A Private Revenge

by Richard Woodman

  He had his barge called away as soon as he had saluted Drury's flag, leaving Fraser to anchor Patrician and Musquito. He could only clearly identify one of the two frigates, the Dedaigneuse, for a fine rain had begun to fall and a damp chill filled the air so that the oarsmen bent to their task over a smooth sea, blowing the trickling rain from their mouths. Drinkwater sat wrapped in his thoughts. He watched the big two-decker loom over them as they approached, remembering her on a grey, gun-concussed October afternoon off Camperdown eleven years earlier. Eleven years! Where had the time gone? He wondered if Tregembo, sitting beside him at the tiller, entertained himself with such gloomy thoughts. Eleven years! They were both worn out in the King's Service, grown grey in the harness of duty like their ships.

  'Boat ahoy!'

  'Patrician !' Tregembo's quick response gave no indication of such day-dreaming. On board Russell they were already aware of Patrician's identity, for they had exchanged the private signal as they approached, but Tregembo's short reply to the challenge indicated that Patrician's captain sat in the boat. A few minutes later Drinkwater stood on the deck of the line-of-battle ship listening to the apologies of Russell's first lieutenant who was excusing the absence of her captain.

  'He is in conference with the Admiral and the other captains of the squadron, sir,' the lieutenant explained, 'and they have been joined by the Select Committee.'

  'And what precisely is that, sir?' asked Drinkwater, feigning a deliberate obtuseness.

  'The Select Committee?'

  'Yes.'

  'A body appointed by Lord Minto, the Governor-General, sir ...'

  'The Governor-General of India?' interrupted Drinkwater.

  'Why, yes, of course, sir.' A faint note of exasperation was creeping into the lieutenant's voice. 'We have occupied Macao and are now making demands of the Chinese.'

  'What the devil for? I had some notion that Macao was Portuguese territory.'

  'Why, sir, we have to protect our trade.'

  'To protect our interest, more like it.'

  'If you say so, sir,' said the lieutenant with ill-concealed disdain. The arrival of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Patrician may have taken the flagship by surprise, but it was easy to see that this Captain Drinkwater was a curmudgeon of the old school. The first lieutenant did not think that such an officer would pose much of a threat to the promotion stakes on the East Indies station. Drinkwater appeared to possess the intelligence of an ape! Captain Drinkwater's next remark plucked him out of his smug reverie.

  'Be so kind as to tell me the names of the squadron, if you please. I remarked the Dedaigneuse; who commands her?'

  'Captain Dawson, sir ...'

  'Never heard of him,' snapped Drinkwater.

  'A promising young officer,' replied the first lieutenant, laying too facetious an emphasis on the word 'young' and attracting a hard stare from Captain Drinkwater. The lieutenant blushed and hurried on. 'The other is the Phaeton, Captain Pellew

  'Sir Edward's son?' asked Drinkwater.

  'Yes, sir, Captain Fleetwood Pellew. She's just in from Nangasakie, been trying to discover what the Dutch send two ships to Japan for every year.'

  'Is this part of protecting our trade too?' asked Drinkwater drily. 'And the sloop?'

  'The Diana. The Jaseur, sloop, is cruising in the offing. The Indiamen', he went on, gesturing to two Company ships anchored inshore, 'are the David Scott and the Alnwick Castle, they were taken up to transport five hundred sepoys and some European artillery ...'

  'To occupy Macao.'

  'Exactly, sir.'

  Are we at war with Portugal? Or merely doing in the East Indies what we are fighting the French for doing in Europe?'

  It amused Drinkwater that such heresy silenced the lieutenant. The uneasy conversation was brought to an abrupt conclusion by a group of men spilling out on to the quarterdeck from the admiral's cabin. Three were obviously the civilians of the Select Committee, the others were the captains of the squadron. Drinkwater wondered what contribution Fleetwood Pellew could make to Admiral Drury's deliberations. He seemed little more than a boy, scarcely older than his own midshipmen.

  'Captain Drinkwater?' The admiral's secretary was at his elbow. Admiral Drury will see you now, sir.'

