The Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “I don’t know what happened in your company at Cape Town, but I know my officers to be true men, you will not be abused by them. For this ship, today is the start of your lives – nothing from the past will be written in your record of service, and that includes your name, if you wish. Seaman Smith or Brown or Jones, the choice is yours.”

  A few nodded, most stood rigidly still at attention, safely immobile.

  “Mr Cheek is the boatswain and he will show you what to do and where to go. He is the same as your senior sergeant was, and you will obey him as you do me. Learn all that he has to tell you – there will be some hard fighting ahead of us and you will need to play your part. Finally, do remember that we will not flog you without reason – but, if you give me that reason, there will be no pity in me at all. I much prefer to reward good men, but I will not shrink from punishing bad.”

  Frederick turned away, unsure whether his words had had any effect at all, but they were honest, and they had had to be said.

  “Permission to sail, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr Beeton.”

  Beeton, as senior midshipman, was in charge of signals. His time was almost served and he was determined to rise in the service. He was the younger son of a Shoreham attorney, would inherit little more than the blessing of his father, had to make his own way in the world. He gravely inspected the faces of the four lieutenants for signs of incipient mortality, for the death of one of them would almost certainly be his promotion to acting rank and, on a foreign posting, acting rank could be confirmed without need for boards or any formality other than the admiral’s letter. That there were four lieutenants was a bonus, an extra chance for him; he did not know why they had the extra, was aware only that Jackman had appeared a few days before sailing, the date of his commission making him third, to Atkins’ annoyance. Jackman himself presumed that his appointment – not uncommon in ships sailing far foreign – was the result of a request from Captain Harris, he knew nothing of the pressure brought to bear on his behalf.

  “Well, Mr Ferrier?”

  “Two Indiamen have made port this week, sir, both stating Indian Ocean winds to be erratic and with a lot of east in them. In my opinion, sir, it were better that we made a southing, sir, so as to pick up the Westerlies, forty three South would be my estimate, sir, but it could be four or five, of course, their track varying year on year for reasons not yet vouchsafed to our science.”

  “The Roaring Forties? So be it, Mr Ferrier. Lay your course, sir. Mr Warren, take us out, if you please.”

  East from Cape Town and then running south to the colder waters where the great winds blew and a well-handled ship could run off two hundred and fifty miles every day, the winds strong but never constant, veering and gusting unpredictably. The price of this speed was an exhausted crew, never a watch passing without its evolution, without the need to make or shorten sail, ‘All Hands’ piped every couple of hours, it seemed, four hours of uninterrupted sleep unknown.

  The sailmaker rousted out the suit of heavy sails, winter canvas that had been stowed away for the tropics. He anxiously inspected each cloth for rat damage – a nesting sow could chew feet of good canvas into rags for the comfort of her young – and checked each reef point and the bolt ropes at the same time. He had sailed the far southern waters before, had seen a course split and flog itself to tatters, killing and maiming topmen who tried to control it.

  They sailed to a background of an unceasing litany of orders from the guns where the new crews were being put together, experienced gunners and green landsmen being melded into one.

  “Point your gun.”

  “Cock your lock.”

  “Shoot!”

  “Run your piece back, all together.”

  “Now! Swab out – wet the sheepskin and stand to the side, Smith! If a residue of powder catches you’ll have a rammer blown through your belly! That’s why the gun captain has his thumb over the vent, to stop the airflow. That’s the way! Well done, Smith! Now, reverse the rammer, ready to load, that’s right! In with the cartridge and wad, ram home, now the ball, ram hard – it’s no use patting the bloody thing, shove it home like you was ramming a Pompey whore after a two-year cruise! That’s the way, Smith. Run out!”

  “Live firing tomorrow, men, no need to play any more – you know what you’re doing now. The captain will be pleased; he thought you would need at least a week more than this. You have done well, very well!”

  The petty officers repeated the message – they were pleased, the men had worked well, no doubt Mr Warren would inform the captain and, Fearless Fred being the man he was, there was more than a chance of an extra issue, another tot or a slab of duff or some such.

