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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Not very much,” was Major Prentice’s opinion, chuckling quietly. “The boy is lost, sir – poor little chap. He is without guidance and very young. His whole family died, as far as I can gather – and that must have hurt the lad, how can it not have? Add to that, he has no personal household, no set of his own advisors, and, at his age, that is no surprise. I do not know if he was heir, or simply a younger son suddenly promoted – and I do not see that he can hope to survive. The first caravan that enters will discover a home for the tribe to walk into, cutting the boy’s throat as a necessary preliminary. If we protect him for a few months, hiring on a bodyguard and putting his defences in order, then the colonel of his people will celebrate our departure by garrotting him, and will step onto his throne.”

  “That is a pity, Major Prentice. Does it matter to us?”

  “Not in the least, sir. We might do better in fact to be rid of him and have a man of our selection put in his place, so as to guarantee the future friendship of the city state – if we have made the new Dey, the French will wish to unmake him, so he is forced into our alliance.”

  Very unpleasant, Frederick reflected, but he had to take the universe as it was, not as how he would like it to be, and this North African world was openly cynical in its particular forms of greed and power-seeking. He wondered if there was in fact any great difference between the Moors cutting their enemies’ throats and the London politicians stabbing each others’ backs.

  “’Autre pays, autre moeurs’,” he thought, rather proud of himself for his erudition. He was tempted to make the comment to Major Prentice, but was not quite so sure that he was correct in either words or pronunciation and did not wish to make himself a laughing-stock.

  “Could we send the boy away, for his own protection, perhaps? I am unwilling to see a child left to die when I might be able to save him. Mr Aggers, will you beg Mr Woodhouse to come to the cabin?”

  Mr Woodhouse listened, accepted there was a problem and volunteered to cut the lad’s throat himself, ‘just to make all tidy’.

  “It is obvious that he will be a source of weakness, of instability, that we do not need here, Sir Frederick. If we took him away, placed him in the custody of the Emperor of Morocco, as an example, then we would be creating a threat to the throne. The Emperor might invade at any convenient moment, to restore his ward to his proper place. Best that the boy should either establish himself, or be removed permanently.”

  The scowls that greeted his offer led him to suggest an alternative.

  “We could hire a guard for him, of reliable foreigners, not themselves able ever to command the loyalty of a local Berber population, and hence never to openly rule here. We have the better part of a regiment of mercenaries from the Balkan shores, sir, sat in their transports and wondering whether their throats are to be cut, or if they are to be set to slave labour and worked to death, perhaps on the moles at Gibraltar, renowned as one of the hell-holes of the Mediterranean. Always a need for more ‘convict’ labour at Gibraltar, sir, and no doubt they will end up there if we send them to Malta as prisoners without right of country. They cannot be French prisoners of war, by their very nature – they are mercenaries, with no rights at all under the Laws of War – and therefore they must be seen as criminals. Offered a choice between being worked and flogged to death or becoming loyal servants of the new Dey, I do not doubt their reaction – and it will be convenient from the Admiralty’s point of view, sir, not having at a later date to explain what had happened to them. Assume, sir, the possibility that in ten years from now there is a Kingdom of Albania, and that the Ambassador to St James shall ask what became of the thousand of his countrymen who fell into the hands of Admiral Sir Frederick Harris at Misrata… Better far they should be discovered to be happy bodyguards in the employ of the Dey!”

  “Persuasive indeed, Mr Woodhouse! Major Prentice?”

  “I am much in favour, sir. Properly constituted as a guard unit, they could be very useful. Not simply as ceremonial protection, but to hold the gates and to patrol the farming areas in the immediate hinterland, sir. They could be useful and busy. The Dey has funds sufficient to pay them for a year at least, and by then there should be a flow of ordinary taxation. There will be merchants coming from along the coast to replace those lost, for the caravans will return to Misrata; the routes are ancient and the waterholes – the oases – are such as to force them to this point on the coast.”

  They agreed that the mercenaries should be approached to enter the service of the Dey; the question arose of how this was to be achieved.

