“The forenoon, Mr Jackman? I shall look forward to our next meeting!”
“Aye, Sir Frederick, I know! But your thirst for glory might be seen as unseemly, Sir Frederick, in those who do not know you.”
Frederick stopped short, his protests that he could stay, would soon be fit, instantly stilled. ‘Thirst for glory’ – was Sir Iain likening him to one of those vain creatures such as Sydney Smith or Cochrane with their foreign orders and overweening pride, forever clamouring for recognition for their deeds – admittedly remarkable - for public acclaim, for the fawning of the mob?
“Please accept my apologies, Sir Iain. I had not seen myself in that light. I shall go home, sir.”
“Good! I do not see you as a vain peacock, either, Sir Frederick – but I cannot allow you to risk your health and possibly shorten your life performing a duty that can be done, if not so well, by others. Go home, Sir Frederick, and know that when you are strong again Their Lordships will be very happy to employ you at sea. First the West India Company, then Honourable John Company and now the Levant Committee in the City, all love you as a son, Sir Frederick, and all will applaud Their Lordships’ wisdom when they know you are afloat again!”
Frederick was somewhat mollified, irritated, however, that Sir Iain should know exactly how to manipulate him.
“My followers, sir?”
“Cox’n, cook, clerk, the three black men? They go with you, most certainly.”
“Thank you, sir. Young Critchel, of the midshipmen…”
“Critchel?”
“The same, sir.”
“A berth in the Flag, I think, under my eye.”
“He is a good lad and may well become a very fine officer, sir. I took him for obvious reasons, but have been very pleased with him. Equally able is young McGregor, who you know, but he may stay on Charybdis – if he lives he will face his board in the shortest possible time, I believe.”
“Is he not likely to live, Sir Frederick?”
“They tell me he led his people into the fort, pistol and cutlass in hand, shot his man and had to be rescued from another he had set about with his blade – and him a bare eleven years old!”
“Fighting blood, the McGregors, Sir Frederick!”
“Lieutenant Jackman, sir, is well-worthy of your consideration.”
Frederick listened while Farquhar outlined his plans.
“You will tell him yourself, sir? He has often worried whether the uncertain, possibly irregular, state of his parentage might not be a drawback in his service.”
“Born in the West Indies, his parents can be who he wishes – there is no way of checking his status. Has he any idea of his father?”
“None, sir, but he is a man grown and might well wish to know.”
“Perhaps… I must think… for the while, you should inform him that he will be made tomorrow, that he may look to me in future, but no more than that, if you please. I am to be a close friend of his family, but nothing more precise.”
“Of course, Sir Iain. There is another problem, sir, and one whose solution is unclear to me – Captain Evans of the Tartarus. The good of the service says a man of his ability should not be left to go to seed in a mere bomb – but he is forty if he is a day!”
“Far too old for a small ship, even a frigate – a technical man, you say, a mathematician, as it were?”
“So I believe, sir.”
“Mr Jackman mentioned it – something about prime numbers. Captain of a Dockyard would suit him well – Port Mahon needs a good man. I shall suggest to the Commander-in-Chief that he be sent there pro tem whilst letters go to the Admiralty. We can make him post immediately and, if My Lord can be rousted out of bed, the business can be dealt with to all our advantages!”
“Thank you, Sir Iain. When am I to hand over, sir?”
“Courier brig sails tomorrow, Sir Frederick – there will be space on it for you, sir.”
“I sail for England, tomorrow, Doctor, you will be pleased to hear.”
“I am very sorry to hear it, sir, but glad that you are to take the course I am sure is best for your health. May I suggest, Sir Frederick, that you consult with a leading surgeon and a physician whilst you are in London? I am no member of the College, sir, cannot hope to match the quality of care and advice you will receive in Town.”
“I will do so, Doctor Morris, and will make sure to tell him of the dedicated care I and my people have received on Charybdis. Please ask Mr Jackman to come to me.”
