“Watch below dismissed! Light the galley fires. Mr Jenkinson, you have something hot organised, I believe?”
The purser nodded, touched his hat and scurried below to his reserve store of tea and cocoa and sugar, paid for by Frederick for the occasional mid-watch treat. There was a slab of cold duff as well, boiled up on the previous day and set aside, three hundred greasy half-pound lumps of suet pudding, with sultanas!
“Mr Warren!” A quiet aside on the quarterdeck where none could hear and pass on his words, apart from the dozen or so of men working there. “Easy on Goldfarb, do you think?”
“That was my intent, sir. Not a flogging offence, I think, a mistake, even if a dangerous one. I shall, however, be harder on Midshipman Simons, sir.”
“He should have seen it before you, stopped it happening. A visit to Mr Cheek, think you?”
Goldfarb was called to the quarterdeck, spoken to quietly – must keep his head, not get carried away by excitement, could have blown up his gun, killed his crew, better expected of a steady sort of man like him. He would probably have preferred a flogging, was many days before he could hold his head up again. Simons received his beating, was heard to howl under the boatswain’s cane; the men approved – those who would be officers must meet higher standards and pay the price if they failed them.
The Indian seamen observed all with wonderment – the topmen amongst them had not been put to the guns’ crews, in the nature of things, merely learnt the ways of the simple little swivels, weapons that any of them might be called upon to use and reload. They displayed a quiet competence that seemed normal to them, alien to the noisier ways of the English seamen, but, while they worked well, they were accepted, for Charybdis was not a blue-light ship, had no preachers aboard to condemn the heathen as inferiors.
“What do they call those Indian soldiers, Mr Warren?”
“Sepoys, sir.”
“If they soldier like these men sail then it’s a good thing they are on our side, I think.”
Warren considered that statement for a moment, ventured that the Lascars were damned good seamen.
“Quiet, workmanlike and sober. Tell me, Mr Warren, how does it come about that John Company rules India rather than Sahib Company ruling England?”
“The disposition of God, sir! No other explanation is possible. England is blessed by the Lord, has divine mandate to rule over the heathen, and to kick the shit out of the Frogs and Dons. No other way a small country such as ours could do it, sir. That’s why we always win, sir. Ever since we got rid of Popery we have won. We always will.”
Frederick had heard the argument before, was not wholly unconvinced by it.
“What of the Americans, Mr Warren?”
“The Army lost their war. We won at sea, sir. Besides, the Americans are good Anglicans, like us – we were really fighting ourselves, not a foreign enemy.”
As an answer it was more than half true – it would do for the while.
“I suppose we have to ignore the Irish, Mr Warren – there seem to be a lot of them in America. Not to worry. How do we stand for water and rations, Mr Warren?”
“Low, sir. Much of the pork taken at the Cape has transpired to be spoiled – examination of the dates burned into the barrelheads suggests that 1793 has been reworked to 1795, sir.”
It was a common fraud, and one that was very difficult to detect when storing barrels in the half-light of the hold. Charybdis was not posted to the Cape, would not be returning in the near future to make any official protest, was a safe victim. Frederick wondered if the Admiral had known, had taken his cut, or his revenge – it was possible, but could never be proved.
“The Dutch had an anchorage at Trincomalee, sir, in the Ceylons. There would certainly be water there, possibly dry stores as well.”
“Better than a thousand miles to the north in one of the Indian ports. What does Mr Ferrier say?”
“He told me of Trincomalee, sir.”
“Then let us make that our destination, Mr Warren. I had rather water in a port than from some uncertain creek or river on the Malay coast where for all you know there is a village hidden a mile upriver and crapping in it. We should change course in the next three or four days, think you? What are the winds in those waters?”
“Mr Ferrier looks to ease our head northwards from the forenoon, sir.”
Frederick wished that Ferrier would discuss these matters directly, but he insisted on the oblique approach through Warren, his recommendations always at second hand.
“Live firing again today, sir?”
“Of course. Immediately after the committal.”
