Frigates of War: A John Phillips Novel

by Richard Testrake

  FRIGATES OF WAR.

  By

  Richard J. Testrake

  Text copyright © 2013 Richard J. Testrake

  Table of Contents:

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DEDICATION

  This book dedicated to my wife Peggy, my daughter Lisa, and my son Charles

  PROLOGUE

  In the waning years of the reign of the late King Louis XV1 of France, an anonymous shipyard built a merchant schooner named in honour of his queen, Marie Antoinette. After the eruption of the Revolution, that schooner was taken into French naval service at Saint-Dominigue, armed, and renamed the Convention National, a twenty gunned corvette. In September 1793, a British naval squadron under the command of Commodore Ford captured her at Mole-Saint-Nicolas on the northwestern coast of Saint-Dominigue. Commissioned into the Royal Navy as HMS Marie Antoinette, re-armed as a ten gun four pounder sloop; her crew mutinied in 1797, dropped the two commissioned officers overboard, and sailed her into the French port of Gonaives in Saint-Domingue

  Had the schooner had a more balanced crew, the incident would very probably never have happened. A few older petty officers could have undoubtedly brought some common sense to the fore, and stopped the atrocity before it started. However, after being bought into service, the schooner had been crewed by small detachments from other ships, all of whose people their former captains thought they could well do without. The two officers, lieutenants both, one the captain, the other first officer, would both have better served the Royal Navy by serving as midshipmen for a few more years, but they had influential relatives who had the officers promoted faster. The quartermaster, formerly quartermaster’s mate on his last ship, had thought he was destined for bigger and better things. Promoted into this little schooner though, he found himself doing all the navigating, since neither of his officers was adequate to the task. The schooner had a master’s mate, who normally could be expected to do the task, but Mister Billings, while a natural seaman, had no talent for mathematics or navigation. Few of the people in the crew had much notion of their duties, least of all those populating the quarterdeck. Open rebellion had finally broken out on the quarterdeck last night, when the first officer took the quartermaster to task about his star sight. Without thinking, the quartermaster backed the fool right up against the taffrail, and had him over in a second. The midshipman of the watch was left standing there with his hand in his mouth.

  The mid, told to go below and keep his mouth shut, did just that. The new quartermaster, all of twenty years old, decided he had enough of the Navy. Saint-Domingue was right under the horizon, under his lee, and the French there would not turn him over to the British. When matters quieted down a bit, he could sail to Spanish New Orleans on the southern coast of America, and from there get to the States, where he reckoned he would be safe forever. All he needed to do was eliminate one more officer. When the lieutenant serving as captain came on deck, the morning watch was hard at work sanding down the deck, which was one of the few occupations aboard the schooner most crewmen could handle. Thus far, no word of the murder had come out. The only people witnessing the event had been the midshipman, and the two men on the helm, and they had kept their silence. When the captain idly asked where the first officer was, the quartermaster muttered something about his going below. Then he said, “Sir, would you look at the rudder? I think the pintle is loose.”

  As the captain looked over the rail, the quartermaster took a firm grip of the seat of the man’s breeches with one hand, his coat with the other, and tipped him right over. Half the crew working on deck saw the incident, and one threw a bucket for the captain to hang on to.

  The quartermaster ordered the men at the helm to remain steady on course, and they left the perplexed captain floating in the water, clutching his bucket. The quartermaster’s plan started to come apart as they pulled into Gonaives next morning though. It seemed that part of the island was in revolt, with thousands of former slaves roaming the countryside, butchering the white populace. There was a small French army detachment at the port, its duty being mainly to man the small battery, meant to keep the British fleet at bay. At this moment, with the screams of the victorious former slaves in their ears, the officer in charge of the detachment would have been happy to see the entire British fleet come sailing in.

