The Friendly Sea (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 1) Read online

  Book One: 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

  A New York Times Best-seller

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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 Friendly Sea

  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

  About the Author

  Introduction

  The second son of a Hampshire landowner, Frederick Harris has no expectations worthy of the name. He takes to the sea as a profession, rather than from love of the seafaring life. Early in the French Revolutionary War he seizes the chance to shine in a bloody sea battle. After promotion, he is sent to the Caribbean where he gains further promotion and the patronage of a senior admiral.

  Author’s Note: I have written and punctuated The Friendly Sea 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 One: The Duty and Destiny Series

  Chapter One

  Waiting, twitching, belly acid, tapping the hilt of his sword, checking his pistols in their holsters for the tenth time, the darkness pressing down on the silent longboat. They must not move any further inshore until the moon rose, a September, harvest moon, full and gold, sufficient to light up the whole of the bay clearly enough for their purposes but hopefully inadequate for a shore battery to take a clean aim. Not, of course, that there were any guns emplaced, they were very nearly certain of that, though the visibility had been poor when they had opened the mouth of the bay.

  They would be singing in the church back home, Harvest Festival for the womenfolk and those of the men who could be bothered with church, who weren’t working or at war or down the beerhouse. ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’, that was always sung at this time of year, the choir at its best for some reason – no time for that now, this was no time to let his thoughts drift, there was business and they were a couple of hundred miles away from home.

  Eight men rested on the muffled oars, a grapnel down as anchor in the two-fathom water of the tiny cove where they lay hidden. Four more squatted uncomfortably on the bottom boards, muskets upright; a fifth squeezed in below the tiller where Frederick Harris, master’s mate, sat next to Megson, the captain’s coxswain, sent for his experience gained in the American War.

  Frederick peered anxiously at the long arm sticking up almost under his nose – the muzzle-flash of a careless shot would blind him even if the ball missed. It was uncocked, the hammer flat on the frizzen, the seaman’s hand holding the pan closed, the priming safe. They had had to load on board by lantern light – foremast hands did not have the soldier’s training in small arms, could not be relied upon to load by feel and instinct in the dark.

  The five musketeers would fire a single volley, if necessary, then go in with the boarding axes at their belts. The short, back-spiked blades, sometimes called tomahawks, could be used equally to slash boarding netting or to rip up an enemy and required little more than enthusiasm in their use; they were good weapons for untrained men, even if a soldier might sneer at them.

  There was a skip containing a dozen Sea Service pistols at Frederick’s feet, these with flasks of fine powder and bags of twelve gauge ball for reloads; they would be used later to hold any prisoners docile but they would not be risked in the dark confusion of a night boarding. They were inaccurate over any range, best used at one or two paces, and their flintlocks were clumsy, the sears weak, so that they might fire at any knock. The soft lead ball would batter any man down, wherever it hit, not even a Malay amok would keep coming with one of those in him, but they were weapons for daylight and careful handling.

  The oarsmen would use their cutlasses in the coming fight, heavy, curved, slashing blades, clumsy and unbalanced, churned out of the new manufacturies in their thousands – cheap, sharp, brittle and immediately replaceable. Valueless to the swordsman, the cutlass was ideally suited to strong-armed labourers who had cut brush and chopped firewood since boyhood, was a crude, utilitarian tool of battle, lacking elegance and romance but simply efficient. Frederick approved of the cutlass as a symbol of the new age.

  A second boat was waiting behind the opposite headland, smaller, only six oars, a dozen men and a midshipman squeezed into her, ready to follow Frederick down the half mile inlet to the single stone quay next to the shingle where the fishermen drew up. A small river came down to the sea here, the road on its bank connecting central Brittany to the Channel, a half-dozen small warehouses making a tiny port. They had spotted a brig tied up, deep-laden, ready to sail and carry more than a convoy of a hundred oxcarts could drag and at least five times quicker. It was worth the effort of taking this small vessel for the disproportionate disruption it would cause the wartime economy – not to speak of the prize-money.

  The prize-money was not yet vital to Frederick Harris as he came from a family with sufficient capital to give its second son a small income for life, enough that a lieutenant’s half-pay would not be a disaster, though not in itself permitting a wife and children maintained in his own order of society. But he was not a lieutenant yet. Eventually he would need money, a very small fortune, just a couple of thousands to buy a house of seven or eight bedrooms and fifty or sixty acres of farmland, but as yet promotion and glory were more important to an ambitious youth; the cash would naturally follow success, he expected. The new war against France was to be his chance, the making of a name, rank, title, fame, eventually perhaps a dynasty, but he had to find a start, possibly tonight.

