Far Foreign (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 9)

by Andrew Wareham

  Frederick turned to Captain Windsor, invited him to comment.

  “Mercure will play her part, sir.”

  “That goes without saying, one might hope, Captain Windsor.”

  The young man was an unprepossessing specimen of humanity, Frederick thought. He carried the lineaments of Royalty, both forehead and chin receding while his pointed nose thrust well forward. Like his grandfather, he was bulging eyed and wet-mouthed, displaying a distinct tendency to slobber. The Hanoverians were not a handsome family and he had inherited the bulk of their less pleasant features. Some of them were of better than average quickness of mind, that had to be admitted, so it was possible that the gentleman would have redeeming aspects of personality to offer.

  “How is Mercure for stores, Captain Windsor?”

  “All well up, sir. I had wooded and watered before being attached to the squadron in Cape Town, sir.”

  The Admiral had informed Frederick that such was the case, but there was never any loss in double-checking.

  “Very good. An immediate turn round is possible, gentlemen. The season of the tropical storms is at least a month away and we should be able to make a respectable northing in advance of them. I believe that the old Endymion is less than ideal for facing a great wind, and Sir Iain’s Winchester is little better. It is my intention in the next fourteen days to work the east coast of Madagascar as far as the islands to the north; if I am not present at the rendezvous then you must make your way along the coast to the north before crossing the Ocean. It is possible, as always, that foul winds will cause either of us to miss the event. Perhaps I should put that in writing - the more I think of appointing a meeting, the less I like the burden I am placing upon you.”

  The easiest course would have been to take the whole squadron south, but Frederick’s orders demanded a sweep of the pirate coast of Madagascar, an instruction that was he suspected deliberately vague so that his performance could be disputed after the event. If Howick was still First Lord on his return to England then he could expect at least a degree of disapproval of his interpretation of his orders, but that would occur whatever he did. All that was important was to make a sufficient showing that a court-martial was improbable.

  The five prizes, each under command of a senior midshipman or master's mate, fell into line behind Fair Isle and Mercure took her position to the windward; the smaller frigate was certainly speedier than Vereker’s even more ancient command and it made obvious sense to give her more of a roving role. Neither Vereker nor Frederick was happy that Captain Windsor could be relied upon – he showed little evidence of mature judgement. He had displayed no character traits at all in the short time they had known him, in fact.

  An exchange of salutes and Frederick turned to the remainder of his business in the slaving port.

  The slave pens were constructed of wood with grass thatching; being still the Dry Season, they burnt well. There was a small amount of gunpowder in the old fort and the Gunner laboriously laid slow match to it and blew the magazine, muttering at the effort involved. He had no love for exertion of any sort, it seemed. The quantity was too little to raze the ancient fort but much of the interior was flattened – they would not be housing troops inside the old walls. The brass guns had suffered damage in the brief bombardment and it seemed unlikely that they would be mounted again – it was not worth the effort and risk of trying to split their barrels.

  “What of the warehouses, Sir Iain?”

  “Barrels of some sort of oil, sir. For cooking, I am told, made from the palm nuts. I suspect they will burn quite well. Very little else, sir, the slave food having been taken aboard the prizes.”

  “Burn them, I think. The slavers must be caused as much loss as possible.”

  The dhows remained, empty, eight at anchor just offshore, their crews in irons aboard the biggest of the prizes and due to be tried as pirates at Cape Town. The evidence against them was overwhelming in Frederick’s opinion, and it was his deposition that would be adduced in evidence at their trial. The hangman could expect a busy few days.

  “Best we should search the dhows before setting light to them, Sir Iain. We would not wish to make a mistake and overlook slaves tucked away in an odd corner of a hold.”

  “Or perhaps a strongbox, Sir Frederick! One might have thought that they would have paid for their cargoes, after all.”

  “It is always possible, though they might deal with everything at the final selling port, splitting the profits up between them after they are auctioned off.”

