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

by Georges Carrack

  “It’s May Day, Lt. Burton,” announced Lt. Staren two weeks later at the end of supper. They had moved up into the waist for a breath of air. “What do you think of that? What do you suppose they’re doing at home, eh? Dancing ‘round the pole like when we were kids?”

  “I can scarcely remember those days.”

  “I understand they passed you, Mr. Burton, though I’ve heard nothing further of it. My congratulations. I hope to enjoy serving with you.”

  “Well, Sir, it seemed they did, but it ended so abruptly, I can’t be sure. What should I expect now?”

  “You just wait for a piece of paper, that’s what. This is the Navy, after all, Lieutenant Burton. Until you get it, you continue as you are. You’re acting lieutenant anyway, at lieutenant’s pay, so you stay in your luxurious cabin,” he added with a smirk.

  The men of Duncan’s fleet eventually joined in the mutiny, but they did not enjoy the same success as elsewhere. Duncan cowed them aboard Venerable. Aboard Adamant, he took a man by his shirt and dangled him over the side with one of his great hands until they promised to quit their nonsense.

  The mutiny was not immediately halted, however, and the anxious days wore on. Tensions remained high through early May, when Admiral Duncan received news from Lord Bridport.

  He summoned the ship’s company for an address: “There is a settlement to your grievances from Parliament,” he began, “and I shall read you that for which you may be thankful. You have done the right thing by remaining peaceful, lads.”

  A hushed ship’s company listened while Duncan read of pay increases, improved provisions, better care for the sick and hurt, and continuation of pay while wounds of battle healed – and so on and more. Boisterous cheering followed a moment of dumbstruck quiet when he concluded, but ill feelings continued circulating throughout the fleet.

  “There’s more rumor about, but I think the men don’t abide it,” Staren advised Neville. “The mutineers at the Nore have raised more demands. They want changes to the Articles of War, the distribution of prize money. They want more shore leave. Rumor is that if the Sandwiches don’t haul down their red banner, we might be ordered to go attack our own ships there. The Sandwich is completely confounded, and none will move alone. They’ve put some officers ashore, too. I know the men say they will be loyal to Duncan, but will they attack our own ships? Have you heard anything?”

  19 - “Holland”

  “Hoist ‘Prepare to Sail’, Mr. Berbidge,” First Lt. Spence yelled to the signals midshipman.

  The Nore? Neville and Staren exchanged glances and then scurried to attend to the immediate tasks sailing would require.

  A charged atmosphere prevailed in the wardroom before supper. Lt. Spence arrived to a barrage of their questions. Speculation was rampant.

  “Not at supper, gentlemen,” he said.

  “Not supper yet,” shot back Staren. “With all respect, but we’re not even sat yet. Whither we go? Pray God not the Nore.”

  “Aye, Lieutenant Staren, not the Nore. The Batavian coast, on order of Lord Spencer. Dutch Commodore De Winter is preparing to bring his fleet out of the Texel. We’ll haul the anchor short tomorrow afternoon.”

  In the morning, Admiral Duncan negotiated with the ship’s company, entreating, threatening, and reminding them of the promise they had made him. Most importantly, he ensured them that they were not sailing to attack their fellow mariners at the Nore. They finally renewed their promise to be loyal, and the tramping at the capstan began.

  “Look at that, Lieutenant Staren,” said Neville. “The Adamant is raising anchor as well. Duncan must have gotten their promise, too.”

  “Circe’s hove short as well, but I don’t see any others moving.”

  “Neither do I. That’s only three of us, then.”

  Lt. Spence walked up and joined in. “The French fleet is trapped in Brest where it belongs, and our Channel Fleet won’t let them come out. Now, the French have the Dutch fleet to command, and they are free to move about from the Texel, unless we three stand between them and England. We are the North Sea Blockade Fleet; ho, ho! All three of us! If they decide to come out of the Texel, we are undone, I think, fight as we may.”