  'I don't like it, sir, damned if I do. Don't know why Pellew's got us into this damned scrape, running round at the behest of the Governor-General when his lordship represents the Company's

  fiscal interest with no thought of policy. God damn it, Drinkwater, all I've heard since I came out is "the Company this", and "the Company that". Begin to think the sun rises and sets out of the Company's arse, God damn me if I don't!'

  Drury paused, venting his spleen and clearly glad to be rid of the role of courtier.

  'Help yourself to a glass.' He indicated a decanter and the sparkle of lead crystal glasses on a tray.

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Well, Captain Drinkwater, where the deuce have you sprung from? When this business is over I'm to relieve Pellew, but I'm damned if my briefing mentioned you or your frigate.'

  'I'm under Admiralty orders, sir, discretionary instructions concerning the deployment of a Russian line-of-battle ship ...'

  'A Russian battle-ship! Good God, this matter has more complications than a witch's brew!'

  'She is destroyed, sir. I have her commander and her survivors aboard Patrician.'

  "You took a line-of-battle ship with your forty?'

  'Her people were much debilitated by scurvy, sir.'

  'By heaven, sir, your report will make more interesting reading than most of the paper on my desk!' Drury waved his hand over the litter of correspondence before him. 'I see you brought in a brig.'

  'Yes, sir. The Musquito; Captain Ballantyne master. She's a Country ship, damaged in the recent typhoon.'

  'It missed us here. You'd better get her up the Bocca Tigris and into shelter ...'

  'Very well, sir.'

  'Send your written report as soon as possible.'

  Aye, aye, sir. My ship is in want of repairs ...'

  'Is she fit for service, sir? If not you may have a week. No more.'

  A week will be ample, sir.'

  'Very well. Thank you, Captain.'

  It was rather an inconclusive dismissal, thought Drinkwater as he regained Russell's quarterdeck. Despite his assurance to

  Drury, a week seemed quite inadequate for what needed to be done. The continuing rain only added to his depression. Later he was to regard the interview as fateful. For the time being he wanted only to sleep.

  Rear-Admiral Drury regarded the arrival of an additional frigate as providential. The fact was that the East Indies command was like no other in the long list of the Royal Navy's responsibilities. It had already been the victim of intrigue, formerly being divided between two officers who, admirable individually, reacted like poison when requested to cooperate. Pellew had won the contest and Troubridge had been recalled, to die when the Blenheim foundered through old age, rot and the use of 'devil-bolts' in her hull. Now Drury was to inherit the edifice that Pellew had erected, and Drury did not like it. Pellew was universally acknowledged as a fine seaman. As a frigate captain he had been without equal, receiving the reward of a knighthood for the destruction of a French frigate early in the war. But honours had dried up after a decade of conflict, and Pellew had ruined his reputation by shameless nepotism. His boys Fleetwood and Pownall were barely old or fitted enough to be lieutenants in charge of the deck, never mind post-captains!

  Drury cursed as he bent over the papers on his desk. As for grand strategy, all that mattered to Lord Minto and the damned Selectmen was the China trade, the India trade, and the self-interest of the merchants of Madras, Bombay and Calcutta. The scum had already written to London with their opinion of no confidence in Pellew and his measures to protect their confounded commerce! Drury wished the Honourable East India Company to the devil.

  It was a damned irony, Drury mused. How could anything associated with merca
ntile transactions be honourable? The very notion was preposterous! He snorted indignantly and while his secretary waited with the patience of a tried and beaten man, the admiral scribbled his signature on a dozen letters and notes.

  But William O'Brien Drury was a pragmatist brought up in a hard school. He had not yet inherited Pellew's command and he acknowledged the influence of India House and its Court of Directors. The Select Committeemen hung on his coat tails, eternally muttering about loss and demurrage and half a hundred other insignificant notions that were bound up with their infernal and corrupt business. It was bad enough having to coerce the Portuguese, for it was just conceivable that a French squadron from the Mauritius, or a Dutch squadron from Batavia might occupy Macao and strangle the Canton approaches with a blockade, but the idea of bullying the hapless Chinese was quite contrary to Admiral Drury's idea of duty!

  At last he sighed, and put down his pen. He rubbed his hand wearily across his face.

  'Bring me Captain Drinkwater's report when it is delivered,' he remarked to his secretary, reaching out for the neck of the decanter.

  'Do you have any orders for him, sir, that I may be drafting in the interim?'

