Britannia’s Son (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 4)

by Andrew Wareham

  They agreed, the possibility existed, both had known it to happen; they would split the nights between them, one to be regularly on deck. They would, as well, discuss the possibility with the lieutenants. Backham pledged himself to offer some helpful pointers.

  “Not a term familiar to my sea-going experience, sir. Helpful pointers?”

  “Useful, practical advice, sir – things like, ‘jump over the leeside not the windward, if you lose the convoy’.”

  There was no trace of a smile on the harsh, lined face – Frederick hoped he might be joking.

  “Jump if they must, Mr Backham, but I am sure we would not wish to push them.”

  “Not too hard, sir.”

  Frederick reflected that Backham might be too hard for his own good. He was an outstanding seaman who would certainly be a brave leader in a fight, at the front where he should be, but could he be described as fit for command? He would not be a sadistic pervert such as Pigott of the Hermione, nor be as personally unpleasant as Bligh, but his severe, harsh, incessant perfectionism could very easily breed mutiny in any ship he commanded. Ablett and Bosomtwi had already passed the word – obliquely – that he was respected by the true seamen but loved by nobody, which was no problem for a premier, but could, literally, sink a captain. In the final extreme of storm or battle a captain had to be able to lift his crew, to bring from them that last extra effort they did not know they possessed. That almost mystic element of leadership came from the man, not from the cocked hat and gold braid. Frederick knew that he could lead a crew, though he did not know how he did it, and he was almost sure that Backham could not, and was unable to say why, and was very unwilling to damn his promotion chances without a reason he could state.

  “Tedious, is it not, Mr Archbold?”

  There was a good wind, almost half a gale blowing free and Trident was under topsails alone, pottering along behind the merchant hulls.

  “Very, sir!”

  “So, a pair of Barbary xebecs in sight, together on the starboard bow. What do you do, what sail, what course? We have had a plague and you are senior, in command – what is your plan?”

  The xebecs became rowing galleys, a French frigate, a Spanish third rate, finally the French fleet out of Toulon.

  “That’s the easy one, sir. Take the crews off the ships and fire them. Put Mr Bennett and a dozen hands on the snow and send him off to find our fleet. Trident to shadow the Frogs, sir.”

  Archbold was quite correct, but the American Ambassador to St James would demand his head, and Jardine might well get it. Frederick wondered whether he would actually have the moral courage to do as he knew he ought if the circumstance arose.

  The wind was ideal for entry to Mahon, would be dead foul for getting out. Trident stood off and watched the three merchantmen into the long inlet, bore off for Malta.

  “Let her fly, Mr Nias, see what she can do.”

  Nias and Backham packed on courses and driver, studding sails, topsails, topgallants and fore staysails to partner the jibs. On such a heavy ship and strong wind royals made little sense, the poles too flimsy. Trident laid over, picked up speed, white around her bows, the sound of water rushing by; Nias and Backham scowled.

  “Ten knots and a half, sir. Digging her bows in. Hold must be restowed or ballast shifted to bring her stern down. Two or three tons, Mr Nias?”

  “Three, I suggest, sir. Mizzen staysails?”

  “Worth trying, changes the angle of rotation a mite.”

  They continued through all the daylight hours. Minute adjustment, careful sail trimming, scientific experiment, intuition, long experience, could not push her above eleven knots. As a 64 they had more than once recorded thirteen and had on occasion traversed three hundred miles in a day, an average marginally in excess of twelve knots.

  Nias was unwilling to restow his holds, the process would take days of labour to maintain everything in proper date order; neither man wished to interfere with the ballast. They agreed that by far the best solution was to shift a pair of carronades from high on the forecastle to ports in the stern, but try as they might they could not persuade themselves that there could possibly be a space to work them.

  “Below decks, in the great cabin, sir, would offer several advantages, lower down and well back, the weight closer to the waterline.”

  “The wardroom is even lower, Mr Backham.”

  “Too close to the waterline, sir.”

  “It would be a dockyard job, surely.”

  “Chips could do it, sir.”

  “The desk in my cabin is fitted, built in – it could not be cleared in action.”

  “We’ll get Chips to have a look at it, sir.”