  After looting the former captain’s and first officer’s quarters for money, the quartermaster and a few of his cronies decided to visit the village to see what was available for entertainment. While the Army detachment was looking for the captain of this British ship, with the view of compelling him to lead the many fishing vessels in the port to safety on a British island, the quartermaster wandered outside the actual outskirts of the village. Within seconds he, with the two seamen with him, had been chopped to chutney by the machetes of a dozen indignant former slaves. With no one left on board the Marie Antoinette who could navigate, the crew was in trouble. The Army officer attempted to convince the men to sail, in any direction, away from Saint-Domingue. However, the men now realized the trouble they were in with the Royal Navy. As mutineers, they could expect most ships in the entire Caribbean to be searching for them. Many were also certain the French soldiers were obligated to protect them.

  One man, an ordinary seaman, with few nautical skills, thought he had the answer. He persuaded the thirteen year old midshipman who had witnessed the murder of the captain to come with him. On the beach, a small fishing boat waited, its crew hoping someone would come along that could steer them to a safe port on another island. These crewmen, while familiar with the haunts of the good eating fish in the shallows here, never went out of sight of land. They had no idea of how to make it to another island out of sight, miles away.

  The natives had not a word of English, nor did either of the pair of Whites speak Creole. As it happened though, a former tutor had tried to force some French into the boy’s head a few years ago. While the tutor’s French was much different than the variety spoken here, the lad got the idea of what was wanted. Translating as best he could to the seaman accompanying him, he was told to agree to whatever was said, just so long as they could get to sea in the boat. The seaman, illiterate and innocent of any mathematical skills, had seen mids by the score on quarterdecks over the years taking sun sights, and had the idea all these lads knew the mysteries of the sextant.

  The problem here was, this mid, Mister Midshipman Paul Onsley, was Rear Admiral Harvey’s nephew. The admiral had taken the boy as a favor to his youngest daughter, who had lost her husband to a duel. A new suitor was on the scene, but a thirteen year old son close by was damping the gentleman’s ardor. The daughter had originally asked her father to take the boy for a few months, so he had not bothered to place him on a ship. He had the lad working in his headquarters as a servant. No effort was made to teach the boy any naval skills. Now that the new swain was taking his time though, it seemed it might be a good idea to put him aboard ship for a brief period. The HMS Marie Antoinette would do.

  Unfortunately, Mister Onsley had no idea of what one did with any navigation tool. His seamen mentor made him go through the motions as he had seen other aspiring officers make, but no light shone upon
them. Near the end of the afternoon, their fishing boat was out of sight of land, with many terrified civilians wondering when they were going to find safe refuge. It was in this situation that HMS Roebuck found them. She had been on this area much too long, and her timbers were badly infected with rot. Admiral Harvey was sure she was past repair, and wanted to break her up, but Admiralty would not approve. Sooner or later, she was to be sent back to Britain for a thorough survey. She was out on a short cruise to insure everything worked properly. The refugees were brought aboard and a course set to bring the ship back to English Harbor.

  The Roebuck’s first officer began wondering about this strange situation; an admiral’s grandson in company with an illiterate seaman aboard a tiny local fishing boat with a band of French Creole natives. The seaman had learned long ago to keep a still tongue in front of an officer, but it was not long before the First Office got the boy speaking. When it was discovered HMS Marie Antoinette had been carried into a French port by her mutinous crew, and Admiral Harvey’s grandson had watched his captain being murdered, matters changed. The boy was moved into the captain’s sleeping cabin, with an extra Marine guard. The seaman accompanying Mister Onsley was escorted to the orlop, where he was stretched out on deck, and locked in irons.

  A major problem loomed, nobody was sure where the Marie Antoinette was located. The natives spoke their own Creole dialect, which while based upon the French language, was very different. The seaman had either never heard of the name of the port, or had forgotten. Even the most ambitious bullying by the first lieutenant and the bosun failed to get the information from the prisoner. Nobody ever thought to ask the boy, now trembling in a corner of the captain’s sleeping cabin.

