“Two weeks is all I have left, Mrs. Mitchell, so I must beg your utmost forgiveness with my request to spend some time with your daughter. A picnic, perhaps, on the morrow? Shall I make my request of Mr. Mitchell?”
“The latter is not possible, I am afraid, as he died of pneumonia this year past, but I would enjoy such an outing as well. It is most exciting to have a suitor at hand.”
She was a beautiful lady herself, Neville noted, thinking of the one bit of his father’s advice he could remember having passed down to him: ‘Wed someone pretty,’ he said, ‘for when you’ve nothing to eat, you’ll have something to look at.’ I’ve no doubt Father would approve of Mary.
The next two weeks passed cruelly quick for Neville; great joys and growing dread wrapped together in the rush of days.
With both Mary and Angelica, he visited Daniel’s mother. They could tell that, while she was ecstatic to see them, she was worried about her men. She had news, though, that Neville had not heard: “Daniel’s still on the Orion, you know. He suffered a small wound on one arm where some nasty Frenchman stabbed him with some kind of knife. He’s got better, though, and stayed on.”
“He writes that they are to put in to Plymouth in a few months to refit, so he might also be home for a visit soon,” added Angelica, who had obviously been keeping correspondence with him.
“Edward’s doing fabulous, too. He’s third of the Royal Sovereign, a colossal one-hundred-cannon monstrosity. He writes that it’s good and bad – rather comfortable, as navy ships go, but very rigid discipline and very complicated. He also complains of the food and the weather in the Bay of Biscay, where they just sail back and forth every day. It’s terrible business, this war.”
“What have you been up to, Neville?” asked Edith. “I hear complaints that you have not been writing.”
There it is again. “It is truly the worst thing,” he said, “but I cannot speak of it. I am ordered quiet.”
It was awkward, but they passed it over.
Neville had two new uniforms made and bought new shoes. His old ones had reached the limit of their existence. His French sword was well-polished, but the patches where plating was worn from the hilt would continue to give evidence that he was not a rich man.
His family visited with the Halls, where the talk was mostly of the Army, South Africa, and India. They adored the baby and pressed Elizabeth to return to their home as soon as her mother was remarried, despite the speculation that she might be able to join Gage in India if the war went well.
In the evenings, there was not enough time to catch up on the last two years, particularly when they added in Mr. Blake and the Mitchells for a few dinners. Plans for Ellen’s wedding seemed endless to Neville but, for the rest, it was obviously fascinating. Mary was to be some part of it. He was more than pleased to see his mother’s affection for this merchant whose conversation came from another point of the compass altogether – farm conditions and the transportation and storing of corn, and management of a non-military enterprise.
Whatever the activity, there had simply not been enough time with Mary for Neville’s liking. They stole what moments they could at the busy parties and outdoor walks, and their mutual affection blossomed as only that of the young can do.
Talk as they might, twenty-fourth March, the date Neville had chosen to begin his return to HMS Stag, loomed larger and closer, and eventually came.
“I’m packed, Mum,” said Neville. “I’ll go for a wagon ….”
He opened the street door, and there stood the postman. “This looked important, so I thought I’d come ‘round wi’ it,” he said.
“Thank you, Jason. It does, doesn’t it?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, Mum. I’m not expecting orders,” he said, “but I’d better open it.
“My word!” he blurted when he took in the contents of the letter. “It’s from the Clerk of the Cheque. I’m due three hundred forty pound, twelve shilling and threpence prize money from the Formidable and Espion. They’ve given me a full lieutenant’s share on the Espion, see? Brilliant!! I know you had some worries about wedding expenses, but I’d say no longer. I haven’t time to deal with this fortune at all, but I do believe you could presume upon Sir William to collect this for me – for us. I’ll write you a note for him, and you may use muchwhat you need for the wedding, with all my love.”
“My wedding?” she glowed. “How fantastic. You’re an absolute dear. But, I think you might need to save some for your own, don’t you?”
“Mum, we haven’t … I haven’t even ….”
“Well, I guess we don’t wonder who we’re talking about, do we?” she giggled.
