“The Sans Pareil, Mother. I can’t believe she will be fit for sea. She was near a wreck not a month ago. She is an eighty-gun ship, and she sails well – or at least she does under courses alone. I wonder if she will carry the commodore’s flag.”
His mother’s chin quivered, but forced herself to say, “I’m very happy for you, Neville.”
The remainder of Neville’s time at home went very quickly, save the ages that seemed to drag past before he could see Mary. The family went into town together on Tuesday, each for his own rendezvous.
The Watsons invited him to travel with them at a date early enough for Edward’s ship, but he begged off, citing his duty to continue assisting his mother.
Daniel had asked to call on Angelica. His request was also granted, and Mrs. Mitchell had volunteered her home as the meeting point for the four to take tea together that very afternoon. The tea was successful; Daniel and Neville wore their immaculate new uniforms, and the girls another pair of beautiful dresses. Biscuits and tea, anecdotes about their childhood, non-violent stories of adventure, and vignettes about the girls’ favorite authors filled the afternoon under the watchful eyes of the girls’ mothers. Promises to write concluded the party with no more than another touch of Mary’s hand that pressed Neville’s as the biscuits were passed.
“I don’t know what you felt, Daniel, but it really looks to me that Angelica fancies you. You spoke well this afternoon. No one could fault you.”
“Your afternoon went well, too, I noticed. I can understand you staying home as long as you can. I agree that it went well with Angelica, also, and I confess to being over the moon. I never expected to call on such a beautiful girl.”
“It’s the uniform, Daniel, just the uniform,” said Neville flatly, for which he received a nasty punch in the chest.
They visited Bury twice more before he left. He did, on one occasion, manage to slip out from under Mary’s mother’s eye for a moment in the garden. He took the opportunity to wrap one arm around Mary’s slender form, and slide his other hand up the nape of her neck to push her eager lips to his. Their complexions were only just losing their red hue when her mother returned.
“You must write more often,” his mother commanded when his newly-filled chest was loaded on Wagstaff’s wagon for the final trip to town. “You did a horrid job last you were gone.”
“I certainly will,” he told his tearful mother, “and you, sis, please pass along Gage’s war reports. You can keep the other stuff private.”
It feels very different this time, thought Neville when the wagon was unloaded in the Angel’s yard. Remember it all. I have a feeling it will all be different when I return.
The Watsons were already gone. He handed Charles a shilling for his trouble, and a boy in the yard a ha’p’ny to watch his chest while he went for a pint.
13 - “Return to the Sans Pareil”
Neville was tired. The trip to London on the Ferrybridge stage had taken the usual four days, but it had been dry for three weeks prior, and the rough, rutted roads were hard as stone. The carriage jostled ferociously, requiring a constant clamping-on in his perch up top. He soon realized that even his hands were tired.
“You look a sight, admiral,” said the coachman when they dismounted in London. “Sorry about all this, but there’s naught I could do.”
Such a comment might normally be thought unspeakably rude but, after four days together, the coachman seemed more like a traveling companion than a servant.
“Aye,” said Neville. “Look at this uniform. I’m glad I wore my oldest. It was clean when I boarded; it really was. Now, it’s more blue and brown than blue and white. I’m surprised you can put up with this month after month.”
“That’s why I’m a coach driver and you’re a captain, ain’t it? Anyway, cap’n, I don’t. There’s usually rain, and then we ‘aven’t got the dust. Maybe you should have been happy about the dust; it softened the ride a bit – not like a good rain, though.”
“The dust might be good for that but, when the wind was blowing from behind us, I could scarcely breathe, and I didn’t have a neckcloth the first day.”
The stage from London had not been much better, and the Inns along the way just sad country things. In Portsmouth, he found his way to the Blue Posts Inn. The place was a comfort, particularly in mid-afternoon.
After depositing his sea chest, he walked to the nearest stationery shoppe and bought a packet of writing papers, a small travel-quill, some ink, a blotter, and sealing wax.
