The Bitter Land (The Duty and Destiny Series Book 2) Read online

  Book Two: The Duty

  and Destiny Series

  From the author of the acclaimed,

  A Poor Man at the Gate Series

  Andrew Wareham

  Digital edition published in 2014 by

  The Electronic Book Company

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook contains detailed research material, combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's own interpretation, based on research and study.

  The Bitter Land

  Copyright © 2014 by Andrew Wareham

  All Rights Reserved

  Contents:

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  By the Same Author

  Introduction

  Frederick returns to England where he faces some months of half-pay on land – there are always more officers than ships. He marries his sweetheart and settles to a quiet life, he hopes; after a few months he is selected for a dangerous but potentially rich mission, picked out because he now has a reputation as a risk-taker. He is successful and takes a very rich prize, but unforeseen complications may destroy his career.

  Expecting several years on shore he buys an old-fashioned estate and appears to be settled again when tragedy strikes and he is able to use his influence to take a command sailing far foreign.

  Author’s Note:

  I have written and punctuated The Bitter Land in a style reflecting English usage in novels of the Georgian period, when typically, sentences were much longer than they are in modern English. Editor’s Note: Andrew’s book was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.

  Book Two: The Duty and Destiny Series

  Chapter One

  That first cruise set the pattern for a busy, profitable year. The Admiral received one eighth of the value of every ship and cargo taken and, in the nature of things, sent successful prize takers out to the richest of cruising grounds: every convoy Magpie escorted was followed by its cruise back, commonly by the most circuitous of routes, and she returned with prizes or recovered deserters every time she made port.

  The Americans came not to love her, for Magpie would take every English, Welsh, Scots or Irish accent on the grounds that having been born in Britain they could not be American citizens, were obviously subjects of the Crown, and, being British seamen, must be deserters from somewhere. Backed by her guns the Magpie’s boarding parties could not be gainsaid, and diplomatic protests, months after the event, could be swept aside, met by blanket denial of wrongdoing, and the shortage of skilled men was already an embarrassment to the navy. In addition, the Americans made no secret of their essential hostility, of their wish to conquer Canada, of their eventual desire to make the Sugar Islands part of their sphere of influence, so it was a pleasure to rub their noses in the reality of their own weakness at sea.

  The favoured ships made their cruises, took their prizes, showed high efficiency; other frigates and sloops shepherded convoy after convoy, if they cruised made their patrols in barren waters, demonstrating their lack of prowess by their empty-handed return – the Admiral wanted success, his captains must give it him, if they expected his patronage. Magpie and a few others were reliable – three years in the West Indies was often argued to be worth a hundred thousand to a flag officer, and these ships did their very best to prove it true.

  Farquhar sailed home, his flag gracing Hercule, coincidentally released by the dockyard, repairs completed, his confidential briefing to his successor praising Frederick to the heavens. The new admiral, knowing none of his captains on station, accepted his recommendation and sent Magpie off cruising, smiled beatifically at his bank balance and despatched her to the richest waters again.

  Magpie cruised the Main, the Louisianas, the waters of Cuba; she circled Martinique every couple of months, it seemed. Rogers was sent in with a prize brig, fell in with a pair of schooners in the dawn, overawed them into panicked surrender, entered English Harbour in triumph, left with a commission in his pocket, Third on the William, his captain promising Frederick that he would keep an eye on his young man, for the love he bore him.

  Fraser remained, in piratical heaven, counting his prize money and his blessings quite equally, working furiously to be the best premier a captain could want. He expected never to be promoted now, was not too concerned at the prospect, his future was secure, he would go to half-pay in his forties and his retirement would be comfortable.

  The crew worked together as well, commonly in an alcoholic or venereal haze, conversation almost entirely who had done what or drunk what or had how many on the last run ashore, and what they were going to do again, at even greater length, next time. A few of them sent their money home, and they were happy, too, but much quieter about it.

  In August of 1795 Frederick was called formally to the Admiral’s presence, the day after Charlotte had limped into harbour, storm-battered, jury-rigged and pumping hard.

  “Charlotte was caught by a squall, Captain Harris, off Martinique. A great electrical storm was bearing down, and all eyes to starboard, when a white squall blew down off the mountain – as has happened before in those waters. On her beam ends, main and mizzen topmasts gone and Captain Marston struck by a falling block. A little luck and a great deal of seamanship by master and first, and they recovered, though not before the hull was thumped something cruel by the butt end of the maintopmast. She is here, however, and Captain Marston is in the hospital and will, I am told, be invalided if he should recover at all – his intellects disordered, shoulder smashed and right arm powerless, and the doctors shaking their heads and pouring laudanum into him for lack of any other treatment.”

  “Poor fellow,” Frederick said, feeling he had to make some comment.

