The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1)

by Georges Carrack

  Neville was pleased that their press gang had no fife player with it but, even if they had, Colson would have silenced him some time before arriving at the pub. He had plans for an ambush.

  The party stopped three city blocks before they arrived at the ‘Rose’. “Burton, take four of the men ‘round there and block the back door of the ‘Rose’. We’ll come in about five minutes,” ordered Colson. “Be ready for ‘em to come running out to serve. Ho, ho.”

  Colson and his other two men then leaned against a handy brick wall out of the breeze to give Neville some time. After waiting, Colson proceeded to the pub’s front door and boldly barged into the ‘Rose’, accompanied by his two large assistants and a fresh breeze of cold, damp air. He had an immediate response from within.

  “Shut that ruddy door! You grow up in some barn, did ye?” howled a long-haired man playing cards. He turned, prepared to heap further admonishment upon the intruder, but no further words came, and his eyes opened very wide in immediate recognition of his plight. He jumped over his chair and ran for the back door in the next instant, but was already behind the other three with whom he had been playing cards. The door, when the first body slammed into it, opened only half way, then smashed hard against the large firewood log that Neville’s party had jammed there. The first man attempting to escape, his nose already bloodied by the unmoving door, tumbled half out the remaining opening with his feet still inside. The second man followed likewise, and the third just stopped hard against the door, since the opening was filled with fallen men. The long-haired man slammed into his back, bounced off, and fell back into the waiting arms of Colson’s two sailors.

  “Good afternoon, mates,” Colson crooned. “What say you to a chat by the fire?”

  To Colson’s credit, he got them all to sit down in the now-deserted pub, surrounded by the ship’s shore party. They admitted that they were, indeed, former sailors. Colson made his case that they ‘volunteer’ immediately. He added his own little patriotic speech about war being declared and how they should fight for their country. He had even thought so far ahead as to bring a shiny shilling – the King’s reward for volunteering – and kept waving it in front of their noses as he spoke.

  “And anyway, gentlemen, you stand little chance of escaping the press for very long if you continue to live ‘round here.”

  They all recognized the truth of his arguments and agreed to become ‘Castors’. So as not to be cheated of his success, Colson accompanied them back to the ship ‘posthaste’ with four of the press party.

  “You go ahead through Gillingham with these two,” he said to Neville before leaving. “See if you find any solitary lads who might be as interested as these four, and wait for me on the bridge to Rochester.”

  “That’s four volunteers on the first go,” remarked one of two remaining seamen to Neville as they continued up the street beyond the ‘Rose and Thornes’. “That’s over the top, wot? Deserves a pint, don’t it?”

  “Yes, I imagine so,” replied Neville. “But let’s look sharp now. We can’t handle more than one or two men with just the three of us.”

  They trudged in the lessening drizzle on through Gillingham and into Chatham on the muddy road toward Rochester. If there were any eligible conscripts, they were still home asleep. Only a few very young boys and old men were to be seen, other than delivery men or shopkeepers who were unquestionably exempt from the press.

  “Look here, what’s this?” Neville queried when they turned the corner toward the center of town on Maidstone Road. Two young men were standing in front of a fence where Neville had himself posted a handbill some weeks back. One was reading the poster to the other, who appeared to be younger and less able to understand the printed word.

  “May we help you?” Neville asked in his friendliest tone. “I posted that bill myself. Is there anything you wish explained?”

  “Hullo,” said the older one. “This ‘ere’s me brother ‘enry, an’ ‘ee’s interested in the Navy. You won’t be knocking us on the ‘ed will you?” he asked, appearing to be on the verge of running.

  “Bless me, no, good fellow. We’re not that sort of a recruiting party. We’re looking for volunteers, as the bill says,” Neville replied, proud of himself for extemporizing a good patter.

  “’enry’s been thinking on a navy career for a good year, now, ‘ee ‘as, an’ now as there’s war, ‘ee was feeling very patriotic – not to mention that Dad’s just gone and ‘ee’ll ‘ave to make his own way alone.”

