For Maureen, Sara and Mark.
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
CLAYMORE PRESS
An imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Ltd
47 Church Street
Barnsley
South Yorkshire
S70 2AS
Copyright © Geoff Woodland, 2013
HARDBACK ISBN: 9781781591741
PDF ISBN: 9781473829312
EPUB ISBN: 9781473826656
PRC ISBN: 9781473826212
The right of Geoff Woodland to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Father’s House
Chapter Two
A Ship to Command
Chapter Three
The Slaver
Chapter Four
Proposal
Chapter Five
Liverpool
Chapter Six
The Liverpool Road
Chapter Seven
Liverpool Arrival
Chapter Eight
Prodigal Son
Chapter Nine
Estranged
Chapter Ten
Miss Charlotte
Chapter Eleven
The Abolitionists
Chapter Twelve
The Albatross
Chapter Thirteen
Farewell
Chapter Fourteen
Stowaway
Chapter Fifteen
Another Proposal
Chapter Sixteen
The Wedding
Chapter Seventeen
The Wedding Night
Chapter Eighteen
The Truth
Chapter Nineteen
Boston
Chapter Twenty
Mamre
Chapter Twenty-One
Mamre Lake
Chapter Twenty-Two
Liverpool Lass
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jamaica Bound
Chapter Twenty-Four
Return to Boston
Chapter Twenty-Five
More Proposals
Chapter Twenty-Six
Havana Fire
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rescue
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Escape
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Regrets
Chapter Thirty
Home at Last
Chapter Thirty-One
Father’s House
Chapter Thirty-Two
Accused
Chapter Thirty-Three
Boston Again
Chapter Thirty-Four
Fever
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Future
Chapter Thirty-Six
Charlotte’s Return
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dinner
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Invitation
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Nicholson Dinner
Chapter Forty
Hatred Flows
Chapter Forty-One
Miller’s Dam
Chapter Forty-Two
Wanted
Further Information
Prologue
The masthead of the Margaret Rose was bathed in the blue light of St Elmo’s fire. The light danced and sizzled as First Mate, William King, breathed a sigh of relief. The blue light was a sign that the storm was abating.
Within an hour the wild movement of the Margaret Rose eased. The night was over as the blackness turned a dull grey.
A perceptible change in the vessel’s movement meant the seabed was shallowing. William realised they must have entered Liverpool Bay.
Captain Loper had insisted on sailing, from Dublin, on the evening tide. His eagerness to return to Liverpool, with the Margaret Rose crammed with Irish immigrants, cost him his life. The storm, when it hit, was worse than he or anyone anticipated.
It was during the fight to keep the ship’s bow facing the oncoming sea that William saw his captain washed overboard. There was nothing William could have done to help. It would have been too dangerous to put the Margaret Rose about. This would have endangered everyone on board.
The cry ‘Land ho!’ brought white-faced passengers on deck. After many hours suffering below, the land could only mean that Liverpool had been sighted.
Chapter One
Father’s House
Commissioned
Liverpool June 1804
William pushed open the front door of his home on Tythe Barn Street and dashed upstairs to the first floor, where his father, George, ran the family business; King Shipping.
George King leaned forward over the sideboard to check the chafing dishes of hot food. Studying the older man as if it was the first time he had really seen him, William noticed the thinning dark hair and white streaks on top of his father’s head. His rounded face denoted success, a success that allowed him to indulge in drink. ‘After all,’ his father would say, ‘haven’t I earned a little extra?’ His face showed thin red lines where the alcohol had taken hold. He was also, even as a large man, running slightly to fat – but then one expected a little extra weight on a successful businessman.
The lack of hair on his father’s head did not stop the growth of his facial hair. His upper lip was bare, but thick side-whiskers extended from just in front of his ears to just below his chin. George was wearing a long black coat with matching knee britches. A silk shirt and silk stockings proclaimed the final touches to the uniform of a successful Liverpool trader who controlled his own shipping company.
‘Good morning, William.’
‘Good morning, Sir.’
‘Shall we talk over breakfast?’
‘If that is your wish.’
‘Sit. Sit down. What would you like? Can I get you something?’ He waved his hand towards the food on the sideboard behind his chair, which held food only at breakfast time.
William sat midway down the long dining table and felt like a schoolboy again. He steeled himself for the coming argument. He knew the request he was about to make would not be granted but he had to ask nonetheless.