  Drury thought for a moment. 'Yes, I'm going to send him to Penang with those few ships that are completing their lading. They will need an escort and I cannot spare young Pellew or Dawson. Besides,' the admiral added, 'with French cruisers about I'd rather have an experienced officer in command of a convoy than one of those young popinjays.'

  'Not to mention the pirates,' muttered the secretary as he scooped up the signed letters for which he had been waiting.

  CHAPTER 3

  Whampoa

  November 1808

  'Steady as you go, sir.'

  Drinkwater lowered his glass and nodded at Lieutenant Fraser. 'Mr Ballantyne has the con ... sheets and braces to the Master's helm, if you please.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Drinkwater held Fraser's eyes, searching for a flicker of resentment. Had Fraser hesitated out of deference to Drinkwater's presence? Or was there a taint of bad blood in the air? Surely not, though God alone knew the undercurrents of discontent that ran beneath the decks of his precious command. Ballantyne was a newcomer, a cuckoo in the uncomfortable nest of Patrician's wardroom.

  Drinkwater dismissed the morbid train of thought. The Narrows known as the Bogue were closing in, the embrasured forts clearly visible as the breeze blew the ship steadily inshore, with the Chinese Viceroy's war-junks closing in on either quarter like huge, primordial birds of prey. The little Musquito, tugging and dragging at the dripping towline, rolled in their wake.

  'Very well, Mr Fraser, you may send the men to quarters. In silence, if you will.'

  Ballantyne turned and, to avoid his eyes, Drinkwater raised his glass again, studying the curious rig of the closing junk to larboard. He did not want the rat-a-tat-tat of the marine drummer's snare alarming the unpredictable Chinese, despite

  Admiral Drury's assurances that a bold front would secure him a safe anchorage with the Indiamen above the Second Bar.

  'Sir,' implored Ballantyne, 'I most earnestly entreat you not to compromise my father.'

  Hissed at by Comley's mates who were deprived of their pipes at the hatchways, the watch below were pouring up from the berth-deck to take their stations at the quarterdeck guns with the low slap-slap of their bare feet.

  'And I entreat you, Mr Ballantyne, to attend to your duty. You are a King's officer now.' Drinkwater looked quickly at Fraser, but the first lieutenant appeared to derive no satisfaction from his rebuke to the newcomer. Chastened, Ballantyne turned away. There were always problems arriving off a foreign coast, Drinkwater reflected, matters of propriety, of the correct number of guns to fire in a salute; of the number to expect in return and of the action to be taken if one did not receive them. He had gathered enough from Drury and Ballantyne himself to realise the delicacy of the balance maintained by the Honourable East India Company and the satellite shipping houses of Calcutta, Madras and Bombay in their relationship with the Celestial Empire of the Son of Heaven.

  'The Emperor in Peking, sir, regards King George as a vassal chieftain,' Ballantyne had explained, highly amused, 'such is his ignorance ...'

  Drinkwater raised his telescope and studied the junk to the west of them. There would be no exchange of gun-salutes, Drury had said, not until he had concluded his negotiations with the Viceroy.

  'Mr Ballantyne,' said Drinkwater, without lowering the glass, 'there is a gentleman aboard that junk who appears to be a man of some importance.'

  'He's the hoppo, sir, the mandarin charged with the duty of collecting the customs revenue, the chop. I imagine he will board Musquito when we bring her to anchor. We should take in the fore-course now, sir ...'

  'Very well.'

  'Fore clew-garnets! Rise fore-tacks and sheets!'

  Drinkwater turned his attention to the forts. Brilliant-hued banners fluttered over ramparts of pale stone and he could see the muzzles of heavy cannon.

  'Antique guns, sir,' reassured Ballantyne.

  'What are those things beside the banners?' Drinkwater pointed to coloured shapes bobbing up and down behind the parapet.

  'Tiger masks, sir, intended to intimidate us.'

  'I see ...' replied Drinkwater uncertainly.