Her giggle disappeared, and a more worried, tearful mother appeared. “Sometimes I don’t need to know everything, Neville. It’s wonderful that you have earned prize money, but how many battles is this? The Castor, Sans Pareil once and again, the Formidable, the Espion, and now the Stag. I worry for you. I – we – pray for you to come home safe.”
18 - “Mutiny”
Acting Lt. Burton traveled to rejoin HMS Stag at Yarmouth by coach. It passed through Ipswich to Harwich; there he found a private delivery packet for the south of England. His luck was quite good. He found a ship willing to stop in at Poole at west end of the Solent, which is closer to the Yarmouth anchorage than is Portsmouth at the east end. The packet arrived there on a blustery late morning at the end of March and, by two o’clock in the afternoon, he was ashore on the pier looking for a small harbor ferry. Finding one, the boatman remarked, “She’s gone a week yestid’y.”
“Gone? Why?” he queried. “Venerable, then? Is that not she there?” he asked, pointing to the flagship.
“Aye, Sir. That’s the Venerable.”
“Take me there, then,” he ordered, feeling more than uneasy with his predicament. He would be forced to report to the fleet’s first lieutenant, if not the flagship captain himself, that he had missed his ship. He did not believe that he had misunderstood the date she was to sail, but that was small comfort as the skiff neared Commodore Duncan’s seventy-four-gun flagship. The little boat was uncomfortable, since the day’s bluster had raised a low, choppy sea, but he was only damp in spots from the occasional splash.
Venerable’s officer hailed, “Shore boat, there. Who goes?” Neville felt his stomach tighten.
“Aye, aye,” replied stroke oar. Neville’s stomach tightened hard at that. Despite having served as acting lieutenant for over a year, his true rank was still midshipman. He had yet to sit for lieutenant. Stroke Oar’s call of ‘Aye, aye’ resulted from the lieutenant’s uniform Neville wore to report aboard Stag. Neville jumped briskly up the side, not wanting to give the least appearance of sloth.
“Acting Lieutenant Burton?” asked a voice from behind. He started when the Officer of the Day called out his name. Trepidation instantly filled him. Wanted for desertion or known to be on leave? Known to be absent from his ship, at any rate.
Neville turned and saluted aft, then back to the man in front of him, touching his hat. “Aye, Sir. Acting Lt. Burton of Stag reporting.”
“Welcome aboard. You’re not of the Stag any more. Couldn’t be helped. Admiral Duncan sent her away early. Your chest was transferred here. I’m Lieutenant Staren. Good to meet you,” said the portly, black-haired lieutenant. He extended his hand.
Neville shook hands with great relief. Apparently, he was not out of favor from the start, and was not being sent to the midshipmens’ berth.
“We gave Stag our junior lieutenant, as they were short you,” he said with an added mumbling of, “Not a whit of loss, in my opinion. First Lieutenant Spence wishes to see you as soon’s you’re aboard. He’s with Captain Fairfax. Report to him in the gunroom when you’re tidy.”
“Lieutenant Burton, you’re here,” said Lt. Spence. It was not so much a cheerful greeting as an acknowledgement of an expected event. “I’ve not much time for all this, but we’ll know each other well enough soon. We have several young gentlemen
‘round the fleet who are ready to sit for lieutenant. I understand that you are also. Is that correct?”
“Aye, Sir, I am,” he answered.
“Six years’ service?”
“Aye, Sir.” And what a ride that has been.
“Certificates?”
“Aye, Sir.” If I can find them.
“Log writ fair?”
“Aye, Sir.” It’s a good job I had time to create my story at home.
“Sixteen April, then. After supper. Captain’s cabin. At least you’ve not far to go.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” I’m glad I bought a new uniform.
In a fortnight’s time, he had become familiar with Venerable. He would be acting as the sixth lieutenant, unless others passed for lieutenant and he didn’t. At any rate, he would need to know it well if he were to stay aboard.
