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

by Georges Carrack

“Ahoy, there,” she hailed. “Whither go ye?”

  “We seek the Formidable, a French seventy-four. She’s a prize.”

  “Aye. She came in last week. Have your captain come up for instructions.”

  “I’m the commander.”

  “Commander … ? You’re a bloody midshipman!”

  “Mr. Burton, it’s good to see you. I was beginning to despair of you,” began Lt. Dinning. “How was your visit to France?”

  Neville told his story. “… and we took our passenger to Gravesend where he asked to go.”

  “Ahhh. That explains the delay. How did you recognize him?”

  “Well, Sir …” Neville hesitated before answering. “He was the only man on the beach, and he was there to be collected, so ….”

  “Right, well … they have decided to send Formidable into ordinary. She will probably be refit, but not until the prize court is done with her. The French prisoners were taken off straight away. Our men will be swallowed by other ships before they can even walk ashore,” explained Lt. Dinning. “Sans Pareil’s officers, including you, will be returned to duty on the first available packet, or I’m a monkey’s uncle. I’m told there’s a letter with the yard commander for me already. I assume that will be our orders.”

  But it wasn’t.

  “Lieutenant Dinning’s compliments, Mr. Burton. He requests your presence in the mess,” said Mr. Acton. The captain’s cabin would be a charcoal pit for some time to come.

  Lt. Dinning seemed to be in a foul mood when Neville arrived at the wardroom. “I have that letter today, Mr. Burton, and I must say that you lead an unusual life. I have been requested to carry you to Whitehall in Espion. Why the Royal Mail Coach is not good enough for the likes of you, I have no idea. The yard commander was quite out of sorts about it, also. He ranted and spluttered at me for a quarter hour, as if I had something to do with it. And he wants to know how he gets Espion back.”

  “Why would he want her back? Hasn’t he enough to do with the big prizes? I have a much better idea, Sir, if I might be so bold as to suggest … ?”

  “You’re impertinent, I’ll give you that. Make it good, and make it quick.”

  “Write a letter of … no, I’ll write a letter for you, so you don’t even have that chore … a letter to the port commander requesting temporary command of Espion. She’s not been checked in yet. If he can manage that, Espion will not be his responsibility, but yours.

  “We had a wonderful sail up, Sir. You can probably keep Lieutenant Goss. Mr. Duckett is a changed man in a small ship, you’ll see. He and Mr. Acton, whom you may not even remember, both know these home waters well. Whitehall, where you are to take me, has officers tumbling over themselves to find a ship, if you need a replacement for me. If we can leave quickly, you can keep the men we have … and maybe the best from Formidable, too. Shall I get to writing?”

  The response to Neville’s letter came within a few days, and the outcome was the greatest stroke of luck ever to befall Dinning so far in his career.

  “He thinks it a capital idea, Neville,” said Dinning, grinning from ear to ear. “That’s doubtless because it required no effort on his part, but it’s all fine by me.

  “Though you will be but a supernumerary, I ask you to go aboard Espion and inform Mr. Duckett of this turn of events, so there’s no chance he will let any of my men be taken away. Escort Lieutenant Goss, please, and familiarize him with his new ship. I will see to sending over a few men from Formidable that I will hand-pick, and I will be there as soon as I can have proper orders written.”

  Lt. Dinning stepped aboard his new command three days later and proudly read himself in as the commander of Espion. His first order was to have the anchor hove short forthwith. They were under way in hours. Dinning, Goss, and even Duckett were all as excited as school children as they sailed north, complementing each other on their good fortune and calculating their possible share of prize money from both the Formidable and Espion, even though no one was sure how a prize taken by a fleet action was divided.

  The twenty-five miles to London on the Royal Mail coach from Gravesend had taken all day, even with good roads. Neville found himself standing in front of the yellow brick edifice to the south of Whitehall’s visitors’ portico. Although he expected to feel more confident this visit than last, it was, indeed, the opposite. He had previously been only a young gentleman looking to deliver a letter; this time he had been asked to report. This time it was about him, not about a letter. Looking down at himself, he could see that he was less of a shambles this time. He had grown less in the past year, so his uniform fit better. He knew he was more confident, even though he didn’t feel it at the moment.