‘Just coffee, thank you.’
‘Should eat more, William,’ said George as he placed a cup of coffee in front of his son.
‘Thank you,’ said William.
The clang from the covers on the serving dishes was the only sound as George King scooped fried potatoes, beef and eggs onto his plate before sitting in his chair at the head of the table.
William glanced down at his c
offee and realised he was more nervous than he originally thought.
His mother had died as she gave him life. George, never having remarried, had dominated William’s life. Tired of being overshadowed and having his wishes ignored, William decided, as he entered his teens, to be his own man.
In his childhood so many different women had been hired to tutor and look after him, he’d lost count. No one had lasted long. When his father returned from sea, he either caused so much friction that the tutor left, or he dismissed her for some minor infringement.
Each time his father returned home he would always bring a gift, but all William ever wanted was his father’s time. The few short weeks his father was home were usually spent conducting business as he prepared for another voyage. His father couldn’t change from being a sea captain with authority of life and death over his crew to a loving father. William had a feeling that his father blamed him for his mother’s death.
When William was twelve he knew he would follow in his father’s footsteps and go to sea. He hoped this would please his father, and perhaps they would then have something in common, other than his mother.
‘Well, my boy,’ boomed George as he cut into a large piece of fried beef.
‘Well, Sir,’ said William, sipping the hot black coffee, ‘we have held this conversation before, but I just wanted to make sure nothing has changed.’
‘If you’re talking about being appointed to your own ship as captain then nothing has changed. I appreciate you brought home the Margaret Rose safely, after the death of Captain Loper, but you must be aware the French are attacking English merchant ships in the Mediterranean and we can’t obtain insurance at the right price. You’re also aware times are not good, not as they have been, but at least we’re able to trade to the west and use the Margaret Rose on the Irish immigrant trade instead of the Mediterranean …’
‘But …’
‘Keep silent, Sir! I am speaking. You have just completed a year as first mate on the Margaret Rose with immigrants from Ireland and we have turned a nice profit. Not a lot, but at least we are not in danger of being sunk.’
William opened his mouth to speak but his father stopped him with his hand held palm out. In a more reasonable voice, George said, ‘Let me finish, William, after which I will listen to your thoughts on the matter. It is my wish that you spend more time as first mate and also time in the office. You need more experience.’
A silence fell while George cut another large piece of meat, smothered it in mustard, and pushed it into his mouth. He wiped the fat that dripped from his lips with a flourish of his napkin. He signalled to William that he had finished speaking and silently chewed his food.
‘I was afraid you’d not have changed your mind and that the reason you’d give would be that I lacked experience.’
George nodded his head and swallowed. He attacked the meat again.
‘Taking this into account, I am pleased to inform you I have taken steps to gain much more experience in the future than I have gained on the Margaret Rose.’
George stopped chewing. With his knife and fork gripped in his hands, he asked in a quiet voice, ‘How so?’
‘Yesterday I was commissioned lieutenant in His Majesty’s navy.’
‘What? Commissioned? What nonsense is this?’
He watched his father’s face turn a bright red and then a dull purple. Scraps of food sprayed from George’s mouth as he made a supreme effort to get his words out.
‘You will resign immediately – tell them it was all a mistake.’
‘I will not resign, and there is nothing you can do to make me.’
‘Isn’t there, by God. We will see about that. I am your father and you will do as you are told!’
William rose slowly from his seat, placed his hands on the table and leaned towards his father.
‘I am doing as I am told, Father,’ he said softly. ‘Our King, our Sovereign, has commissioned me to join the fleet. Not even you can go against the King. He is not someone who can be bullied. I hoped I’d receive your blessing and you’d be pleased your son is ready to fight for his country.’
‘Fight for his country? You have done this to spite me!’
‘Spite you? You are the one who said I needed more experience. You made me, Father, and you have moulded me, so don’t be surprised that I have made my own decisions. Do I have your blessing?’
‘No! You, you, you, I’ll see you damned first.’
William straightened himself and returned his chair to the correct position. With sadness in his heart and a lump in his throat, he faced his father and said, ‘If that is your last word, Sir, then there is nothing to keep me from attending the Admiralty in London. I bid you good day.’
