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

by Andrew Wareham

  The notebook came out, entries were made on the page headed ‘Wish List’.

  “I got three little twelve pound carronades for the boats, sir, and a brass chest apiece to carry two rounds of ball, four of grape and six made charges.”

  “What of slings or belts for the cutlasses and pistols?”

  “Nope, sir,” Mr Plumb replied, the Hampshire strong in his voice. “Not a bugger of they!”

  Backham sat down to consider the problem – given a supply of leather or rawhide Sails could cut and sew belts while Chips could turn six inch spikes on the anvil to make buckles and belt-loops. A word to the purser – he had stored an empty ship in Pompey, yet he had still had at least a fortnight’s rations for sixty men aboard – some of his surplus could buy buffalo hide during the coming week.

  The following morning, a Monday, Steyning was one of a working party commanded by Fox, shifting stores to clear a space for Murray’s cabin in the half-dark below decks. The boy was still uncertain of himself, had not developed the habit of command – for most of the men, who needed no orders, this did not matter, but Steyning took advantage of the opportunity to slack, back-answered with a casual insolence when rebuked. Archbold, coincidentally, at Backham’s instruction, in the shadows nearby, stepped forward.

  “Is all well, Mr Fox?”

  “No, sir, it ain’t! I am sorry, sir, but I must report Steyning here as lazy, disobedient and rude, sir.”

  Fox was not at all sure why, but those were the words he had been instructed to use when Backham had told him he must accept no insult from any troublemaker.

  “Thank you, Mr Fox. Mr Cheek!”

  One Arm Dick appeared, a mate at his side.

  “Steyning into irons, if you please. Captain’s Defaulters.”

  Steyning was brought to the table next morning.

  “Articles Twenty and Thirty Six, sir. Contemptuous words to Mr Fox and did attempt to seduce a boatswain’s mate from his duty when placed into irons.”

  “Again, Steyning?”

  “Even so! The tyrant’s whip shall not break my spirit!”

  “There is a court-martial on Thursday, Steyning, and I shall beg the admiral to add your name to the list. Remand to shore-prison, Mr Backham.”

  Frederick informed Fortescue of his problem that afternoon.

  “A combination, sir, twenty ignorant farm boys led astray by one big-mouthed townsman, the lads the merest victims and making good, honest seamen, some will rate ordinary within a few weeks. But he is a red revolutionary, would set up a guillotine in every town in the country. I tried two dozen on his first offending, hoping he would see the error of his ways and keep his mouth shut, but he would not learn, sir.”

  Whig Fortescue may have been – he also had a brother who was a land owner and relatives of his wife who were big in the City – he was no friend to any form of disorder.

  “His name shall be first on Thursday’s list, Sir Frederick – we shall put a stopper on his little red tricks, I assure you.”

  There was no fleet at anchor in Valetta so they borrowed provosts from the army and used the prison triangle – they laid on twenty doses of two dozen and then added a score for luck to make up a round five hundred. They carted the unconscious body to the hospital where he died of septicaemia within three days, unlamented on the Trident – ‘awkward buggers’ were a nuisance, made extra work for other hands, attracted a following only on unhealthy ships – the crew of a prize-taking frigate would never have truck with a revolutionary.

  The grindstone appeared on deck and began its whining song, the men nudging each other as the gunner’s party sharpened blades, set hilts and hafts firm and took a rasp to the rough edges of the guards on the cutlasses. Two of the gunner’s party sat with Goldfarb and sorted through bags of flints, discarding those that were cracked and pressure flaking an edge onto those that had blunted and would no longer spark. It was long, slow, tedious and vital work, required painstaking attention, the flint the weak link in the firearm, the part that could fail most easily and turn a musket into no more than a clumsy club. Sat in unaccustomed sunlight the gunner himself examined all of the spare springs for the locks on the great guns – spring making was an art, one not always fully mastered by the manufacturers, and the springs failed quite frequently, hence the tubs of slow match always to hand in action.