  The soldiers, dressed now in purser’s slops, the roughly uniform issue clothing – unaware as yet that it would be deducted from their pay – were fitting in with less friction than had seemed possible. They had been scattered through the messes, no more than three or four of them together and, after the first anxious days, had started to talk, to tell their story.

  Frederick sat quietly in his cabin after his solitary mid-week dinner, a book in front of him to occupy the hour he had designated as his own time, his one daily period of rest, not to be disturbed by any matter of routine. Bosomtwi and Ablett were both quietly busy in the background, polishing and dusting, concerned that he should not be on his own to brood. He put the book down – it was one of Young’s tracts on the state of agriculture and told him little that he had not himself observed.

  “Well, Ablett? What’s today’s buzz?”

  “You know the big soldier, Goldfarb, sir? The one with the Dutchie accent? Talks ‘ja’ instead of ‘yes’?”

  “Huge man, must stand two inches over the fathom.” Frederick, as ever, was very much aware that he stood ten inches under the fathom. “Heavy built man, as big on the hips as the shoulders, thick-waisted, not fat.”

  “That’s the one, sir. He was a sergeant. Got made up in America, in the last war. Fifteen years with the colours, joined as a drummer boy.”

  “So, a Hanoverian who shifted across to the British army after the war ended. Good soldier?”

  “I reckon so, sir. Very good, I’d say. Knows the smell of powder and likes it. Bitter, he is, sir, at the way he’s been treated, him and his lads. Been talking about it this last day or two, since he made up his mind that they weren’t here for punishment, were going to be just the same as the other jacks, fair and square.”

  “Good! I hoped that would happen, thought it would take months, though.”

  “It would have, sir, without him to lead them, tell them what to think, like – he’s still sergeant in their minds.”

  “That could be a nuisance – I can’t make him a petty officer for at least a year, he hasn’t got the knowledge.”

  “Gunner is looking at him already, sir, thinks he can be trained up to quarter-gunner in a few months, gunner’s mate inside four or five years.”

  “Pity he wasn’t an artillery man. What’s the story?”

  Ablett grimaced. “Their captain got killed in a skirmish with Paddies in Ireland just before they came out of the garrison to join the Cape expedition. His replacement came out later from another regiment in England, sold his own commission and bought the vacancy in the Thirty Fifth, overseas less than a year, another six to do in Africa or India.”

  “Did he fall, or was he pushed, Ablett?”

  Ablett nodded. “I reckon his own regiment didn’t really want him, sir – probably let him choose how he left them, so long as he either sent in his papers or transferred a long way away. Seems he was a poor man with expensive tastes. He hadn’t been in the Cape a month before he was hiring platoons out – sending them out on route marches that just happened to go the same way as some merchant’s carts or a rich man’s coach, as escort. A little bit longer and he was sending privates off to go to men’s parties for a night. You know the sort of thing, sir, a couple of bob in the lad’s hand, and him none too upset, maybe enjoying himse
lf, except that some of them didn’t like it at all. He went to some of the parties himself, it would seem. In the end one of the boys got hurt and they sent a letter to the colonel, a round robin, you know, sir. The colonel told the general and they decided to hush it up, didn’t want it to get known among the Dutchies, them being forever in church, like.”

  A round robin, a letter with men’s signatures all written round a circle, so that none could be seen to be ringleader with his name at the top, was tantamount to mutiny, a combination against the officers, was grounds for court-martial. Courts-martial were public, their proceedings open, very difficult to keep secret without creating another scandal of speculation.

  “Nowhere left for the captain to go, so they gave him a pistol.”

  “Maybe, sir. The hard word is that he refused to use it, said he would rather be alive in disgrace than decently silent in his grave.”

  “But the regiment wanted nothing said.”

