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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Reply, sir, to your note.”

  The landlord passed across a neatly sealed sheet of foolscap made into an envelope, a flourishing Italianate superscription, a plain seal.

  Mr Critchel thanked Sir Frederick, would be delighted to have the honour to nominate a midshipman to serve under his command. His candidate would wait on Sir Frederick aboard Charybdis on the last day of November at ten o’clock in the morning, as so kindly suggested.

  “Po’shay for the morning, landlord. Four horses.”

  “I’ll book places on the Mail for Bose and me, sir – ‘twouldn’t be right, us sharing the chaise with you now, sir.”

  “Balls, Ablett! You will travel with me as ever. If it makes you feel more proper then you are my escort, to guard me through the dangers of the English roads.”

  Inside the door of the Big House, a bitter cold wind and rain having driven him into the warm.

  “I had been going to send my name in, sir, but it is too wet to play. I was made baronet on Tuesday, Father, am now Captain Sir Frederick Harris.”

  “Iain’s grandfather will swell with pride, my boy, as indeed do I! Come, let us find your mother – they are making things in the kitchen, I believe, laying down the last fruits of autumn.”

  Anything that could be pickled was being steeped in vinegar, salt and spices, or being blanched and bottled or hung up to dry; runner beans were being laid down in salt in earthenware crocks, cabbage going to coleslaw – the great, low-beamed kitchen was wreathed in steam and eye-stinging acetic acid. A massive pot of white English peaches was boiling while a thick brandy sauce was stirred up to the side.

  “Peaches in brandy syrup with double cream! A good winter! That tree has hardly cropped at all three years running but must have produced a good six stone this year – and saved itself from the axe in so doing!”

  The old man clapped his hands, smirked as the women in the kitchen turned and stared at him, all with much the same expression, mistress and skivvy alike.

  “May I have the honour of presenting Captain Sir Frederick Harris, Bart?”

  The oohs and aahs and half-bobbed curtsies amply repaid his efforts.

  “When do you go to Abbey, Frederick?”

  “I do not know that I can, Father. In this weather I would be two days a-horseback, frozen and the nag maybe taking harm as well, I am no great horseman! A carriage would founder in the first ten miles and the wind is set in the west so I cannot even coast it round from Southampton. We need a road, a turnpike which can be used in winter, sir.”

  “From Bishop’s Waltham to Winchester on the chalk, then to Romsey, going down onto the clays. There is a road already from there to Wimborne but we would need to build to Poole, and then over the hills to Dorchester. Four separate turnpikes, two of them across bad country – expensive in the extreme, Frederick, and several years in the building.”

  “Are you involved in any turnpikes, sir?”

  “None at all – the local roads carry too little traffic, their tolls would never support the cost of a new-made road and my income would not pay for one. We are on heavy clays, Frederick, almost the worst possible land to build roads on.”

  They studied the very limited maps of the area to see if they could plan a route that would take them to Abbey by way of harder, higher ground where the tracks might be usable, but they could discover no sure road. Frederick did not wish to be away from Iain’s side for more than a day or two of the leave remaining to him, could see no possibility of getting to Abbey and back in less than a week. If he could not go to Abbey, then Abbey must come to him, he eventually decided, and sent a man from Home Farm with a message. The destination not being served by Mail Coaches that was not a simple matter.

  “Now, William Rogers, you will take at least two days to get there and as long back, more if it is necessary, if the horse needs the rest.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rogers was young, not yet twenty, unwed, short, sparely built and helped in the stables whenever he could for love of the horses. He had never been more than five miles from home in his whole life.

  “Tell me again how you will go.”

  “Bishopstoke, Chandler’s Ford, Baddesley, Romsey, sir, by the lanes, following the finger posts to get my way. Then I gets onto this turnpike and pays my sixpences at the gate and gets a ticket what lets I ride to Wimborne. When I gets to Wimborne town I goes to the sign of the Bear and Ragged Staff inn and gives they the letter what says I’s your man and me and the old ‘oss got to stay overnight. I pays my money what you gives I up front. I ‘as a bite to eat what they gives I and a couple of pints but I don’t get pissed. Come the morning I gets they to put I on the road to Bere and Dorchester, then I rides out past this Maiden on the road to Bridport and they tells I where Abbey do be.”

