Shores of Barbary (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 12)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Who is the captain?”

  “Unknown to me, sir. A Captain Knyvett – an old enough name, but of no significance to me.”

  “Nor me, Mr Aggers. What is the time? I must make inspections of every ship, and of the brigs and cutters, but it is important that I do so correctly. What is our 74, again?”

  “Preston, sir, Captain Baker. Statement of condition suggests that all is well, sir. Crew down, of course, but she has been in commission for four years now.”

  “Well, I have good news for him on that. Make a signal apologising for short notice and informing Captain Baker that I shall make my first visit to him in one hour from now. Inform Harfleur that I shall proceed from Preston directly to him. I must give Baker an hour, but if he is any good, he will be ready for inspection, knowing that I must see him today or tomorrow.”

  Captain Baker was very good, it seemed. Preston was a bad ship – one of the Forty Thieves, built in English yards by private contractors under terms that were so corrupt that even Parliament had noticed and raised queries. The bulk of them, less than twenty years old, had already been retired from the sea and were in use as hulks and receiving ships, even broken up for firewood. Those that still kept the sea had been braced and remasted, rotten timbers cut out and the bulk of the leaks stopped; they were still slow and unstable, but could be used as floating batteries, even if good for little else. For a squadron that would be operating along the coast, bombarding towns and harbours, Preston was moderately useful. She was in remarkable condition.

  “Kept her in Malta for the past six years, sir. I took her over two years ago, when I was made, sir. She was no more than part of the harbour defences, but then there was a delivery of forty-two pound coastal long guns, sir, the ones with a three mile range, sir. No need for Preston so she was sent home, sir, just two months ago. Would have been simpler if they had left us at Gibraltar, sir. But at least, I got to see England again. First time home in eleven years, sir. Went out as a mid, came back with my own 74!”

  Captain Baker was a rotund, jolly little man, no taller than Frederick but several stone heavier, and a competent seaman judging by the appearance of his ship. Very little of shiny brass, no end of recently painted timber.

  “She is wet and the Carpenter is in an unending battle with rot, sir, but we have managed to keep her in working order. I might not wish to fire an all-out broadside, I shall admit, but rolling fire over the space of thirty seconds should not be too great a strain upon her. The admiral equipped us with a very respectable broadside, sir, when we were defending Grand Harbour in Malta. Long thirty-two pounders, sir, on the lower deck, the sort more normally used as chasers; more ordinary twenty-four pound guns on the upper deck and old, condemned sixty-four pound carronades, twelve of ‘em. They were condemned for age and being no longer the issue, sir, not for any lack of quality in them; still perfectly sound.”

  Frederick counted carefully, whistled his surprise.

  “At a cable distant, you could throw two thirds of a ton of metal at an enemy!”

  “Exactly so, sir. We could never chase the target, sir, but bring us close alongside and see what might happen!”

  “I can imagine, Captain Baker! I have every hope of bringing you to close action, sir. There will be one hundred of able and ordinary seamen put aboard you in the morning, sir. Can you use them?”

  “I need one hundred and twenty, sir, to make full complement. The twenty could be landsmen or boys quite equally. I had not expected one half so many, sir!”

  “Work up your guns, Captain Baker. Be ready to fire both broadsides – it may be the case that I will order you to lead us into a harbour mouth with batteries on either side. Will you introduce me to your officers, sir?”

  It was not necessarily always the case that the lieutenants would all be named to the admiral, was indeed by way of being a compliment to the ship.

  They were four ordinary, skilled men – tanned, weather-beaten young, and middle-aged in one case, gentlemen with an air of competence – exactly as one might expect to discover. Frederick stopped and scratched his head as he was introduced to the Third.

  “I have seen your face before, sir, but I do not believe you ever sailed with me?”

  “I was midshipman to Sir Iain Jackman, sir, in the Sugar Islands. I brought a pair of taken merchant sloops to Antigua, sir, which you was present.”

  “Full of prisoners, I remember. I forget faces too easily, am glad I remembered yours, sir.”

  Captain Baker accompanied Frederick to the side, as was obligatory.