  In the end the pair tucked in very conveniently just in front of the quarter galleries and the desk proved easily capable of being broken down – Frederick hardly noticed the difference. As for clearing, a clean sweep morning and evening, he could hardly complain for being subjected to the same inconvenience as the rest of the ship.

  “As the convoy slowed us so severely, Mr Backham, we will, inevitably, be three days behind our time at Malta, will we not?”

  “Well, sir, as I understand it we had in fact a day or two in hand, having made a fast passage to Gib, and we should be able to…”

  Even the quartermasters were frowning at him, shaking their heads very sadly. Nias whispered in his ear.

  “The Sicilian Narrows? No more than eighty miles wide, very little sea room between the African coast and Sicily. Quite a bottleneck, I believe, Mr Nias.”

  Nias whispered again, more sharply.

  “French blockade-runners – oh! The reports in Gibraltar estimated there might be three or four a month going to and from the army in Egypt – we certainly should keep a sharp look-out for them.”

  The monkeys, sunning themselves on the mizzen yardarm, peered in amaze at that – sensitive to an atmosphere of disapproval, especially one as sharp as that surrounding Backham.

  “We shall run a patrol line for three days, Mr Backham. The wind is such that one might easily have sailed, well worth the effort. South to the African shore in daylight, crawl back under short sail at night.”

  The third dawn brought topsails in sight against the rising sun. Bennet, on watch, immediately furled topsails and set the courses in the hope of maintaining Trident’s speed while reducing her profile. He sent Kent to rouse out Frederick, McGregor up to observe, and gave orders to load – Trident was already cleared to greet the daylight.

  Frederick appeared, nodded his satisfaction. “Mr Backham!”

  Backham’s acknowledgement came from behind his shoulder, as he had expected.

  “He will run when he sees us, will have the legs of us, for sure. The moment he alters pack on all sail and set course to intercept. Mr Bennett, to your chasers, please – one warning round, three to try for a spar, as soon as she is in range.”

  The sun popped up over the horizon, its whole orb seeming to appear at once, and the Frenchman woke up, less than two miles off and irresolute, suddenly decided to tack away.

  “On deck, sails distant, beyond the chase, tunny boats, sir.”

  “Saw them in the dark, feared them to be corsairs, Mr Backham, hence not keeping the watch he should to his west.”

  Nias, silent so far, was quietly happy to watch proceedings. He felt strongly that it was his function to bring Trident to the field, leave the commissioned officers to fight her – he was an old-fashioned man in many ways.

  McGregor shouted down from the masthead, his breaking voice escaping him in a high shriek.

  “Ship-rigged, pierced for sixteen guns, none run out, low in the water. Tacking, sir – missed stays, sir, the wee bugger’s in irons!”

  The chase took eight minutes to regain control, complete her tack, was well within range by that time, steadied on a northward heading with a waterspout in front of her bows and then a huge ball roaring through the mizzen course. She decided then that the game was not worth the candle.

 
“Sheets flying, sir! She’s coming to the wind!”

  “Boats, Mr Backham, Bring us on her quarter, Mr Nias.”

  An hour saw Merritt with a prize-crew, the Frenchmen, only thirty of them, far too few to fight her guns, sat on Trident’s deck. Fox, who had claimed ‘a few words of French’ was chatting confidently to her captain, reported after a few minutes.

  “Privateer, sir, the bulk of her people pressed into their army and the ship commandeered. Carrying some dates, figs, silks and cottons, sir, but the greater part of her cargo is senior officers’ loot – Egyptian things, sir, mummies and statues and bits of stone.”

  Visions of riches faded – they would have to be content with glory – their prize shown in the Museum, ‘Trident’s capture’. There would as well be the price of her hull, for she would certainly be bought into the service, and gun-money. There might be a fiver a head in it, and that was more than six months’ pay and better than a poke in the eye. It was good of Old Fred to try it on for them, for he was a rich man, had no need for the money himself, could only be hunting out prizes for the benefit of the hands, taking a chance - for he should really be making a fast passage, not hanging about – all out of the goodness of his heart.