  “What are we about, then? Are we brave, or is this a foolish joke?” asked Staren.

  “Only the Good Lord knows why they have not come out already,” said Spence. “This wind is fair for them. They may be waiting for us when we get there.”

  Three ships filled their sails at the slack before evening tide ebbed and stood for Holland.

  “What is it we’re doing again, Lieutenant Burton?”

  “We have to make the Dutch inside the Texel there think we have a real fleet out here, don’t we, Mr. Exson? How can we do that if they can see that there are just three of us? Therefore, Admiral Duncan has the frigate Circe offshore of us sailing to and fro and sending up all sorts of silly signals – as if there was an offshore fleet to signal to.

  “That’s why all the work to make us look different every day? Different sail and all?”

  “Aye, and we sail close enough so they can see us and think we are different ships. The 4th rate Adamant is most important. There may be only one flagship, but there should be several 4th rates to give a good impression.”

  “Midshipman Exson,” Neville said to him. “I see Circe’s signals have stopped. Hop up to the main top with your glass, and keep a close watch, if you please. I suspect they will send a real signal directly.

  “Midshipman Darly – My compliments to the captain. Advise him that Circe reports two sail. Ours. Bearing nor’east,” said Neville a few minutes later.

  “Russell and the Sans Pareil, Exson says,” reported Lt. Foster to Lt. Spense, who said the same to Captain Fairfax.

  “No more?” Neville heard Duncan ask.

  “No, Sir. We will speak when they get here ….”

  “They’re still at it back in England, Neville,” said Lt. Polwell the next day, “but the mutiny may be falling apart. There should be more of our ships soon. That’s all I could overhear when I was on guard at the admiral’s cabin.”

  Russell and the Sans Pareil proved to be the first of several who left behind the morass of mutiny as it crumbled at the start of summer. The long days strung together into weeks, and then months, of tedious blockade duty.

  “It seems to me that the admiral’s game of signaling to a non-existent fleet has worked well enough. The Dutch have not come out to fight, and now it’s mid-August,” said Staren to Neville. “He’s managed to have six more ships transferred from the Channel Fleet, so we now have a real blockade.

  “What I don’t understand is that these supply ships and packets come and go, and we rarely bring a sufficiency of anything,” complained Lt. Foster. “What do they think we have here? The same three ships?”

  “Here’s another one,” said Staren, pulling out his pocket glass.

  “She looks familiar,” said Neville. “May I have a look?”

  “Espion!” blurted Neville after watching for a minute. “Coming here?”

  “Aye,” said Staren in another fifteen minutes. Espion approached on a direct course. The glass was no longer needed. “She’s brailed up and will be swaying out her boat soon, I’m sure. Must be a packet for the captain or the admiral.”

  Neville dashed below to write a quick letter.

  Returning topside, he found Lt. Staren peering at the small ship through his pocket glass again.

  “She’s not Esperon, or whatever you said, Neville. She’s the Spy. Her boat is almost here, see. What have you there?”

  “She may be the Spy now, but I was acting first in her for three days some years back. Took her from the Frogs, we did. T’was an exciting time, unlike this mutiny and blockade business. This is a letter for my chums over there: Commander Dinning and his first, Lieutenant Goss. I got that posting for them, I did. They’ve probably been in the thick of all this, eh?”

  Staren gave him a queer look, but he turned to the mi
dshipman of the watch: “Jump down there, Mr. Exson. Be a good lad and fetch cap’n’s packet.”

  “Ahoy, there,” called Neville to the coxswain. “Is your captain Dinning, and First Lieutenant, Goss?”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “Take this back then, please,” he requested. They shoved off without waiting for an answer from Venerable.

  Neville and Staren watched while Spy retrieved her boat. Her mainsail ceased flapping as it was sheeted home. She fell to leeward for a minute, while her foretopsail fell, then turned on her heel and began to gather way in the direction of Venerable.

