Chapter Five #6
Three days hove to, blessing now the light winds that had previously been such a curse, surrounded by escort and convoy, men almost fighting each other to clamber aboard and help, the West India Company ships especially generous in stores and aid.
They jury-rigged jibboom and topmast, sufficient to take her to the yard, found a large tricolour to fly, an even larger Union flag above it.
“Hercule, her name, Mr Harris. Put an ‘s’ on it and she will be added to the list, a pretty ship for a great, lumbering cow of a battle wagon. Off you go, sir, with my blessing!”
Ainslie’s career would have been finished if he had lost the West India convoy, however little he might have been to blame. Sailing home in triumph could only do him great good – he could afford to be generous in his praise.
Frederick nervously built his pyramids of sail on the huge monstrosity he temporarily commanded, the first third rate he had ever sailed in, convinced himself that with a suspect foremast it behoved him to be very cautious indeed, crawled west towards Antigua.
A single captured gunbrig bore him company – Hornet had found one of her adversaries to be a national ship and had accepted her surrender after, very unfortunately, failing to observe the privateer’s attempts to do the same.
English Harbour, two hours after dawn, Frederick buoyed up by relief at having brought the beast to its destination, almost sleepless in three days but slowly becoming aware that he was to be the man of the moment again.
“Mr Gleeson, make, ‘permission to enter harbour’ and ‘prize ship Hercule, 74’.”
The flags ran up, the first short hoist rapidly, the second, half alphabetical, more slowly.
“Acknowledged, sir.” Gleeson called. “Await pilot, sir.”
“Acknowledge, thankfully, I would not wish to do anything else, for sure! Strip to topsails, Mr Johnson.”
Johnson was a lieutenant from Thetis, her second, of ten years seniority and not best pleased at his subordination, even less at being detached from his frigate with slight prospect of returning to his berth.
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Pilot cutter putting off, sir. And Admiral’s barge, sir, and boats from the yard, sir, and two longboats full of men from the sloop at the dock, sir.”
“Man the side for the Admiral, Mr Johnson.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
A beaming admiral with a line of battle ship suddenly gifted to him – promotions for his own family of young men; a relatively small amount of prize money; a glittering success towards the end of his period on station.
If he stretched the refit just a fraction the admiral could go home in Hercule, be greeted with a knighthood, the Bath, possibly more, almost certainly with further, immediate employment.
A quick glance about showed the ship to be certainly reparable, though somewhat scorched in places. The beam became positively beatific.
“Mr Harris! You have the command? Well met again, sir. What’s the story, sir, in brief?”
Athene sunk, Atkinson lost, a horrific butcher’s bill – evidence of sacrifice and devotion to duty. Farquhar looked suitably grave, paced with Frederick to the great cabin, sat at the late owner’s desk to read Ainslie’s report.
“Magnificent! I envy you, sir! Captain Atkinson was alive when you boarded?”
“I believe so, sir, yes.”
“Good. No court martial for the loss – not that there could be any point in any case – but it means that there need be no delay in proceeding. Let us return to the deck, sir, in public.”
Once on display, in front of a growing, marvelling audience from the yard and ships in port, the Admiral took centre stage, ranged himself with his bevy of satellites at his shoulder, cocked hat squarely placed.
“Mr Harris!”
“Sir!”
Frederick drew himself to attention, hatless – having lost his – and, as ever, aware that he was far the shorter man, no matter how he inflated his chest and stiffened his knees.
“You will take yourself ashore, sir, and purchase a swab for your shoulder this day, to show your rank of Master and Commander, so richly earned and rarely deserved.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mr Jackman, master’s mate – your lieutenant’s commission will be delivered to you this afternoon. Midshipmen Gleeson and Arkwright, your records will include my letter, which your board will read when you stand before them.”
The midshipmen were in effect guaranteed their commissions and employment in the rank as soon as their years were up, unless later ill-conduct supervened.
Frederick also could look for early employment, a plum, a heavy sloop, a cruise, enrolment de facto in the Admiral’s family, though not himself a Scot as all the others were.
He now had a patron in the service, and could expect to rise with him, honour bound to him.
“Sir, Mr Stewart, as you see, is not with us. I have the painful duty to inform you...”
It was not all beer and skittles – the family of each of the commissioned and warrant officers would have to be told, a personal letter sent, care of the Admiralty, for their records had gone down with the Athene.
It would be many months before the next of kin knew more than vague rumour, were able to discover any more than the account of the action the Gazette would certainly publish.