  They came across no huge hoards of treasure, much to the disappointment of all, but the Carpenters begged a delay of twenty-four hours before they set their fires.

  “Teak, sir, on three of them little dhows. Old and seasoned and beautiful, sir. Boards the like of what I never seen, sir. A crying shame it would be to burn they, sir!”

  Working parties from all of the squadron descended on the dhows and reverently stripped them of their timbers. The hulls themselves were of nondescript local wood but the decking of the three was of the highest quality.

  “Portuguese, sir, I would lay long odds! A caravel of olden times built in Goa or out in the Spice Islands and taken or shipwrecked in the Red Sea and cannibalised by a yard there. And now, two centuries and more later, to be brought into our use! It do make you think, don’t it, sir.”

  Frederick soberly agreed with his Carpenter, wondering exactly what he was supposed to be thinking.

  They tied the gutted hulls together and set them alight before sailing away, satisfied that that particular harbour would not be used for slaving again except after some considerable expense.

  “What next, Mr Mason? How is the wind for Sambava? We are looking at what, thirty miles distant?”

  “The chart tells me very little, sir, but one may assume a fortalice of sorts, the harbour seeming attractive. There is an indication of shoal water along the coast, very little else.”

  “Time for the small vessels to earn their keep, Mr Mason.”

  The brigs ventured close inshore, within musket shot of the strand in fact; discovering that to be the case they hastily hauled off another two cables.

  “We may note that the natives are hostile, Mr Mason.”

  “We may indeed, sir. One wonders why.”

  “They make a good living from the slavers, I would imagine, and are angry with us for taking their bread and butter away.”

  “Sad indeed if that be so, sir. But I must believe that you are right.”

  They crawled along the coral coast, knowing from experience that shoals with their own barely hidden reefs could commonly be found up to a mile off the shore and that they must use the lead and the eyes of a good lookout high in the foremast.

  “Not Mayberry, perhaps, Mr Wickham – we would be aground before he had finished his report.”

  “He is a little long-winded, perhaps, sir. The mainmast for him, for he has much that is useful to offer.”

  “Could he offer it on the quarterdeck? He has the learning, it would seem.”

  Wickham shook his head uncomfortably.

  “I fear not, sir. He joined as a volunteer for being distressed onshore, unable to find employment in his own line, as it were. He was dismissed from the old Grammar School where he was an usher and his name was sent to every other school in Hampshire and Sussex, so he said, informing them that he was not the right sort. He was blacklisted, in fact. The thing is, sir, that he is by way of being a Red, and let it be known that he could see much in favour of the guillotine if properly applied in England. He will not be an officer, preferring instead to have the opportunity of leading a mutiny if the occasion arises. He has said, in my hearing in the night, not knowing I was close to hand, that Fletcher Christian would never have been remembered as a lieutenant, but as the great mutineer he will be known forever and his example will stand in front of every man who uses the sea.”

  “Ah, yes, so it could… Which one was Fletcher Christian, by the way? Was he Nore or Spi
thead?”

  “Neither of those mutinies, sir. He led the uprising against Captain Bligh.”

  “Of course, of course! How could I forget?”

  Wickham made no reply.

  “A pity, that. I had far rather have Mayberry on my quarterdeck than swinging from the yardarm, yet if he does attempt a mutiny then that is where he will be! I am even more glad of the presence of Mr Archibald Keating – ‘mister’, forsooth! For I had considered offering Mayberry the schoolmaster’s warrant, and that would have been to put him into the place where he could most easily do mischief. Still, I am inclined to suspect that he is one who talks more than he does; no harm in that, though in men of his age it is more normally of women they have known rather than revolutions they have fostered.”

  Wickham sniggered.

  Six hours of slow sailing took them in sight of the harbour at Sambava and brought simultaneous howls from all three mastheads.

  “On deck! Enemy in sight!”

  “On deck! French ships of war at anchor!”