  Book Four: The Duty and Destiny Series

  Chapter Six

  They entered Valetta, the Grand Harbour of the Knights, deeply impressive with its old sandstone forts and newer batteries, squat, dark, dour, enduring, shading the warehouses and quays, dwarfing the small houses and alleys of the town. It was a citadel of endurance, symbol of a people who took whatever the storm winds threw at them, and survived, expecting little of life, receiving it.

  Their pilot led them into a wharf underneath the Port Admiral’s house, their prize under their bows. They were the only warship tied up although the harbour was full. There were two third rates, another frigate and half a dozen of sloops and brigs-of-war and a modest fleet of transports, all making ready to sail.

  “Transports are all high in the water, sir. Returning empty to Mahon or England, sir.”

  “They brought the new garrison, I suspect, Mr Backham. Many will make for Tetuan, in the Moroccos, to load beef and grain for the fleet – the supply train will have been disrupted by this little expedition, the blockaders off Toulon hungry for fresh meat by now. Water and firewood, Mr Backham, both as high as possible. Purser to the markets. I do not know how long we shall be in port, or what welcome we may receive, so we must be as independent as may be.”

  Backham did not quite understand why they might be unwelcome but was by now happy to do as Frederick bid – the captain knew exactly what he was doing – went to find Jenkinson and confer. Frederick collected his pile of folders and dockets for the Flag-Captain, or Captain of the Port, whichever office had been appointed, picked up his orders and prepared himself for an unpleasant interview.

  “So, Sir Frederick! Admiralty orders which render you an independent agent! You are to report through me, not to me, the meanwhile consuming victuals from my stores, repairing in my yard and making good losses of men from my barracks, and all the while unavailable for any of the myriad of tasks that fall upon me. You are – very kindly – to advise me of your actions, and to listen to my suggestions, though in no way bound by them, but you are to take orders only if you happen, coincidentally, to be present at a fleet action!”

  Frederick had been warned that Admiral Fortescue was one of Jervis’ people, was also a Whig and determinedly irascible, presumably in tribute to his patron. As such he would have small love for a known Tory, less still for a captain who had been made baronet whilst he had yet to receive even the least of knighthoods. To be fair, no admiral could enjoy the prospect of a random, uncontrolled and very powerful frigate wandering his waters at unknown whim, stirring up unsuspected hornet’s nests for his own people to unwittingly blunder into, apparently having no purpose other than to create trouble for him.

  “Yes, sir. I do not know why Earl Spencer – personally - gave me these orders, sir, have received no official explanation of them. I have, however, been given to understand that the Foreign Office had been badgering Mr Pitt for a squadron to be detached to their exclusive command in the Eastern Mediterranean, and that he had finally acceded to their demands. The First Lord managed, it would seem, to whittle them down to a single frigate over which they have no executive authority.”

  Fortescue was one of those admirals who had so far neglected to pickle his brain in alcohol, still retained a high degree of intelligence and some understanding of the wider world.

  “Foreign Office… what is their interest? Turkey, obviously, although weak is still big, can put a million of men into the field – however poorly trained and equipped they may be, still difficult to handle in such numbers. Their naval forces fewer, old-fashioned, but, with the Barbary corsairs bought as auxiliaries, they could control the Mediterranean until the whole of the fleet could be concentrated against them, which we cannot do while the French may invade. But, Turkey is frightened of Russia and nervous of Austria, keeps most of her fleet in the Black Sea… There’s a point! What have you heard of Russia, Sir Frederick? What is the word in London?”

  “From what the First Lord said, sir, Sir Hyde Parker and Lord Nelson are to force the passage to the Baltic. I suspect they will break the Danes, their fleet being the most dangerous to us – built just as much for Atlantic waters as for the Baltic shallows – and so look to bring Russia and Sweden to the negotiating table. Free passage eastward for us, no passage westward for Russia, I would imagine, sir.”

  “So Russia still has no ice-free port to give her access to the Atlantic – she must look south, to the Mediterranean, and to leave the Black Sea she must pass through Turkish territorial waters – the Bosphorus. Heavily defended, even if by old guns – they cannot force a passage.”

  Frederick nodded – Russia was enclosed, ice-bound, sought access to the open seas, had done so for centuries.