  “I see,” Neville said. “I am sorry to hear about your dad, Henry. I really am. Come with us and I’ll get you the King’s shilling, some new clothes, and a new life at sea. You’ll have a trade for life, and your brother can go home with an easy heart, but you’ve got to come with us now and sign up. We can come in tomorrow for your personal things. What say?”

  “That’s it, then, Hugh,” Henry said to his brother. “I trust this chap as much as any I’ve heard yet. I’m going with ‘em. Tell Mum I’ll be ‘round tomorrow.” To Neville, he said, “Let’s go, then, mates.” He gave his brother a hug and a slap on the back and turned to walk with Neville’s party.

  They had not got three blocks farther into town when a door of the ‘Hens and Cobble’ crashed open ahead of them and a slight man in a great coat was thrown headfirst into the street, landing face down in a growing puddle. He didn’t seem injured. He sat up in the street before they reached him. Another much stockier man pushed open the door carrying a fiddle. With only a glance for the press party, he placed the fiddle in the first man’s lap. The movement was easy, almost gentle, but he spoke gruffly. He didn’t look as if he would ever speak any other way, but what he said bordered on friendly.

  “Here, William, if that’s really your name. Take your fiddle and try elsewhere. I quite enjoy a good tune, and I’ll not break your fiddle, but ‘oi spent enough time in the Merchant Navy that I’ll not listen to any sea chanteys in me own ‘ouse. You can come back when you can pay for your beer and play ought else and be welcome but, for now, it’s ‘Good Day’ to you.” He limped back inside.

  “Maybe we’ve got a deserter ‘ere, sir,” suggested one of the party. “You ‘eard ‘im get thrown out for playin’ a chantey. Maybe ‘ee’ll just get his neck stretched.”

  “No. No! Not me!” blurted William, for it was common knowledge that deserters would more likely be introduced to a hangman than a ship’s company. “I’ve learned me songs from me dad, whose got all his fingers, but no legs, for serving the King.”

  Henry obviously blanched, and Neville asked William, “In Battle?”

  “No, ‘ee fell under a great hogshead ‘o beef, ‘ee did,” said William, while still looking for an escape route. “I’ve lived all me life as far from the sea as me dad could get us, I ‘ave. I was thinkin’ I could earn a good living once oi got down here by the sea and play tunes the sailors know.”

  Henry seemed to relax a bit.

  “Your dad forgot to tell you about us, did ‘ee?” another of the party sneered at William.

  “No, ‘ee told’ me, but I’m quick an’ oi can usually find a way out of almost anything. Oi didn’t count on this,” he said. Standing up and brushing off some mud, he added, “On t’other ‘and, oi could use a shilling and a few meals about now.” He paused. “Shustik,” he said, “William Shustik. You can call me Bill,” holding his hand out to Neville.

  “Pleased to have you, Bill.” he said. “We much prefer a volunteer to cracking some sorry bloke on the head. Right, Henry? Bill, meet Henry, your new shipmate. Give us a tune for the walk, Bill. We haven’t got a fife player, and the rain’s done, so your fiddle won’t get wet.”

  When Colson returned to meet Neville at the Rochester Bridge, he was more than surprised to find Neville’s waiting party attempting to teach young Henry to dance a hornpipe in the center of the road.

  “Two more?” Colson exclaimed. “That’s it then. I’ve about walked my legs off for the day. Come on, Mr. Burton, let’s stop
for a wet at the ‘Captain’s Table’ on the way back, and you can tell me all about it. With us having six today and some that Lt. Tripp might take off the mayor, we may please Froste no end,” he said with obvious glee.

  On twenty-first January, 1793, King Louis XVI was assassinated in Paris by a mob that was described by French news as being part of a ‘popular revolution’. The news spoke of beheadings and royals being thrown out in the street as trash.

  HMS Castor was warped out the River Medford into the Thames and floated downriver to Sheerness. She now lay at her best bower amongst a large fleet of warships, waiting only for the arrival of the captain and his orders.

  The winter weather was mostly cold, with frequent gales blowing rain and sleet into Sheerness from the Channel. Here, in addition to the discomfort of their quarters, the ship jerked at her tight cable when the wind picked up, and the white horses marched up the river. On the worst days, salt spray was lifted off the wave crests and spritzed over the decks.