  The Marine armourer, of his own volition, sat down with his own set of stores, began the same process, glad he had only three dozens of muskets under his care.

  The prize-court sat and condemned Trident’s capture, urged to speed by the admiral who needed another sloop urgently. He had no dispatch runner under his command, wanted a speedy vessel to make the run to the Two Sicilies, Mahon and Gibraltar, needed something more than a little brig, the waters so dangerous with corsairs, Spaniards and French wandering randomly across them. He bought the sloop in, not too concerned about her valuation, letting the price for her warlike stores go to rough estimate, signing an inventory sight unseen, much to the yard’s pleasure, all to gain time. Frederick approved – the yard had beefed the price up by at least a thousand, of which he would receive three eighths, a proportion of which he would disburse over the next few months, buying favours of the yard. He put the word out that Trident needed musketoons, would rather like an additional pair of swivels for each of her boats, could be persuaded to take more pistols and muskets, confident that next time he made his mooring in Valetta all would be to hand.

  He tried to explain to Backham exactly why Fortescue was being so cooperative and was, incidentally to his own desires, doing them so many favours.

  “Master and Commander, Mr Backham, two lieutenants, four mids; master, gunner, bos’n and their mates, cooper and sails and chips – the admiral can sweeten ten captains that way, as well as do twenty in the eye.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The wardroom explained all to Backham as they ate their dinner, aware now that he was an innocent when it came to naval politics.

  “Every captain has his young men, and most wish to further their careers, Mr Backham. A premier made up to Master and Commander is seen as a compliment; a mid who is made, or a master’s mate who gets his commission, all serves to encourage his other people. As for mids – in every second and third rate there is a full gunroom of young gentlemen and most have, additionally, the odd ‘captain’s servant’, boys supernumerary, as it were, learning the trade, midshipmen in all but name, but who cannot ever be promoted without first attaining the proper rating. Four of these youngsters, stretching a point, being at foreign, can be set aboard the sloop, thus pleasing four mamas in England, as well as putting them in the way of learning their trade and picking up a few pennies as well.”

  Backham nodded – he knew all of this but had never made the connections, seen how it all fitted together in a nexus of interest.

  “Yes, I see – as well, every captain wants promotion for some of his jacks. There are always more deserving men than warrants available – half a dozen warrants and as many petty officers to take a step up and able to take their places. And, as you tell me, the admiral can pick and choose from his favourites. He would not take any Tridents, we are too new in commission and are about to sail towards action, I believe – no time to be training and fitting new men into place.”

  They waited for him to expand on his last comment, received a brief exposition of his expectations for the immediate future, nodded with satisfaction – they would be open for business very soon.

  Conversation turned, naturally, to prize money and to the question of putting a value to their capture’s cargo – just how many guineas did a mummy represent? None knew the answer, all suspected it would be very few, they must content themselves with the feeling of virtue inasmuch that the antiquities would now be available to English eyes rather than wasted on a pack of mere Frenchmen.

  “One hundred and forty five pounds a nob, gentlemen,” Jenkinson concluded. The wardroom had agreed to split its eighth equally, Doctor and
Purser coming in on the same basis as the Master; the addition of Murray meant future prizes would be split ten ways.

  Murray had heard of prize money – who had not? But he was ignorant of its technical nature, was quite pleased to discover that he stood in the way of getting some.

  “So, gentlemen, you tell me that any merchant bottom sailing for the French or carrying a cargo in part or whole consigned to the French military in a theatre of war or simply of French nationality, may be taken, sold and its whole worth distributed to us?”

  They assured him it was so, amazed that a lieutenant might not know so much.

  “My word! What, say, of the contents of godowns in French ports?”

  The same, they told him, fair prize.

  “So, our aim is to seek out such prizes, gentlemen?”

  They hastened to disabuse his mind of so false a notion – prizes were an extra, a sweetener, for they did not lead to promotion, the one, true aim of any sailorman.