They had fired four good broadsides on the previous day, seven minutes and forty seconds achieved, but one unhandy soldier had stepped right instead of left after running his gun up, had been struck by the recoil of the next piece, his leg smashed and amputated, had been taken by the shock, dead within the hour.
“Have you put a man to the crew yet, Mr Warren?”
“Jewson begged that he might step in, sir.”
Frederick ran through his mental list of names and faces, all carefully memorised, as he felt was his duty as captain.
“One of the soldiers. A young man, rather slightly built, I believe.”
“That’s him, sir. He says he can handle his five hundredweight with the next man, sir, and would like the chance to learn a gun and make his way up in the ship, sir. He can read and write well enough, sir.”
“So, gun captain, quarter-gunner, gunner’s mate, then a warrant is his hope?”
“I doubt he has thought that far, sir, but he is bright and willing.”
“Number Three gun, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. He is a close friend of Goldfarb’s, sir. Very good friends, I understand.”
Warren’s studious lack of expression alerted Frederick. He thought back to Ablett’s words about younger soldiers being hired out at parties.
“Dangerous to discipline, Mr Warren?”
“No, sir. It don’t seem to be. You know how the men are – as long as everything’s properly hidden away, nothing in public, they don’t care very much at all. No simpering Mollies, of course, queening it on deck, but otherwise they don’t break their hearts about who puts what where.”
“Elegantly expressed, as ever, Mr Warren. I wonder which does what? No matter! Whilst they do no harm to others we shall see and hear nothing, I believe.”
“Like the three wise monkeys, sir.”
Monkeys, wise or foolish, were as yet outside of Frederick’s experience, and he had no wish to discover Warren’s no doubt vulgar knowledge of them; he retired to his cabin.
Three days and they were in the tropics again, the great winds safely to their south and Charybdis on an even keel, or as near as made no difference after the weeks when the deck had more closely resembled a sloping roof. Light sails had replaced the storm canvas and they were ambling along at a silent four knots, Ferrier and Warren once more debating the setting of royals, Forshaw pointedly excluded from the discussion. Warren gave way and ordered the slender pole masts and narrow yards stepped. When winds were light they were normally at their very weakest at sea level, noticeably stronger even a hundred or so feet higher so that the royals could easily give as much pull as the topsails despite their limited area.
“On deck!” Midshipman Warren shrieked from the masthead to which he had been temporarily banished for a minor transgression, his breaking voice soaring into a fine alto. “Two sail, opposite tack, hull down, due east. Ship-rigged, t’gallants on the smaller.”
“Telescope, Mr Jackman.”
Jackman ran to the main topgallant masthead, was loath to venture higher, the frail stick of the royal mast very uninviting at this height above deck, followed young Warren’s pointing finger.
“On deck!” Jackman’s deeper tones, assured and slower, as befitted a commissioned officer. “Small frigate, perhaps a post ship, in company with a merchant hull. Too small to be an Indiaman, sir. Frigate is alter
ing towards, sir.”
“Strike royals, furl topgallants! All hands! Clear, boats to tow. Mr Ferrier, hold the gage whilst closing the frigate. Mr Warren, I shall assume the merchantman to be the store we were told of in Cape Town, in company with the post ship also mentioned. I intend to stand off and batter her at a distance, sink rather than prize her – even nine-pounders could cut up the rigging sufficiently to force us into harbour long enough for the Frog squadron to do whatever they have come here for.”
“Aye aye, sir. Do we have any inkling of their aim, sir?”
As second in command Warren had a right to know what might be the appropriate course of action if Frederick fell, whether it would be proper to make the nearest naval harbour to seek a replacement or if it would be expected that he should complete the task in hand first.
“I don’t know, Mr Warren. Not the least genuine information! All surmise, conjecture, informal guesses. They may simply wish to cut up trade, to damage our wealth. Perhaps they wish to retake the Spice Islands, in alliance with a local rajah or sultan. Maybe they seek the Philippines and an expedition with Spanish troops. Whatever, we shall find them and cut their capers short!”