  He had eight years of actual sea-going experience, having first gone to sea as a ten year old – ten years on his papers due to book time when he had been falsely mustered on a distant relative’s ship – and he had passed for lieutenant a year previously, during the peace. He had not been made yet, possibly because of shrewd guesses as to his real age, more likely because of peacetime sloth and lack of opportunity. He had passed his board as a matter of course – the captains accepting his journals and evidence of at least six years as a midshipman and noting that he seemed to be of eighteen years and was old enough to shave, and unofficially taking cognisance of the fact that he was a gentleman’s son of appropriate dress, deportment and accent. There had been an oral examination of his seamansh
ip, but it had been cursory, the questions predictable and mugged up in advance – had there been a whiff of the wrong social order the test would have been far more searching – passage through the hawsehole, while still not uncommon, was reserved for grown men of thoroughly proven merit, and they often then found difficulty securing employment, particularly in peacetime wardrooms where skills other than nautical were prized.

  For Frederick, though passing his board had been easy, this war had to be his opportunity to actually obtain a commission. Chances were rare when the family’s purely naval influence was not great, and his consisted solely of a cousin of his mother who was a post captain of average virtue, middle-aged on the list and unlikely to hoist his flag at sea, a yellow admiral at best. Frederick’s first promotion, like that of all unfavoured warrant officers, must depend on displayed ability – valour thrust, as it were, under an admiral’s nose – and the Pallas, the sloop on which he served, was not ideal for this purpose.

  Pallas mounted twelve six pound long guns and a pair of twelve pound carronades, ample for the business of commerce raiding and dealing with the average private ship of war, but she was very fast, perfect for dispatches and therefore normally forbidden to hazard herself or delay for any reason – any French she saw she must report and avoid. Now, detached to the newly refurbished Channel Fleet and on passage from Gibraltar to Portsmouth, carrying nothing and therefore free of restriction, she was taking a minor detour along the French coast, stretching her orders just a fraction, translating ‘watching’ into something a little more like actively searching.

  Frederick cracked the dark lantern by the compass, peered at his watch, careful not to rattle the steel chain anchoring it to his sword belt. The hunter had been sent out to him only the previous year, bought by the uncle he was named for, and marked him out as one of those rich enough to need to know what time of day it was.

  “Ten minutes till moon rise,” he whispered. “Empty your bladders now, if needs be.”

  There was a stir in the boat, cautious movement and surprisingly loud splashing. Frederick nodded contentedly – he had been told years before by an early mentor that he must always remember the men’s physical comfort, that otherwise they would move more slowly and carefully, more concerned not to wet themselves than to stretch out.

  Nearly half of Pallas’ crew had been detached to the two boats – the best part: none of the boys, few of the old men, only the agile, strong and biddable. The captain and lieutenant had selected carefully to avoid fools and malcontents, those who could not and those who would not obey. On a job like this there was no room for error, no need to allow random mischance the opportunity to become disaster.

  Frederick briefly repeated his orders, as much to calm his own nerves as to aid the men.

  “Akers and Dale to the foremast, set the topsail and then a jib, not to get involved in any fight, unless needs must. Big Smith and Joby Barney to slip or cut the moorings. Mr Megson will take the wheel and bring her out. The rest of us will silence the crew and everybody aboard – no argument, and no time to make their minds up – put up or shut up!”

  Nods and mutters of assent and understanding; they knew what to do.

  “Boatkeepers, hold the boats till I whistle, only then tie on to her stern. If so be there is a company of soldiers waiting for us then you are our only way out.”

  There was no reason to suppose there was so much as a platoon in the whole port – it had only been a thin mist and they had seen no signs of battery, fort or barracks – but Frederick thought it as well for the people not to be overconfident, a little apprehension was said to sharpen their wits.

  He gave a strangled whisper as the edge of the moon touched the hills and the darkness eased a fraction, trying to shout an order silently. “Up anchor.”

  They rowed slowly, dry, carefully round the point and into the sheltered river, the low waves moderating as they came out of the wind. The huddled blocks of cottages in the valley, scattered in sections behind the godowns and net lofts that had brought them into being, grew larger, took on definition under the waxing moonlight. They had seen no guard boats tied up during the daylight hours but Frederick was unwilling to omit any precautions, kept the boat quiet, the rowing unobtrusive and a little slower – better be called an old woman than stand at an unnecessary burial. A cable out and they saw the other boat, a hazy, dark lump low on the water and outlined by startlingly bright splashes as two of the men rowed clumsy and presumably unrebuked. There were audible indrawn breaths, disapproving tooth-sucking from Frederick’s crew, an almost visible indignation.

  Frederick made a mental note to speak to Midshipman Denby, an ignorant brat of low breeding and less education – he frequently dropped his aitches - a typical small ship’s midshipman dragged out of the gutter where he had, no doubt, been perfectly happy.