  “Good man. Now then, here’s twenty sixpences for the tolls, there and back, and that’s more than you will need. Five shilling pieces will pay your shot at the Bear and Ragged Staff, going and coming back again. Half a guinea in case you need it, for a smith, say. Now, I’m paying you five bob a day to do this, so I’ll give you five days money now, and pay up after if it takes longer, so that’s ten half crowns for you.”

  “Thank’ee, sir. Tomorrow morning, so soon as it’s light enough to be safe for the ‘oss, I’m off.”

  William Rogers returned with Hartley on the fifth day, cold, tired and triumphant, his great adventure a success.

  “I walked the old ‘oss damn near all the way to Romsey, sir, it did take I four hour to get that far, but then I made a better pace after I paid for the old ticket and got to Wimborne wi’ nigh on an hour of light left. They reads your old letter in the pub and puts I in a big room on me own in the back, wi’ me own fire in it! They tells I to come on down again and feeds I wi’ roast beef and taters and parsmit and cabbage and peas and a apple pie wi’ some yeller stuff on it for afters, and I ‘as my two pints and not a drop more. I goes up to kip and a bloke says to I to leave me boots outside the door, and, bugger I, but they given ‘em a polish come morning! Three shillings and ten pence it cost for the two nights, and I only needed to use eight of the sixpences at the toll gates, and nowt went wrong.”

  From separate pockets he produced twelve sixpences, one shilling and twopence and the half-guinea, laid them carefully on the table.

  “Well done! That’s exactly right.”

  “I found the old road to Abbey easy, because the bloke from the pub sent one of ‘is lads with I to point me the right way and ‘e shows I where to go. So I walks a bit and trots a bit and goes over them bloody girt ‘ills what you tells me about and gets to Dorchester in good time so I takes a break there and puts the ‘oss up for a warm for an hour while I takes a bite – what I pays for out of my money, it being for me – and they tells I where the Bridport road do lie and I goes past that old Maiden – gor, she’s big, ain’t she, sir! And I asks on the road when I passes a cottage and they do all know Abbey and tells I where to go, so I finds ‘er and gives your letter into Mr Hartley’s ‘ands, personal-like, and ‘e comes back along of I come the morning after next, and we does it all backwards to get ‘ere.”

  Hartley nodded, grave-faced, confirmed that William had guided him back very efficiently.

  Progress had been very satisfactory at Abbey, helped greatly by the war and its rising prices – the tenant farmers had been able to come into profit almost immediately and had taken on extra hands and made more rapid clearance of Common and waste as a result. The Home Farms, both on the most difficult, wettest soil, were set to break even by their fourth harvest and their profits and the rents should bring the estate into the black within seven years of the enclosure, despite the cost of the drainage cuts. As long as the war lasted, and despite the increase in taxes and the Poor Rate, they should be in profit.

  On a personal level, Hartley was planning to wed, and wondered if it might not be possible to take some of the empty labourers’ cottages in hand and make a dwelling for his bride. There was a row of four in Long Bred
y, all empty…

  “Put men to work over winter – always popular, that – knock them into one and build on as appropriate – you will need a stable for horse and gig, somewhere for the cook to live, I believe, a couple of rooms for the maids. Be sure that the house will reflect your place as the most important man on Abbey. The freehold will be yours as my wedding gift.”

  “Oh! Thank you, Captain Harris! I was not, if I may say so, sir, seeking to persuade you to that course, did not at all expect it. I was not angling for the freehold, sir.”

  “I did not imagine you were, Mr Hartley – it would not occur to me to doubt, in any way, your integrity. I should say, in passing, that I was made baronet last week.”

  “I had not heard, sir – the newspaper publishes monthly, of course. I shall ensure that the neighbourhood is made aware of the honour, Sir Frederick. May I offer my most sincere congratulations, sir?”