  At this time, the lugger ‘Cricket’ came by and made her number. She had a legitimate purpose for being there. She had dispatches for the fleet at sea, and was delivering them. Using the power of his rank, Roebuck’s captain offloaded the prisoner, as well as the Admiral’s grandson onto Cricket. Captain Edwards had the idea of sailing Roebuck up current to see where it led.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mid May 1797

  Captain John Phillips had risen early as usual. His wife Sarah had had her fill of winter London, and had departed months ago for their newly purchased home in Essex with their son and the new baby, Abigail. Phillips had intended to accompany them, but then received a note from Evan Nepean, Secretary of the Board of Admiralty. The note informed him that he was being considered for appointment to a ship, and to reply if interested. He had done so, but the developing Spithead mutiny upset many plans, and he was not sure whether the appointment was still likely. Weeks went by, and he was debating with himself about going to Essex too.

  With nothing else to do, he had gone out to the stables to check on matters there. Bandit, his big grey hunter nickered at him, hoping to get an apple. Apples still in good condition after being stored all winter were very scarce now, and Phillips could not oblige. He did rub the horse’s nose though, and that seemed to satisfy the big beast. Delilah, the bay mare he used for his chaise was more demure, just stretching out her neck for a rub.

  Henry, the hostler, upon hearing the commotion came running out, reporting the hay wain had arrived, and would the master like to inspect? Phillips was very careful of his animals feed and welfare, and when he was present tried to make sure their provisions were safe and palatable.

  He went out to the rear entrance, facing an alley behind the carriage house. Picking up a hay fork and thrusting it deep into the load of fodder on the big wagon, he lifted out a forkful and brought it to his face. It smelled fresh, and still had a hint of the green color it had had when it was harvested last summer. Tossing the forkful to the heavy horses pulling the wain, the overworked animals actively competed with each other for the fodder. Judging the hay acceptable, he nodded to Henry, and went back into the house, trusting the hostler to strike a good price for the hay, and to pay the man.

  Cook had his breakfast ready when he entered the house. Eating sparingly but well, he saw the butler waiting with the morning’s mail. Quickly examining it, he found nothing of importance or interest. An idea he had been thinking of came to his mind, and he asked Mullins (the butler) who they had who could drive him over to Baker Street in the chaise? Mullins thought Thomas was not doing anything important and was available. Thomas was a fourteen year old, a waif taken in by Sarah a few years ago while he was at sea. The boy, while small, was intelligent, and Sarah, when she thought about it, had been teaching the boy his letters. He had an empathy for animals, and Phillips was happy to have the boy drive him.

  He would have liked to ride the big grey gelding, but Bandit was not exceptionally sure footed, and had fallen a few times when trotting on the rain slicked cobbles in the city streets. Phillips did not think much of the idea of himself lying in the filth of the street, with a half-ton of kicking horse on top of him. The mare between the chaise’s shafts would be a safer option. Cued by Mullins, Thomas came rushing in. He was ecstatic at getting to leave the house. The women servants were all of higher status than himself, and were constantly making up jobs for him to do; jobs he felt were not suited to the almost grown man he felt himself to be.

  Phillips told Thomas to bring out the rifled gun in the gun room, and run out to the stables to ask Henry to put Delilah to the chaise. Thomas ran ahead to be able to get up on the box and take the reins when the hostler brought the mare and chaise to the front of the house. Having already told the boy where they were going, he nodded, and the lad popped his whip over Delilah’s hindquarters. The mare stepped out like the well-bred lady she indeed was. Thomas of course, knew very well not to strike the horse with the whip itself. Had he have done so, very serious consequences would have ensued.

  It was a fine spring day, and much of the choking coal smoke had been swept out to sea by the off shore breeze. They were visiting a gun maker on Baker Street. Phillips was hoping to pick up an article he had commissioned weeks ago.

  The item was indeed ready. It was a cubical brass object with a pair of ebony handles attached. It was a bullet mould for his rifle, a weapon he had acquired when its owner was killed by the French during an expedition on shore. The gunmaker that had constructed the weapon was now deceased, and the only source of the very specialized bullets he needed had vanished.