“I go home tomorrow, Mr Jackman, and you go to Jedburgh sloop as Master and Commander. I have no doubt I will soon hear much that is good of you! Sir Iain bids me to tell you that he has watched your career since first he appointed you to Athene and that he has the greatest regard for you. It would seem as well that he has some close acquaintance with your family, he knows your parents, both of them. He will ensure that you have your chance, Mr Jackman, and I am sure that you will make the most of it, for you know how to encourage your people to work for you. I hope to serve with you again, sir – our pair of frigates together!”
“What I know I have learnt from you, sir. Thank you!”
It was all most affecting – young Warren in actual tears, many of the people knuckling a forehead and begging his pardon for bidding him farewell. Frederick had never been aware of the affection in which he was held; he had known, had been proud, that he was not feared as a tyrant, but he had never sought the approbation of the lower deck, was amazed to discover he possessed it. Even One Hand Dick Cheek, the epitome of the hard man, said that he would seek a transfer to Frederick’s next command, something he had never before done in his whole service!
“I do not know the etiquette for occasions such as this, Captain Campbell, but as the premier is promoted out of Charybdis, it seemed rag-mannered to leave without introducing your officers to you.”
A handshake, a smile, a friendly word – all might help to make Campbell a welcome successor rather than a resented intruder, and might preserve Charybdis’ existing high level of efficiency.
“Sir Iain told me he would look to appoint a new officer to the ship as premier, Captain Campbell – Beeton, Bruce and Warren are all young, too new in the rank for Beeton to act as First without you holding his hand for several months. They are good lads, which is why they were promoted, but Warren, for one, needs only wave his razor at his face once a week.”
“I knew his uncle – he has Nantes now, I believe.”
“A good officer – I was lucky in him. It is a small service, is it not?”
“It is, sir. Sir Iain talked long with me, about the problems of following so successful and respected a captain, and we took the decision in the end to keep Beeton as senior. Your people will prefer it.”
“They are your people now, Captain Campbell.”
“They will be, I hope, but it will take time and it will be easier for them if they know all of their senior officers. Sir Iain is making one of his young men to come aboard as junior – I gather he needs a space in his midshipman’s berth. Will you wish to address the lower deck before you go, Sir Frederick?”
“Good God, no, sir! Most inappropriate!”
“I must admit, sir, I am of that opinion, too, but folks have their ain ideas.”
“And very queer some of them can be, too!”
They laughed together, left the cabin to discover sideboys, all officers and launch waiting, in direct contravention of Frederick’s orders.
“I told them larboard side, Captain Campbell.”
“Very deaf, people can get, sir, or so I am told!”
The Port Admiral at Gibraltar was fat, smelt of wine at midday, and was beset by fits of vagueness.
“You may take passage for free in Bacchante frigate, due here next week, probably, from the Island, Sir Frederick – or there is an East Indiaman in now, as you will have seen, on which you could no doubt buy cabin space. She is out of season, carrying a part cargo of saltpetre, and other things, I believe. There is generall
y a berth or two vacant, Americans transhipping at the Island, a lot of them in India now – tea traders, I expect, I seem to remember something about tea at the time of the last war, I expect they drink a lot of it in the States.”
It was a source of amazement to Frederick that so many an admiral should be nearly half-witted. Perhaps the hardships of a lifetime at sea combined with the bottle to soften their brains, though alcohol was said to pickle things, make them harder, longer-lasting. Very strange.
“The Indiaman, sir – let us waste no time, if I must go Home then let it be done and over with! Do you know how I would go about booking my passage, sir?”
“Damned if I know, Sir Frederick – I’ve never done it! Flags!”
A suffering lieutenant appeared at the run, left at the gallop.
“Good lad, that one – never stands still, though, got the itch or something – he’ll be back in no time. Have a drink?” The Admiral smiled hopefully, beamed at Frederick’s nod. “Steward!”
