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

by Andrew Wareham

  They ate a single, massive remove of indeterminate soup; grilled and fried fish; haunch of Ceylonese goat; boiled, aged chicken; and curried ration beef. They followed it with fruit and Dutch cheeses, all washed down with various liquids resembling wine in colour and possession of an alcohol content, completing their repast with port, brandy and schnapps.

  The master expounded his theory about the French squadron’s whereabouts and was much applauded; Warren told his sole joke, slightly warm and brought out as his invariable contribution to jollifications. Atkins, well the worse for wear, was emboldened to commence a long, convoluted shaggy dog story of a sweet little schoolgirl explaining the unusual naming of her pets to the new vicar, foundered upon reaching the crux – ‘and why is your lovely little doggy called Porker?’ He could not bring himself to utter the falsetto punchline, ‘he f**ks pigs, vicar’, in such august company as he belatedly realised himself to be in, muttered incoherently, fled to vomit over the rail as far the lesser evil. Silence fell, a disappointed silence on the part of those who had heard the joke before and had been waiting gleefully for the heavens to fall, and the party mood, so slow to develop, instantly dissipated. Frederick called for toasts, but the gloom could not be broken and the officers subsided slowly into alcoholic collapse. Warren and Forshaw, Frederick noted, had courteously ignored each other all afternoon, as the code of the duello demanded of parties to an affair of honour forced into each other’s company. If no challenge had yet been made then one was clearly inevitable unless one or both could be removed from the ship.

  The storms lessened as they ran to the southeast and Warren began to work up the boarders, preferring that the hands should swing edged weapons and practise with pistols on a steady deck. On a particularly calm day he strung empty wine bottles from the foremast, suspended by spun yarn round the necks, their movement easy to follow, and brought out the pistols. David LeGrys was present, limped forward on his crutch, his leg dragging; he was wearing two pistols, the right butt-forward in a reversed holster; at the word he drew left-handed, smashed his bottle, holstered his pistol and reached across his body to the right hip to rapidly snap off a second round that shattered the remaining fragment of neck.

  “Two and one half seconds, sir,” Ablett called, watch in hand.

  “The boy has a bandoleer to carry six for boarding,” Frederick said to Warren.

  “Brave lad! More guts than sense, sir, but he has my respect! And the men’s – look at them, nodding and smiling and quietly whistling, the way they do. My turn, sir.”

  Warren stomped forward, called to his servant who produced an old, well-worn leather case containing a pair of light, long-barrelled duelling pistols.

  “Twenty four gauge, barely a quarter of an inch diameter, the ball, sir. My father had them made thirty years ago.”

  He loaded rapidly, passed one to his servant, took up the classic position, sideways to his target, chin on his right shoulder, brought his arm smoothly horizontal and fired, the ball clipping the bottom of the bottle, caroming away. He changed pistols, shot again, two inches higher, bottle destroyed. Forshaw followed him, glanced superciliously at the case of pistols, took a pair of Sea Service from the skip, stood square and shot from the hip, casually, right and left, bottle and neck.

  Frederick led the compliments, reflecting that both would die if they met, and neither would back out now, for fear of showing a yellow streak. Had either been a hapless incompetent then the other could have withdrawn in mercy, publicly applauded, but that option, presumably the reason for Warren’s initial parade, was no longer open.

  “What a good thing that Beeton and Bruce are both capable youngsters, Mr Ferrier!”

  “Five or six months passage to England as well, sir, ideal for a young officer learning.”

  “Have you seen any lower deck men who could set up as midshipmen in their place, Mr Ferrier?”

  “No, sir. Jewson could, but the people would not tolerate him on the quarterdeck, not while Goldfarb remained aboard.”

  “Quite right, too.”

  “Is it, sir?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Ferrier, damned if I do – but as captain I must say so.”

  “Young Mr Warren was talking this forenoon, sir, just nattering to Mr Simons, like, mentioned how come his uncle and him transferred out of Carthage.”

  “I had wondered, Ablett – it’s not usual in a premier.”

  The captain’s coxswain was a privileged person – it was possible to discuss the officers with him in private, knowing that confidentiality would not be broken.

