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

by Georges Carrack

  Capel finished his round of shaking hands and saying hello to the others.

  Neville began asking questions: “Have you met the captain? What’re the lieutenants like ….?”

  Some man they did not know stuck his head round the corner of the passageway and commanded them, “You lot. Up to the waist. Now, not later!”

  “Fall in here,” a gruff one ordered when they arrived in the waist. He was a man of average height, but of extremely stocky build, having a very thick neck and legs heavy as tree stumps. He spoke through heavy lips that looked to be glued onto a pie-plate-shaped face with a large flat nose in the middle of it. There was brown hair around the sides of the fat head, but none on top. Overall, one of the strangest collections of features Neville had ever seen. He did not appear to be amused. “Line up on that seam, there, all of you,” he barked. The lieutenants lined up with the midshipmen.

  “I am the senior lieutenant here, First Lieutenant Marston. Disobey my orders at your peril. I expect you to do exactly as the captain orders, as well, and not shirk. You will all attend to your duties before any other distraction, and you midshipmen will attend to your studies, as well. Assuming we have a year, I will expect every one of you who has not gone overboard to be able to sit for lieutenant at the end of that time. Sound off, now; each give us his name.” They each stepped forward in turn, announcing their name and status. Marston then introduced the sailing master and his mate, the boatswain and his mate, and the master-at-arms, who had been standing in their own line to the side.

  To his mates back in the midshipmen’s quarters, Neville said, “I know First Lieutenant Marston doesn’t seem very friendly, but we must remind ourselves that it’s a big ship, and he’s making his first impression. I doubt we’ll get much chance to speak with him anyway.”

  Three days later, Ltt Summers, fifth lieutenant, stuck his head into the Orlop. “I need volunteers for a press gang. Who’s it going to be?” It seemed that there were never enough seamen for the navy’s ships.

  Neville kept his mouth firmly shut. He’d already learned more than he wanted to know about press gangs. For a man pressed, though, there were actually some advantages over life ashore. The food might not be the best, but it might be as much as he could afford at home, and the service guaranteed grog and tobacco. There was always danger, though, whether from battle or climbing the rigging in rain, wind, sleet, and snow. The pressed man didn’t get to choose his fate. He was simply told to do his duty or die from hanging.

  “You, there,” the lieutenant said, looking directly at Neville. “I can see you, so you’ll be my helper.”

  I could argue, if I liked, claiming some temporary infirmity. I’ve seen it before. However, if I don’t go, it might go worse for some bloke ashore.

  “Aye, Sir,” he said. “I’m tired of supervising the men painting yards. As long as the gang doesn’t take muskets.”

  “No muskets?” the lieutenant quipped. “And why’s that? Don’t we like to be armed?”

  “What good is a dead pressed man, Lieutenant ….?”

  “Summers, fifth, remember? You sound as if you’ve had some experience, so I’ve picked the right man, eh?”

  “When do we go, Sir? And, will the captain let you go like that?” referring to the officer’s sloppy appearance and taking a big risk in so addressing a lieutenant, particularly in front of the other mids.

  “Captain’s not ‘ere yet, an’ besides, it’s not up to a smart-arsed midshipman to tell me how to put on a uniform. I’m not sure I’ll like you after all. Tomorrow morning directly after breakfast – strap on your blade.”

  The first man Neville noticed in the press gang was William Aiken, one of the Irish fishermen that the Castor had pressed in Newfoundland. Aiken, being a man of the sea already, had become one of their best maintopmen.

  “Mr. Aiken, that’s you, ain’t it?” said Neville, grabbing his hand. “Have we many Castors here?”

  “They’ve kept thirty of us, they ‘ave. Your man Shustik is one.”

  “This is wonderful news, it surely is. At least we’ll have some who know their duty. So how do you come to be on a press gang?”

  “Oh, you know, Sir. If I’ve been pinched, I don’t see why it can’t happen to the next bugger. Har, har, har!”

  They walked side by side, as though they were old comrades, talking about the experiences of the Castor’s men aboard the Sans Pareil. Lt. Summers said nothing.

