The Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 3) Read online

  Book Three: 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 Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man

  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 must sail his under-manned frigate to the Far East, the waters of the Spice Islands and beyond, in pursuit of a marauding French Squadron. He is able to make up his crew at the Cape, the army having a mutinous company of infantrymen that it wants rid of without scandal. He fights a pair of small actions and then a somewhat larger battle in the waters of East New Britain where the crew of a French ship are cast ashore, rapidly to be eaten by the local Tolai clansmen. The story of this action causes some upset in both France and Britain, it being implied that he bought the alliance of the Tolai – the Fuzzy-Wuzzies – with a supply of fresh ‘longpig’.

  Author’s Note: I have written and punctuated The Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man 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 Three: The Duty and Destiny Series

  Chapter One

  Frederick Harris woke in his cabin on the Charybdis frigate, stirred from his hanging cot and used the roll of the ship to tumble out of the coffin-like box and on to his feet, habit since first he was a lieutenant and had progressed from hammock to commissioned officer’s cot making it an unthinking move. He ambled into the little quarter gallery, relieved himself, moved to the next door in the confident expectation of an inch of hot water in the bottom of the high-sided wash bowl then relaxed in his chair, Bosomtwi shaving him, working uniform laid out ready.

  “Breakfast, ten minutes, Lieutenant Jackman and Midshipman Warren, isn’t it, sir.”

  He never breakfasted alone, could afford to keep a traditional table and did so, both for the insight it gave him into the officers’ views of the ship and because it meant that he would not be solitary for the first hour of the day, the bad hour when he had to rebuild the shield that had dissipated in his sleep, in his dreams. Reality was easier in company, he had found, his dead love decently at a distance, properly in her grave.

  “Good morning, gentlemen! A celebration! I am twenty-four today.”

  They wished him joy of his birthday as they stood waiting at the table, Warren swallowing saliva as he smelt the steam rising from the covers. Jackman smiled as he caught Frederick’s eye, presuming just a little on their old acquaintance. Frederick had made him from master’s mate in the Caribbean and he had joined him on Charybdis when his sloop had returned to Portsmouth to pay off eighteen months after Frederick’s return. Jackman was the son, unacknowledged, of Vice Admiral Farquhar, a fact he himself was unaware of. Bastards could not become commissioned officers so Farquhar had not allowed him his name. His mother had never been discussed – Jackman believed her to have been Italian by extraction, a possibility, even in Jamaica, and one which would explain the distinctly swarthy cast to his skin. Promotion by the conventional route would not be easy for Jackman, but Frederick was determined that it would be attained – the young man had ability, and, perhaps more importantly, Farquhar was by way of being Frederick’s patron in the service and he was obliged to him. Warren was another follower, had exchanged from Carthage frigate with his uncle, now premier of the Charybdis, when Frederick had come to sea again. Quite why they had done so was not clear to Frederick yet, but the story would come out, they were only a month into this commission.

  As Bosomtwi ran the hot dishes to the table Frederick reflected on the joy of his birthday. Twenty-four, post captain commanding a heavy frigate, only partly through interest, he had displayed ability as well. Colonel of Marines, a sinecure giving an income for life, and a Patriotic Fund Sword of Honour, a public distinction. Owner of a rich estate bought with prize-money and an inheritance. A widower with a two-month old son. Another success to his credit and he had interest enough to be given a knighthood, at least. A peerage could come only as an admiral and if he won a fleet action or led a successful campaign, but rich captains could easily be given the Bath. Two months ago it had been an ambition, Marianne would have been so proud, but what did it matter now?

  They ate bacon and eggs and fresh-caught grilled white fish, building a layer of stodge with something Bosomtwi called ‘browns’ – Irish potato boiled then fried with onions and egg yolk and pepper and peas – surprisingly tasty and very filling. It was amazing how much of it young Warren could get outside of.

  “Weather seems to be easing, Mr Jackman?”

  “Courses and tops’ls, sir, no reefs, from East South East, steady. Could be the Trades, sir, there’s a warmth to the wind and the little flat marcher clouds are in their lines to cross the Atlantic, sir. We are just close enough to the Island, sir, though it might be a little early yet.”

  “Topgallants?”

  “By afternoon the master thinks, sir.”

  Charybdis was a heavy ship, broad in the beam, an eighteen-pounder, stored for the Cape and the Spice Islands far beyond, some nine hundred and fifty tons burthen. She was English built, from one of the northern yards, her hull of German oak, decking and spars from the Swedish forests, laid down after the experience of the American War, about eight years old and designed for Atlantic waters. French-built, she would have been at least a knot faster in light winds, her hull slimmer, lines finer, but in deep waters she could use the strong winds to greater advantage. She was no beauty, would never turn a sailor’s head, but she was a strong, reliable workhorse, an honest ship.