  “In Chatham, it was, sir, the first of Charybdis, as then was, ‘e comes up to Mr Warren, asks ‘im to make the change, from a twelve pounder 32 to an eighteen pounder 36, a promotion for Warren, puts his pay up the better part of eighteen pence a day. Out of course, Mr Warren wants to know why, is Charybdis unlucky or in mutiny or what. T’other fellow, ‘e says as ‘ow ‘e was midshipman under Captain Davis of Carthage and was a follower, more or less, and that you been given Charybdis, and the way Mr Warren says, ‘this must be right, it’s the way Captain Harris does it’, is getting Captain Davis down, anyhow.”

  “Everybody know where Mr Warren think the sun shines, isn’t it,” Bosomtwi commented, “that why he fell out so big with that Mr Forshaw when he start to explain just how he would have taken that Frog corvette, not sink her. Mr Warren tell him his fortune good and quick, sir. He just a big, fat, happy man till you come along, and then you make him a big, fat, happy rich man, isn’t it. He like that.”

  Another follower, it would seem, another set of obligations upon him – a difficulty as well, inasmuch that looking after Warren and nephew might mean holding Jackman back, for now it would not be possible to send Forshaw away in a prize before Warren went, in fairness to Warren’s hopes, and Jackman could not then step in front of Forshaw without creating a grievance that must harm the efficiency of the ship. The power of patronage had to be exercised discreetly, he discovered, and was rather surprised to do so.

  “Alter course for Batavia, sir?” Ferrier enquired, the Marine striking the ship’s bell, both watches on deck at the change.

  “No. Hold east for the farthest ports of Bali, Mr Ferrier – we shall put your theory to the test – we must take a chance if ever we are to catch up with the French rather than tag along behind them. Close to the coast, hull-down in daylight, double look-outs, one to scan the shoreline at all times. At night bare steerage-way and one man aloft to watch for fires, a burning town or harbour. Mr Pink to me, please.”

  There was a few minutes delay while the gunner was dug out of his subterranean lair, made respectable, dusted off to appear, badger like, blinking in the sunlight; his mates had done their best but nothing could prevail over the unfortunate body smells of saltpetre and sulphur that clung to him. Perhaps that was why gunners traditionally took their wives to sea, Frederick reflected, there must be an extra burden of laundry upon them. He stood Pink at the leeward rail, took a surreptitious pace backwards.

  “Boat guns, Mr Pink, to be shipped and fired tomorrow. All small arms to be overhauled. A sharp on all edges, if you please. Ensure that there is at least four rounds of chain to hand for each carronade. Cartridge to fight both sides.”

  “Forty a gun made up, sir, all stored and turned proper, too. Serge cut and sewn for twenty more, sir. Chain means setting up the forge, sir, because we have a dozen rounds, no more.”

  “Mr Warren! Assist Mr Pink with his needs, please. Also, a thorough check of the boats – be sure that the mids have lifted the bottom boards to seek out any rot.”

  “Done, sir.”

  “Very good! I should have known that it would have been, Mr Warren – I know you well enough to have no doubts of you, sir!”

  Warren flushed at the compliment. “The midshipmen keep their boats in good order, sir; I was very pleased with them.”

  They paralleled the distant, grey coast, midshipmen with glasses racing to the tops to observe every reported settl
ement for signs of pillage. Five negative days and then Simons called a junk beating up to windward, making very hard labour of it against the monsoon.

  “If we have seen one junk, we have seen fifty, sir,” Forshaw irritably responded.

  “All making variously east, Mr Forshaw!” Frederick snapped at him, pleased at the opportunity to put him in his place. “They do not sail against the wind so easily that they will do so except under urgent need. Close her!”

  “Junk signalling, sir,” Simons called, “not from the book. Firing a gun, sir, I can see smoke.”

  “Big enough to carry five hundred pirates, sir,” Forshaw warned.

  “Clear! Load grape!”

  A few minutes, the two closing rapidly, and Simons called again. “Europeans on the junk, sir!”

  “Merchants or planters, I’ll be bound,” Ferrier commented. “Running for help, to raise the alarm.”

