“The estate is yours, of course, in its entirety, and with an income from Consols and the Exchange that may surprise you. Squire Paget is an active man and often in London and he has put me onto more than one sure thing these last years. Listen well to his advice if he gives it, Frederick!”
Frederick and Elizabeth travelled to Portsmouth, both boys and nurses in company, and took their rooms in the Crown. On their last evening together they hosted a dinner for the captains of the squadron, a first and not quite formal meeting to enable them to talk to each other before Frederick had read himself in and assumed his role of lord of them all.
Jackman and Murray, as second seniors in the squadron, stood at Frederick’s side as he greeted the junior captains, necessarily in order of rank.
“Captain Smith, I am pleased to meet you, sir. I believe you have had Wallsend since she was bought into the service and converted to a bomb?”
“Aye, sir, two years and three months. I have yet to take her into action, Sir Frederick, the Peace intervening, ye will gather.”
There was a northern twang to his speech, but his vocabulary was that of an educated man; many hours spent in his lonely cabin with good books, Frederick suspected. He watched and listened as Smith greeted his wife, his manners more than adequate. He met the social criteria the Navy demanded of its post-captains.
“Mr Byng, how do you do, sir?”
On his ship the lieutenant must be addressed as ‘captain’; on shore he used his actual rank and ‘mister’ was the normal compromise.
“Very well, thank you, sir. I am pleased to meet you, sir.”
A little effusive, but clearly spoken in the King’s English accent; he bowed over Elizabeth’s hand, causing an eyebrow to rise.
“Mr Perlman, I believe?”
“I am, sir. How do you do?”
The faintest trace of guttural German, so slight as to be almost unnoticeable if one was not looking for it. Born and bred up in England one could presume.
They talked over a glass of sherry, Murray and Jackman able to break the ice in a way that would have been impossible for Frederick whose rank must overawe the young men.
They sat to table, Frederick suddenly remembering that Jews had dietary laws, he was sure he had heard something about pork…
A quick glance showed that Perlman had no trouble with such matters – his plate was well filled. He would have found life aboard ship impossible, thinking on it, if he had not eaten his pork in the gunroom; either he did not practice his religion or he had a dispensation of some sort.
None of the young men had served in the Tropics and they were pleased to listen to Jackman’s tales of the Southern waters while Murray spoke entertainingly of the Greek islands and the strange habits of the Ottomans. The evening went well and the bottles passed round to good effect; a very satisfactory first meeting.
Frederick sat back after escorting the last of his guests to the door, easing his half-boots off his aching feet.
“Damned Admiralty dress pattern! Their boots kill my feet!”
Elizabeth had lost count of the number of times she had heard those words; she was aware that his feet would hurt. She had other matters on her mind.
“I think this may be the best time to inform you, sir, that I am increasing. Six months from now should bring a brother or sister for Iain and Robert. I shall write regularly, sir, and you know how they will cosset me at Abbey – you must not fear for me!”
He knew that he must not; he knew that he would.
Friday morning brought Frederick aboard Trident, full ceremonial entry, the ship squeaky clean, the thin crew attempting attention and all officers dressed in their very best.
Frederick looked most carefully at his officers – a glance and half-smile at the men acknowledged them as much as he could, as they expected; a single sweep stem to stern for the ship; a long, searching stare at each lieutenant.
Four young men – none of them poor; each showed signs of a private income, of a hundred or two, or more, in addition to his pay. He watched as they lifted their hats and stiffened as the commodore’s pennant, the confusingly named ‘broad pendant’, reached the masthead – all correct and showing proper respect. Expensive uniforms, three out of the four new, worn for the first time; the exception had refitted a bare twelvemonth before. None of them flash – no excesses of gold on sword hilts or of diamond tie-pins – but all tailored and cut from the best cloths.
The premier stepped forward.
“Vereker, sir; I have the honour to be your First Lieutenant. May I introduce Mr McPherson, Second; Mr Duff, Third; Mr Akers, Fourth. I believe that Mr Nias, Master, is already known to you, as are the other senior warrants.”
Frederick courteously raised his own hat in response to their salutations; the protocol of respect was not yet established on the quarterdeck – some officers touched their hats, others raised them to their seniors. Presumably the Admiralty had found more important matters to consider. Frederick felt that he could not be faulted for displaying respect to the young men he would lead, some to glory, others to death.
“No midshipmen, Mr Vereker? I had understood there were to be five.”
“A message from the Port-Admiral, sir, to the effect that he has candidates for the places but he preferred to hold them against your inspection later today.”
“Very good. Mr Fox!”
Fox, correctly, had stayed in the boat alongside until first ceremony was complete; he now appeared and stood beside Murray whose anomalous nature had been dealt with by initially pretending he was not there.
“Would you read me in please, Mr Vereker?”
The brief but necessary procedure of reading the captain’s commission aloud once performed and Frederick was able to give orders.
“Captain Murray is a member of my staff, Mr Vereker, to act as political and diplomatic adviser.”
He had been aboard for nearly a week, unofficially and effectively as a guest. Vereker, President of the Wardroom, could only now formally greet him.