Jackman continued to hail for another twenty minutes as the ships closed a further three miles, established the Frenchman to be a twenty-four gun post ship, a sixth rate corvette, fast and elegant, a thoroughbred racehorse – which ought to have enough sense to steer well clear of a heavy hunter like Charybdis. Why?
“Mr Jackman, what is the store doing? Take a sweep of the whole horizon, if you please.”
It was possible that the corvette was sacrificing herself to give time for the rest of her squadron to close, that all she had in mind was to delay.
“Store is conforming, sir, slowly. No other sail.”
“Sir, the course of the French could lead to the Mauritius?”
“Possibly, Mr Ferrier, although they could merely be on a tack. But I can accept that it is logical. Returning for stores, perhaps?”
Jackman supplied the answer soon afterwards.
“On deck! The merchantman is a prize ship, I believe, sir. A thin crew and all brown men in the rigging.”
“That was well seen, sir. The French have so few colonies that their crews are almost always entirely of white men.”
“Thank you, Mr Ferrier. A valuable prize under escort, the corvette to pick up the prize crew at Mauritius, they will be short of men by now.”
Any ship lost men dead or sick or injured at the rate of at least one, normally two, in a hundred each month; a prize crew had to be made up of prime hands whose loss could not easily be afforded after six months at sea.
“Setting another jib, sir. Pointing up, seven knots to our five, I would estimate.”
Frederick set up the triangle in his head – seven on one limb, five on the other, angle of closing so, wind direction thus – the sides would meet in half an hour or so and he would retain the gage, would be able to determine the nature of the action. The Frenchman was evidently planning to take a chance, to exchange say three broadsides, cross Charybdis’ stern and then cut her up using her superior sailing qualities to slash into bows and stern. He must believe that he could survive three badly pointed broadsides, only one of which would be at close range – it was not the Navy’s habit to indulge in long-range actions and many ships did not exercise their gunners at anything over half a cable.
“Load ball, both sides, Mr Warren. Do not run out yet, keep her guessing the while. Mr Atkins!”
Atkins came running from the bows, touched his hat.
“Chaser, Mr Atkins, point it yourself, fire at will when in range, aim to hull her. Kill her crew and hurt her, slow her down.”
The ships closed, the Frenchman straining closer and closer to the wind, hoping perhaps to cut three broadsides to two.
“On deck! Two extra quartermasters, hands lying down at the braces, sir.”
“Very good! Come down, Mr Jackman. Well, Mr Ferrier?”
“He intends to alter away as we fire, sir, closing again on the reload and then tacking to cross the ‘T’.”
Frederick nodded, watching Atkins as he fussed over aiming the long thirty-two pounder, hand spiking her far to starboard.
A deep boom, ten pounds of powder punching the great ball up and out on its trajectory, a splash over and left, perhaps a half cable distant.
“They’ll not like that, sir, not at the better part of a mile, might change their minds?”
“Ease off the wind a fraction, Mr Ferrier, give the chaser another couple of rounds, follow the Frog round if he tacks and try to bring us abeam of her at four or five cables range.”
The deep concussion of the chaser, transmitted through the hull as a long shudder, and a jagged hole appeared midway on the French bulwarks, too high to damage the hull but sending out a wicked shower of splinters.
“She’s pointing up again, sir, trying to close range more quickly.”
“Unwise! Ease her, bring her abeam. Run out starboard battery!” Frederick stepped forward, raised his hat. “On my command!” He waited until the Frenchman’s bows presented a clean Vee profile. “Shoot!”
The long guns crashed together, Charybdis heeled and a cloud of dirty grey smoke obscured their vision, clearing to show the Frenchman wearing, unable to tack for a lack of headsails, badly hit, her timbers too light to withstand eighteen pound projectiles grouped up in a tight broadside. No more than eight cannon ran out as she presented her broadside as she tried, belatedly, to run.
“By sections, Mr Warren!”