  “So, Captain Harris, Charlotte is yours, and you are made post into her. Not an unalloyed blessing, I regret to say, for you are to take Charlotte home to Portsmouth, and I shall be amazed if they do not sell her out of the service, to firewood, I expect. You do not have to take the appointment, of course.”

  He could remain as a cruising Master and Commander for ever, for the chance of promotion would not come again, once turned down: evidently the Admiral felt he must make the offer in justice to Frederick, but would not object if he refused. Intriguing! There must have been pressure, influence brought to bear – presumably Farquhar, possibly Lord Alton, who had political ‘clout’ – Frederick thought that was the word. He could not refuse without causing offence to the unknown wielders of power who had aided him, in any case wanted desperately to be made, to move on to a bigger ship, to greater things. He would not object to returning to England, had been more than two years away, had unfinished business there, and the wherewithal to put down his roots. He made his thanks, accepted wi
th real pleasure.

  He was on the List, and promotion could cease to concern him for the next fifteen to twenty years, for seniority alone ruled his rise now. An Admiral’s flag came with position on the List, only the most unlikely of Royal interventions possible to hasten his progress. As men senior to him died, or themselves became admirals, or, rarely, were dismissed or left the service, so his name would rise until, quite inevitably, one day he would be Rear Admiral Harris, hopefully of the Blue Squadron. Possibly he would be deemed unfit for employment, would be ‘yellowed’, without Squadron, but that generally occurred because of advanced age or infirmity – although political unreliability could supervene. He would be young enough, easily; injury and illness were outside his control, so, provided there was a war, he could reasonably expect to fly his flag. There was always a war, somewhere; if the French did not oblige, the Spanish were available and the Dutch had a large navy while the Turks and Barbary pirates needed slapping down at intervals, and the Americans would always be the better for having their arses kicked. Professionally he was home and dry, unless politics became involved – a dirty business and one the navy did not like, and this was a very early promotion, and he did have connections…

  Nothing to be done about it until he was home, and very little then in all probabilities – make the most of it, live for today. Two months would see him unemployed, he suspected – the most junior captain on the list, his ship paid off, in England before his time. There were always more captains than ships, there had to be, to guarantee there would be a choice available, so that Their Lordships could match man to ship to task in hand – he would be some months, at least, ashore. Well, he was not poor and he had things he could find to do.

  “Lieutenant Fraser, sir, my premier, has shown himself capable and energetic.”

  “And old.”

  “Well into his thirties, sir.”

  “I will give him the cutter, Able, as lieutenant in command. If he has the dash, he will make a job of it, and I will make him in six months, and he will have a few guineas in his pocket.”

  “He will have his chance, then, sir. I do not know Able?”

  “Hired vessel, four four pounders, a half dozen swivels. We have a use for a shallow-draught, handy little schooner to work the cays, roust out the little nests of pirates and privateers and pick up merchantmen working their way from reef to reef under local pilots.”

  A young man’s craft – not for the older, less flexible, more responsible men, this was for wild boys who thought risking their necks to be great fun. It was the only chance Fraser would ever get, and it was a hard service.

  “The Lord giveth…”

  “And the Lord taketh away, Captain Harris.”

  “So be it, sir. May I tell him, sir, in full?”

  “Make it so. He will read himself in tomorrow, you the day after. What of your Jackman?”

  “A good lad, indeed, sir. If he should come to England with Magpie when she pays off, next year, perhaps, sir? Then he could come to me again, for I ought to be at sea then or thereabouts.”

  “Four years on station, it will be time, I expect.”

  “Gleeson and Arkwright, sir, are both deserving young men and I beg that you will bear them in mind.”

  “They are already on my list, Captain Harris, for the letter which is on their file for Hercule. You may be assured that they will face their Board at the earliest possible moment.”

  Duty was done by his people, there remained only to make practical arrangements for the transfer.

  “Dine with me, the day after tomorrow, Captain Harris, as soon as you have read yourself in.”

  Public announcement that he was one of the Admiral Blaine’s favourites, to be promoted and dined – a pity he was not to stay on station, but there would be future benefits; it was a small service in many ways and their paths would cross again.

  Into Charlotte, overseeing her brief stay in the yard while she was remasted, hull rough patched, pumping a glass in every watch, praying for an easy September in the Western Ocean. If she stayed on station in the West Indies she would be deemed to be serviceable, would remain on establishment, so she had to go back to England to be officially surveyed and condemned in order that a replacement could be sent out – eventually. Sinking would, of course, serve the same purpose, so the good of the service demanded that she must sail. A small, fast, handy frigate, ideal for chasing pirates and privateers in the shallows of the Islands, but ancient and frail, unfit for a war of long blockades and everlasting convoys, of harsh tacking and hard driving; she was tired and needed to go to her long sleep, but firewood was an unkind end for a working ship that had served well.

