As was inevitable in a flush-deck ship, the wardroom was immediately below the great cabin, occupying the same area and within hearing range each of the other.
Frederick, who could stand comfortably upright in his cabin, observed Backham to duck reflexively, took the small man’s delight in his discomfort. Shortness was rarely an advantage in life, those few moments were to be savoured.
The guns were sat on the open main deck, eighteen of long twenty fours, left aboard intentionally so that their ringbolts and ready-use racks could be fitted exactly to their needs, and eight carronades, on each side. She was over-gunned, the pieces too close to each other, their crews would be back-to-back in action, jam-packed, hard pressed not to bump into each other. More than a thousand tons deadweight had led Their Lordships to believe that Trident could carry a massive broadside, and they had added carronades without thought for the available deck space.
“Would a rolling broadside help, do you think, Mr Backham?”
“Carronades are no problem, sir, located fore and aft as they are. For the long guns, possibly … say at half second intervals … no, I do not think it would, sir, I do not believe the gain would be very great at all. I think we shall simply have to drill the crews very carefully. Every man to stand just so, to move thus, steps in a quadrille, one might say.”
“Your decision, Mr Backham, and I shall support you fully, sir. How many hands, Mr Backham? Three hundred and twenty or thereabouts at a guess.”
“Three hundred and sixteen of officers, warrant officers, men and boys, sir, and whatever size of Marine detachment may be added.”
“A ton of bread, meat and water a day, Mr Nias?”
“Adding in all other stores and foodstuffs a mite more than that, sir - I would look for two hundred tons on a six month cruise, and an additional thirty tons of water to allow for wastage, leakage and spoilage. On this ship, sir, with holds designed for a two decker, we shall be very comfortably off for space, and I have it in mind to indent for extra water butts, if it can be arranged.”
Officially it would not be possible to make such an arrangement, there was no means by which it could be done. Frederick sighed and nodded – let Nias make the proper contacts and he would supply the gold he implied.
They went below again, trooped to the cabin and then forward through the ranges that extended from the lobby where the Marine sentry would stand.
Marines would occupy the first eleven feet, separated by a bulkhead, a barrier between captain and lower deck, sometimes literally. At four hammocks across the beam of the ship, each allowed eighteen inches and working watch and watch, there was room for a maximum of fifty six bodies, no more than half to sleep at any given time. Forward again the long, relatively speaking, expanse of open deck, sixty feet in extent, sleeping for two hundred men, watch and watch about.
“Small room for one hundred and more sleeping bodies, Mr Backham.”
“Keeps ‘em warm, sir.”
Next came the spaces for the waisters, men unwatched, working days and sleeping at night and requiring proportionately more room. A surprisingly large number of them – coopers, sailmakers, forecastle men, carpenter’s crew, gunner’s party, cooks, officers’ servants, animal keepers and loblollies. The petty officers messed here, next to but separate from their men. The sick bay was partitioned off in the very bows, close to the heads and in theory at least somewhat lighter and airier, and completed this deck, normally called the gun deck because ships in previous centuries had been used to keep their broadside at this lower level, being easier on the centre of gravity.
Down another companionway and they came to the manger, unoccupied as yet, waiting its complement of pigs, hens, a goat or two, a sheep, probably; in warmer climes there would be turtles. Depending on the wealth of captain and wardroom and the length of time out of port the manger could be crammed with various food-animals, could be a noisome, horrible place. Next to it was the black hole that served as gunroom, the mess for the midshipmen and the surgeon’s operating place in action. Small hutches around and about this area were cabins for the warrant officers and their mates, only Master and Surgeon admitted to the wardroom, together with the anomalous Purser, who was almost a civilian, but not quite. The sail room, boatswain’s, master’s and purser’s stores completed the deck as far as the wardroom, eating and sleeping space for the four commissioned lieutenants and the two Marine officers – a lieutenant and an ensign normal in a large fifth rate – the three senior warrants with their sleeping cabins elsewhere, tucked into available corners, but living in the wardroom.