  “What’s this, then?” asked Staren as Spy approached on a course to pass more closely than normal maneuvers. Spy carved a graceful turn and slid rapidly close alongside the static Venerable.

  Two officers stood on the open quarterdeck. The both saluted Neville as she sped by. Neville returned the salute, as did Staren, and they were gone, leaving behind only the ripples of her wake in the water.

  “I guess you did, then,” mumbled Staren. “She’s a pretty ship, sure.”

  “Much better than this duty, eh, Lieutenant Staren? Free to sail.”

  An hour later, Neville received a messenger: “Captain’s compliments, Sir, and will you join him for dinner?”

  “Please respond for me, if you would, Mr. Exson, that it would be my great pleasure.”

  When Neville arrived at the captain’s cabin, he was surprised to learn that his dinner with Captain Fairfax would be shared by none other than Admiral Duncan. Dinner began with small talk of the agreeable weather and excellent job the captain’s steward had done with a fine cod that had been caught that morning. As the junior guest, it was Neville’s place to speak only when questioned. Since most of the conversation did not involve him, Neville was able to put his attention to enjoying a better meal then he would have in the wardroom. That situation did not last the course of the meal.

  “I am told you speak French, Lieutenant Burton. Is that true?” asked Duncan.

  “Aye, Sir. Reasonably well, but I’ve not had much practice these last two years.”

  “Dutch?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Hmmm. Captain Fairfax, do you know if we have any Dutch seamen amongst us?”

  “One aboard Venerable, Sir, and I believe there are two aboard Circe. Of the other ships, I do not know. I could have you that answer by tomorrow if you wish.”

  “I suppose, yes, and that might do, then. Shall we proceed, Captain?”

  Fairfax’s answer, “I believe it might be worthwhile, Sir,” had Neville’s full attention, and he could feel his heart rate increasing.

  “Acting Lieutenant Burton, we have had an unusual letter from Whitehall ….” Neville felt his neck turning red. His pulse was certainly quicker. Trouble?

  “Sir Mulholland?” he asked without thinking, and suddenly regretting it.

  “How on earth could you … ?” stuttered the captain.

  Duncan smirked. “Quite right. I think I understand. Let’s get on with it, then. I have the essence of a plan. It goes thus: We capture a local fishing boat and put you in it with two Dutch-speaking seamen, all of you in fishermen’s clothes. You take the boat to shore, learn what you can about the French plans, and come back out in a week. Whitehall would always want more information than they have. I do not command you to do this. It is very dangerous, of course, and must be a volunteer mission. You would surely be considered spies if caught. Please consider it, and give us your answer in the morning. Meanwhile, enjoy the pudding. Dixon has done his best, I’m sure.”

  The meal was finished at this point, but for the toast, so the captain raised his glass of port: “To the confusion of Frenchmen everywhere!”

  After the “Hear! Hear’s” and the drinking of the port, Neville was excused.

  Back out in the weak, northern late-afternoon sunshine of the upper deck, he blinked as if waking from some dream. Here there was no intrigue. Only halyards and sheets, masts, men, and boats. Be careful what you wish for, he thought, remembering his envy of the freedom of Spy.

  Eight bells of the morning watch rang, and the rush of men to breakfast began. Neville pushed his way through them to the captain’s cabin: “Acting Lieutenant Burton to see Captain Fairfax,” he said to the sentry, who then called inside for the captain’s steward. The steward returned in a minute, saying, “Which ‘ee bids the lieutenant step in.”

  “I’ve thought about it all night, Sir,” he said to Fairfax. “I will go if we can find suitable seamen.”

  “Excellent, Lieutenant Burton. I thought you might. Will you stay for collops and a pot of coffee? We can discuss some details.”

  “Your part is not large, Lieutenant Staren, but I’d appreciate your input. I’d like you to help me interview the Venerable’s Dutchmen. We need to choose two.”