  “Their major had a name as a Bible-basher, sir, very down on sinfulness. More than once had one of their lads strapped up to a wheel for a thousand for misbehaviour. They tell me he took personal charge of the captain and persuaded him of the error of his ways. They say the captain topped himself by shooting himself in the back of his head with his pistol.”

  They considered this together, concluded that it was a novel way of committing suicide, but that soldiers were capable of all sorts of strange antics, and all was well that ended well, after all.

  “So, he’s dead, and they are not.”

  “That’s right, sir.” Ablett grinned. “They’re out of it and the lads have explained about prize-money, and they pointed out Mr Warren’s shoes, sir.”

  Frederick looked blank.

  “The buckles, sir. Solid gold. Not pinchbeck. They all reckons that’s real flash, sir, to have gold not shiny brass. That’s rich, sir!”

  “We won’t ever see that amount of prize-money again, Ablett. That’s the sort of thing that happens at the beginning of a war when innocent merchantmen sail in peace and discover they’re at war six months later when some nasty-minded frigate hauls up alongside them. Cargoes as rich as that just don’t sail unescorted in wartime.”

  “They’ll make some money, sir – more than ever they would as soldiers.”

  The full crew meant that Charybdis could sail hard and exercise full broadsides, limited only by the wind and the often impossibility of controlling great guns on a steeply sloping deck, and the strenuous labour served as well to bring the crew together, the inevitable funerals also helping.

  Half a gale on the stern quarter, the long rollers, five cables from crest to crest, forty feet deep in the troughs, dwarfing the ship; sky and sea, clear, eternal, stretching forever, unbroken by any hint of land, a full suit of sails to the topgallants and the never-ending technical argument about royals, Warren and Ferrier by now firmly entrenched in their views and repeating them only for something to say on a long voyage. A heretical brute beast raised his voice in their discussion, asked why they were not barquentine rigged, hermaphrodite-like, four-masted perhaps, bonaventure and fore rigged fore-and-aft, main and mizzen square sailed. Silence fell as they peered incredulously at Forshaw, wondering what cuckoo they had hatched from their orthodox naval nest.

  “After all, gentlemen, when you give the matter candid consideration, look at the array of jibs and staysails we carry – fore-and-aft rigged all! The fact of the matter is that we have chosen to set triangular sails rather than square royals – and very wisely so!”

  They listened in horror as he ran on about the advantages of fore-and-aft when it came to closing for battle, and how, because they demanded fewer men, the navy, so short of manpower always, should rationally welcome the innovation.

  “There was used to be a lateen mizzen on caravels of the last age, Mr Forshaw,” Ferrier diplomatically offered, “and I do believe the Turk uses them still.”

  Warning enough for a wise, perceptive man – comparing the navy to the Turk, indeed!

  “Four-masters, now,” Warren added, “are expensive on men, and, besides, look so very untidy. All that extra rigging, as well, must surely impede the guns. Besides, it is not the Navy’s way of doing things, I believe. We get along very well under square sail at the moment, as the Frogs will doubtless confirm!”

  Frederick decided to end the discussion before it became argument – this was like to be a very long commission and the members of the wardroom must rub along together amicably or the efficiency of the ship would suffer. If the officers joined factions then so would their men: they need not be friends but they must not become enemies, or not in public, at least.

  “I took a big Spanish barquentine a while since, off the Trinidad when I had Magpie. An interesting rig, and one that has obvious advantages in the merchant service where the need is to run with a small complement, but it is not best suited for naval practice, I believe. As you say, gentlemen, there are both advantages and disadvantages to the mixture of sail. No doubt this is a matter that will be debated for many years by professional seamen – for we all wish to improve ourselves and our ships, do we not, gentlemen?”

  “Talking of which, sir,” Warren brightly interposed, obviously changing the subject, “shall we attempt a full gun drill tomorrow, sir? The men have progressed so very well under the tuition of their officers that I feel they are well capable of firing live broadsides now.”

  “If you believe so, then most certainly, Mr Warren. Warn the doctor.”