  Frederick took Charlotte to Portsmouth with a crew thinned to bare bones, as knackered as the ship. A master and a single lieutenant, each under a cloud and returning to be beached, without trial or accusation, hence without appeal, their careers were ending and they were aware of the fact. Frederick did not know the cases against them, did not wish to know, but could not trust them to behave for he knew they no longer cared, so slept no more than two hours at a time, forever up on deck. Two elderly master’s mates, one coughing bloodily, the other nursing rheumatic screws that almost crippled him, did their best, but were limited in their efforts. The forecastle contained a very bare two watches, too many of them ruptured or convalescents from the many fevers, the remainder hard bargains unwanted on their own ships. Boatswain, carpenter and sailmaker gave of their best, but it was a hard fifty days, except that they were heading eastwards, going home, money in Frederick’s pocket and his girl awaiting, and he hardly noticed the temporary discomforts. They would have been hard put to fire a broadside, but by navigating a day north of the normal great circle they saw not another sail between English Harbour and The Lizard – they were not open for trade, Frederick said, and avoided all possible customers.

  Portsmouth on a quiet forenoon, erratic winds from the west discouraging sailing and nothing anticipated, the Port Admiral seeking to get ahead of his paperwork and in a thoroughly bad mood which he was generously sharing with his staff. Charlotte made her number, unexpected as she was carrying the despatches herself, the name of her captain unknown, not on the List, her condition poor, as a glance from the telescope told them.

  “Captain Harris?”

  He had been waiting the Admiral’s pleasure for an hour, sat in a cold room on an uncomfortable, cushionless ladderback chair; he felt alone and humble, and he needed to ease himself.

  “Admiral Coleport will see you in ten minutes, sir. He has to forward some of the despatches first. What? Oh, yes, certainly. Burke, show Captain Harris to the necessaries.”

  The flag-lieutenant was a supercilious, self-confident young man, his feet planted firmly on the royal road to early promotion without too much inconvenient seatime. Frederick was at least a year his junior in age and length of service, was now, and would be ever, his senior, his name indelibly higher on the List. He was a sourly jealous flag-lieutenant with little time for sun-burnt West Indies upstarts with weak bladders.

  Coleport was a Vice-Admiral of the White, commanding Portsmouth and probably in his last employment, certain of a knighthood and lusting for a final command at sea, a fleet action and a peerage. Now his day had brought him a frigate he did not want and more paperwork as he arranged her survey and probable condemnation, and a thin crew to disperse to the Channel Fleet, which would have no use for them, poxed, ruptured and broken as they were. Lieutenant Young – caught almost in flagrante delicto with a ship’s boy – damned nuisance! They could have waited a little longer and got absolute proof and condemned him, or coughed loudly and stopped the whole thing immediately, but the current situation was neither one thing nor the other, and he would be hanging about in a Portsmouth boarding house on half pay for ever, not employed but not dismissed and a source of embarrassment to all. The Master, what was his name, Corby, thought to have stolen from a prize, gold missing that the prize crew swore had been in the cabin –
at least he would have money enough to get out of sight; Coleport wondered if he should have the man’s sea chest searched, decided it was not worth the effort of calling for a court martial with all the paper that would generate, in any case he would have changed the gold to notes, could claim to have been thrifty all his life and not to trust banks. Captain Harris, who was he?

  Coleport searched his desk for the confidential letter he had put down a couple of minutes before, found it eventually.

  “Hmph! He’s the mad bugger who brought in Athene, nearly three years ago, got promoted for Hercule last year. Lord Alton’s nephew.” Coleport thought briefly, decided the young man would have to be looked after, his connections and record demanded basic courtesy.

  “Wheel him in, Flags.”

  “I see you were made into Magpie, Captain Harris.”

  “Yes, sir. I had her for nearly a year, was given Charlotte early last month.”

  “Well, I give you joy of your command, young man, but I think you have only a very few days left in it.”

  “I agree, sir. Without work amounting to a complete rebuild she will not swim through another winter.”

  “Not worth the cost – as well simply to build a new frigate, Captain Harris.”

  “Better, sir. She was a fine ship, but she is too old and too small now. It is a pity, sir, but she must go.”

  Five days later Charlotte was surveyed, briefly, the dockyard employee kicking at a patch in her hull and then retiring, declaring that he had no idea how she had crossed the Atlantic in that condition but that if they did not want her to sink in Spithead they should get her to the mud quickly. She was towed off to the Hamble River that afternoon, the dockyard sending a tender to strip her of everything they could salvage. Frederick received unexpected orders to report to the Admiralty, in person, at his earliest convenience; he took a place on the night mail, lucky to get an inside seat at such short notice, displeased that he would be a few more days away from home.