His two years’ seniority as acting lieutenant aboard Stag gave Neville thin comfort in the face of the examinations scheduled for noon the next day. The collywobbles in his belly had been growing day by the day over the last week. On this last day, he looked again into his books for understanding of those elements of navigation with which he felt least at ease. He could not find a copy of The Epitome of Navigation by Norie and, therefore, spent some hours trying to understand the arguments offered in Barrow’s Navigatio Britanica, in conjunction with his own scribblings from past cruises. By evening, there was no time left even to open his tome on seamanship, but that subject did not worry him.
By mid-afternoon, there was considerable traffic at the ship’s side. One boat after another arrived with their contingent of midshipmen.
“There’s enough of us here, ain’t there,” said one who sat next to Neville by the mainmast.
“They don’t look to be green hands, either. Every one will have at least four years at sea to brag of, even if they haven’t a couple years’ false muster in hiding.”
“Some look to have much more than that. Look at that fellow. He must have come in over the bow. Here’s another one like you. He’s got an epaulette on his left shoulder …. Not that you have to beat him out – just answer your own questions. The Navy needs all the officers it deems competent, I think, and would be pleased if we all pass. That’s what I hope for, anyway.”
“Well spoken.”
When the bell chimed for the first dog watch, none had been called. Most had their eyes still glued to their books and papers, and a few were still trying to improve the shine on their shoes or swords. Neville could see that some had found a copy of Norie’s Epitome, and that realization increased his nervousness.
There began a twittering of boatswain’s pipes and rapping of drums.
What now? he asked himself, standing to see the reason for it. “Ah, yes. Of course. There must be three examining officers, and we have one captain aboard now. This is the first of two more needed. An officer’s head appeared above the rail shortly thereafter. Neville reminded himself that he was relieved of any responsibility on his ship until his examination was complete, so he only stood and watched.
“That’s Captain Griffith of the London, there,” whispered the midshipman next to him. “He’s a hard one, from what I’ve heard.”
The captain saluted the flag and was escorted immediately aft by Lt. Spence. He had only just passed the sentry when the pipes and drums began again. Another gig approached, this one containing a rowing crew decked out in white trousers and crimson hats.
“Don’t know ‘im,” said the previous informant.
“Sir Louis,” said one on the other side, “of Minotaur …. He’ll take no pity.”
The inquisition began with Midshipman Darwell. “What could be the reason?” Neville wondered aloud to those beside him. “It’s not alphabetical. Maybe they just roll dice?”
Darwell was back out in five minutes, announcing simply, “Sutphen, you’re next.” He looked so dejected that nobody dared go ask him how it went. He couldn’t leave the ship, either, for he had two others from the Royal George to wait for. He found a space below the gangway starboard as far forward as he could go and sat with his back to the rest of the crowd waiting. The remaining midshipmen went quiet while they watched Sutphen stand and hurry aft.
Sutphen, who was rejected in about seven minutes, announced, “Fox,” and skulked forward to find Darwell.
Fox came out quite pleased with himself, and sought someone to whom he could brag. So it went for the next hour as the sun neared the horizon, and Neville found himself calculating how long it would take to go through the entire lot of waiting mids. “Mr. Burton. Your turn,” was the next thing he heard.
He suddenly realized how nervous he was. The last hours had dulled his senses a bit. When he stood, he dropped his Britanica with a thud that caused those near him to look and begin snickering.
They should look to me as their senior with this epaulette on, but I’m making a fool of myself. He picked up his book and hurried toward the captain’s cabin.
“Acting Lt. Burton,” he said to the sentry, who responded, “Pass.”
The large room he entered was well lit, but darker than it had been on deck, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust and his brain to understand that the three captains were sitting in front of him behind a long table.
“Report!” one ordered.
“Acting Lt. Burton reporting for examination,” he managed nervously.
“Certificates,” commanded Captain Fairfax.
They shook slightly as Neville passed them over.
“What is a rhumb line, Mr. … Ah … Acting Lt. Burton?”
Momentarily taken aback by such a simple question, he hesitated just long enough for another more annoyed voice to pipe up, “Seriously, Burton? This is a junior midshipman’s question. Have you no answer?”