“I am sure that Captain Murray would be welcome as a member of the Wardroom, sir.”
It was possible that Frederick might prefer Murray to dine with him in his cabin, effectively divorcing him from the rest of the crew.
“Excellent, Mr Vereker; I am sure that Captain Murray would find that most satisfactory. I believe he will wish to occupy the cabin space that was made for him during our last commission.”
Murray had already returned to the cabin that had been his, larger and more comfortable than that of the general run of officers, carved out of the boatswain’s stores space. He was wholly unaware that he was in any way privileged.
The men had been dismissed to their ordinary duties, spreading themselves thinly about the deck.
“We are to sail on Tuesday next, I believe, Sir Frederick, short-handed in the extreme, sir!”
“An additional squad of Marines should appear today, Mr Vereker, and the better part of one hundred of landsmen dragged out of the streets.”
Frederick explained the nature of the prisoners-of-war who were to be coerced to volunteer.
“A paradoxical process, if I might say so, sir.”
“Necessary, Mr Vereker. Our orders have been amended to permit us to call in Cork, sir. One is given to understand that there is a great mass of starving young men there, the crops having failed. There will as well be a number – how many I do not know – of able-bodied seamen appearing today, all having been petty officers and to take that role again.”
They entered Frederick’s cabin, his followers busily setting it into the order they were used to.
“I must appoint a captain’s clerk, my own young man having progressed to higher things. Do you know of any man in Portsmouth who could take the post?”
“Not in Portsmouth, sir, but I could have a gentleman known to me from my father’s estate in Kent here by Monday. He is the son of the estate agent, sir, literate and able and unhappy working as clerk to a solicitor in
Sevenoaks. He is too old to be a midshipman but would, I am sure, take to the sea. With your permission, I shall send him an Express.”
It was a kindness to Vereker to allow him such patronage; he must be expected to respond in some way on some future occasion. His family might well have a little of influence to offer.
“Please do, Mr Vereker. For the while, sir, you must know my people – cox’n, servant, cook and Marc and Jean, forecastle party and sharpshooters.”
Frederick gestured to the two big rifles in the corner of the cabin.
“I have heard of them, sir – their marksmanship has been mentioned in my presence.”
The doings of any prominent captain were bound to be discussed in idle hours in every wardroom - anything out of the ordinary would be dissected in tedious detail during long commissions.
“Are you satisfied with your juniors, Mr Vereker?”
The question had to be asked although it was dreaded by most first lieutenants. If they expressed doubts about second, third or fourth then the young gentleman would very probably be beached, the circumstances obviously discreditable and his future in the service jeopardised; if they made no demur then any future failings would be laid at their door.
“I have sailed with Mr McPherson and Mr Duff, sir, and know them to be more than competent. Mr Akers is not known to me but I have excellent reports from others who I trust.”
“I am glad to hear that. You have made Mr Murray’s acquaintance, I am sure, and will be aware that he is not in the ordinary run of sea-going men.”
“I had noticed, sir.”
Frederick grinned.
“You must know that should I fall, Mr Murray does not assume command of Trident. That privilege will be yours, sir, Mr Jackman becoming senior of the squadron. Mr Murray is a man of undoubted ability, but he is not a naval officer in the ordinary way of things; you will, however, listen very carefully indeed to any advice he may offer. You may guess, but not publicly speculate, about his provenance, Mr Vereker.”
“Yes, sir. I have heard of his sort of officer.”
“Quite. If we take part in a landing then you may assign him a party with no qualms – he is well able to cut any number of throats in the dark, for instance.”
Vereker’s eyebrows rose – he had not imagined that of the quiet, self-effacing gentleman.
“What can you tell me of Arnheim, Mr Vereker?”
“A bad ship in poor order, sir. The new captain and master are doing their best to bring her round, I hear. Like us, terribly short-handed. Unlike Trident, sir, without officers until yesterday and the boatswain utterly useless.”
“Do you know of any man in port who could take the place of that hopeless drunk?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor do I – but I suspect that one must be found. I must attend the Port-Admiral, I believe. Young Fox, by the way, is one of my people and has six months in Greek waters to his credit, and a splinter scar that he will not wish to display! A good lad, but that will in no way shelter him from the ordinary processes of discipline – he is not privileged!”
“Noted, sir. While discussing warrants, sir – Mr Cheek, is he in any way disabled by his missing arm? Is there anything I should know?”
“He is a better seaman with one arm than ever I could be with two. You have heard of his silver call?”
Vereker had been in the Mediterranean, had missed the story, was suitably impressed, said he would make a point of asking to see the presentation piece.
“One hears of these tales, sir – but never quite believes them until one meets the men. I had seen him to be knowledgeable, did not realise him to be fierce as well!”
The squadron sailed on the high tide on Tuesday, as ordered, tidily forming up and following in line out of harbour, all in accordance with instructions. The watching telescopes saw nothing to deplore, though no doubt discussing at length the strange appearance of Arnheim.
Frederick observed silently, having followed his normal habit of instructing the First Lieutenant to take them out – it gave him the opportunity to make a real assessment of the man underneath the uniform.
Very quiet; a minimum of orders; watching the masts and their thin and new crews. The mizzen was well-served, the Marines performing as expected of them.