  “So, Sir Frederick, we have an interesting situation! Russia is an enemy of the Ottoman, must always be so while the Turk continues to hold Slav countries with Christian populations – the Orthodox Church looks towards the Tsar as a saviour. As well, the Tsar is the protector of the Knights, sees himself as having rights to Malta, would dearly love to send a fleet here. So the Turks refuse him access, but, we now have the situation that the French have destroyed the Mamelukes in Egypt, and they, although actually long independent, were nominally subjects of the Sublime Porte, and thus it might be tempting to accept Russian aid to destroy the French, the English being tedious slow in the process. But Greece and the Islands are more important to them, and the sight of the English displaying a willingness to encourage them to rise should make the Turk more inclined to placate the English by continuing to deny the Russians. One frigate, attacking French interests overtly, is not a cause for war whilst a squadron seen to be encouraging rebellion would have to be – so there is a lone ferret let loose in their hen run.”

  Frederick nodded again – this was all as he had understood it, with the addition of the Russian interest in Malta which he had been unaware of.

  The admiral chuckled, beamed in avuncular fashion.

  “You are, of course, wholly disavowable, Sir Frederick – no person in authority has given you any specific order – indeed, I am not able to do so! Thus, if, for example, you were to deliver a thousand stands of muskets and half a million rounds to the insurgents on Rhodes, then you alone would have made the decision, and yours is the glory!”

  “Yes, sir – and if the Turk desires to know the provenance of these Brown Besses, and if government wishes to keep in with Stamboul this month, then I alone stand to be court-martialled. I would hate to cause you all the bother of a court, sir!”

  “Fear not, Sir Frederick! I am a slave to duty, would never be upset by such a chore!”

  Admiral Byng was in both their minds – he had been shot in an act of political petulance, an outburst of ill-temper; an official scapegoat might well b
e hanged.

  Fortescue seemed to be in a much happier frame of mind of a sudden, had talked himself into acceptance of the situation – was probably very thankful that he had not been given responsibility for the mission himself.

  “The victuallers, yard and arsenal will have orders to meet your needs in full, Sir Frederick. The prize you brought in, is she much battered?”

  “Not at all, sir, undermanned, could not make a fight, could not run, surprised in the dawn, surrendered very tamely.”

  “Good! Unless the surveyor finds against me I shall buy her in – a very handy additional sloop.”

  An insignificant lieutenant wandered aboard Trident in the afternoon, ineffectual seeming, in his thirties, peering short-sightedly, his uniform rumpled and uncared for. He was an obvious failure with just sufficient influence to be employed, too little to be promoted, just the sort who ended up pen-pushing on the Port Admiral’s staff in every base.

  “Murray, Sir Frederick, I deal with this and that for the admiral, you know.”

  Frederick did not know, but he could guess.

  “I do not know how extensive your knowledge of Near Eastern and Balkan matters is, Sir Frederick?”

  Frederick lifted his hand, thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart. “About that much, Mr Murray.”

  “Briefly then, Sir Frederick, much abbreviated, a simple tale of decay and impending fall. Byzantium was destroyed by various influences of East and West, Trebizond fell, and the Ottoman Empire arose, a Muslim conquest that took in the lands of the old Arab Empire and conquered new colonies throughout Europe as far as the borders of Poland and Venice. As little as a century and a half ago they were knocking at the gates of Vienna and constituted the most powerful single state in Europe, possibly in all the world. Now? The Ottomans are in decay – their religion their weakness as it was their strength – they do not have the freedom to build industry, they are as poor as Russia and have no hope of amendment while they remain faithful. The Ottoman cannot survive except as a client state, beholden to, obedient to, one of the great European powers. Austria and Russia are both implacably opposed to the Ottomans – until the Sublime Porte surrenders the Christian colonies they are enemies, will never offer more than a truce. Spain, of course, can be ignored, is in the same terminal decay as the Turks and for the same reason – overwhelming religion! So, in the end, the Sublime Porte must ally itself, as a junior, with either France or England – and both are infidel states – kaffirs they call us – both equally hated, so the choice is simply determined by whoever is more powerful, whoever has most to offer. They are surrounded by enemies – the Arabs are co-religionists, but they despise Turks for impurity – Al Lah caused the Q’ran to be written in Arabic, therefore Arabic is the language of Paradise and those who have no Arabic cannot dwell there and are not true Muslims, so they say!”