  But the Chinese cannon did not dispute their passage, though the war-junks hung on their flanks until they had passed beyond the Bogue and the First Bar. Under topsails, Patrician forced her ponderous way upstream against the yellow ebb of the Pearl River. To starboard the hills rolled away to the east, echoing the jagged peaks of Lin Tin Island offshore, but to larboard a flat alluvial plain stretched westwards, intersected by convoluted channels and formed from marshy and insubstantial islands that altered as the river altered. The hills to the east were bare of trees, stripped by the hand of man, terraced here and there to form fields which fell away from the walled villages on their summits.

  With sharply braced yards and the jibs and spanker to assist, Patrician rounded a long bend, finding the main stream divided by low islands. Although the layered spire of a pagoda broke the skyline, it was the tall masts and yards of the East Indiamen that dominated the anchorage.

  'Whampoa, sir, and that is Danes Island, and that is ...' Ballantyne aired the knowledge of a dragoman while Drinkwater studied the shipping through his Dollond glass. Most of the Indiamen seemed to be discharging, though there were smaller 'Country' ships, Indian owned, loading from the mass of junks, sampans and lorchas that crowded round them. One or two of these seemed ready for sea.

  An hour later Patrician had cast off Musquito and anchored beside her. From her quarterdeck Ballantyne senior waved his gratitude. Drinkwater turned to the son. The man was well pleased with himself, puffing contentedly on a cheroot.

  'Well, sir, you acquitted yourself with credit. If you still wish it I shall request Admiral Drury confirm your acting warrant as master. In the meantime we shall further test your abilities in a refit.'

  'I am honoured, sir, to accept.'

  'In that case, Mr Ballantyne, be so good as to obtain the services of a tailor and extinguish that confounded cheroot!'

  Drinkwater gestured at Ballantyne's exotic figure, and this time Fraser could not repress a smile.

  'Sentry!'

  Drinkwater's exasperated voice rose to a querulous pitch and he dragged himself to his weary feet. He half opened the cabin door to bawl again at the sentry.

  'For God's sake, man, do your duty and keep these hawkers quiet!'

  His attempt to close the door failed. Instead the mortified marine, his shako missing and his ported musket pressed impotently across his own chest, fell backwards into the captain's arms.

  'Beg pardon, sir . . .'

  The sight of Patrician's, commander, his blue, white and gold uniform marking him as a personage of supreme importance to the people of the Pearl River, only fuelled their desire to secure some patronage from him, the reason for their besieg
ing his quarters. If Drinkwater had entertained any reservations about Ballantyne's ability to find a tailor, they were now swiftly dispelled. Ballantyne could obtain the services of a tailor, a washerwoman, a boot-maker, an ice-seller, a vendor of chickens, eggs or cabbages, a barber, a fortune-teller, a servant or a whore, though, at that moment, they all seemed to be attempting to claim the attention of Captain Drinkwater.

  Tregembo! Mullender!' Drinkwater bellowed, putting his weight behind the broad shoulders of the marine; but no reinforcements came from the pantry and Drinkwater's tired brain realised that similar scenes were being enacted throughout the ship.

  'I'm sorry, sir,' mumbled the compressed bootneck.

  Drinkwater grunted acceptance of the unfortunate marine's apology. Doubtless the poor fellow expected a dozen at the gratings tomorrow and would likely get them if nothing mollified Drinkwater's rising temper.

  'Fire your damned musket, man!' he bellowed in the marine's grubby ear. The sudden report gained them the necessary second's initiative and the throng of supplicating Chinese was pushed beyond the doorway.

  'Pass word for Mr Mount!' Drinkwater called through the closed door, leaning his back upon it and wiping his forehead. Catching his breath after the unaccustomed exertion he stared through the stern windows. It was a grey, drizzly late November day, yet the broad waters of the river swarmed with sampans and junks. Somewhere just out of sight on their larboard quarter, Musquito lay aground on the fringes of Danes Island. Here, where the Europeans were allowed by the Chinese authorities the concession of a place to repair and refit their ships, Captain Ballantyne was discharging his cargo of opium in order to survey his ship. Low sheds had been erected on the island, under the roofs of which the crews of the Indiamen repaired masts and spars, reminding Drinkwater of the pressing needs of his own ship.

  'Sir? Sir? Are you all right?'

  Drinkwater recovered himself and opened the door a trifle. The crowd outside had subsided, clearly concluding that admittance to the great man's cabin was impossible. Most had gone in search of more accessible prey.