  The new gunmaker had made a mould that would cast a bullet three times as long as the weapon’s bore diameter. The bullet, after being cast would be lightly greased with mutton tallow and forced through a carefully bored iron tube of the correct diameter. This would be the exact diameter needed to bring the paper patched bullet to the size where it could be easily slid down even a fouled bore. After being sized, the bullet would be wrapped in a special strong but very thin paper that Phillips had especially made for him. The weapon when test fired the week before, had given superb accuracy at ranges to two hundred yards. The original ammunition that was now nearly expended consisted of two small bullets nested together. The new ones were not only easier to produce, but seemed more accurate as well. The gunmaker had his apprentices make up a thousand of them. Such a number Phillips thought might be enough to last him the rest of his years. As he watched the apprentices carry the projectiles out to the chaise, he was startled to see Bandit racing down Baker Street with Henry on his back.

  Phillips knew Henry to be a superb horseman, but also knew he was not a very bright man. This was an example. As the animal was pulled to a halt, his iron shoes slid on the wet cobbles, and it was only divine grace that kept the animal upright. After blistering the man’s ears, Phillips waited for an explanation. Henry stuttered out something about a letter that had just arrived. Phillips knew Henry did not read, and besides, could not be expected to know the contents of a sealed document, so they set out sedately for home. Thomas driving, Henry on Bandit, and John Phillips holding Bandit’s reins.

  When they reached the house, Mullins came out with a sealed document on a salver. A quick glance revealed the Admiralty se
al before Phillips tore it open. This was a request for Captain Phillips to report to Secretary Nepean without delay if he wished to have an immediate command.

  The mare was still fresh, so Thomas was ordered to drive to the Admiralty. Once there, Thomas could stop and rest the horse in the stable of a nearby inn, running back now and then on foot to see if Phillips was ready to leave yet. He gave the boy a shilling to give the mare a bait of grain, and another shilling to feed himself. The boy knew he was apt to spend a very boring afternoon waiting for his master to finish his business, but he was well satisfied. He would much rather be doing this that being ordered around by the housekeeper.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Phillips entered the Admiralty building and was greeted by the porter who immediately told him Secretary Nepean wished to see him. He was shown into the office, and was waved into a chair without a word. A servant poured claret for the two of them and was sent out.

  “It’s mutiny again, filthy, bloody mutiny.” His host grumbled. The Spithead mutiny near Portsmouth had been going on for weeks, but Phillips understood it was dying out. Was it starting again? Admiral Lord Howe had become involved in the negotiations, and that had seemed to break the stalemate. What the devil could have gone wrong now? “It’s at the Nore now, right down the Thames”, Nepean raved.

  Not being familiar with this recent event, Phillips merely said, “Sir.”

  “Phillips, the French are planning on stirring up trouble in Cape Colony, way down on the southern portion of Africa. We just took that away from their ally, the so called ‘Batavian Republic’, formerly the Dutch. The government wishes to send a military commission there to confer with Lord Mccartney, the governor. We had planned to send the mission on a 64 gun third rate, but she got involved in that mess in Spithead. Then, it was decided we need not send the entire team. Colonel Hathaway and a few aides would be acceptable. The frigate Jason, a 38 gun fifth rate was then laid on, and prepared for the trip. She is anchored at the Nore. Now we have this damned mutiny there, also. The crew has turned out the captain, and many of the officers. Government considers it vital the ship sail immediately. The ships we have unaffected by this rot, are doing important tasks, and cannot be spared. You have the reputation of accepting impossible jobs and actually accomplishing them. I am asking you to accept this task, secure the ship, and proceed to Cape Colony forthwith. You would carry orders signed by the Prime Minister himself requiring all military and naval commanders to give you such aid as you may require. Any officers within reach you may wish to take with you may be had. If you would give my clerk a list of names, we will see who we can find.”