  “We must push her, gentlemen – we need to be in Java at earliest if we are to be of any use at all. We shall be late on the scene, in any case, but I do not wish to be behind the fair entirely.”

  “With a light crew, sir…”

  Frederick agreed, perforce. If he sailed his ship hard he would never be able to release the men to gunnery practice. If he did not exercise his great guns, he would be toothless when he caught the French; if he did work up his guns, he would never catch them.

  Warren, obviously, remained silent, eating with a fierce concentration – his rank demanded that he spoke at
the captain’s table only in response to a direct question aimed at him, but that was no hardship, his mouth could remain full, unhindered.

  Coffee came for Frederick, tea for the more English palates, and they repaired to the deck to drink.

  The first lieutenant had the watch, releasing Jackman for breakfast.

  “’Morning, Mr Warren.”

  “Sir!” Warren touched his hat, sucked in his belly and achieved the stance of attention, a daily ritual becoming harder as he grew older and yet fatter.

  A pause while Frederick waited for a report, knowing that it would come if, and only if, there was something of importance he should be made aware of.

  “Only a year since we met the Dutch in these waters, Mr Warren.”

  “Fractionally more, sir – and generous, open-handed souls they were too, sir, well-loved by all in the Warren family!”

  “True, Mr Warren,” Frederick responded, unable to join Warren in his vulgar glee. “But I wish we had had this lady underneath us when we met that fifty-two.”

  “Eighteens rather than twelves, sir. We would have had her, rather than having to back off after bloodying her nose, or warming her tail, rather. Still, sir, there may be her like in the East Indies, waiting for us, unfinished business, as you might say.”

  Frederick was rich enough now to have slightly less interest in prize money and he found, to his dismay, that he was little concerned with glory. He forced himself to concentrate, there was no excuse for neglect of duty – his personal woes must not interfere with his professional life, and the lives of the whole crew.

  “Possibly. Now, Mr Warren, we cannot exercise whole broadsides and still drive her as we must, but we can work sections of, say, four or six broadside pieces at a time in partial compromise. And we can accustom every man to the carronades and chaser. Do you get together with Forshaw and Jackman and Atkins and the Master and work out some way by which every man is drilled on the guns.”

  “Marc and Jean excepted, sir?”

  The two massive ex-slaves carried heavy Ferguson rifles, were sharpshooters, too valuable to be set to gun crew. Their breech-loading rifled muskets had an obvious value, were accurate at three cables and fired a twelve-bore ball capable of stopping an elephant. The Fergusons, first used in the American Revolutionary War, were expensive to manufacture and difficult to maintain and were consequently very rare, but were prized by the lucky few to possess one.

  “Of course. Fire live, I think, Mr Warren.”

  Practice powder was no problem, for theirs was a rich ship. Frederick had made arrangements with Eley at Gosport before ever reading himself in on Charybdis, had ordered several hundredweights of private powder to be delivered, had climbed aboard to be welcomed by a smiling Warren who had spent a small part of his prize monies at Chatham to bribe the powder-hoy to fill the magazine. As a result a little lazaretto next to the magazine was cram-packed full of private barrels, under a permanent Marine sentry, a source of unending worry.

  Frederick had as well paid a visit to the Master Intendant of the Dockyard in Portsmouth, had oozed golden guineas, paying much over the going rate, as befitted a captain who had prized a Dutch East Indiaman. The navy was democratic when it came to corruption – from those who had, it was well and truly taken. Charybdis was warped into the Ordnance Wharf and her six twenty-four pound carronades were inspected, condemned and replaced by thirty-twos, whilst two brass twelve-pound chase guns were officially sneered at and were substituted by a long nine, a thirty-two pounder with a nine foot barrel. Simultaneously, one pound swivels became two and a pair of new twelve pound carronades replaced two four pound cannonade boat guns, the thin-barrelled pieces being of much the same weight but vastly greater killing power.

  “Very satisfactory, thank’ee, Master!”

  “My pleasure, Captain Harris. I look forward to assisting you in your seventy-four before too many years are passed, sir!”

  Waiting at anchor for sailing orders, the gunner had come to Frederick.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but I’m buggered for space, sir.”

  “I’ve often found rhubarb to help, Mr Pink.”

  Blank incomprehension – but it hadn’t been very witty, anyway.

  “Yes, sir. They dockyard people, sir, you should see what they did, sir.”

  Frederick allowed himself to be led down to the magazine, saw for himself. Neatly stacked in the companionway outside the gunner’s shop were four wooden skips, each containing two dozens of Sea Service pistols. Sacks of flints and ball were ranged alongside, a quire of cartridge paper laid on top. Four stands of six shiny, new muskets were placed by them.