  “All right, let’s go,” he said aloud to himself, and marched for the door.

  A marine in the spacious foyer stopped him, as before: “State your business, please, Sir,” he demanded.

  “I’m here to see Sir William Mulholland,” he said, producing a letter of introduction that Lt. Dinning wrote for him, knowing that it would be almost impossible to get beyond the sentry without some piece of paper in hand. Never mind that it was written by a lowly lieutenant; it was paper. Once again, he was directed to the vestibule in the back corner inhabited by the same skinny clerk wearing the ‘woolen winter cap wig’.

  Reading the letter, he expounded, “This does not say whom you are here to see, and it is signed by a mere lieutenant.”

  Although Neville was thinking, But it got me in here, didn’t it? what he said was, “Sir William Mulholland, if you please.”

  The clerk stared at him for what seemed a full minute, at last declaring, “There is no one here by that name. Perhaps you have mistaken this building for the next. The Navy Office is there,” reaching over with the letter to hand it back.

  “Of Bury St. Edmunds,” said Neville, not lifting an arm, but adding the lie, “My godfather.”

  Another pause; “Wait there.”

  The clerk returned in five minutes. “Sir Mulholland is not available today,” he said. “Perhaps if you can return in the morning, he could find time.” He held the letter as if it might transmit the pox: “I will place this in his tray.”

  Realizing that there was probably no excuse in a rejection at six p.m. he departed, concerned about his prospects for the upcoming night. He counted his pocket change for the third time: still one crown, three shillings, and fourpence. He’d had no chance in Portsmouth to visit the Clerk of the Cheque, and it was questionable whether he could have drawn any pay anyway. Enough for a cart to Bury St. Edmunds, if ever he got the chance, and something to eat, but lodgings . . . ?

  Passing a night that would be easy to forget, he returned in the morning resigned to wait the day, if necessary, to report to Sir William. Appearing before the skinny clerk again, he was surprised to find an almost respectful greeting. The clerk again said, “Wait here,” but it was accompanied by, “if you please, Sir.” He scurried down the hallway, then returning in only a couple minutes to usher Neville into room four.

  “There you are, Neville. Good to see you again,” gushed Sir William. “Jolly good work, I must say. Have a seat, have a seat. I have had Georges’ report of it all. You simply walked up to him on the beach and shook hands like a gentleman, he says – as if it were a Sunday outing at the shore. Jolly well done.”

  “I would’ve shook hands, Sir, but he gave me that French kissing thing, you know? But there was no problem, Sir,” said Neville, feeling more at ease after Sir William’s welcome.

  “He spoke of an injury, but you look all right, save that nasty scratch on your cheek. All’s right, then?”

  “Aye, Sir. Oh, yes,” feeling the mostly-healed remainder of the swivel gun pellet’s passing. “There is one piece of unfinished business: I saw that envelope you had placed on my person set into Captain Seymour’s hand myself. I thought he might hang me at first; never saw him so angry before or since. But, then I guess you know all this, since Georges has come back to you.”

 
“Captain Seymour got over it, though?”

  “Aye, Sir; I’m still alive. He sent me with his two lieutenant prize commanders to complete the collection of Georges. He hadn’t counted on the Espion, though. That was just a bit of luck.”

  “It was very good of you, setting him down at Gravesend, or you wouldn’t be sitting here. I was able to catch up with you. What of this Espion, then?”

  “She is at Gravesend again. I suggested to Lieutenant Dinning – he is the prize commander of Formidable from the battle t’other day – that he request orders to command her. That was approved, and she has brought me up here.”

  “Georges says a small sloop?”

  “Aye, Sir, a flush-decked sloop of sixteen guns, maybe ninety feet, and very quick.”

  “Hmmm. Well, you must tell me all about this battle.”

  The next twenty minutes were spent telling Neville’s story of the Sans Pareil’s taking of the Formidable, and what he saw of the other vessels involved in the battle of the Ile de Groix, leaving out nothing he could remember, the taking of Captain Linois’ sword, and the later capture of the Espion.

  “You make it sound that these were your suggestions. Is that true?”