  “On deck! One French ship-sloop, two private men of war and an Honourable East India Company gunbrig with tricolour flying over the Company flag, sir.”

  Frederick responded immediately.

  “All hands! Clear for action. Signal to the squadron to close on pennant ship. Inform the soldiers that a landing may be imminent. Major Ponsonby-Willett, bugger off!”

  Wickham chased the importunate soldier off the quarterdeck, told him he could speak to the commodore later, when the action was over.

  “Winchester to close within hail!”

  Five minutes and Winchester was hovering far too close to Endymion’s stern quarter for the comfort of either master; the inshore waters were sufficiently calm that they made no overt protest.

  “Immediate assault, Sir Iain. You to enter the harbour, your soldiers ashore to take any batteries on the starboard shore. Close, engage and if necessary destroy the three Frogs and retake the gunbrig. Endymion to engage what looks like a fortalice to the larboard – our long guns will do the job more effectively, I believe. Endymion’s soldiers and boarders will suppress all activity on our shore, I trust. Off you go, sir!”

  Winchester made all sail into the harbour mouth, seeking to pass any emplaced guns as quickly as possible. It was a reasonable assumption that there was water enough to float her in the harbour, as the mouth of a substantial river flowing out of the mountains was clearly in sight.

  “Semaphore, sir! Winchester reporting eight fathoms; and a half, seven; eight; seven; by the deep, seven; seven, sir.”

  The Yeoman of the Signals put his telescope down as Winchester hove-to, sending off her boats while firing single aimed guns at targets ashore. It was quicker at close quarters to wig-wag simple flag signals by hand than to raise and lower flag hoists.

  “Follow Winchester’s track, Mr Mason. Mr MacDonald, Mr Dalby! Three broadsides, loaded ball, at the fort to the larboard to my command! Mr Petersfield, be ready with the carronades, targeting any groups of soldiers that you may see, or any lesser gun emplacements outside the fort, firing at your own discretion.”

  There was little to be feared, Frederick thought, from small groups on the shore, but the experience would be very good for the young lieutenant.

  Musketry sounded from the shore as the soldiers landed and Frederick saw Winchester closing on the ship-sloop, making no response to the hurried rounds from her chasers – nine-pounders at most and likely to do very little harm to the bows of a seventy-four.

  He took the opportunity to inspect the privateers, saw them to be no more than topsail schooners, American in appearance, their masts heavily raked, more than was any European habit. Neither was of as much as one hundred tons, very fast but carrying perhaps sixty men and four guns on the broadside, probably a single chaser as well. The guns could be of any size, depending on what they had bought or caught - six-pound long guns probably the largest they could easily handle on their tiny decks, but they might have far larger cannonades or even carronades. Carronades were now being manufactured overseas, he had heard, though he was not sure where or in what quantities. They were showing no signs of hostility - which was only wise when caught at anchor by a seventy-four.

  The fort opened up to larboard, barely a cable distant.

  “Touch her up a little, Mr Mason!”

  Mason was bright enough to interpret the order and bring Endymion’s broadside to bear squarely on the front face of the fort. It was an ancient building, old stone walls patched with recent mud-brick and not in the way of standing against modern cannon fire.

  Frederick swept his hat down, called ‘shoot’.

  “Times, Mr Dunnett?”

  The clerk stood with his watch in one hand, pencil in the other.

  “One hundred and two seconds, sir,” he called as the second broadside crashed. “Ninety-eight, sir, on the third.”

  “Good practice. The men have done well. Pass the word, Mr Wickham, that I am most pleased with the gun crews.”

  They had done well in practice but the real thing was often different - the men could grow excited and lose their discipline.

  There was very little wind and the smoke was slow to clear; it was nearly five minutes before they could see that the front face of the fort, somewhat more than thirty paces long, had been effectively demolished.

  “Landing parties, sir?”

  “Wait. Foremasthead! What do you see?”