One glass became three in the very short time the lieutenant was away. Frederick refused a brandy for the road, took down the details he was given.
“Boarding today, sir, hoping to sail on this evening’s tide. The Medway, thirteen hundred ton class, largest cabin in the ship is available, the only one, in fact, for you, sir, dining at the captain’s table. Single second for your Mr LeGrys, and a servants’ four berth for your five men, because that is all there is, but they are to eat in the great cabin, if they wish.”
“Four are used to inns in England, know how to eat in public, and the other would learn quickly – but I expect they will insist that it is not their place.”
The Medway was by far the largest ship Frederick had ever sailed in, and the first merchantman. He found the clutter of her decks and the random meandering of passengers most disconcerting – it was not the way things ought to be in the nautical world as he understood it. At nearly two thousand tons burthen, despite her official rating, the Medway was almost as large as the Spanish argosies, the great four deckers they favoured, but seemed to have no vast numbers of crew, indeed, at a glance she seemed to carry fewer than Charybdis. It promised to be interesting, seeing just how they went about things.
Bosomtwi settled him into his quarters. Having dined onshore in mid-afternoon he did not venture out again until breakfast was served in the great cabin.
To his surprise and horror, Frederick found that he was a known figure, his was a recognisable face. People he had not met, had never heard of, did not especially want to hear of, bowed to him and requested the honour of introduction, many grasping his left hand with fervour and excessive respect.
The master of the Medway, Captain Plumer, as short and stocky as Frederick and in a uniform almost as fine, explained that newssheets had been established in all of the Indian Presidencies in recent years, mostly existing on a diet of stale news from Home. Naval actions in their own, more or less, waters, had been a source of great excitement, and all had published line drawings of Charybdis and Captains Harris and Warren and Forshaw, their Heroes.
“Quite accurate, too, sir – you are, unfortunately perhaps, identifiable from them. There would have been an artist in Bombay, I suspect, who took a sketch of you.”
The Navy was fashionable just now, of course, Captain Plumer continued, just a fraction jealously, and, on a more rational basis, the French Squadron could have destroyed trade for a year, two perhaps, which would have been a disaster for every person present in the Great Cabin.
“The merchants exist on credit, Sir Frederick – this year’s cargo reaches London and pays off last year’s loans and provides the security for next year’s, as well as making the obvious profit. One year with no cargo means probable bankruptcy, certainly wipes out a generation of work in building and expanding a business. Company servants would find Supply non-existent, would have to screw much higher taxes from their areas, possibly face rebellions as a result; those due to go on furlough would be held back, the retirees forced to serve another year. And they know this, these people here, and even have a modicum of gratitude in them for the man who averted such a disaster. Besides which, the cannibal tale made their flesh creep most gratifyingly!”
“That will never leave me, will it?”
“Never, sir – much too good a story, and getting better every retelling!”
Early spring turned back to winter as they made north towards the Channel, skirting Biscay, using the normal westerlies to make good progress towards the Port of London and home. One small privateer came bustling out of Biscay, a hopeful lugger firing a single four pound chaser, a crew of no more than thirty – more unlikely things had happened in the past and probably she had a consort or two in the vicinity who would close on the sound of an engagement. Captain Plumer laughed and gave the order to clear away a pair of short eighteen pounders on his broadside.
“I have two good crews, a quarter gunner that used to be from your people commanding. At a cable they will hull her, drive her away with little damage done. I wish, how I wish, that passengers had half the sense they were born with, knew better than to crowd to the rails to see what is happening and get their heads blown off!”
“With respect, sir, might I give my riflemen some practice?”
Plumer raised his eyebrows, nodded.
“Ablett!”
“They’re coming, sir, as soon as they saw ‘em.”
Marc and Jean ran to the headrails, Fergusons cradled.
“When you are ready, men!”
“They are at nearly three hundred yards, Sir Frederick!”