Deepest working parts of the ship, and the lowest they penetrated, were the holds and breadroom, the storage spaces for rations and water, and the magazine, shot locker and gunner’s shop aft, cable tiers forward. The gunner’s space had been substantially rebuilt in the refit, would now give more working room and easier access to his racks for the little powder barrels, so that he could turn them in rotation to prevent their contents separating out under the unceasing shaking of the seas. He and his party would have clear space to cut, sew and fill serge cartridges for the great guns, each charge weighed on the fixed brass scales, ten pounds for a long thirty two, six for the same carronade, eight for a twenty four long gun; all to be stored dry and turned in date order. There were bins as well to keep the paper cartridges they would cut up and fill, ends carefully twisted, for muskets and pistols. Light came from lanterns kept behind double glass panes in the bulkheads and accessible only from outside the bay.
The shot lockers, next to the powder room, would eventually carry more than sixty tons of iron in the way of thirty two and twenty four pound ball. Bins to their sides would hold two ounce grapeshot, three-quarters inch musket balls and twelve gauge pistol rounds, tidily separated. The grape would be made up in nets or serge bags, according to the particular preferences of individual gunners. Tucked away, out of sight, rarely required, would be a few rounds of bar shot and possibly chain, both designed to cut up rigging and neither popular in current tactical thinking.
A major part of the Master’s function was to calculate the daily expenditure of all stores and to ensure that the stability and balance of the ship was maintained. It would be undesirable, for example, to simply use all the water butts from the bows first and leave the ship stern-heavy.
The ballast spaces were empty, thus reducing the rat population, enabling a thorough inspection of the hull to be made on the slip, incipient rot to be detected.
“Very sound, sir - almost nothing needed be replaced. But, as we said, sir, we must put some eighty tons back. Shingle will shift, sir. Survivors swear to hurricane waves rolling their ship, to shingle ballast moving so that she would not roll back again, turned turtle, sank. The ship being lost, it has never been proved, of course!”
“We will not accept shingle, gentlemen. I may have to make some sort of compromise, but it will not be loose shingle.”
On deck and they went aloft, the defects of the standing rigging gravely pointed out, shrouds and stays alike inadequate.
“No! We do not sail in that condition, Mr Nias! Grey, stretched, worn out, will snap before it gives. There is no room for any compromise there, except in the matter of allowing our hands to assist the riggers. We cannot and will not accept that – and, what is more, the yard manager will know that, and that he must line the bread room, so what little game is he playing, I wonder?”
David LeGrys was waiting on the wharf, balancing easily on the rough, greasy timbers, absorbed, apparently, in watching the gulls on the mudflats on the opposite shore, then glancing inland along the line of the river as it narrowed and twisted away from the estuary up towards Botley. There was a cart on the turnpike leading up over the hills towards Fareham, so interesting that he must watch it intently for a couple of minutes. He was so relaxed and unconcerned that Frederick was convinced he knew he was being observed.
“Fox, sir, the owner – I have just left him in his office and he is peering through the window to
wards us. I should take you straight to him, I think, sir, so that he can see we need to have no conferences about him. He has a nephew, sir, was very straightforward in saying that he would like the boy to go to sea, and I confirmed that we had a place, could not imagine you would be other than delighted to take the lad. There is something else, sir, and I don’t know what, I can’t put my finger on it.”
“It will come out, David, listen carefully in case I miss it.”
They skirted the empty slip where Trident had lain for six months and where the boatswain had died. It was no more than a floor of heavy timbers, a hundred and fifty feet long by sixty wide, sloping imperceptibly towards the waterside and with open-sided sheds all along one side, used at the moment for storing the wedges and chocks and beams that would hold upright the hull of any ship dragged out of the water or new-built on it. The tide was low and they could see that the timbers extended out into the river a few yards. Trident would have been tied up at the wharf, emptied of all weight, guns included, topmasts struck, ballast shifted, would then have been floated onto the slip at the highest springtide and physically hauled the last stretch out of the water on greased timbers. Some of the yards still kept oxen for the heavy haulage, slower but pound for pound more powerful than draught horses.