  “Boats, Mr Warren, you to go across. We shall tow behind afterwards, for quickness. More sail, Mr Ferrier, if you please.”

  Two hours and Warren had returned with two dozens of Dutchmen – clerks, youths, planters, the remains of a militia company that had managed to escape the onslaught two days previously, offices, business, families left behind.

  “Five ships of French, captain. Two frigates, a brig, a schooner, a large merchantman, prizes behind them. The wind failed for an hour at dawn, it usually does, which gave us time to get ourselves together.”

  “Your town, sir?”

  “Nieuw Leiden.”

  “Not on my chart, sir,” Ferrier responded.

  The Dutch peered at the small-scale chart, declared it inaccurate, outdated, valueless.

  “Can we talk with the master of your junk?”

  “He speaks good Portuguese and some Dutch, sir. I can translate for you.”

  “Go across to him, Mr Ferrier. Beg his assistance and offer him fifty guineas for the loan of a pilot for these waters. Wait a minute. Bosomtwi! Take it with you – the sight of gold can be very persuasive.”

  Ferrier returned with two Chinese, identically dressed in cotton pyjama suits. One, middle-aged, balding, tanned and weather-beaten was instantly recognisable as a sailor; the other, younger, pinker, plumper was equally clearly a clerk.

  “Pilot and interpreter, sir.”

  Both bowed, stood silent until the pilot cuffed the interpreter’s ear, not gently.

  “Ow! Beg pardon, sir. Have map or chart.” He produced a canvas roll, pointed on it to Nieuw Leiden.

  “Ow! Beg pardon, sir. Mr Pilot says we are here.” The pilot jabbed his finger down on the chart. “Mr Pilot says he can take us in the dark, to be in the harbour before the wind fail at dawn time.”

  An unknown, uncharted shore; a narrow river inlet at night with a Chinese pilot, to assault however many French there might be. The French would be at anchor, unready; the town had resisted and would probably have been sacked, as the rules of war permitted. At least half of the crews should be ashore, drunk, looting, raping, out of control, in no case to man the guns. It was a risk – if he grounded his ship then the resulting court would be very unsympathetic – but it gave the opportunity he needed.

  “Mr Ferrier, the pilot will conn us in. Talk with him, please.”

  Frederick turned to the pilot, nodded. “When can we go in, sir?” He waited for the translation.

  “Ow! Tonight, sir, if you can travel at – let me see,” He counted busily, fingers waggling. “Eight of your miles each hour till night time.”

  “Make sail! Pack it on, Mr Warren, give us some time in hand.”

  As night fell they closed the river mouth and furled the topsails to reduce Charybdis’ silhouette against the darkening sky. The pilot told them he intended to crawl inland with the tide, slowly and carefully for theirs was a bigger ship than he was used to and he had to discover exactly how she would handle. Frederick was encouraged by this, much preferred a sensible caution to overweening confidence.

  “Load both batteries while we have daylight, Mr Warren. Double shot the long guns.”

  Double shotting demanded very careful loading, the rounds to be rammed hard onto the charge and each other, but produced a very effective first broadside if close range could be guaranteed. Accuracy suffered over anything greater than a couple of cables and muzzle velocity was thought to be some twenty parts lower, but at half a cable, even closer ideally, the destruction could be massive. Grape over ball was the best load for close quarters, but the range needed be no greater than a cricket pitch in length.

  “Grape to the carronades, sir?”

  “Yes. No need to cut up their rigging, I would hope. Keep chain shot to hand, against one of them trying to run.”

  The carronades fired a round of two hundred and fifty six two ounce balls, each half as heavy again as a musket ball, could virtually end an engagement if they could sweep the length of a gundeck, but again, the range had to be point blank, pistol shot. Action against moored vessels in a harbour must necessarily be close, the advantage all to the English.

  “All hands to the waist, Mr Warren.”

  The people gathered in a mass, no attempt made to form disciplined lines, all eager to hear what was to happen, quiet and expectant.

  “Men, we are about to enter the river, silently. I want the Frogs to wake up to our shot about their ears. All four may be there, two frigates, a brig, a schooner – our pilot will put us between the frigates and we will fight both sides if that be so. If not, if some have sailed, then we do what is possible. Hit them, reload, hit them again! Keep the broadsides together and point carefully. Above all, silent as the grave till dawn, not a whisper!”