  Their first stop was to pick up seven men from the Assize court, and that was no more than marching the shackled men from the gaol to the sally port in a steady drizzle. Even in summer, England cannot go without rain for long, thought Neville.

  Then they were ordered take the cutter up to Worthing, about thirty miles toward Brighton.

  “You ought to have better luck walking the streets there,” they were told. “Most gangs don’t go that far up.”

  During the sail, Summers almost capsized the small vessel with his personal handling of the mainsail sheet, and then passed the duty over to Neville. He immediately turned to the boat’s coxswain and said, “We meant no disrespect, Mr. Garden. Please see to your duty.” Again, Lt. Summers said nothing.

  The first likely man they came across, one George Grigg, claimed to have a protection certificate, but didn’t have it with him. He was snatched up for the ride to Sans Pareil. Next were three from a pub who were far too slow to recognize their predicament; then a cheerful fellow who began to cry for his wife and three children as soon as he was laid hands on.

  “We’ll ‘ave none of that, you miserable chuff,” proclaimed Summers. “You’re with us, now.”

  “Excuse me, Sir,” said Neville, “but I’m willing to check out his story about kids if you’ll trust me. I’ll bring him back if it’s a lie.”

  “Awright,” said Summers, “wear out your shoes. We’re just going straight up here. After that, it’s back to the boat. It’s getting late, and we’ll be in after supper as it is. Don’t make us wait for you.”

  Neville returned to the boat without the man, feeling good about his deed. The man did, indeed, have three small children in a very modest house behind his uncle’s inn. He might have pushed his instructions somewhat, but he felt it the right thing to do. He didn’t tell Summers about the uncle’s inn, either, lest Summers consider him rich.

  Autumn and winter passed slowly. Sans Pareil sailed only a few sorties out of Spithead for practice. At least in Spithead, the post came and went regularly. He made the humdrum sound as interesting in his letters as he could, knowing that the ladies at home would be pleased to read of safe duty. Three came from Mary in a single packet in late December after a break of several weeks.

  My Dearest Neville,

  6 December, 1794

  As always, I miss you deeply. Gage returned suddenly from Holland after his regiment had great victories in some place called Nijmegen in November. It is such a small country I wonder that there could be such a battle there. The news we hear is that it was an absolutely horrid battle. Gage’s regiment carried the day by using their ghastly bayonets.

  The news report is that some 64 of his men were killed, including 3 captains and that nice Lieutenant Bayley, if you remember him. He was the one at the party you attended who talked with Angelica most of the evening. (But I think Daniel’s coming along well with her.)

  I’m sorry I’ve almost forgot, thinking of this awful killing, that Gage has come home wounded. It’s not Mortal. A large gash in his upper left arm. His parents were most distressed, but have calmed now … etc., etc., etc.,

  With deepest affection, Mary

  ************

  My Dearest Neville,

  12 December, 1794

  I miss you very much these cold autumn days. My longing for you was made the stronger this last week, which was a great hurry for all of us here in Bury. With Gage home, the decision was made for your sister’s wedding before he was called to return to duty. I had the honour of joining as one of her bridesmaids
(as did Angelica), which so made me think of you with great hopes for the future.

  Your mother and sister, who now live here in town, as I have written you before, were turned topsy-turvy to arrange everything so quickly, and I helped at anything I could. They were most distressed that you would not be there. I’m sure they have said so in their letters to you, but there is no getting through to the Navy for such a thing.

  I wonder if you remember April Caruthers, a bit older than me? She works at the florist now and when … e tc., etc., etc.,

  With deepest affection, Mary

  ************

  My Dearest Neville,

  21 December, 1794

  Such news I have for you this day! Your sister’s wedding at St. Mary’s was the most beautiful thing you could imagine. Everything went off as planned, except that Gage has to wear a sling for his arm. After the reception, which was held at Gage’s parents’ house, the lovely couple departed in a great coach for a short honeymoon in London before Gage is called back.