  “People running, sir. The town is small, no more than ten acres, I reckons. No walls. The folk is all taking off over the garden lands and away, sir. Not even keeping to the tracks, sir, just scattering. No uniforms in sight.”

  “Can you see a barracks?”

  “No, sir. Little places is all. Made of bricks some of ‘em, and others just shacks. The only big place is the fort what we just knocked down, sir.”

  “Landing parties away. Take the fort and check for cells, Mr Wickham. The crew of the gunbrig may be there. They might have survived.”

  Frederick turned back to Winchester which was still silent. All three French ships wore the Union flag high and the captured gunbrig displayed only the company colours, all having chosen to surrender.

  “Very sensible! No gain at all to taking the broadsides of a line-of-battle ship. They could not possibly survive such an engagement at anchor, unable to run and dodge.”

  Petersfield called and one of the carronades fired.

  “Uniformed men, sir, a half company or so. Under a red flag.”

  Traditionally the red flag was flown to symbolise no quarter, the intention to fight to the death. Frederick hoped the Madagascans held to the identical conventions. It was too late now to ask.

  Frederick watched as Wickham took command of the landing parties from Endymion and the sloops and brigs, waving some to the right, a single boatload to the seaward side and the bulk, including all the soldiers, with him, over the walls and into the fort. He could just hear a sudden outburst of shouting. He did not like this commodore business, having to remain in command, distant from the action. If they were to take part in a full-scale invasion then he would be able to get ashore and into the thick of it, but in a minor action he must hold back to be available to give his orders.

  He waited patiently a few minutes then saw Midshipman Weymouth come running to his boat, followed by his crew. They cast off and pulled hard for the few fathoms across to Endymion, hooked on and boosted the boy up the steps to the entry port.

  "Report, Mr Weymouth."

  "Sir! In the fort, sir, in the open space in the centre, the parade ground sort of thing, sir. Excuse me, sir!"

  The boy ran to the side and vomited, noisily and exhaustively.

  "Olsen, a pannikin of water for the boy."

  A couple of minutes to freshen his mouth and scrub at the odd splash on his uniform and the midshipman returned.

  "Sorry, sir. The crew of the Company gunbrig, sir. They were all there, sir, out in the sun. Been there for two or three days, Mr Wi
ckham said. Some were on stakes, sir, up between their legs, sir. Some had been nailed up, crucified, like. Some were stretched out on their backs between posts, sir. Naked all of them and they had all been cut up and burned as well. Everything cut off, sir. Mr Wickham said it must have been done slow, sir, because they hadn't cut their tongues out, so they could scream."

  "Small wonder that the people of the town ran away. They would not want to stay within our reach. All dead, I trust?"

  "Yes, sir. Mr Wickham checked each one, himself, sir."

  "That was well done! Note that, Mr Weymouth - that is what an officer does. The worse the job, the more important for the good officer to go first. Do not concern yourself over being sick, Mr Weymouth. Any honest man must be nauseated by such a sight. I think none the worse of any man who empties his stomach on coming across such wickedness."

  Frederick thought a second, shook his head decisively.

  "Not a burial, as such. Instruct Mr Wickham to cut the stakes and crosses and lay the men down together and then cover them with rubble from the walls. Good and deep. Major Ponsonby-Willet to the quarterdeck."

  Olsen ran, brought the major at the quick march.

  "Major, you are to go ashore with Midshipman Weymouth, if you please, and report on all you see for the Governor's benefit. He will need you to witness so nearly unbelievable a sight."

  "Burn the town, gentlemen! Raze every building, destroy every food store, set light to every garden, chop down every coconut palm. I do not have salt enough to plough the ground as was done to Carthage, otherwise I would. Mr Dench, you will go through the whole of the waterfront and burn every fishing boat and its nets, and then the wharfs themselves, sir. The men to be at liberty to prize anything of value and to bring aboard any food that takes their fancy. Take pains to destroy every water butt and well you come across - they will not enjoy their Dry Season!"