  The sun sank rapidly, blood red as it normally was, the cloud over half the sky reflecting from palest salmon pink and gold to acerbic flame scarlet. It was, of course, an omen of a bloody morning to follow.

  “But the sky is that colour every night of the monsoon, Mr Warren.”

  “Then it must be right some times, sir! Perhaps the omens get it wrong most nights.”

  Frederick gave up – the Age of Reason it might be on land, but the Navy had its own beliefs.

  “Pass the word to officers, please – full dress in the morning, no working uniforms, side arms of course.”

  “Ablett, you and Bosomtwi and Mr LeGrys to be with me in the morning, on the quarterdeck. The three of you to keep together, if you please.”

  “Aye aye, sir. So long as Mr LeGrys don’t stray from your side, that is, sir, where I belong, and Bose.”

  Frederick nodded acceptance – they would look after the boy, but he owned their first loyalty and nothing he could say would change that.

  Nieuw Leiden was on fire, flames from hillside to hillside across the shallow valley and the two main residential areas on the healthier higher ground almost gone. The waterfront, the warehouses and chandleries, was still untouched, deliberately preserved, no doubt. The inlet to the northwest was black by contrast, moon lost in the monsoon clouds and the flames obscuring the vision of any possible lookout. Charybdis stood in slowly, crawling against the current, the pilot utterly confident.

  “He has his leading marks, sir,” Ferrier commented in an undervoice, “swears we have thirty feet under our keel. Just one more bend, one more mud flat to pass.”

  The two miles of river had taken them nearly three hours, the pilot quietly content to get the feel of the big frigate and navigating her precisely, to the inch it seemed. He poked the interpreter, muttered a comment as they watched.

  “Sir, Lee Ah Man says that the jungle ends at this bend, the land is padi, flat rice fields. We must go fast here because the river is open and we could be seen.”

  “Hands aloft, Mr Warren. All sail.”

  Courses and topsails were unfurled in unnatural silence, sheeted home without a word. Charybdis heeled, trying to overwhelm the force of her rudder, rounding the bend like a thoroughbred in sight of the post.

  “Well, less like a carthorse than normal, Mr Warren. Run out, both si
des.”

  They peered against the backdrop of fire, trying to make sense of the black hulls on the river. A faint lament of shouts and screams could be heard from the town now, no trumpets, no alarm, no guns. Jackman ran from the bows.

  “Sir, starboard bow, second vessel at anchor is a big frigate. The others seem not to be ships of war.”

  “Alongside her, Mr Ferrier, close enough to piss on her!”

  Frantic orders, sail stripped, four wild minutes, the first lemon light showing beyond the hills, the wind dropping, shouts from the Frenchman as she woke, too late. Charybdis crabbed onto her larboard quarter, fifty yards and closing.

  “Shoot, Mr Warren!”

  Heeling to the single, shattering crash, musketry rattling from the Marines, the sharp bang of the swivels from the tops, quick fire from the foretop as the two big rifles scoured the French deck, picking out officers, gun captains, any figure of authority, any source of orders. Twenty gun ports, none open, a twenty four pounder silent behind each. Ninety seconds and a second broadside, loaded grape this time, answered by perhaps a half of the French, a few balls hitting high on Charybdis. The sudden, deeper roar of the chaser followed almost instantly by the crash of wood as a boatload putting out from the shore died.

  “Grapnels!”

  Hooked on in half a dozen places, men heaving on the ropes, the two hulls thumping together, the French bulwarks half a man higher.

  “Boarders away!”

  Two hundred from Charybdis, cheering, roaring incoherently, screaming obscenities; the block of Indians chorused a formal ‘Hip, Hip, Huzzay!’ as seemed appropriate to them, but nobody found them laughable, cutlass in one hand, stabbing knife in the other, on the heels of the quarterdeck party. The sudden onset overwhelmed all resistance, there seemed to be no officer to hand to give a formal surrender, but the fighting ended inside a minute, the mass of the casualties seeming to have been caused by the grapeshot.