  I have composed the next few pages to describe it in detail. I’m sure you will hear all about it again from your mother, and again from your sister when Gage is gone, as she has nothing to do but write. She will stay at the Halls’ until Gage leaves, and she might either remain there, or keep your mother company until Gage returns and they can sort out a house … etc., etc., etc.

  Wherever you may be, I wish you a Happy Christmas, and may the New Year see you well!!

  With deepest affection, Mary

  Spring was upon them. Sailing orders were expected soon.

  “It’s probably our last chance for specialties,” said Duckett, “so here’s our money, Neville. It’s your turn. Too bad you’re getting the boat with Marston, ha, ha.” Neville’s duty was to purchase supplies in Portsmouth for the midshipmens’ mess. They listed honey, tea, hard sausage, cheese, and onions to make their meals more palatable, and one bottle of brandy each. None of the boys was very fond of wine, and carrying a barrel of beer aboard would not do.

  First Lt. Marston was doing the same for the wardroom. Neville stayed quiet on the ride in due to the man’s rank, and because Neville had so far had limited opportunity to get to know him. Even in the crowded quarters of a warship, rank could keep people widely separated. Once ashore, he and Lt. Marston agreed on their meeting time at the pier; each set off in his own direction.

  Neville had gone no further than the middle of the first block of shoppes when a man stepped out of an alleyway looking the opposite direction and walked directly into him. His packages fell on the sidewalk. “I beg pardon, sir,” the man said. “My fault. Sorry. My fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “It’s no problem, sir, certainly. I’ll help you gather up.”

  The incident took but a minute, and the chap was gone down the road with his things. Neville’s first stop was the cheesemonger – the shoppe by the alley. When he reached into his pocket for money to pay for his cheese, he found an unfamiliar envelope. It was addressed ‘Neville Burton, Sans Pareil.’

  “What in Heaven’s name?” he wondered aloud. “That man – an accident?”

  He stepped quickly into the street, but it was too late by at least fifteen minutes. It made no sense even to expect to see him.

  “You are going to buy these, are you not, sir?” called the proprietor.

  “Yes, yes.” He decided he’d better open the envelope immediately in the event there was something he must do with the contents in town.

  Inside was another envelope addressed ‘Second Lieutenant, Sans Pareil’ and, outside that, a note to him: “Neville, please discard this note after you read it, and give this letter to your second lieutenant when your ship arrives with Admiral Hood’s Fleet – not earlier.” It was signed merely “H.M.”

  Sir William has a very strange way of communicating, he thought to himself, stashing the envelope back in his pocket.

  “Only two days out, and Captain Seymour has us at sail practice in a bloody gale,” complained Duckett. “Loosing and furling topsails four times today! I hate going aloft, and I’ve put my dinner over the side twice already. I think I’ll die of exhaustion if he has us keep at it in the dark as well.”

  “I hear we’ll exercise the great guns in the morning,” said Simms. “I’ve never heard one shot.”

  “Keep your men out from behind them,” warned Neville. “They’ll hurt a man bad if he’s hit. Where have they put you, by the way? I haven’t noticed you about.”

  “I’m assigned the poop with the Marine guard, in charge of the mizzen. I guess it’s because I’m small they think I can’t handle something bigger. I go skylarking, though. I can get up and down the rigging faster than any of you lot, and faster than any of the lieutenants. I hear cap’n can’t even go up because of some old injury.”

  I like Simms, Neville thought. He’s always cheerful and full of energy, and he’s learning very quickly. I suppose I should tell him that skylarking by the ‘young gentlemen’ is frowned upon by the officers. “Back on the poop? That’s why I haven’t noticed you ….”

  “I can hardly keep track of my men,” said Abran.

  “What’s your action station, again?” asked Black.

  “Neville and I are with Second Lieutenant Dinning forward on starboard guns.”

  “He’s got the muster list, so he’ll keep ‘em straight. You’ll learn their names after a week or two.”