  “They must be spoken to, but in what language? It is not unreasonable to assume that they must be able to communicate with their French paymasters – but who has a fluency in French?”

  Mr Woodhouse stated that he had, and, although he preferred not to seek the limelight, he would put himself forward for the task.

  “Very good, sir – I am so pleased at your sacrifice of anonymity, so valued by a man in your trade. Mr Aggers, Captain Mayhew to be requested to confer with me.”

  Lieutenant Aggers left to pass instructions for the signal to be made; Mr Woodhouse wondered if they did not need some urgency in the matter.

  “The sooner I can speak to these people on the transports, the better, before they become too desperate. Perhaps we should not wait on Captain Mayhew’s convenience, sir.”

  “Mr Woodhouse, when an admiral asks to speak to a captain, he expects that captain to be present on the quarterdeck inside the next five minutes – four if possible. Any captain is aware of this and will move Heaven and Earth to conform. Whatever else he may be doing – quite literally – will be brought to an instant halt, even if he has to run cross-legged from the heads. I confidently expect to hear him piped over the side in the next three minutes, sir.”

  Mr Woodhouse peered surreptitiously at his watch, was impressed when he heard piping at a little more than two minutes gone. Frederick was surprised as well – Mayhew must have been in his boat en route elsewhere when he had spotted the signal.

  “Mr Mayhew, a pleasure to see you here so very promptly. We have a new use for the mercenaries, sir. They are to be offered the chance to serve the Dey as a palace guard and town garrison. Mr Woodhouse will speak to them. You are to transport him to their ships.”

  “Aye aye, sir. The troops of mercenaries were separated by their place of origin, sir. I boarded the rearmost of the four to discover whether it was possible to pack the survivors into just three vessels; they told me that it would be wiser to keep them apart. Two of the tribes are Muslim, sir, the others Greek Orthodox and Roman Catholic. The leading vessel, which showed fight, you will remember, sir, was of the Mussulman persuasion. Each ship has men who speak French, sir, and my premier is fluent, sir, being a Jerseyman.”

  “Can you set the two tribes of Mussulmen together?”

  “Only to fight the Christians, sir, being as that they are of different sects, as opposed to each other as Methodies and Church of England, sir.”

  “Beyond my limited understanding, Captain Mayhew. Give them the free choice, sir, of entering the service of the Dey of Misrata, or of becoming prisoners and being sent to Malta. If they go to Malta, they will instantly be transferred to Gibraltar – and you may make that clear to them.”

  “I am sure they will volunteer, sir. Even the Christians will prefer being marooned on the African coast to being sent to the labour gangs on the Rock.”

  “Wise of them, I have no doubt.”

  Frederick watched the transports shift one after the other to the quayside next day and the mercenaries disembark and march off to the palace. Their weaponry had been returned to them as soon as they had sworn service – they could not work unarmed.

  “What a set of bloody-handed pirates, Captain Arbuthnot! Have you ever seen the like, sir?”

  Their dress was outlandish to English eyes, baggy trousers and blouses not being normal wear in Portsmouth, but it was the collection of blades and firelocks that drew the
eye. Every man carried a long flintlock, at least a four-foot barrel, as well as pistols, sometimes four or six on a bandoleer of sorts, and a longsword and various knives and daggers. Each of the tribes had its own sort of sword, some straight, some of scimitar pattern, but all were designed for two hands, for hacking and slashing in a brutal melee.

  “That tall one, over at the front of the third company, Captain Arbuthnot, do you see the butcher’s blade he is carrying?”

  “Five feet long, at least, and a handspan wide – it must weigh fifty pounds, sir, all of solid steel. Young Olsen will be envious, I doubt not!”

  “Small wonder they do not carry shields, Captain Arbuthnot. They would slash straight through anything one could reasonably carry.”

  “Madness, sir. Let us hope they remain loyal to their pledged word, sir. I would not fancy keeping them off of a dark night.”

  “Nor me, sir. Mr Woodhouse said that they had spoken to him, once they had taken his money and could do so without being disloyal to an employer. They were no longer in the French service and so could legitimately tell us all they knew, which was that there was at least two more regiments to follow, and soon.”