  “While I think of it, Captain Baker, you will have met Captain Backham while you were in Malta.”

  “I did indeed, sir, and ate a dinner at his home on more than one occasion. He has a fine lady wife and two strong sons now. He mentioned your name more than once, I would add, with a deal of respect and affection! Admiral Sir Iain Farquhar had conceived a value for him, sir, and he had a very pretty frigate, Doge, taken from the Venetians and of forty guns, sir, with which he was given a number of cruises while I was in Malta. I believe that he had cobbled together a handsome fortune, sir, before I left. I expect that he must soon be promoted into a greater ship.”

  “Good! I made him Master and Commander, you know, and had the profoundest admiration for his seamanship. A fine man! I must go to Harfleur now. I trust I will find another seaman there.”

  Captain Baker opened his mouth, then clamped it shut again, unwilling to disparage a fellow-captain, a man he might serve with for the next three years. Frederick read his face and nodded, his suspicions confirmed.

  “I noticed that your Punishment Book had very few entries, Captain Baker. I much approve, sir.”

  “Then you may not be so pleased on Harfleur, sir.”

  “As I suspected. Let me get a grip on this damned ladder, Captain Baker. Don’t lose an arm, sir – it is a bloody nuisance!”

  The pipes shrilled and Frederick made his way down the side, aware of hands at his back and guiding his feet down the long steps. He carefully made a point of not noticing the hands, which enabled all to pretend they were not there – ceremony was all-important.

  “Harfleur, Kavanagh. What have you heard?”

  Kavanagh would have been talking with the senior hands and the lesser warrants during the hour of Frederick’s inspection, would have heard all of the gossip that had not come to his ears in Conquest.

  “A thousand dozen a week, sir. More if he can find excuse – which he is very skilled at doing.”

  Frederick climbed Harfleur’s side grim-faced, ready for an unpleasant hour.

  He was met by the premier, stiffly raising his hat.

  “Beg to report, sir, that Captain Knyvett has been taken seriously ill, sir. He is in his cot, sir, the Surgeon at his side.”

  “A coincidence that he should become unwell just as his admiral is about to make his inspection, sir.”

  “It is indeed, sir.”

  “What is the nature of his illness?”

  “A food poisoning, the Surgeon suggests, sir. He ate something that disagreed with him.”

  Frederick stared at the bland face and wondered whether that something was arsenic.

  The doctor came on deck, took his hat off, shaking his head.

  “I much regret to report, sir, that Captain Knyvett has joined his forefathers. He is dead, sir.”

  “Is he, by God!”

  “Yes, sir. I must imagine that he ate a piece of bad meat, sir, for he showed symptoms much like the botulism.”

  ‘Bloody liar’, Frederick thought. The Surgeon was too visibly unmoved for such an occurrence. A food poisoning was not unheard of, but always demanded the most urgent examination and discovery of its source for fear of more of the crew taking the illness.

  “Well, gentlemen, we must deal with the business of replacing Captain Knyvett. You will wish to write your certificate, sir. The body must be taken ashore, which demands a coffin. I shall speak to the Port Admiral and arrange a funeral. You, si
r, I did not catch your name.”

  The Premier announced himself to be a member of the Paget family, a distant cousin, he said.

  “How long have you held your rank, Mr Paget?”

  “Eight years, sir, five of them in this ship.”

  Frederick’s first wife, Iain’s mother, had been a Paget and the family had accepted him into the clan. They were one of the more powerful sources of influence in the country and Frederick was obligated to them. The sole question was exactly what he must do for Mr Paget.

  The choices were threefold: he could arrange for Paget to be made post and to take Harfleur; he could make him Master and Commander and give him a sloop; he could promote the captain of his frigate into Harfleur and give the frigate itself to Paget. It was by no means unknown for a lieutenant to succeed directly to his post-captain’s shoes; most served as Master and Commander first, but not all.

  “I wish to inspect the ship, Mr Paget.”

  Housekeeping was the first lieutenant’s responsibility – the state of the ship would indicate just how competent he was.

  “Captain Knyvett was a great one for the brass, sir.”

  Frederick glanced about him, saw as much brass as Andromache had ever sported.