  “Thank you, Mr Hartley. What of the neighbourhood, are all well?”

  “Sir Geoffrey and Mr Robinson flourish, Sir Frederick. Lord Partington resides less among us than he was used to, indeed, he is never seen.”

  “For a reason, I presume?”

  “An unpleasant one, sir. One of the dispossessed labourers’ families was of the old Saxon stock, husband, wife and five children, all tall and flaxen-haired and handsome, including two boys of eleven and thirteen. My lord offered the boys a place and to give their parents a hundred pounds and passage to Upper Canada, in effect to buy them.”

  They winced in unison.

  “The father went to Sir Geoffrey and I am told that he then visited Lord Partington with his riding crop in hand. I know for a fact, for I was there, that they met in Dorchester at the Quarter Day fair and exchanged words, at the end of which Sir Geoffrey slapped Partington fore and back across the face and cried, ‘now will you send your friends, my lord’.”

  “He did not?”

  “He ran away, weeping, and we have not seen him since!”

  “Good God!”

  “Unbelievable, sir! But I am told that it is common enough with his sort.”

  “No, no, not at all. I could name a dozen fighting sailors of his persuasion. Two of my gunners on Charybdis I know to be lovers – and I have seen them stand their ground and none surprised at all that they should. No, he is simply yellow, Mr Hartley, though I doubt I have ever heard of the like. There may have been some reason, an illness perhaps, poor man.”

  Hartley was unconvinced, would far rather have portrayed his unconventional lordship as a simple villain.

  “Mr LeGrys, midshipmen! We have Simons and Chalmers.”

  “Three years and four, respectively, sir.”

  “We have permission, as an honour, as it were, to ship six. I have given one to Mr Critchel, but we could look to take a young man with, say, five years under his belt, as well as a couple of squeakers.”

  “The letters must be arriving already, sir – I will go to the ship later this week. Word will be spreading that we are bound for the Med.”

  “You will come?”

  “For a few years yet, Sir Frederick, if I may. I am too young yet to be accepted in command of a private ship of war, and still have much to learn.”

  “When you are ready, be sure that I shall back you, David.”

  “I know that, sir – and you know, I trust, my thanks, without need for any great performance, sir.”

  Orders arrived, stated simply that Charybdis was to attach herself to the Mediterranean Fleet, offered no more.

  “Time to earn our living, Father. Inshore squadron on the blockade of Toulon or running convoys from Gibraltar to the Eastern Med. There is no chance of a fleet action – and no place for a frigate in one in any case – since the Nile. There may be a cruise or two, turn and turn about, but I have had more than my fair share, sir, a year or two of boredom is more than due.”

  “Sailing when?”

  “Three weeks or so, mid-December; sufficient warning to make up my crew and bring all together.”

  “Do you need that time?”

  “We need just eight men for a full complement, sir – volunteers have appeared daily, we have turned fit, healthy landsmen away! We are accepting only able seamen, and expect to get them. Jackman is in a state of delighted amaze, he has not twenty landsmen aboard, and each of them is capable of a special task – working the breadroom, keeping the animals, officers’ servants, sailmaker’s crew, we even have a cooper’s mate who ran away from his apprenticeship in the brewery. Every man who is capable has been trained up to his mast and his gun, something that can only be done in a long commission at foreign.”

  “Why did the cooper run away to sea, Frederick?”

  “I do not know, sir – would never dream of asking; he might well have committed a crime so heinous that I would feel obliged to hand him over to the authorities. I had much rather not know, sir, the efficiency of the ship demands that I do not!”

  “Are many of your men criminals, think you?”

  “Of course, sir – why else would they suffer such hardship so meekly? Most dare not show their faces too often in England. Whilst on the subject of the criminal classes, I have still to finalise these damned midshipmen, sir, must go to Pompey tomorrow.”

  Critchel appeared in person, a thirteen year old nephew at his side.