“Innkeeper,” he called out. “I’ll have a pint of your Pike Ale and a meat pasty, if you please. Is that table there free for the afternoon?”
“That is, but it’ll be ha’p’ny to keep your chest if you want the table.”
“Fair enough.” The Inn’s traffic was light. He could sit at a long table by the window where the light was good, and scribble on his paper all afternoon, as long as he paid his bill. He had committed himself to writing his mum and Mary frequently. Four bells of the afternoon watch, he reminded himself.
The Pike Ale was good, and the thing that resembled a meat pasty was at least as good as most navy food. The afternoon was progressing very well. It was warm in the sunlight, and the smells from the kitchen enjoyable. He started when his head bobbed; he had almost fallen asleep.
When he looked up, there was a grinning youngster sitting across from him, looking at him as would a lost puppy. His brown hair was combed neat in the middle, and he looked to be only eleven or twelve. The boy wore a midshipman’s uniform that put Neville’s dirty laundry to shame.
Maybe I did fall asleep. The sun is a bit lower than it was, and my tankard and plate are gone. I don’t remember finishing those, though.
“Are you for the Sans Pareil, Sir?” the lad asked.
Still groggy of wit, Neville looked round the room, wondering if someone he knew had pointed him out. Seeing no one, he responded, “Yep, how’d you know?”
“That fella there said you was,” pointing towards the bar. “Oh. He’s gone.”
“What’d ‘ee look like.”
“A clown, really. Bushy orange hair. ‘Bout your height. Thin. Not in uniform.”
A chill ran down Neville’s spine. He was now fully awake, and he whipped ‘round to study everyone he could see, inside and out, but to no avail. Nobody he recognized.
“So why you ‘ere? Did he send a message?”
“Nope. I’m going to sea on the Sans Pareil, too,” he said with almost comic enthusiasm. “She’s an eighty-gun ship of the Line. Captain Seymour. We’ll fight the French for sure. She was at the Glorious First of June Battle, you know. Taken from the Frogs, she was.”
Whoof! thought Neville. This’ll teach me to fall asleep in a pub. He raised his hand for the barmaid without saying anything more.
His ale came. “In, you mean.”
“ ‘In,’ Sir?”
“You’re going to sea ‘in’ the Sans Pareil. We don’t say ‘on’.”
“Really, Sir? Thank you.”
Two more midshipmen came to the table as his second ale arrived; they looked at Neville cautiously, then asked, “Do we ‘ave your permission to sit ‘ere?”
“He didn’t ask,” Neville replied, indicating the first lad, who squirmed at the implication, “but I don’t own the place. Sit where you like.” He hadn’t meant to sound as grouchy as it came out, but he had gotten quite a start upon waking.
“These are Duckett and Abran,” said his new little friend. “I’m Simms.”
“Ahh, you’ve met. Did you all come together?”
“Together? From where?”
Maybe I am getting grouchy. “From home – same town or something, I dunno.”
“Oh, no. We met here. All for the Sans Pareil.” Duckett looked to be about Neville’s age, and Abran in between them and Simms.
Neville decided to finish his letter, or at least his thoughts, before he was caught up in their conversation. “Leave me be a minute whilst I finish this, if you please, g
entlemen. Take a seat.”
Neville did not join in the conversation going on around him while he finished his letter, but was aware of enough of it to know that these three had never been to sea. He was not sure how many midshipmen an eighty-gun ship carried, but he was probably senior to all these. He was also aware that the pub was filling up as the dinner hour approached. The proprietor was not going to let him sit at one of his tables and write letters.
“Barmaid! Ahoy, there,” he called. “Could you bring me a cheese tray and a bread roll – and one more ale, please?” I’ll have to find a room for tonight. Probably not a problem, but what might it be like? I’ll put it off a bit and be friendly.
“So,” he said to the group, after his food arrived and he folded up his letter, “who’s senior here?”
This was greeted with silent stares, until Duckett piped up, “I’d say I am. I’m fourdeen.”
“This is the Navy, Mr. Duckett. Nobody cares how old you are. What’s your service date?”