Nearly fifty Marines now, the Port-Admiral having kept his word and sent ten men and a corporal in addition. He hoped they would not be needed, that there would be no disorder on the lower-deck to call for them.
Fox was with Akers at the mizzen, the two working well together – Fox was a bright lad and yet was obviously no threat to Akers, so the Fourth Lieutenant must be an able man. He must have his chance during the commission.
The oldest, most senior of the young gentlemen was on the quarterdeck in charge of signals, and clearly having the book in his memory, as one might hope. What was his name, now? Rogers, he thought. The least of the mids, Mr Kelly, a tiny squeaker of ten years, no more, was stood at the First Lieutenant’s heel, engulfed in the uniform his mother hoped he might grow into during the commission; his hat was very nearly sat on his shoulders – a good thing he had ears! Two more youngsters to the main and one to foremast, two of them certainly qualifying as young men and one a squeaker, the Captain of the Dockyard's youngster; that would give a choice when it came to making lieutenants later in the commission. Some of the officers would die or become crippled or go off in prizes and never return – he must have potential replacements to hand.
They were making a creditable showing – he must compliment Vereker. What of Arnheim, immediately behind him, one cable distant and precisely in Trident’s wake, or should be?
No more than ten yards off the cable and as nearly exactly in line as was possible in the environs of the harbour. As he would have expected of Jackman; his new boatswain must be pulling his weight and his master had struck him as a most reliable seaman. That had worked out for the best.
Frederick had made his Commodore’s inspection of Arnheim an hour before noon on Saturday, pre-arranged with Jackman. Earlier would have been more convenient and would have been more polite as he had inspected Speedy and Nimble, junior to Jackman, first, but the boatswain could be expected to be well into his first bottle of the day by that time.
They had paced the deck, peering at the men in their lines, the foreigners, all ex-soldiers and brought up in the brutal French discipline, standing beautifully to attention, in marked contrast to the boatswain who stumbled occasionally as he followed behind them.
The officers were at attention with their divisions, all in old uniforms reflecting their poverty, but alert enough and doing their best; they were an ordinary group of men and would run an efficient ship. The midshipmen were undistinguished, two of them mere children, the others older and more useful.
Frederick made a performance of sniffing the air, looked about him with a frown, fixed his eye upon the boatswain.
“Is that alcohol I smell, sir!”
The boatswain stiffened to attention, began to say that he smelt nothing and then belched, the odour of waterfront gin unmistakable.
“Are you drunk, sir?”
“Not me, sir! Just a nip to keep out the cold, sir, freezing this morning, sir, ha ha!”
“Captain Jackman?”
The Master-at-Arms was called and ceremoniously, with subdued joy, placed the boatswain under arrest and then led him ashore to the Dockyard gatehouse, there to be sat in a cell. The timing was such that he could not be called in front of the Captain of the Dockyard before Monday morning; nearly forty-eight hours dry could be expected to reduce him to gibbering incoherence and a certain court-martial. Having remanded him to trial the Captain of the Dockyard would be obliged to find his replacement, very quickly, which would mean depriving one of the ships in dock for repair of their man.
The effect had been to gain an experienced and much needed seaman for the Arnheim.
Wallsend could be seen to be quietly and efficiently slipping into her place; there
would, Frederick expected, be no queries raised about her seamanship. She had never been in action and he wondered how accurate would be her practice with the big mortars – the art of bombardment demanded both mathematics and flair; experience helped as well.
Speedy was fourth in seniority and line, was making her turn out of the harbour mouth; not very elegantly, either! Byng had too much sail on the main if he was any judge of the matter. He asked Nias’ opinion.
“Unbalanced, sir, and I do not like her trim. She is down by the stern and the master is trying to make up for it by packing more on her main. She will be steering very awkwardly and he must make allowance for that, too.”
Nias took up his harbour telescope, for use in calm waters and of higher magnification than most.
“Unless I am much mistook, sir, that is a pair of carronades recently added to the quarterdeck, and twenty-fours, too. They were not there when you made your inspection on Saturday, sir. Put aboard yesterday, I doubt not, and the master with no time to trim his holds!”
With powder and ball Byng had added another two tons onto the stern. Not perhaps a display of good judgement, though it doubled his broadside at close range.
“Where is Nimble, Mr Nias?”
“Tacking upwind, sir, according to your instructions. Showing a pretty turn of speed, sir. Very well handled, the young man has her feel.”
With only twelve pounds a side the cutter had nothing to offer in a fight; her function was to scout, to be a distant pair of eyes. It was her job to find the French and then not be sunk by them but to come back with her knowledge; good seamanship and fine judgement were both demanded.
“Course for the Cove of Cork, Mr Nias?”
“Three tacks to Ushant, sir, then a reach to the south-west before making to the north-east and the Irish coast. A week, sir, provided the wind stays no less favourable than it is at the moment.”
Frederick glanced at the wind vanes; nor-nor-west, which was unusual for the time of year – more northerly than normal. The wind could be expected to veer into the west, which would be useful if it delayed for another three days.
Sugar and Spice (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 6) Page 3