  “He will certainly have some trade, sir, there is always some cack-handed bugger who will not learn to be careful. Still, it will provide an object lesson for the others, sir, and we can always afford to lose a landsman in a good cause!”

  A full sweep, the deck, always clean and tidy, now absolutely bare, boats towing behind for good measure, the animals - sheep, pig and goats - banished to the hold and complaining loudly at the interference in their routine. The larboard broadside was fully manned, eighteen long guns each with a crew of seven and three carronades with their four; one hundred and thirty-eight strong men backed by twenty one boys to carry powder, several of the ‘boys’ in fact aged seamen no longer able but still spry. Second captains stood by the starboard guns, ready, in action, to swab out and commence the reload of the piece in case of fighting both sides, and to step into the place of any disabled man; twenty-one powerful men, fit and strong. Being a full exercise, the marines were posted at the hatchways as sentries to prevent any seaman from deserting his post and were formed in their musketry rank on the quarterdeck and in the mizzentop with its swivels. Including the marines the fighting crew amounted to two hundred and sixteen men; sixty-two remained to sail Charybdis and command her in the action, and to form the rudimentary medical party who would be the only people below deck in action other than the gunner and his mates in the magazine. A sail trimmer would run from each gun to the braces if a tack was called in action and individuals were designated boarders and firemen, but even with her crew at full there were none too many men for the work needed.

  “Swivels on fore and main, Mr Warren?”

  “Loaded, sir, topmen to fire on targets of opportunity when not otherwise engaged, sir.”

  Frederick nodded – Warren knew his mind, was well aware that he had little use for the swivels except as a last aid before boarding.

  “Three in dumbshow, Mr Warren, then release the rafts.”

  Hoarded waste timber and scraps of condemned canvas together with a few old, unusable salt-beef barrels had been made up into a pair of targets to be towed out by the boats and released at an appropriate range. The boats were none too pleased with their task, sat on top of two thousand fathoms of Southern Ocean and very nearly in line with twenty-one large and inexperienced great guns; they cleared the range very rapidly indeed after dropping their tows.

  The lieutenants and three midshipmen were with their sections, Warren in overall charge of the deck, all calling to their gun captains to take their time, to judge t
he roll, to aim, not to be premature. The order came to load and twenty-one right hands rose to show ready. The first target was distant one cable, almost exactly on the beam, nearly at point-blank.

  “Shoot!”

  A pause as Charybdis started her upward roll, the guns all firing within the half second, splashes all round the target, several hits, the raft split but still visible. Fast reloading, an irate roar from Warren.

  “Number Three! The ram! Belay, you mother-loving son of a poxed Irish bitch!”

  Number Three gun froze in horror whilst the remainder of the broadside carried on, sneaking surreptitious glances and chortling. The rammer of Number Three stood motionless, head hanging low, shoulders slumped in abject misery, the dripping ram head about to enter the barrel, sheepskin dry in his hands. In his excitement he had neglected to reverse the flexible ram.

  “Wet the woolly-headed bastard and swab out, Goldfarb! We will speak about this later,” Warren promised.

  The second broadside, slightly delayed, smashed its raft, beautifully precise.

  “House your guns!”

  Frederick stepped forward as the smoke cleared, raised his voice.

  “Good! Accurate shooting, well together, that first and foremost! But, we need to be fast – we go in hunt of a Frog squadron, two frigates, a post ship, a brig and a little bit of a schooner. I do not intend to tackle all five at once, but if we come across them unexpected they will not wait on our convenience. A broadside in two minutes, every two minutes, and we can stuff every Frenchie that ever was born! When we have got to that, why, then we shall practice firing one side and then t’other, turn and turn about. Since we called at the Cape we have men enough to do the job – and from all I have seen, good men, too! Though I will say, while I think of it, that it’s not a bad idea to remember which end of a ram is which – it can be very embarrassing otherwise.”

  They chuckled, all except Goldfarb’s friends and followers who expected to see the cat brought into play.