  “Far too much show, Mr Paget.”

  “I fear so, sir. And three dozen to the man responsible if any piece was dull, sir.”

  “The deck is perfectly white, Mr Paget.”

  “Unmarked by gun trucks, sir. We have not fired a gun in three years, since Captain Knyvett came aboard, sir. Blockade duty, sir. No action.”

  “That will change, Mr Paget. Let me see the Books, if you please.”

  The Punishment Book showed no more than three or four dozen lashes a week. Frederick raised an eyebrow – falsification of the Books, any of them, had hanged captains in the past.

  “The Book was made up by the Captain’s Clerk, sir. Under his orders. The Clerk was lost overboard last week, sir. Thought to have been drunk.”

  It occurred to Frederick that Mr Paget had been pushed too far and had reacted rather vigorously. However, he needed fighting men of action in his squadron.

  “I am to see the Port Admiral immediately, Mr Paget. I will return today, I trust. For the while, you must dress the ship in mourning, sir.”

  Flag to half-mast and yards a-cockbill, the necessary minimum to display grief – essential to be shown in harbour.

  “Thus, Sir Peter, I am bereft of a captain, almost immediately before sailing day. I am much inclined to reduce the disruption to the one ship rather than initiate a chain of promotions through the whole squadron – I have no great desire to sail with new officers settling in to three or four of my command.”

  “Who is Premier of Harfleur, Sir Frederick?”

  “A Lieutenant Paget, sir.”

  “Paget?”

  “Paget indeed, sir.”

  “He must be made post, I believe, Sir Frederick. I shall communicate with the Admiralty upon the matter, though not perhaps instantly by means of the semaphore telegraph. I think a letter in tomorrow’s postbag, and not marked ‘Immediate’, will suffice.”

  The Admiralty would be aware that they could not make another response before the squadron had sailed, and the responsible officers there would also see the name Paget and if need be take care to be dilatory. By the time the squadron returned, all would be forgotten.

  “The anomalous Marines, sir. I must take a look at them tomorrow, I suspect.”

  “A large half-battalion, Sir Frederick, of sea-soldiers. Five companies, each of between eighty and ninety men, corporals included; two sergeants and a junior officer; a lieutenant and a captain apiece as well, and a major in command.”

  A powerful landing force, such as had been proposed for some years, dedicated to the purpose rather than the Marines from each ship gathered together ad hoc.

  “Much to be said for such a force, sir. Men who are used to working together and know each other. By the way, why did you say ‘a junior officer’, sir? It occurs to me that such would normally be a lieutenant or ensign… Where was this half-battalion raised, sir? Are they, shall we say, less than wholly British in their origin? Perhaps Spanish prisoners of war, brought from captivity now that Spain is in effect an ally?”

  “A good guess, Sir Frederick. Very perceptive. Quite incorrect, however. The men are all British - in law, that is, having been brought to the colours in a British colony. Some ten years ago, more in fact, when the war in the Sugar Islands was hot, government chose to recruit local men to the army, so many of those sent out from England having died of the fevers. The better part of ten thousand slaves were purchased, many direct from the ship. They made good soldiers, I am told. When the campaigns ended they remained in garrison, the survivors, that is; then, the war having grown cold, the French having in effect admitted defeat in the Islands, the numbers were reduced. Many of the men were discharged as free and with a small payment, a few pounds in their hands. Some remained and were recently offered the chance to serve at sea, with the inducement that they would be discharged in England – a land which they believe to be rich and welcoming. You have a half-battalion of those men – the junior officers drawn from their ranks.”

  “Well I’m damned! Never heard the like, sir! You say they fought well as soldiers? They will have the opportunity to do the same as Marines. My servant Bosomtwi will approve, no doubt, and of course Lord Nelson’s coxswain was a man of colour – there is precedent in sufficiency. Every ship will have seamen from Africa and India, and no doubt some few from the Sugar Islands. They will do, sir, unless they show they will not. I must visit their ships and make them welcome – they will fight the better for seeing an admiral who appears to value them.”