They walked slowly to the path outside the low, wooden office building, rough yellow bricks, seconds from the works just along the river.
“How vulgar is he, David? Backham seems rather unimpressed with him.”
“The feeling is mutual, I suspect, sir. He is rather underbred, sir, but is climbing, hard!”
The office door opened before they could knock and Fox welcomed them in, bowing repeatedly, ushering them to chairs, fussing obsequiously but not, to Frederick’s surprise, making a great point of LeGrys’ infirmity.
“A glass of something, Sir Frederick, Mr LeGrys?”
An infinitesimal nod from LeGrys and Frederick made a glad acceptance, watched as Fox placed a heavy silver tray on his desk, poured full glasses of Madeira, anxiously presented them, breathed a sigh of relief as they showed pleasure in the quality of the wine.
LeGrys smiled courteously, turned in his chair to Frederick.
“Mr Fox tells me, sir, that a number of matters relating to Trident have been at a stand this last week or two, he thinking it better to wait a short time to consult you rather than possibly make a decision you would not think for the best.”
Frederick smiled in turn and murmured his thanks to Mr Fox: so many yard-owners had no sense of what was the correct thing to do, lacked the basics of good-manners. Fox showed his delight, relaxed a fraction from the over-eager leaning forwards in his chair.
“An excellent Madeira, Mr Fox – it is rare to find a man who can judge a wine so well!”
Fox, whose judgement had extended as far as demanding the most expensive of his wine-merchant, made an incoherent self-deprecation while Frederick assessed him quickly. His brief exposure to fashion in London, and the strictures of the tailor chosen for him, enabled him to judge Fox’s dress. Frockcoat and breeches, halfboots, clean and pressed but poorly cut, very provincial – gentleman’s clothing, not typical of a businessman. A young man, recently inherited one assumed, wearing mutton-chop whiskers, possibly to make him look older, in some ways uncertain of himself.
“Are you related to the Norfolk Foxes, sir?”
Mr Fox believed not - which was a relief, they being of Frederick’s invention - but his young lady wife was connected, he rather thought, to Sir Geoffrey Taylor, a neighbour of Sir Frederick’s.
“A good friend, Sir Geoffrey, related to many of the best families – you should make his acquaintance, Mr Fox.”
Fox bit – he had wondered whether he should, had feared to seem presumptuous, pushy even.
“Not at all, sir – perhaps the best thing would be for you to stay with me a few days at Abbey. I cannot pledge to match your wine, sir, but Lady Harris would be very pleased to welcome you and your wife, and you could meet Sir Geoffrey then.”
Fox would be delighted, could think of nothing he would like more. He relaxed completely, had evidently achieved all he wanted, his posture giving him away absolutely.
“I shall not be back at Abbey these many months, of course, Mr Fox – depending on the war, and whether it reaches an end. I understand from Mr LeGrys that your nephew is to join me as midshipman? He will, of course, be very welcome to come with you to Abbey.”
They talked politics and the war for a few minutes. Mr Fox had considered becoming a Member himself, a family connection had a Borough, but he had inherited on his dear father’s early demise, had had to devote himself to his business.
“Now, Sir Frederick, we must rerig Trident, sir, and the first of the cordage has arrived from the walks this very morning – they are tedious slow these days! I hire extra men from Warsash when there is a ship to rig, will be able to make a start tomorrow. Zinc sheets are being carried aboard even now to complete work on the breadroom – I refused part of the first order, sent them back, their quality unacceptable. As for ballast, well, if shingle will not do, then, Sir Frederick, we broke Charlotte frigate for firewood only last month, recovered some thirty tons of stone blocks from her. I would propose that we set those stone blocks in squares, walls almost, and put fifty tons of shingle in willow baskets, fascines, inside them.”
Willow would last at least five years in salt water and could be replaced in a few days of labour. It was a sensible suggestion.