He stared at his father, whose eyes became bright with tears, although his lips were set in a hard line. This was something William couldn’t remember seeing before. Nothing in the past could match the look he now saw on his father’s face.
William walked to the dining room door and could sense his father’s eyes following him. He opened it, stepped through into the hall and closed the door gently.
November 1804 – HMS Belleisle off the French coast
Lieutenant King blew on his hands as he gazed across the spume-flecked water at the coastline of France. It had been some months since he had reported to Captain Whitby of HMS Belleisle, the day before they sailed for blockade duty off the French coast. For weeks they had tacked close into the French coast at dawn and back out to the safety of the ocean at twilight. Captain Whitby would not allow himself to get caught on a lee shore in the dark. The French were as bored watching the Belleisle sail up and down their coast as the crew of the Belleisle were watching their shoreline.
Only a year ago William had cursed the lack of support from the Navy. He had sailed the Mediterranean on his own or in company of one or two other traders, but never with a Navy escort. Now he realised that the Navy completely lacked the vessels to offer support. Merchant vessels had to take their chances while they relied upon the Navy to bottle-up the French ships in their homeports. He was uncomfortably aware some French ships did occasionally break out in the Mediterranean and make a dash for an unescorted and undefended British merchant vessel. It did not matter what the merchantman carried, everything was valuable to the blockaded French.
William’s hands were still cold. Winter had come early this year. As the weeks became months on blockade duty, he knew conditions on the Belleisle would get worse. Unless they received fresh orders, Christmas 1804 would be a cold celebration off the enemy coast.
‘Watch your heading,’ said William curtly, standing behind the helmsman to check the compass.
‘Aye, aye, Sir.’
William was tired and knew that he shouldn’t have been so sharp with the helmsman. Hands behind his back, he resumed his steady tread in an effort to keep warm.
‘Mr King, if you please.’
William turned quickly as he recognised the voice of the captain. He hurried across the deck and touched his hat. ‘Sir.’
‘Mr King, according to the fishing boat we intercepted earlier today, a French brig is hidden behind Penmarch Rocks.’
William remained silent, though his spirits rose at the possibility of a battle against the French, and perhaps prize money.
‘All officers to my cabin in one hour, if you please, Mr King, and I wish you to attend, so arrange a relief.’
‘Sir.’ William touched his hat and turned to the young midshipman who shared his watch. ‘Midshipman of the watch, all officers to the captain’s cabin in one hour.
William entered the captain’s cabin, removed his hat, and joined the other junior officers, who were trying to be attentive yet inconspicuous at the same time. He couldn’t help but compare this giant cabin of a ship of the line to the cabin of a small merchantman.
The Belleisle measured over 168 feet from bow to stern; the Rose had been 80 feet. In terms of weight the Belleisle displaced 1,600 tons, eight times that of th
e Rose.
He glanced at the deckhead. Unlike in the Rose, here in the captain’s cabin he could stand upright without trouble. Daylight from the large windows behind the captain’s desk flooded the whole cabin, eliminating the need for oil lamps during the day.
The first lieutenant saluted the captain. ‘All officers present and correct, Sir, except for two officers on watch.’
‘Thank you, rest easy gentlemen. You know I received information about a French brig at anchor in waters behind Penmarch Rocks. It is my intention to cut her out.’
An air of excitement ran through the cabin, action at last.
‘This is what I propose. The first lieutenant will be in overall command and in charge of the launch. Mr King will be in charge of the pinnace and second-in-command.’
William felt pleasantly surprised at being given such an honour. The captain continued. ‘I don’t normally explain why I so order, but in this case I will. Mr King has years of experience as first mate on traders, so if he gets lost he has a better chance than the other junior officers to find his way home.’ A ripple of laughter ran around the junior officers. Perhaps it was their way to cover their disappointment at not being picked.
The pinnace had eight oars, so if he double banked, he would have sixteen men plus the coxswain and himself.
‘A midshipman will be in command of a cutter and will act in support in case the first lieutenant or Mr King meet strong resistance. At dusk we will turn and sail away from the coast. The French have been watching us for months as we sail close in shore at daylight and out to sea as darkness falls. Tonight, however, when it is dark, we will sail back to the coast under reduced sail and drop the boats close in by the entrance to the rocks. Any questions?’
Captain Whitby looked around his group of officers and waited for a question. All were silent.
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