  “Sloops, sir, to scout?”

  “I think so, the three remaining with us to go out in consort towards the west of Crete and then form a patrol line, sweeping back to the Gulf here before reporting in and then repeating.”

  “I shall write their orders now, sir.”

  The brigs and cutters were patrolling inshore and Sandwich was about to take her convoy out, accompanied by Puffin. The most important task remaining was to emplace Preston’s guns where they would be most unexpected.

  “Captain Baker, are you satisfied that all is well with Preston’s disposition?”

  “She is tied up at the shallowest place along the quay, sir, with no more than a fathom underneath her keel. Without pumping, she will fill at least one foot a day, probably more. She will be on the mud before the week is out, sir. The men are emptying her holds now, sir. The upper starboard battery will remain aboard, sir, while the remainder of the guns are to go ashore - which will take a good two days, sir. We have it planned that the thirty-two pounders will replace the old Turkish guns, sir, in their batteries, and will also be emplaced behind sandbags on the wharf, directly opposite to the harbour mouth. We are examining the possibility of setting up twenty-four-pound batteries along the bluffs, sir. That would probably take many weeks, sir, and might not be practical.”

  There were low sandstone cliffs to either side of the harbour, little more than fifty feet high, but with no roads, there being no sensible reason to cross them. Frederick decided against placing guns where they could not be removed in a hurry; they were not staying indefinitely, Misrata was not to become another Gibraltar – he lacked the authority to create a new colony.

  “Order your lieutenants or master’s mates, or midshipmen if you have any of value, four of them, to select a large fishing boat apiece and ship a big gun in the bows, Captain Baker. They may be useful at night in case of a boat attack.”

  Captain Baker acknowledged the command, privately thinking it to be a nonsense, but he was not to tell his admiral that his orders were foolish.

  “Valmy frigate will, under your command, pick up the bulk of your carronades, Captain Baker; you might not be able to ship all twelve. Put them to a convenient location where they can forbid the quays to a landing party for the while. Correctly, of course, you will leave orders for them to be placed. You are to surrender Preston to your premier and take yourself aboard Sandwich for passage to Malta, with immediate effect, sir. Have you officers you wish to take with you as followers?”

  Captain Baker had no lieutenants of so great a value to him that he could not farewell them. Frederick noted that they were rather average young men – it was useful to have a little knowledge of the individuals on his ships when it came to future questions of promotion.

  Hamble cutter came in from the west, battered, and carrying the crew of Arun with her. They had together met a roving xebec, far larger than the pair together, and had, naturally, attacked her.

  “Eight four-pound guns, between you, and how many swivels?”

  “Six, sir, and some musketoons, sir, and Arun laid hands on some French stinkpots last year. Additionally, sir, you may notice that we happen to have a little carronade in the bow, sir.”

  “I shall not ask where that came from, Mr Phillips. What is it, by the way? It does not look like a twelve, but is much the same length in the barrel.”

  “Sixteen, sir, Swedish in origin – we were in the Baltic last year, sir, and I was able to lay hands on a keg or two of navy rum, sir.”

  “God bless us all! Continue with your report, sir.”

  “Sir, we split, port and starboard, across the wind, tacking and wearing to cross the xebec, or so it was intended, sir.”

  Frederick scowled – that was never to be successful against a pirate xebec.

  “But, Mr Phillips, with her far greater crew and so handy a rig, she tacked more quickly than you?”

  “Yes, sir. She put a broadside into Arun, sir, dismasted her, but we were able to fire two rounds from the carronade across her stern, sir, destroying tiller and steersmen alike, and then cross her as she fell off. Two four-pounders and all of the swivels and everything else we had, sir, knocked down some of her crew – quite a number in fact. She rolled in the trough, sir, and fouled Arun, who tossed her stinkpots on board, sir, and started a fire. We rescued Arun’s people and ran, sir. She was blazing well when we came away and we saw her to sink at two miles’ distance.”