  Neville’s action station was the aft third of the two-hundred-foot long starboard gun deck near the mainmast. That put him near the signals station. He had that duty, as well, because he had the seniority, and his file contained some reference to it. On watch, Lt. Dinning, together with Neville and Duckett, had the mainmast. The duty pleased Neville, since he was as familiar with this duty as anyone aboard ship.

  Midshipman Duckett was opposite on larboard, and Black forward; they reported to Third Lieutenant Archibald Summers. Capel had foredeck with Fourth Lieutenant George Goss.

  “There it is, Simms,” said Neville, “the French coast.”

  “Already. That seemed quick … only three days.”

  “It only takes a day to sail across, Simms. Captain’s had us out at practice.”

  “And other things. Those four men flogged – that was awful. I thought I would faint. What did Duckett do that got him sent to the masthead on his off watch?”

  “I shouldn’t say much. It was some offense to Lieutenant Summers. I know Duckett’s got a temper, but I wouldn’t put it past Summers to imagine something. I didn’t see it myself.”

  They beat to quarters in the first dog watch, ran the guns out, fired, and ran them back in. Full inspections of the action stations were conducted by the officers. Meeting an enemy in their current state of preparedness might be a disaster. A second broadside would probably take four minutes – even slower than the French.

  “Sails, Ho,” called former Castor Aubrey from the masthead. “Two points – larboard bows.”

  “That should be the fleet,” said Lt. Dinning, who was Officer of the Watch, to Neville.

  “How many, lookout?” bawled Marston, who had heard the cry and stepped up to the quarterdeck.

  “Four, Sir. Ours.”

  Mr. Blunte arrived on the quarterdeck with his midshipmen in tow. They were required to take noon sights and calculate their position if they weren’t called to their sailing duties. With the ship steady on an easterly heading, there was no need for them aloft. As usual, Simms was quick to take a sight and work his latitude. Black, Neville, and Capel took their time to come to the same conclusion. Abran eventually worked it, being close, but not exact. Duckett struggled to come to any conclusion at all. Blunte was not daunted, however, saying, “I’ve had many a young gentleman struggle in the beginning, only to become superb navigators. We’ve only been out three days, and it’s much different to take a sight from a heaving deck than it was back in Spithead, eh?”

  “Signal from Royal George, Sir,” Neville reported a few hour
s later. “Fall in line, Sir. Fifth behind Colossus.

  “Another signal from the Royal George Sir; our number.”

  Captain Seymour was pacing the windward side of the quarterdeck, squinting occasionally in the direction called out to see if sails were visible from the deck. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Meet when weather improves,” Sir.

  We’ve arrived, I guess, thought Neville with great trepidation. It’s time to do my duty and deliver the letter. He pulled it from his pocket as the watch changed, and Lt. Dinning stepped onto the quarterdeck.

  He held the envelope out to Dinning. “What’s this?” he asked, accepting the letter from Neville’s hand. He looked at the seal and asked pointedly, “Where did you get this, and why have you waited until now to deliver it?”

  Although they had worked together some months now and had been on reasonable terms, Neville suddenly felt the wall of authority go up like a dash of water in the face.

  The coldness of it caused him to pause – almost to stammer as he followed his instructions: “I’m to say only that it’s from Whitehall, and that I was directed to produce it only once we joined with the Channel Fleet,” was his answer. “Please open it.”

  The lieutenant broke the red wax seal and extracted the smaller envelope inside. The inner envelope was addressed to ‘Captain Lord Hugh Seymour, HMS Sans Pareil, at Sea’. Below that was written: ‘To be delivered personally by my messenger, Mr. Neville Burton.’

  Lt. Dinning exhaled slowly through pursed lips – almost a soft whistle. “This is a touchy one, my boy. Most unusual. Do you know what’s in it?”

  “No, Sir. Nothing at all.”

  “Few men under the rank of lieutenant in the navy ever speak with a captain, let alone get a private audience, and this one’s very rich, well-connected, and an MP. Let me warn you not to say or do anything that might bring the least disrespect to this ship. Alright then, we should go directly ….