!”

  “Hmm,” agreed Sir Harry, playing with the sash to observe how the sunlight moved over the silk.

  “But one thing above all others gave me cause for delight when I read your report,” said Sir Reginald. “Can you guess what that was, my dear friend?”

  “Ah ... no,” said Sir Harry.

  “My boy Cuthbert!” said Sir Reginald with the pride shining in his moist eyes. “Now that he is revealed for what he is, I may confess that there were times when even I doubted him.”

  “Hmm,” said Sir Harry, and his interest in his sash and star became intense.

  “There were times,” said Sir Reginald, “when I feared that my boy was, in some way, less quick of mind than others are.”

  “Ah,” said Sir Harry.

  “But now Cuthbert is revealed in his true light!” said Sir Reginald. “My son is a tiger in a fight and a leader of men!”

  Sir Harry groaned inwardly at what might be coming, and his worst fears were realised.

  “And so, my dear Sir Harry, for our friendship’s sake, I beg that you will take Cuthbert with you into your new ship.”

  For friendship’s sake there was only one answer that could be given, and Sir Harry gave it with as good a grace as he could. Sir Reginald put his friend’s peculiar expression down to tiredness and to the wine that he’d drunk, and Sir Harry consoled himself with the hope that, with any luck, Cuthbert might fall overboard and drown.

  Epilogue

  I lasted two weeks ashore. I called myself Jacob Bone and went to London. I took lodgings with a stay-maker in Brazenose Street and started to deal in tobacco. The business flourished but the plan failed.

  I was too strange and too different and had SAILOR written all over me in letters a foot high: tanned face, rolling gait, and a peculiar way of speech. I just wasn’t a landsman any longer. What’s more, I’d grown an inch or two and put on some weight. I was even bigger than I’d been aboard Phiandra, and there was no chance of my trying to hide in a crowd.

  So I was bound to attract the attentions of the Press who were vigorously working the Port of London at that time. I couldn’t use Captain Bollington’s certificate because that was in the name of Jacob Fletcher, and I wanted that name to die, so I had to keep my eyes open and make sure that I saw them before they saw me.

  That got me off sev
eral times but finally a group of them caught me in an alley. They were only doing their duty, and I’d no wish to hurt them so I knocked a couple of them down, entirely without malice, and warned the rest off. But they wouldn’t have it, and ran off for the pistols and cutlasses they’d left at their Rondy, while one of them sneaked after me to find out where I lived.

  He was a careful, crafty fellow and I didn’t notice him until I was back at my lodgings and heard him asking questions of my landlord. Unfortunately, that roused my temper and I heaved the gangsman out through a front downstairs window without troubling to open the window first. The result was that the landlord told me to pay for the damage and pack my bags. I suppose you can’t blame him.

  So I bowed to the inevitable and did the only thing that would save me from the press-gang. I signed on as second mate aboard a West Indiaman, anchored in the Pool of London, and I bought a share in the cargo.

  I’d got plenty of money for this because by that time, I’d turned my twenty pounds into nearly a hundred. Oh, yes! I could make money all right. It was God’s own truth that I didn’t want someone else’s. I had a natural, instinctive nose for business and if only I’d been left alone, I’d have made my fortune in the snuff and tobacco trade. But I wasn’t left alone, as you’ve seen.

  In that case, I decided to combine my skills. If fate was insisting that I be a seaman, then I would be one at a profit. Into the bargain, the Master of the Indiaman said he’d instruct me in navigation, so I could eventually become a Master Mariner in my own right if that’s what I wanted. Despite what I’d said to Captain Bollington so very recently, I realised that that is what I did want. I might not have wanted it with any great enthusiasm, but it was the only road open to me at the time.

  So I went to sea again. But this time I went of my own free will, or as the Navy would have put it, “volunteerly”.

  If you enjoyed Fletcher’s Fortune check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.