  “Well, Sir, the battle certainly wasn’t, but … of the Espion? I hadn’t really thought of it as my suggestion, but it was necessary that someone speak French to pull it off, and that left it to me.”

  “And command of the Espion to your Lieutenant Dinning?”

  “Well, Sir, again … I didn’t know how else to move the ship quickly. Oh, and one other thing, Sir. I’ve lied to your clerk. I told him you were my godfather.”

  “Ho, ho, boy. That’s a good one, that. Maybe not a complete lie, either, eh? Don’t tell him otherwise.

  “So, Neville, here it is: We haven’t often used this method of passing messages, but it seems very effective – and it has a certain … emphasis. I hope you wouldn’t mind doing it again, if needed. I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you what it’s all about, and you still can’t tell others. We may ask you to do more in this ‘line of travel’ if you do not find the intrigue too stressful.”

  “Certainly not, Sir William. It could not seem more frightening than things I have already seen. I would follow whatever orders you gave me for you and our country, Sir.”

  “I expected that. That is exactly why I had you sent in, my young friend. Your appearance here has presented us with an opportunity that is rare for us: a ship that is not yet truly recognized as being in our navy, and officers who aren’t yet home. We can’t spare many vessels these days – or officers, either, despite the logjam over at Whitehall. I have an assignment for you,” continued Sir William, “but you must go very soon. You will not have the time to go home until after. I have yet to complete the details … Gravesend, you say?”

  Neville nodded his head.

  “So, if you wouldn’t mind remaining in London two days more … you look concerned.”

  “It’s just that I’ve no means, Sir. I didn’t get a chance to visit the Clerk of the Cheque.”

  “We’ll sort that, Neville. Please return in two days. See my clerk on the way out. He will make some arrangement for you. Godfather. Hoo! Hoo! Wouldn’t Ellen think that amusing?” he chuckled to himself as Neville stood and left.

  Neville spent the best part of the two days in London leisurely writing letters to his mother, his sister, Mrs. Watson, and Mary. He hoped to place these in their hands rather than have to post them, but he would keep them ready to post. At least I don’t have to stand watches, drink green water, or eat food with weevils and maggots.

  17 - “HMS Stag”

  On Monday, he found himself sitting in front of Sir William at Whitehall.

  “I have not been able to arrange the adventure I had hoped for on such short notice,” Sir William began. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid you’re being sent straight back out. It’s the way of it these days, you know. The war seems to be spreading. The Dutch had their own popular uprising just this January past, and the south part call themselves the Batavian Republic. France has overpowered them and has control not just on land, but of their navy as well. You may soon fight Dutch ships as well as French. At any rate, you will not have time to visit home. Here are your orders – to report to Yarmouth and go aboard HMS Stag. She’s a thirty-two-gun frigate with Admiral Duncan’s new North Sea Fleet.”

  “As you say, Sir. Before I go, can you give me any news of home, or Daniel and his father?”

  “Of course, I can. Yes, yes, how rude of me. I’m dreadfully, sorry. Your mother and sister are quite well, and they have taken a great liking to your young friend Miss Mitchell. Your mother’s romance goes well, I hear. She and Mr. Blake are often seen out at dinner. Elizabeth’s husband’s regiment had a great victory in South Africa just last month against the Dutch, who, as I just said, are now allied with France. I also heard that they will be off to India soon. Of your chum Daniel, I can only say that he was not listed among the dead of Orion, and so must surely be well. Of his father, I have heard nothing at all, but there are no serious battle reports involving Pegasus. I am sorry I don’t know more. I am not much in the gossip, you know, but I do keep in touch with your family when I am in town.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Best of health, Sir.”

  “And you.”

  Espion sailed on the morning tide. It was a fine day, but without much wind.

  “I would have preferred we leave on our first passage under sail,” commented Commander Peter Dinning as they stood at the rail watching London recede, “but any way we leave Gravesend is fine by me.”

  Espion didn’t sail, per se, but floated downriver on the ebb. Her first lieutenant was George Goss. She carried a single midshipman, a Mr. John Duckett, and one supernumerary, a Midshipman Neville Burton, in addition to her crew of sixty men and boys. They were all looking forward to a fresh Channel breeze to fill her sails as soon as she reached blue water.