  “Such cynicism, Sir Frederick! I wholly agree. By the way, I have received a letter, express, from a sort of nephew of mine, one Mainwaring, who had been given an Admiralty cutter and now is seeking employment after just two months. He is inclined to suggest that you are author of his misfortunes; I had doubts when I saw him given the position, but he is the son of a half-sister…”

  “A cutter at twelve knots, passing Shoeburyness before dawn, entering the Estuary, sir!”

  “And you did not drown, Sir Frederick! I am amazed!”

  “I gently pointed out the presence of no fewer than seven Thames barges under his bows, sir, just in time.”

  “An idiot boy indeed, Sir Frederick. Every family has them, you know. I must look after him still – the bomb Vesuvius is to sail to the Baltic and has a place for a premier. First Lieutenant sounds generous, will keep the family quiet, and the boy may have the chance to learn his trade, if the ketch survives.”

  Both men were satisfied, Frederick now under a slight obligation to the Parker clan which he could no doubt pay off with an inappropriate promotion at a later date. It was the way the world worked.

  Two days of tedious visiting: frigate, post-ship, sloops, brigs and cutters, all in order of seniority, each to have its half an hour to display its shining brass and scrubbed decks, all to impress an admiral who had done the same thing himself and knew just how false it all was. It had to be done; the men had to see their admiral and in some cases knuckle a forehead to him as he recognised them from past commissions.

  He came to the store-ships last, as was proper, they being hired civilians rather than navy, and inspected the four hundred sea-soldiers in their rigid lines. He was impressed - he was not used to volunteers, anxious to be seen to excel. The major in command of the half-battalion accompanied him, told him they were good soldiers, he could have confidence in them.

  “They will be right at the front, Major Prentice. We shall be making more than one landing to take the dens of Barbary pirates and I shall rely on your men. They look like fighting men.”

  “They will be there, sir, right at the forefront. You may trust them wholly.”

  “I shall, Major Prentice. Take advantage of any time we spend in harbour to improve their boat work, sir. They wil
l need be quick into and out of their boats.” Frederick raised his voice, to be heard by the front ranks, who would pass the word back. “Good soldiers and fine-looking men – they look very fierce to me, sir. I am lucky to have men like these under my command.”

  He inspected the ships as well – hired merchantmen, chartered out of Port Royal in Jamaica with crews just sufficient to sail them, in the commercial fashion. He shuddered at their names – Mary Jane and Smith’s Nelly – again very mercantile. They would do, just for a voyage through the Mediterranean, though he would not have wished to expose them to a hurricane.

  Half a day to decide upon sailing order and to set a series of rendezvous in case they were scattered by storm and Frederick sent the instruction that they were to sail at first light next day, the tide serving to take them out of harbour even if the wind was uncooperative.

  Then he sat down to write his letters home, regretting that the exigencies of the service did not permit him to make his final goodbyes in person. One private letter to Elizabeth; one designed to be seen by the whole family, addressed to Iain, discussing the estate and begging him to continue in his good work as protector of the family’s interests and effective guardian of the younger children, for his father relied much upon his great good sense during his own absence. He hoped it would help.

  A final visit to the Port Admiral, essential to make his courteous farewells and thanks.

  “Confirmation that Captain Paget is made, Sir Frederick, not a mere acting command. The telegraph has its uses, as well as being a damned menace for making the Admiralty so close. How can I command Portsmouth when the First Lord is less than half an hour distant?”

  “Not a problem I shall face in the Mediterranean, sir. But, I agree – very difficult. I am glad for Paget, however. Definitely a man who does not shy from vigorous action.”

  “You think he killed, Knyvett, Sir Frederick?”

  “Indirectly, I am utterly certain he did, sir. I imagine that the doctor administered a fatal dose, but that it was done with Captain Paget’s knowledge and approval, I do not doubt. I have to say that I am rather glad that he did. Knyvett had falsified his Punishment Book, sir, and there would have been an extremely unpleasant court-martial on that coming to light. A falsified Book means that the sentences were not lawful, and that means a series of capital charges for assaults upon the hands once the lie is established. He must have hanged, sir. We do not want that – or I do not at least, not in my squadron.”