  Lt. Froste made his announcement to a gathering that included the officers, senior petty officers, and midshipmen after the officers’ mess: “We are almost fully manned. We’ll thank Mr. Colson and Mr. Burton for a few good volunteers, and Lt. Tripp for his several trips to the gaols for a few more of ‘My Lord Mayor’s men’. Captain will be pleased, I am sure. As to him, I have word that he is to arrive Tuesday next, and he is to have that surgeon we are missing. Lieutenant McLay, make sure your sideboys have freshly clayed belts. I’ll not have the Captain think us Sham Abrahams the second his foot touches the brow.”

  Watson and Burton had never seen such a pageant as the arrival of their new captain, Thomas Troubridge. They ‘piped the side’ for him when he did arrive, with sideboys at their best, boys beating the drums, boatswain and his mates all a-twitter, and officers lined up to receive him.

  Captain Troubridge, a seasoned naval officer, stepped aboard and turned aft to salute the ship’s colours. He received Lt. Froste’s salute and said quietly: “It is my pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Froste. This is our surgeon, Dr. Mills.”

  “I am most pleased to welcome you aboard,” said Froste. To Ratcliffe he added, “Have all hands lay aft.”

  When the men ceased their shuffling and the sounds had decreased to the calls of seabirds and a few coughs, Lt. Froste announced, “All present and sober, Sir.”

  Captain Troubridge stood at the forward rail to follow naval custom and ‘read himself in’. He was a moderately tall man who appeared to be thirty-five to forty years of age, fit and capable of action. He had his sandy hair cropped a bit shorter than most and parted high on the left side. He had an average face without the detriment of oversized nose or ears, and calm gray eyes. He withdrew a paper from some inner pocket and stood looking at his company. A very experienced eye roamed the entire ship at once: waist, the men in it, the rigging, cannons and boats, stacked spars, brightwork, crossed yards, and holystoned decks.

  “By this letter from the Admiralty to Captain Thomas Troubridge, Esquire,” he began, raising the letter in show, “I am called to go on board and take upon myself the charge and command of His Britannic Majesty’s Frigate Castor, and thence to proceed with haste to join Lord Hood ….” The letter was not long but, with its completion, he became lord and master of the ship. His word had become law.

  A murmur went round the ship. A scrap of information had slipped – or been let out on purpose – that they were to be part of Lord Hood’s fleet. “With this ship,” he continued, “we have the opportunity to do great damage to the French, our enemies in this war. Let every man here do his duty for the King.”

  To Neville’s surprise, the assembled crew yelled out, “For the King!” and raised their hats.

  To Froste, Troubridge said, “Dismiss the men, Lieutenant, and see me to my cabin.” The whole thing, including assembling the crew, took only fifteen minutes.

  Lt. Ratcliffe spied Burton. “See to the doctor, Mr. Burton. His cabin’s in the Orlop. You know where. Smartly, now!”

  Doctor Mills had pushed himself clumsily to the starboard rail as if he were trying to blend into the woodwork. While the doctor had heard Neville being summoned to assist him, he continued to stand awkwardly by the rail. Neville walked over to greet him. If he were older, Neville might have immediately assumed the new doctor ‘stand-offish’ but, without the benefit of experience, he simply assumed Mills, as a non-military man, would act as he did and just stand out of the way until someone gave him orders.

  “Good day, Sir,” he said. “I am Midshipman Neville Burton – second mid, that is, behind Arthur Colson. May I know your name, Sir?”

  He stood slightly less tall than Neville – five and a half feet – but slighter of build; not what one would describe as being as slender as Watson or as stocky as Burton. He might have been some twenty years of age, with a long boyish face, large eyes, and a long nose. His unusually short hair added to the slight image of a horse-like head. It was customary for a doctor to wear a wig, but he did not have one – or, at least he wasn’t wearing one for the boat ride to the ship.