  “I am sorry you won’t be staying with us, Mr. Burton. Espion has been ordered to despatch duty sailing out of the Nore.”

  “I am sure you’ll enjoy it, Sir, and I wish you the best. We can’t know the ways of Whitehall, I suppose. I’m to go aboard the Stag, a thirty-two-gun fifth rate frigate – eighteen pounders. She’s at Yarmouth now. Not much of a deviation to your course, I think.”

  On eighth August, HMS Stag hove short in anticipation of Captain Joseph Sydney Yorke’s order to sail.

  “There’s the signal from Reunion, Sir. ‘Raise anchor’,” said Neville. As senior mid, he was pleased to have signals duty again. He would be busy, too, since they were sailing as a detached squadron of Admiral Adam Duncan’s “North Sea Fleet,” together with His Majesty’s ships Isis, Reunion, and Vestal.

  When the boatswain’s lookout on the foredeck saw Neville close his glass and turn to speak to the captain, he yelled, “Straight up and down, Sir.” The breeze blew steadily, but it was no gale, and his voice was carried on it easily from bow to quarterdeck.

  Long-faced Captain Yorke was no stranger to the Navy. He had worked up to his rank on numerous ships and, most recently, captained the frigate HMS Circe. He was, however, a stranger to this company, having just come aboard within the fortnight. He stood motionless, hands behind his back, facing the wind by the Officer of the Watch, Second Lieutenant Foster. “Weigh anchor, Lieutenant Foster,” he said quietly, watching the activity forward with a very close eye.

  Lt. Foster bellowed forward: “Raise anchor, Mr. Wardell. Tops’ls and sheets, Mr. Hills.”

  HMS Stag trembled slightly with the sudden tramping of two score men at the capstan and more at the sheets. She began to fall off the wind until the anchor was torn loose of the bottom and she turned far enough for the wind to come behind. The fore topsail slapped tight forward.

  Standing at the foot of the mainmast, Neville felt a sudden small twinge of delight when the ship heeled a degree or so and began to move. Only a familiarity, maybe, or just relief that the weather was not their enemy
today? His division was ready.

  “East and a half south until we clear this coast, Lieutenant Foster. Call me when Reunion has our course for the Skaggerak. I’ll be in my cabin,” announced the captain. He left the quarterdeck to Lt. Foster, who moved to the weather rail as soon as the captain’s back disappeared down the steps.

  Reunion was already under full sail, and Isis’s anchor had just come aboard. HMS Vestal was still at anchor, risking Squadron Commodore Alms’ irritation. A gun fired on Reunion and a signal appeared at her masthead.

  Neville turned from the mainmast bitts: “Vestal’s number, Lieutenant Foster,” he said.

  “There’s no surprise. Let’s tend to our own business, shall we.”

  “Mr. Burton, Sir. Captain’s compliments and his invitation for dinner today,” called a seaman as quietly as he could from the waist below.

  “Thank you, Mr. … ?”

  “Landry, Sir. Bo‘sun’s mate.”

  “Thank you.”

  Neville would have to learn who was who among the officers and crew. Most of them appeared to have been aboard for some time, though he and the captain were new. He remembered the Castor after a few months at sea. It would have been difficult for a new man coming aboard late.

  Neville was presentable at two bells in the afternoon watch, at which time he was expected, and went aft. Yorke’s sentry greeted him with, “Captain’s waiting, Sir; knock and go.”

  Lt. Foster was already there. He took a seat where indicated, and was pleased to see that this visit would, indeed, include a meal. A brief glance about the somewhat spartan cabin gave him to believe that Captain Yorke was probably well off, but a man of simple taste. There were no frills, but the fighting equipment in his cabin was well-concealed and the furniture was first-class, as was the dinner service in front of him.

  “Let’s have a bit of food, shall we?” queried the captain to his guests, or to no one in particular. His steward was already halfway to the table with what looked to be a nicely done duck, together with some Yorkshire puddings and something that smelled to Neville as being from the cabbage family. A nice light claret came with it. There was a cheese tray waiting to the side. He sat quietly while Yorke grilled Foster about the readiness of his divisions.