All three reached into their jackets at once. Neville tried to hold himself back, but couldn’t hide his smirk from Duckett.
“You’ll say you’re sorry for that!” Duckett demanded. “You think I’m a child who needs to be told what to do? My father’s second lieutenant on the Swiftsure, and I think I know a thing or two about the Navy. You can’t even keep a clean uniform.”
Neville did not move, except to look him straight in the eye and say, “I will not say I’m sorry to you, and I don’t care a fig what your father is. We are going to be living in very close quarters soon, and we will need to be civil to each other. You’d best learn to control that temper, or it won’t be me you’ll answer to. My service date is twelfth August, 1790. What’s yours?”
Duckett continued to glower at him for a minute while unfolding his orders without looking at them. His attitude softened somewhat, when he read “Fifteenth May, 1792,” realizing that Neville had almost two years on him.
Simms cut in with his “Sixteenth February, 1794, Sir.”
“You don’t have to say ‘Sir’ to him,” interjected Duckett.
Abran said, “Third October, 1793. At least I’m ahead of Simms.”
A large, stubble-faced, well-tanned, stocky man walked up to the table and demanded, “Are youse the mids for Sans Pareil?”
“Yes, we are,” responded Neville. “Who might you be?”
“I am Archibald Roberts, Bo’sun’s Mate,” he declared. “Get yourselves outside right now.”
Neville stood and offered his hand. “Mr. Roberts, I am pleased to meet you. I am Midshipman Burton.”
Roberts slapped his hand aside, saying, “I don’t care a crumb for who you are, I said get outside.”
The other three mids were already standing; starting to move.
Temporarily shocked, Neville could feel himself flushing with anger. It was something he rarely felt. Then the realization came to him that Roberts’ last words were slightly slurred. This man had been drinking before coming to do his duty.
Controlling himself, he motioned for the other mids to sit, and lowered his voice in an attempt to avoid making an announcement to the entire dining room. He stood and moved his face within inches of Roberts’ chin. Neville had grown, but this man was still six inches taller.
“Mr. Roberts, I could have you at the gratings for that, and you will not be the one opening the red bag. These other young gentlemen have not finished their drink, and you have had too much. When we are done, we’ll come out, and you had best be there waiting for us with a barrow for our chests. Yours is an easy name to remember.” He stood defiantly until Roberts departed.
The dining room had gone quiet, and the patrons were watching, probably in hopes of a good brawl. Nothing of interest happened, so they began to turn away to resume their talking and eating. The noise level of the bar returned to its previous level; tankards and plates clanking, men calling the barmaids, and everyone talking loudly to be heard. Neville sat again.
“Well, that solves my problem about finding a room for the night,” he said. “We’ll be guests of the King at no charge.”
He took his time finishing his ale, but their conversation became stilted.
“Have you ever been on an eighty-gun ship before?” Abran asked timidly.
“Aye, I have.”
“Which one?”
“This one,” he answered.
“You couldn’t ‘ave been,” said Duckett. “She was French before she came in here.”
“So she was. Not in very good repair, either, as I remember,” Neville said flippantly, adding, “Don’t make a thing of it.”
Now the conversation stopped entirely. “C’mon. Let’s get on with it,” he said, standing to go.
On this fine August afternoon, the jolly boat ride to the ship was enjoyably unremarkable.
“Cox’n, take us ‘round once, if you please. We’d have a look at our new home before we go aboard, if you please.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Neville marveled at the change in such a short time. All masts in to the royals. No sign of cannonballs through the stern gallery or rails, new English anchors catted, yards crossed, and fresh paint. He whistled softly, remembering how long it had taken to get the Castor to sea.
“Does she look the same as she did when you last saw her?” asked Simms, raising an eyebrow on the coxswain.
“Not at all, Simms. Not at all. She looks fit for an admiral. Let’s go aboard, cox’n.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” again.
To Neville’s eyes, their quarters looked quite comfortable, although he had to remind himself that there would be more of them than there had been on the Castor. It’s a shame I couldn’t keep the lieutenant’s cabin I had during the shorthanded sail in from the great battle. No matter. It will do.