  “The man said they was an extra, sir, by way of a thank you.”

  “Breadroom after we have been a month or so at sea. Till then, store them in my cabin, Mr Pink.”

  They had sailed eighty men short, straight into a Biscay storm that provided a rapid training in basic skills for all hands. They lost five men in the first forty-eight hours; landsmen, cruelly ignorant – they had had anything from a day to four weeks of practice in harbour, in still, calm waters - flicked off the yardarm by gale-lashed canvas, trying to make their reefs with both hands in their desperation and exhausted panic.

  “Always hold tight with one hand – one hand for the ship, one for yourself!”

  The message was repeated time and again, but worn-out, sick, frantic, they died unseen in the storm and darkness.

  The wind screamed, the ship rolled, white water slashed across the deck, and still they were driven aloft. For those that survived nothing would ever seem as bad again – yet it had been only a very ordinary gale.

  “Topgallants, Master?”

  Mr Ferrier shook his head. “Not yet, sir. Not quite settled in her ways, this wind, sir. There’s a bit of colour in the sky to the south of us, sir. Do you see?”

  Frederick nodded – the bulk of the heavens was a deep, warm blue, punctuated by lines of small, flat white cloud, but due south there was the slightest brown tinge as of high clouds at a great distance.

  “I have seen that before, sir, at this time of year. There’ll be a due easterly there, full of sand out of the desert, sir. Half a gale, or stronger, and swirling, sir. If so be she’s not blown out, then, with your permission, sir, we’ll go in topsails alone, two reefs, all battened down tight, animals below decks with extra water allowances, men warned to keep their scarves over their eyes and mouths, sir.”

  “I’ve never met up with a sand storm, master – it seems an unlikely sort of thing at sea.”

  “Dry, sir. Very strange. I’ve seen it twice, both times before the Trades set in and the Doldrums farther north than they ought to be. We were driven to the coast of the Brazils to make our southing, sir, but found good winds there.”

  Frederick paused, considered the message being obliquely conveyed. He had never served with Ferrier before, found his middle-English, educated accent out of place – he sounded too much of the gentleman to be a warrant officer. Besides, it was not a Master’s role, to hint – the Master it was who laid down the law when it came to seamanship, ship-handling, navigation. Frederick, as ever, gave too little weight to his own reputation as a hard-horse fighting captain, a man to be deferred to, rich, independent, well-connected and rather given to wild risk-taking. Few masters would be didactic on Frederick’s quarterdeck and only the foolhardy would oppose his opinions on early acquaintance – to go to the South American coast was to add a thousand miles to an already long voyage, and it was known that speed was of the essence.

  “You believe we should make a far westerly lay, Mr Ferrier. North of the Line?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then make it so, Mr Ferrier, for you have the knowledge. And, Mr Ferrier, I expect you to make free of that knowledge, imparting it to me whenever the good of the Service shall so require.”

  “Yes, sir. There is as well, sir, a current flowing south off the coast of the Brazils, sir, though neither reliable nor always strong, but may be of use to
us in our need.”

  Orders followed immediately – braces eased, sails trimmed and Charybdis’ head shifted six more points off the wind, her course now south-west, the high brown clouds disappearing slowly to larboard. They set topgallants after dawn quarters next day, debated long and hard on royals.

  “Frail, fragile, flimsy things,” Warren demurred. “At a guess, in these winds and this ship, not worth the half of a knot. Studding sails, staysails and another jib a better bet, Mr Ferrier.”

  “They would be indeed, Mr Warren, had we the men to whip them in and out and keep them trimmed. Staysails and jibs must need be nursed by wide-awake seamen – of whom we are uncommon short, sir.”

  “Stun’sls, main and mizzen, and a pair of jibs, then?”

  “A sensible compromise, sir. Royals have their place, but I suspect that on this ship they will be of greatest value only in very light winds, when it is near calm at sea level.”

  Forshaw, the second, intervened at this point, pledged himself to watch over the jibs, he would be more than capable of their management, trotted off to his mast despite being off watch.

  Two hundred miles a day, between eight and nine knots made good, respectable but far from flying – rather ordinary for a frigate, they felt – making a steady progress, the Trades holding as they slipped southward.

  “I believe, sir, that we are looking at a rotating mass, when we consider the Doldrums. Consider now, sir, your great storms, your hurricanes, they revolve and travel in curves, as, often, do the autumn gales off Biscay, the winds shifting in a circle, almost. So with the still airs, on a large scale, so that if they are further north on the east of the Atlantic, then they must be more to the south on the western fringes, as if, so to speak, we had an egg shape, spinning about its centre.”