  “He has two years on the books of Caledonian, Sir Frederick, and was written in on Victory for three before that. He has been at school to learn his Latin and Greek and the Mathematics, and the smallsword, pistol and equitation. He has his uniforms and books and an allowance of fifty pounds per annum. He is called Critchel, Michael Critchel, is my brother’s second boy.”

  “One half of his allowance should be made over to Mr LeGrys, my clerk, who is in charge of the midshipman’s mess and sees to their extra food. They do not normally take wine with their meals.”

  Critchel nodded, unsure of whether or not this was usual in the service.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr Critchel! You will report for duty one week this day at latest, but you may join your berth today if you have made your farewells.”

  “Today, sir, if I may.”

  “Good, there is work in plenty to be done. Work hard, be attentive to your duty and mind your book, sir! Obey any and every order instantly, ask afterwards if you do not understand why. Do not play the tyrant with the people – I will flog any who shows you disrespect or disobedience, hang any who dares raise a hand to you – but God help you if you provoke any to such an act! A final word – midshipman is a rating – a position given not by the King in his commission but by your captain’s word – and the rating that is mine to give is mine also to take away if it be found to be undeserved. There now! I have told you of the worst; for the best, I am appointing four midshipmen because one was killed in action and three made lieutenant. If you live I will expect to see you made before your eighteenth birthday. Go to Mr LeGrys now.”

  The boy left, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “Better to leave him no illusions, Mr Critchel – ours is a hard service and too many die in it, and, if one is in any way weak, then life as a mid will soon reveal the fact.”

  “He is an able lad, I believe, Sir Frederick, and I have seen him take his fences on horseback – no backing off in him!”

  “Good! Not like some I have recently heard of. A glass of wine, sir?”

  They chatted a while in the cold cabin – no heating even for a captain in a wooden ship. Critchel, fishing always, worked the conversation back to the topic of cowardice, was told of the affair in Dorchester, of Partington’s ignominy.

  “Finally, Sir Frederick, before I go - I really must be in Town tonight - what of young Michael’s prospects?”

  “I will aid him, advance his career, if he is worth it. Even with that, sir, the odds are against him. Of ten boys who go to sea in wartime, one will die; one will invalid out wounded or ill, the lungs often a problem; one will never pass his board for lieutenant. Of the seven who pass
for lieutenant, four or five will actually get their commission, the rest remaining as master’s mates, some becoming masters, many joining the merchant service. So we may say that one half will actually become lieutenants, and of them one will be made Master and Commander, and then perhaps one in two becoming post.”

  “One in twenty to become captain, you say?”

  “About that, Mr Critchel – you need ability, luck, influence and desire, the proportions of each varying from case to case, and, above all, you need the French to make a war! The best of us can do nothing if we are not shot over, we cannot shine except under the light of war!”

  A very little boy arrived on board carrying a letter from Vice Admiral Farquhar; the child appeared to be an undernourished ten year old.

  “Malcolm McGregor, Sir Frederick,” he introduced himself in a small voice. “The Admiral bids me come to you first; if you are full then I am to beg passage of you, sir, to join his flagship.”

  It was a horribly familiar tale – his father had married as a lieutenant and died of a fever in the Sugar Islands, mother had followed him a couple of years later, gone from poverty, grief and consumption; the boy was left alone, the admiral a vague connection, letters taking the better part of a twelvemonth to finalise his affairs.

  “You have your sea chest, Mr McGregor?”

  “Yes, sir, my mother’s brother gave it me.”

  “Then welcome aboard Charybdis, Mr McGregor. Do your duty and you will do very well here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now then, follow the seaman and he will lead you to your mess.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No, Mr McGregor! When answering an order you must say, ‘Aye, aye, sir’. We use the special words to show that we know it is an order that must be obeyed.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. May I ask a question, sir?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What if it is the wrong order, sir?”

  “Say, ‘Aye, aye, sir’, and obey the order, and be ready to do the right thing when the officer realises it is a mistake. Never refuse, never argue, but you may speak up afterwards.”