He regained his composure and fairly blurted his answer: “The shortest straight line between my point of embarkation or my present position and my destination, Sir,” and another slight pause, “that …”
“So you would … ” began the questioning officer, then realizing he had interrupted the answer. “Continue, please.”
“…that has no obstacle, Sirs, such as a cape or an island which must be got ‘round.”
“At least someone knows,” he mumbled to the others.
“What are these certificates, Burton? I’ve never seen the like,” said Captain Griffith of London.
“What is it, Captain Griffith?” asked Sir Louis of Minotaur.
“This one states that Mr. Burton is exemplary, etc., etc., but does not give the duty. It says the Whitehall considers it confidential. Good God. Here’s another.”
“They look to be correct, though,” said Captain Fairfax. “Let’s put them aside for the moment and proceed.”
Immediately the next question came – from Captain Fairfax – this one much more complicated: “You are crossing the Bay of Biscay in the fast frigate Rabbit, southbound for Gibraltar under full sail with a moderate north breeze, when you spot three French seventy-four’s to your west sou’west bearing for Brest. Do you understand me?”
“Aye, Sir, sou’west by west.”
“What orders do you give?”
“Sir, since they are south of me, I cannot continue to run, or they would take me sure, so I must come about and tack for the open sea to the nor’west.”
“They are to your west already. They will cross you.”
“You said fast frigate, Sir. I should expect to leave a seventy-four well behind in a fair breeze, and I have yet to jettison water or cannon ….”
A knock came at the door.
“Hold on Burton.
“What is it, man? Why do you interrupt us?”
“Begging you pardons, Sir, but there is an urgent message for Captain Fairfax from Spithead.”
“Spithead? Why should that affect us? That’s Howe’s or Bridport’s. Oh, well, you’re here. Come then, let’s have it.”
The sentry passed an envelope that had obviously been carried by a young midshipm
an who was just visible outside the door.
Fairfax gave a soft whistle when he scanned the opened page, and his eyes opened wider. He passed the note to the other two captains, who took it with questioning glances.
Burton stood curiously watching while they quickly read it together; they both jumped to their feet.
Captain Griffith was first to speak: “Sentry, call my gig.”
“And mine,” added Captain Louis.
They both began to pick up their writing pads as if to leave.
“We are adjourned, then?” asked Fairfax of them. “What of Burton here?”
“Pass him,” said Louis. “He’s already been acting for almost two years, Captain Yorke speaks well of him, and he has an answer for this, though I do not care to wait to hear it all, and I’m not going to be the one questioning Whitehall on these certificates.” Having given his opinion, he headed for the door.
On Louis’ heels out the door, Griffith said, “Agreed.”
“Burton,” called Captain Fairfax – with no title ‘lieutenant, acting lieutenant,’ or even ‘midshipman.’ “Pass word for all our officers to assemble here immediately after those two are piped over the side.”
“Aye, Sir.”
“And, my congratulations. Apparently, you have mutineers to thank.”
“Mutineers, Sir?”
“Assemble the officers. You’ll hear soon enough.” He walked into his personal cabin aft.
Officers were soon gathered aft into the room where Neville had just survived his examination. At the head of it there now stood an officer of unusually great size. In addition to an admiral’s uniform, he wore a ferocious look that seemed exaggerated by his wild hair.
“I am Admiral Duncan,” he declared. “There is a general mutiny in the fleet at Spithead. When Admiral Bridport raised the signal for his fleet to prepare for sea, some number of the ship’s company chased into the rigging and gave three cheers as their signal to mutiny. The ringleader is apparently aboard Royal George. There’s been some cock-up aboard Captain Louis’ ship, the London, too. My understanding is that there are sixteen ships involved at Spithead now, so none of Admiral Bridport’s fleet will sail. They are jammed there; confounded! We must look to our own. These buggers have somehow conspired throughout his fleet and may well do the same in ours. I’ll not have it!” He was bright red at the neck and face, seething with obvious anger. “Ask your men what they know, and let Captain Fairfax know of anything you hear. Keep your men as busy as we can with paint, rigging work, and repairs. Above all, make sure they know we will deal severely with such nonsense here.”
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 29