  “Write your report, sir. I must commend you on your victory, of course, but I might suggest just a little more of prudence in the future. Better far to have run in front of her, Arun to draw her in and you, being faster, to make all haste to Misrata and the aid of a sloop. And yes, sir, I do remember my own words that no man can do far wrong if he lays himself alongside the enemy.”

  Mr Phillips showed contrite, his expression making it clear that he would never have dreamed of throwing the admiral’s words back in his face. Frederick turned to the disconsolate ex-captain of Arun, now no more than an unemployed lieutenant.

  “Mr Catesby, you must stand trial for the loss of your command. That is our law and I cannot change it. I shall send you to Malta as soon as is possible. For the while, sir, you must remain as a passenger, for I cannot use you until you are cleared by your court. Keep your sword, sir. I have no doubt you will be honourably acquitted and I can assure you that you will be employed in the squadron.”

  Losing a cutter was a nuisance, but it made two dozen experienced hands available to the rest of the squadron, and they would be useful – small ship sailors were invariably able, they had to learn their trade very quickly and turn their hands to different tasks – there could be no landsmen in their midst.

  Frederick gave the question thought and then sent Hamble to Malta to refit. He did not want her laid up in Misrata, possibly to be burned if they had to flee the harbour. It gave him a way of removing Mr Catesby as well – nothing worse for a ship than having an idle lieutenant waiting trial and hanging around the wardroom long-faced and increasingly nervous. It was irritating, because he was forced to find time to write a despatch relating to Hamble’s action, an hour wasted when he had far more necessary things to do.

  There was also the question of how to deal with Lieutenant Phillips – glorify him, for a bold and successful action, or give him faint praise as a rash hothead who had made a very bad decision?

  “Mr Aggers – which is senior of Catesby and Phillips?”

  That was the sort of thing a flag-lieutenant was expected to know; Aggers did not disappoint him.

  “Catesby, sir, by a year.”

  That made the report far easier – Catesby had been in command and had made the mistake that led to the sinking of his own cutter. Lieutenant Phillips had, in fact, saved the day, and Frederick’s letter to Admiral Keppel, to be forwarded to
the Admiralty, would say just that. The good lieutenant could realistically be made master and commander for his action; Frederick had no place for him, no sloop to give him – and he could not remain in his cutter with such rank – so it would be inappropriate for him to make the promotion. If Admiral Keppel had a vacancy, he would put Phillips into it; failing that, the deserving young man would take ship back to England and join the ranks of the promoted and unemployed – and there were nearly two hundreds of masters and commanders on the beach.

  ‘The proverbial two-edged sword’, Frederick reflected, sending the young man off and forgetting him, for having more important business to hand.

  “Major Prentice, your men are to have the fortifications along the shoreline, the new guard to hold the inland wall of the town. Preston’s gunners have the batteries, under command of her lieutenants. I shall make Preston’s premier master and commander, in recognition of his important place, and he will be second to you in the town. Encourage the people of the town to return – if any come to the gates, allow them back. Reopen the markets, if possible, and buy from the local farmers. Remember that the Dey commands his own little kingdom, or whatever he calls it, and take care that he gives the orders, but only the ones that you want. You know what is needed, sir – treat him with a great show of respect and kick his backside if he steps out of line.”

  Major Prentice nodded gravely – he knew exactly what to do.

  “I intend to take Conquest and Harfleur out, hopefully to pick up the sloops on their patrol line, and take a look as far as Crete. There is, or should be, another convoy of Frogs, due here any week. We will aim to return in, perhaps, fourteen days – but that depends upon the winds, naturally. Hold the harbour, sir.”

  “And the town, Sir Frederick?”

  “Less important, Major Prentice – it’s not our town, after all.”

  The two ships sailed in a hot, sere, offshore wind, blowing hard off the desert and full of dust. It was not a sandstorm as such, but every mouthful of water was gritty; their eyes were red and sore; their ears irritated for feeling full. Conquest was ten miles offshore before the ill-effects lessened sufficiently that they could enjoy the cooling breeze across the sea.