“Light sou’westerly, four knots, calm seas. Watch, sir.”
A performance, the two aware that they were on display, almost every passenger’s eyes on them. Six rounds rapid fire apiece in one noisy minute, the cloud of powder smoke barely cleared before they ceased fire, the lugger wallowing in the trough of the light swell.
“Steersman, master, two mates, gunner, relief quartermaster, at least one other, all in a minute!” Captain Plumer marvelled. “Breech loading, Sir Frederick?”
“An American invention, I believe, sir, certainly dating to the American War. After the principle of a man named Ferguson, a major, but in whose army I know not. Very difficult to manufacture, needing the best of steel and craftsmen, and very expensive. Worth their weight in gold, sir.”
“Easy of maintenance, Sir Frederick?”
“Anything but, Captain Plumer – my man Ablett, here, is a gunner by trade, an armourer by avocation, takes them back to Mr Wheatley in Winchester when the mechanism shows wear and needs replacement, has not the workshop to do it himself. They are not practical military weapons, sir.”
“A pity.”
“Do you wish to close and sink her, sir?”
“I am a merchant seaman, sir. I must not hazard my passengers, and in any case, sinking ships is not to my taste!”
“Of course, sir, my error, I believe. Marc, Jean, keep their gun silent, if you would be so good!”
Slower searching fire in and around the chaser, trying to send ricochets off the barrel and into places of concealment, seeking out the tiny wisp of smoke from the fallen slowmatch in the hope of spreading flames. A sudden explosion as sparks rattled into a powder charge, but some competent soul had locked off the ready use magazine and no chain of detonations followed.
Plumer took the Medway away and at a cautious mile crewmen surfaced on the lugger, brought her under control and scurried off to the east and the French coast; seven quick splashes showed in her wake.
“You do not choose to sail these waters in company, Captain Plumer?”
“Outbound, to the Island, invariably, Sir Frederick – any lone Indiaman will always be met by a privateer or national corvette. Homeward bound, with the far more valuable cargo, only this sort of coincidental encounter ever occurs.”
“Information?”
“It must be so, Sir Frederick – from London, perhaps, but just as likely Ramsgate or Deal. The smugglers
and the guinea-boats all possess telescopes and no scruples at all – they will give intelligence in exchange for French protection, sell news to any bidder. They view the government as their enemy, profit as their only friend – probably do not even see themselves as the traitors they are. Also, and separately, there are the émigrés – refugees in uncounted numbers, ten or twenty thousands. A few will have come as agents of the Revolution, but many more have found themselves strangers in a strange land, poor, dispossessed and without honour – barons become fencing-masters, a chevalier who is now a hunt-servant. Small wonder if they try to ingratiate themselves with the new masters of their own land, try to ensure a welcome return.”
It was worth remembering, Frederick thought, that plans made in England would leak. Perhaps that was why he was sent to Toulon to return to Gibraltar, nearly a month wasted on the expedition to Djerba. The Admiralty must have been privy to the assault, must have authorised it, there being some risk of war with Turkey involved, but had chosen not to issue his orders themselves – he had vaguely wondered why.
The passengers had surrounded Marc and Jean, half of the men demanding to see the Fergusons, many, however, simply wishing to express their appreciation and gratitude, and no few interested to talk to the big black men, so unusual a sight.
Docking at the Company’s wharves at Rotherhithe and a deputation of passengers came to Frederick, begged his permission to address his men, presented Marc and Jean with a pair of heavy purses and their written thanks; inspection disclosed one hundred guineas apiece, to their open delight.
“They go into the bank, sir, at Waltham, isn’t it. A few more years and those farms of theirs is real – that’s another five of your acres each, isn’t it.”
Captain Plumer shook hands in farewell, offered employment to Marc and Jean if ever they should want it – if the war ended and they had nothing to do, there would still be pirates in plenty in Eastern waters, and they would be very welcome.
The Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 3) Page 18