  “Roger Mills, kind sir, Ship’s surgeon,” he said with a voice that didn’t seem to match the appearance. It was high and nasal, and revealed an origin that might have been Scotts. “I’ve never been in a frigate before,” he offered, presenting his hand. “My previous ship was a 24-gun sloop of war. They are small ships, you know; not much to learn your way ‘round. I would appreciate your guidance.”

  Two seamen brought the doctor’s luggage and medicine chests behind them as they descended into the darkness of the ship. Once in the Orlop, the doctor became quite particular about his equipment, directing the sailors to place his chests just so; he then disappeared into the pint-sized closet that was his cabin.

  They did not see much of the captain over the next few weeks, and rumors circulated furiously. Where was Lord Hood? Someone knew. Foretopman Benfrees had a brother with Lord Hood. He was in the Mediterranean. “A huge fleet of seventeen ships of the line,” Benfrees added. “There’s sure to be big battles …. We’ll have prize money sure enough.”

  2 - “Under Sail”

  On a beautiful day in May, 1793, the captain made an appearance on the quarterdeck and passed word for Lt. Froste. “Have the anchors hove short, Lieutenant,” he ordered, “and call me at slack before ebb.”

  By May 24, HMS Castor was running near twelve knots west-southwest, heading for an imaginary point in the endless vista of unbroken waves east of the island of Ushant. All plain sail was set to capture the force of a fair northeast wind that blew down the English Channel from the North Sea. For a full day, the breeze held fair under a sky that had been almost cloudless. It was decreasing slightly as late afternoon came on. Burton and Watson stood at the windward rail looking forward to the horizon and downward into the sea.

  “Such a blue, Neville. Would you have imagined? It’s not what we could see from the hills near Ipswich. And have you seen the great fish?”

  “Sure, ‘tis blue. It’s enough to make you join the Navy,” he joked. “I’ve not seen a great fish yet, though.”

  “Dolphins, Froste called ‘em. I saw five just a half hour ago, under the bows.”

  Lt. Ratcliffe walked over to them. “Nice weather, isn’t it?” he queried.

  They stiffened to receive him, but he waved off the formality.

  “I believe it is soon to change, though. Look there,” he said, pointing into the northeastern sky. There were misty gatherings above; long, wispy trails of wind-blown mist that end in great curls of white hair. Not clouds, yet; just gatherings of mist. “If we’re lucky, those ‘mare’s tails’ above signify we have still three days before she comes on to blow. I, however, will not make any wagers on it.”

  As if Lt. Ratcliffe had willed it, the very next day took on a more ominous appearance. The night had been steady enough; the ship groaned her way sou’-southwest with no change of sail. She began to shoulder increasing waves on the leeward bow as she reached far
ther into the Atlantic, leaving the confines of the Channel behind.

  At five bells in the morning watch, the captain gave Graesson the order to change course south. Castor had reached that imaginary spot in the ocean that prophesied a safe rounding of the rocks of Ushant.

  Neville descended the ratlines to the deck after a sail change. He found Daniel there waiting for him.

  “Ahoy, Neville, I enjoyed my climb up the foremast. How are you today?”

  “I don’t like it up there, you know that; down here either, today. This motion is different.”

  On her new course, the Atlantic rollers moved off the bows to the starboard quarter. The bowlines were off and sheets eased, and the ship rolled more with each wave that passed under her keel.

  “I’ve been all right in most weather we’ve seen so far, but I don’t like this,” continued Neville. “My stomach don’t like it. I’ve seen men running for the rails today, heaving their breakfast over the side, and now I’m afraid I might have to join them. I wish I’d’ve chucked it up in the dark with nobody looking.” The first light of a new day was clawing its way upward over a cloud bank in the distant east.

  “Lookout, there,” shouted the captain behind him on the quarterdeck.

  Neville turned with a start. He hadn’t even noticed the captain step topside. His stomach turned. He looked up to the masthead.

  “Keep a sharp watch. Brest is but fifteen leagues west.”

  “Aye, aye,” came back from above, and Neville ran for the rail. The combination of looking skyward and the ship rolling over yet another large wave was enough to release his fragile hold on dignity. His nose ran, and he fed what little he had in his stomach to the fishes. Through the corners of his watery eyes, he thought he saw the captain smile and turn away.