  “Stretch out now, lads,” he said quietly, just loud enough to be heard, rather pleased that he was able to hide his excitement – no one would know this was his first time. He stood, broad-shouldered but sadly short, more squat than genteel in his own eyes, swarmed over the brig’s counter as Megson brought the boat gently alongside, stumbled as Denby’s cutter slammed into the bows. Silence other than the pattering of bare feet: no sentry on harbour watch, no alarm from the quayside, no idler or fisherman to hear anything unusual. A sudden pair of abruptly strangled howls as the two shipkeepers below awoke from crapulous sleep and fell into terminal silence. Frederick ran on tiptoes to the side – halfboots were an out of place nonsense in an action of this sort, but an officer could not go barefoot – saw that the brig had been tied fore and aft to stone bollards and that Smith and Barney were already economically coiling the cables rather than wastefully and noisily hacking through them. The fore topsail flapped and Megson called men to the braces, eased the head away from the quayside, speed picking up as the jib flatted home and Denby set the main course, belatedly in Frederick’s opinion. Tide and offshore breeze together took the brig quietly away. She was just lifting her bows to the open sea when lights and distant, faint indignation broke out on the jetty.

  “Home port, I reckon, sir,” Megson commented, his station sufficiently senior that he could open conversation with a junior officer, even one as young and aware of his dignity as Frederick.

  “Officers at home and crew in the knocking shop,” Frederick responded. “All ready to set sail on the tide in the forenoon, late enough to have got over the worst of their hangovers. You’re happy with the course, Megson?”

  Megson was and Frederick nodded and smiled his agreement. Men like Megson had the knowledge and capacity to tread the quarterdeck, could easily be commissioned to fill a gap caused by action or illness on a long cruise. Commonsense said to offer courtesy, at least, to these petty officers and to listen to anything they had to say – had Megson suggested a course change Frederick would have ordered it immediately, only enquiring why afterwards.

  Clear of the land and there was a strong sense of satisfaction aboard in all except for Mr Denby who had suffered a brief, soft-voiced but vigorous exposition of his seamanship, officer-like qualities and prospects for promotion – respectively poor, limited and non-existent – and was now much inclined to sulk. Denby had been strongly advised that he should hope for a bloody battle where he might distinguish himself without need for the intelligence and ability that he otherwise so conspicuously lacked.

  “Mr Denby, two men to get a meal together, if you please. Use the Frogs’ stores if possible, they should have provisioned today if they are sailing tomorrow. Our biscuit and cheese if you must, but something hot if you can.” Frederick turned to Megson, having got his official second off the deck. “I shall go below to look over the master’s papers, get some idea of what she is. Get the bodies over the side – no ceremony, they’re only Frogs. Clean up as necessary. Put a guard over any store of spirits or wine, ignore the odd bottles the men will have picked up by now. Make or shorten sail as seems good to you, unless you need an officer. K
eep the men out of mischief, don’t let them get into trouble.”

  “I could put them into two watches, let them get a couple of hours sleep, turn about, sir.”

  “Make it so. Inform Mr Denby of my orders, please.”

  Neither man smiled: each knew the other’s opinion of Denby and both would keep him out of the way, if possible without publicly humiliating him, or at least no more than was good for him.

  The Anemone, an elegant name for a round-bowed, ugly, ill-cared-for coastal trader of about one hundred tons burthen and possessed of a pair of two pound swivels mounted aft and a brass blunderbuss and two horse-pistols in the little booth that was the captain’s cabin, sufficient to provide a defence against rowing-boat privateers such as might be found off the Channel Islands or the coasts of Cornwall. The bills of lading showed sixty tons of wheat, twenty tons of sheet lead and four hundred barrels of saltpetre; an additional, separate sheet referred to a private cargo of brandy in ankers, presumably undutied. The net effect was to overload the Anemone, but that was usual enough in any coaster – while she could swim the owners would carry on loading her, and if she sank she was almost certain to be over-insured, worth more under the water than floating on it.

  Frederick, who could read French after a fashion, self-taught from a novel, a dictionary and an ancient primer for the verbs, began to calculate.

  “Wheat standing at eight shillings the quarter in Winchester when we sailed, so the Chronicle mother sent said. Bad weather this harvest so the price will not be falling. Let me see, thirty two shillings the hundredweight, which is thirty two pounds a ton, nineteen hundred and twenty in total; in guineas, that is … never mind, no need to worry about them! Lead, stripped from church roofs, I doubt not! Twelve pounds a ton it was priced at three years ago when father put new roofs on the three tenant farms and replaced the flashing on the House after the great storm. Two hundred and forty, if not more. Saltpetre, for gunpowder, three pounds a barrel, best Indian comes in at: French stuff will be of poor quality, everyone knows French powder is inconsistent, but apothecaries and fireworks makers will snap it up. Brandy? How much? What quality? Grape or apple? It will sell, that’s for sure. Let us say three thousand five hundred and five more for hull and fittings. I keep watch so I share with Master and Lieutenant, one third part of an eighth, not less than one hundred and fifty after fees. Very nice for a night’s work, a pity we can’t do it every night!”