  “National ships of war, Mr Murray,” Backham pronounced. “They are our true goal. Yardarm to yardarm with a fifth or fourth rate, that’s where we wish to be, entering Grand Harbour trailing clouds of glory. Sir Frederick made his name on the deck of a French third rate – and had his sloop within the month!”

  Merritt, Archbold and Bennett, in chorus, assured Murray they had no wish to emulate the owner. Nasty, great third rates were the province of heroes, not of sensible mariners who wished to sit back as admirals surrounded by admiring grandchildren.

  “Desperation measures, Mr Murray: a convoy to be saved, a sloop lost with all hands the price willing to be paid to cut up the battlewagon’s rigging enough to slow her and let the merchant hulls escape. But, instead, to the amaze of all, they managed to board and take her, losing seven men in ten from the sloop and not a few from the two frigates that joined in. A heroic act – but not the sensible man’s way of doing things!”

  “Well, gentlemen, from the reports I saw when on the admiral’s staff I think there is no need to worry – the French have neither third nor fourth rates in the islands at the moment. They took, however, most of the naval forces belonging to Venice, these including a number, how many is uncertain, of heavy frigates which are thought to be amusing themselves in and around Turkish waters. Other reports suggest that various Turkish admirals have gone into rebellion, their vessels increasingly piratical.”

  There was a distinct brightening in the atmosphere. Venetian frigates commonly carried forty four of heavy long guns, were beautifully built, often very good sailors, and were very respectable opponents, certain sources of promotions all round. Half a dozen of better bottles appeared on the table.

  “Full glasses, gentlemen!” Backham called. “Blood for supper!”

  They drank happily to that and several similar traditional toasts, the word rapidly going round the ship that they were sailing on fighting business next day and the officers were pissing it up in anticipation.

  There was a general satisfaction – that was what they here for – promotion, prize money and a good fight – they had not sailed on a frigate for the good of their health, or for the fun of seeing foreign parts, after all.

  A cart brought a consignment of smelly buffalo hide in the early dawn, rough cured but good enough for belts and simple scabbards. They sailed with full daylight, saluting the admiral and the one captain senior to them, north about to the Ionian and unknown waters.

  # # #

  Here’s an excerpt from the beginning of Book Five in the Series: Fortune and Glory.

  “I would suggest, Captain Harris, that we should sail into the Adriatic first. The recently formed Republic of the Seven Islands is less than entirely stable, shall one say. It relies for its existence on a tenuous alliance between Russia and the Ottomans, the two being traditional enemies. Corfu having for centuries defied the power of the Sublime Porte is not pleased to welcome a Turkish garrison now, and the Russian fleet, such as it is, offers little protection against the French, who are believed to be in the process of launching an invasion.”

  Frederick Harris was puzzled, a not uncommon state of affairs when he was trying to comprehend the nature of Balkan politics.

  “There is a peace treaty in force, I believe, Lieutenant Murray. The status of the new Republic has been guaranteed by all parties.”

  Murray was his political advisor for the waters of the Eastern Mediterranean and, whilst not being a true naval lieutenant, was at home in the murky world of back-stabbing, betrayal, bribery and butchery that substituted for diplomacy in the Near East.

  “Yes, sir. It is a piece of paper sometimes referred to by those who signed it. When the greater war ends, as it soon must, one believes, then it will provide a reference point for the negotiators, provided it still has relevance.”

  “What does that mean, sir?”

  “If the French have taken the Seven Islands, then they will do their very best to keep them, stating that the Peace Treaty was never actually ratified, that the Russians failed to understand its terms and that the Ottomans broke them. If they do not possess the Islands then the French will argue that they should be granted a true independence with all foreign troops removed, thus leaving them defenceless on the outbreak of the next war.”

  “So what does that mean for Trident, sir?”

  Murray shrugged, smiled ingenuously.