On the other hand, the look of dismay on the faces of the three new midshipmen upon seeing their quarters was palpable.
“What is that smell?” asked Abran.
“Men,” said Neville. “Hundreds of them, and pitch and salted meat and tar, and a bit ‘o the bilge. Wait’ll they haul the anchor cable. You’ll get used to it; trust me.”
The Orlop deck on this ship was below water line, so any light they had came from the hatchways above, dim swinging lanterns, or puny tallow glims by which they might write. Fresh white paint helped.
“You lot take t’other side there. This is our bit,” said a voice from behind a small screen. Neville stuck his head over to see who it was. Two more midshipmen lounged there on seats around their mess table; they looked similar age to him.
Ignoring the ‘order’, Neville addressed the one whom he thought had spoken, saying, “Hello, there; I’m Burton. This here’s Simms, and these other two are Duckett and Abran. Is this all of us, do you know?”
“Hello,” the chap said, standing up and extending his hand, which Neville shook. “I’m Thomas Capel.”
Before Capel reached the others to shake, his compatriot said, “Tell ‘em to stow their kit over there. We’ve been here a fortnight and this part’s ours.”
“Oh, you’re in charge here, are you?” Neville asked as politely as he could muster, though obviously tongue-in-cheek. He began to have concerns about mixing this fellow’s arrogance with Duckett’s temper. “Then tell me how many mids we’ll have, if you please.”
“Yes, I’m in charge here. Name’s William Black. That’ll be Mr. Black to the likes of you, because I’m sixteen, and I’m sure you’re not. There are to be six of us, so you’re over there.”
“If there are six, then there are three there and three here. I’ll not squeeze four of us into a space for three and leave you to lord it over us. How’s about you let Abran in here. He seems a very likeable fellow to me.”
Black stood threateningly. He was an inch taller than Neville, but no stockier. He was dark of complexion, sported uncombed black hair, and wore a displeased expression. “So you think you’re in charge.”
“No, I think th
is is the Navy, and the Navy has rules, you know?” He did not back down. Although he had not personally experienced it, he had heard that injustices existed on some ships where it was permitted or ignored, and he was not willing to let it occur here.
“Oh, navy rules, then. That’ll still leave me in charge. My service date is fourteenth August, 1790, and I’ve got experience at sea as well, I ‘ave.’ ”
“Awww, that’s a shame. Mine’s twelfth August, 1790, so I’ve got you by two days.” Black deflated just a little. “What’s your sea experience, just to hear it then? Maybe the two of us can help these other four. Served on an eighty-gun, have you?”
“No, not so big.”
“Seventy-four, then?”
“No.”
“Frigate? That’s most exciting.”
“No.”
“What then, a water hoy?”
“No, smart arse, a pilot cutter off Sheerness.”
Neville almost laughed, but held it well. His humor must have shown through as condescension, in any event, as Black stood taller again. “So you haven’t been beyond the Channel or out a t’gallant yard even?”
“And you’ve sailed the seven seas, ‘ave you? Been in great battles and killed people with your sword, and you’re all of what? Fifteen?”
Neville suddenly realized that he had better tone down this game, or he might regret playing it at all.
“Frigate HMS Castor,” he said in as humble a fashion as he could manage. “Siege of Toulon – so that’s the Med. I’ve seen weather good and bad, and we took a prize there. And, we’ll have three here and three there, and we’ll all learn to get along, right?” he said, returning to the subject at hand.
“What about the Glorious First of June?” asked Simms.
“Not now, Simms. We’ve plenty of time for stories.”
Black stood thinking for a minute, and his attitude seemed simply to dissolve. “All right, then. Abran, is it? You can throw in here.”
Neville and the others just looked at him, and at each other. Neville tossed his kit in one corner, saying, “I’ll take that beam there,” and thinking, I guess some people just need to have someone stand up to them. He could have been a monster if we’d have let him. I’d guess he already had Capel cowed.
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 21