Jackman and Forshaw had command of nine guns each, aimed them personally, fired within two seconds of each other, watched the corvette’s mainmast fold, held fire as she sat dead in the water, colours still flying at the mizzen.
“Continue the action!”
The sections fired, battering her waist; the carronade crews swearing as they watched, hopelessly out of range.
“She’s crippled, sir.”
“Colours still flying, Mr Ferrier.”
Another broadside and the mizzen fell, the corvette visibly settling by the stern.
“Cease fire! Conn us up to her, Mr Ferrier.”
A cable distant and a single nine-pounder fired, chain whistling into Charybdis’ rigging.
“Reloading, sir!” Warren called.
“Broadside! Shoot!”
The corvette sank in seconds, bottom ripped out by the final blow.
“Mr Cheek! Report, if you please. Mr Warren, where’s that prize?”
The prize was some four miles distant, heaved-to in horror, searching frantically for flags of surrender, not having seen the corvette’s final gun and imaging themselves witnesses to an execution, a deliberate butchery.
Charybdis’ boats searched briefly amongst the acre or so of debris that was all that remained of the corvette, came back with pathetically few survivors – no officers, just seventeen seamen, the boatswain among them.
“I tole ‘im, captain, sir. I say, is ended, capitaine. We sink. Ten minutes. Finish. We can be prisonnier, like I been last war. ‘E load up, ‘imself and two aspirants. They shout, ‘Pour La Revolution’. Then they shoot. I say to lay down, and then I am in the sea.”
“What is the prize?”
“Took last week. From India to China. Some chests of the… I do not know the word – to put in the little pipes, to dream.”
“Opium, sir. The Company grows it and sells it to the country merchants who take it to China and sell for silver taels. The Chinese will only take silver for their tea and silk and rhubarb, so the Company buys the taels for gold from the merchants. Then the merchants buy jute and indigo and rice and copra and coir and palm-oil from the Indians and send it to England consigned on Company hulls.”
Frederick was puzzled – the merchants seemed to him to be wholly unnecessary middle men.
“Ah, sir, but, do you see, they keep the Company’s hands clean. The merchants buy the opium, and, as far as the Company knows, th
ey sell it to the apothecaries in England to make laudanum for medical purposes, and, indeed, some proportion of the crop does go that way, so the Company is not morally culpable, is not the author of human misery and degradation. They must have silver to buy tea, and the Chinese want nothing of our manufactures, will only buy opium, so they must be sold opium if the Company is to survive. This way the Company profits, the English get their tea, the Chinese get the opium they desire, and all is for the best, and the Directors can get down on their knees of a Sunday and thank God with a clean, open heart.”
“Pontius Pilate should be alive today, Mr Ferrier. What is it worth?”
“The Chinese pay weight for weight in silver, sir.”
“Jesus! That ship’s a five hundred tonner!”
“Yes, sir, but the opium chests will be concealed amongst a commercial cargo, to keep the Chinese customs officials happy – it would not do to be too open, after all!”
Book Three: The Duty and Destiny Series
Chapter Two
The Star of the Carnatic, grandiosely named and surprisingly well appointed and maintained – best manilla rigging, canvas that was still white rather than old and brown, freshly painted – carried six hundred chests of opium, about thirty tons, carefully wrapped and stored dry and concealed by a cargo of tin ore in jute sacks. Most merchant hulls were neglected by their owners, worked until they sank, over-insured and unlamented; evidently the opium traders were too valuable to be treated with contempt.
Ferrier, as ever, had the textbook knowledge whilst Forshaw condescendingly explained the cargo from his superior experience and understanding.
“Bronze, sir, is much used in China. Copper is easy to come by but tin is found in the Malay States and the ore imported fifty and sixty tons at a time by their junks – Western ships with their larger holds are very welcome as a result, though officially forbidden to trade. While smuggling tin is winked at, opium is strictly forbidden, so the greater illegality is hidden by the lesser.”
Frederick nodded his understanding – it made sense.
The Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 3) Page 4