They parted on the friendliest of terms, would meet every morning to discuss the work of the day.
“Well, David, we know what he wants now. Keep us honest, please. Send him a letter at intervals – news of his nephew’s progress. Make sure there is an invitation as soon as we know when we shall be home again. He is, as Backham says, a vulgar little beast, but he may go up in the world, and many a gentleman has started with fewer natural advantages!”
A week of hobnobbing with Mr Fox and Trident was near to sailing and a message was sent to the Port Admiral in Portsmouth resulting in the appearance of a small tender and the transfer on board of sixty men under the command of a young lieutenant. Eighty hands would be ample to work Trident round to dockside in Portsmouth and the Admiral would then provide at least one hundred more – the rest would be Frederick’s concern.
Frederick stood with Backham to get a glimpse of the men as they came aboard, to get a feeling for them, whether they were hard bargains or to a great extent good sailors, though they could be, often were, both. They were unimpressed by their new lieutenant.
“Marks, sir, reporting aboard.”
Rosy, pink cheeks young Mr Marks had, unlined, not weather-beaten, never a hint of wind spreethe on his skin. He had neglected to salute the quarterdeck, a very heinous crime in any commissioned officer. His uniform was new, rich, the best wool, well-tailored; his sword, light and ornamental, had bullion on its unworn hilt and quillons; there was a diamond-headed pin in his necktie. A true son of privilege – he would have to prove himself.
“You will wish to shift into working dress, Mr Marks, I am sure. Report to Mr Backham in fifteen minutes. Ablett, would you show Mr Marks to the wardroom, please?”
Ablett would undoubtedly drop a quiet hint or two, though whether the young man would listen was another matter.
“The first of your people, Mr Backham. Not the most promising start, but I am sure he will shape up – and if he does not, he will ship out, of that I am equally certain!”
Backham’s face cracked into a genuine smile as he realised that Marks was unknown to Frederick. His first reaction had been to fear that Sir Frederick, a landed gentleman, had chosen to surround himself with officers of his own mould, that he could expect a wardroom in which breeding counted for more than competence.
“An exchange to the flagship or Port Admiral’s staff can often be arranged, sir. He will show what he is, one way or the other.”
“He will, Mr Backham – and if he is not to your liking d
o not hesitate to inform me, for I already know that I can trust your judgement entirely, sir.”
It was worth stretching the truth somewhat, he had discovered, for Backham responded very well to praise.
“Mr Marks brought orders with him. We are to go to the dockyard, as we expected, but we are also to replace some of our guns.”
“The long guns, sir, the twenty fours, are all old issue. There is another five years in them yet, sir, so our last gunner said, but their touchholes are worn and they are not as straight in the bore as newer pieces. Amply sufficient on blockade, sir, or at close range in a fleet action, but if they are to be replaced then I assume, sir, we are not for those duties.”
Backham was fishing, hoping to get the inside information – it would do no harm.
“I have not yet received written orders, Mr Backham, and you know what the Navy is like! But the word was independent commission in the Aegean and Eastern Med generally, around Turkish waters, which would be very interesting, but, as you know…”
“Yes, sir – it could just as well be South America or the Arctic whalers. Trident was under warning for Canton when we sailed to the Texel on blockade.”
A few more minutes of discussion of the old guns and their propensity to honeycomb, the acids in exploded powder etching and weakening the iron of their breeches, the awful results of a misfire, a blown gun, something neither had experienced but both had heard of.
“Twenty five minutes, Mr Backham?”
“I noticed, sir. Do we give him rope and let him hang himself, or do we beg the honour of his immediate presence?”
“Rope, Mr Backham – let us discover exactly what we are dealing with.”
Twenty minutes later Mr Marks favoured them with his presence, dressed with neatness, propriety and care in elaborately casual working uniform. His halfboots shone glossily; his trousers were wonderfully round and uncreased; the jacket was spotlessly new and his shirt was snowy white under all. He could have graced Bond Street, no doubt often did.
Britannia’s Son (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 4) Page 15