  “Rugen seems good,” said Staren after the interviews, “and I like Hans, too. There will be some rowing, and both of them seem quite fit. Their English is good enough that we can talk to them easily. They both claim to be angry with the French for invading their country, and neither is displeased with the prospect of the food of home or shore leave, whatever name you give it. Their officers spoke well of them – or they wouldn’t be here – and, most important, I think, is that they understand the situation and they are still willing to go. Oh, and Hans says he speaks French, as well.”

  “I’ll have a chat with him. That will be easy to verify.”

  “All right, then. Let’s go over it one more time….”

  “Out you go,” said Lt. Staren to the three men headed for shore. They had ‘borrowed’ a fishing smack from some fishermen about four miles offshore and several miles south of their destination. Rugen and Hans calmly explained to its owners that they might spend a week in the brig, or free on deck, if they behaved, but would have their boat back when it was all done. For now, the little boat’s crew was replaced by British sailors; Neville had one week to obtain information about French plans for the Dutch Navy and to return to this location for retrieval by Staren.

  “We’ll see you here in a week, then,” said Staren. With a touch to his hat, the pinnace turned to return to Venerable.

  “We’ve about twelve miles to go in this little thing, men,” said Neville as they set the ragged sail. “There’s only about four hours before sundown, so let’s get on with it.”

  “That must be it there,” said Rugen, pointing to a small strand near a village in the gathering dusk.

  “Aye. It’s not a common time for fishermen to be coming in, though,” said Hans. “We might have someone come to ask questions.” Their attire was not quite fisherman, and not quite townsman, and they had no fish, either. The pair of Dutch sailors had assisted in the selection of clothing appropriate to their fabricated story – to appear to be fishermen dressed for a visit to an infirm relative.

  “Yes, here comes one. Only one, though. We’ll hope he doesn’t recognize the boat. He shouldn’t. It’s not from Huisduinen here.”

  By the time they had disembarked and pulled the boat out of the water, the guard had sauntered to where they stood. “Goedenavond,” he said (Good evening), to which Rugen, the younger of the two British sailors responded, “Goedenavond,” replicating the local word as best he could.

  “Hoe kom je zo laat? Why so late?”

  “I doubt you have seen me before. We have sailed this day and more from Zanstaad, near Amsterdam, to see my aunt, who is ill. She lives nearby in Den Helder.”

  The other Dutchman, Hans, chimed in, “Is it allowed we leave our boat here for a few days? We can pull it up there and tie it,” he added, pointing to a scrubby tree up the beach.

  “En wie is dit? (And who is this?)” the guard asked, indicating Neville, who had not yet spoken the native language.

  In French, Neville said to Hans, “What does he ask?”

  To Neville, Hans responded, “He wants to know your girlfriend’s name,” and they both laughed; and to the guard, he said, “As yo
u might guess, he is French, but he fishes with us in French waters, so we keep him for our safety.”

  They could tell the guard was not completely comfortable with the situation, but there was insufficient cause for him to raise an alarm, and he admonished them, “Go ahead and leave your boat but, if I don’t see you again in three or four days, I will make inquiry – or maybe I’ll sell the boat.”

  “Thank you! Can you guide us to an inexpensive hostel where we can stay while Rugen goes to visit?”

  “Three blocks off the beach,” he waved. “There are several on Tillenhof Straat.”

  They thanked the guard politely and trudged inland with their meager traveling-packs. They easily found a hostel on the street indicated by the guard. The three took a single room and wasted no time going straight to the beer hall next door.

  “This is a good choice,” said Neville. “Not too loud, but busy enough that we should not draw much attention because there are already foreigners here – those French officers. We’ll see if we can overhear something.”

  As in any small town, all eyes went to them when they entered but, when Rugen cheerfully wished them a good evening, they mumbled a return and went back to their beer and cheesed potatoes.

  The French were certainly officers, for lesser soldiers would not normally be allowed leave to visit a beer hall. Three sat at a corner table eating, and another was at the bar ordering something to drink. They were not otherwise engaged with any of the Dutch, who were eating or playing at darts on the opposite wall.