  “I really do not know, Captain Harris. I would suggest that we should sail into Corfu, salute every flag we can find, if there are no French there, and seek permission to take on water. I shall visit the markets, in company with the proper person, the purser I assume? If I cannot discover something of interest I shall be rather surprised. Depending on what I hear, I shall then be able to give more detailed advice, sir.”

  “If the French are there, what then?”

  “If they are simply visiting a neutral port, then I am sure you will be aware of the procedure, sir. If they are invaders then you will know far better than I do what action you must take, sir. If there is, say, a single frigate or smaller vessel in port then it might be possible to ‘persuade’ the harbour authorities to arrest her. Word would soon reach Venice and the French would take the excuse to assault the Islands, quite possibly with an ad hoc force comprised of whatever they had in harbour at the time. Trident might then be well placed to make hay amongst them.”

  It smacked of duplicity, entrapment, dishonourable nastiness – it was not the way of making war that Frederick was used to.

  “Will it work, Lieutenant Murray?”

  “Probably not, sir. One thing one must learn, with respect, sir, is that in this part of the world nothing ever comes out as one plans or expects. Thus we make plans and write them out very prettily and submit them to our masters, and then we go and do whatever occurs to us at the time. If, at the end of our endeavours, we have embarrassed, or ideally killed, some Frenchmen then we have done very well and may pat ourselves on the back.”

  “If not?”

  “Then we blame the Russians or the Ottomans, or preferably the Austrians, and try again.”

  “Why the Austrians?”

  “Why not, sir?”

  “But…”

  “They make very fine music, sir, and very little else, though I am told their chocolates are also excellent. They have a great empire, including Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Russian Orthodox, Musselmans and any number of uncompromising Protestants. They speak a dozen different languages, but very few of them to each other. They believe themselves to be far more civilised than the other German speakers, especially the Prussians. They are contemptuous of the Russian barbarian, uncomprehending of the new France and consumed by hatred of the Turk. I am persuaded that they have a great liking for themselves. They are very good at being defeated in battle and of recent years have shown few other aptitudes. One can always blame the Austrians, and will often be believed.”

  Frederick surrendered – he had no concept at all of what might be in Murray’s mind, merely hoped that there was a f
ine, convoluted conceit too subtle for a mere sailor man to comprehend. He turned to David LeGrys, his clerk, silent in the background, and instructed him to provide a summary of the advice he had just heard to be placed in a confidential file, for the eyes of the Admiral commanding Malta only.

  "Not to go to the Admiralty itself, I think, Mr Murray?"

  Murray agreed - he did not want his name mentioned in London, where tongues wagged most reprehensibly.

  “Make a course for Corfu, Mr Backham. Exercise all hands to the great guns. Double lookouts to fore and main. Longboat to tow, a petty officer and two good hands aboard her at all times, carronade shipped, water and provisions to be checked; inform the petty officer of our course in case the tow is lost.”

  Backham acknowledged and gave his orders. It would take twenty minutes at least to roust the longboat out from the booms and put her to tow, so the captain must envisage the possibility of instant boat action. That meant he must have a full crew alerted to board the longboat at no notice and Mr Cheek must be aware that the other boats might be called for. What else? Small arms to be broken out, with powder and ball; cutlasses and boarding axes immediately to hand. A word with the master, he would give the petty officers the expected course – boat compasses! They could not steer any course without their compass; a small slate and chalk as well, to make a note for the steersman. Lucky he had remembered those!

  “Mr Cheek, we may well be called to action at very short notice, it would seem. It would be very inconvenient to clear for action and remain in that state for days at a time, but we may have only a very few minutes of warning. We shall be following the coast and anything might be hidden around the next headland.”

  Cheek raised his one hand to his forehead, more or less in salute, and thought for a few seconds.

  “Best would be to give the leading hand of each mess the word, sir. They can strip down to bare bones and still keep a few comforts out, make a sort of balance, sir. I’ll just see to it now, sir.”