Chapter Six #4
Fraser chuckled – he doubted there was more than six months between Jackman and the captain, and was not sure which was the elder. He did not see fit to explain the joke, though.
A large schooner appeared on the third day, closed the convoy and invited Magpie to play chase, to follow downwind and then watch helpless as the schooner used her ability to point closer to the wind than any square-rigger and tacked happily back to the convoy to help herself.
“There’s a name for that game, Mr Fraser! Hold station. Mr Jackman! Chaser, if you please. If she should come closer than four cables, I will give you the order to run out and fire. You will get but one round, so use it to the best advantage.”
“Not much chance of a hit, sir,” Fraser commented.
“Very little, but more unlikely things have happened, and the chance should at least be looked for, if only to annoy her.”
In the event Jackman put a highly creditable hole in her mainsail and the privateer found better things to do elsewhere.
The convoy the meanwhile had become wonderfully docile and obedient to command, clustering behind like oversize ducklings wishing only to follow mama home to safety, the navy changed from overbearing tyrants to every sailor’s friend and saviour.
“Mr Gleeson, did you put your glass on her?”
“Yes, sir, Spanish. Our Lady of Compostella. Four ports on a side, but I’m fairly sure two of them were empty. Two hundred tons, sir?”
“Probably. Full of men.”
“Jam packed, sir,” Fraser confirmed.
“No taking that one – hold off and batter that would have to be. No prize money for the hull and forget about head money because you would never get an agreed count for the crew.”
“Aye, sir, and the prisoners eating into our rations and swilling down the water so that our cruise would be cut short as well.”
“Not so, Mr Fraser.” Frederick remembered Ainslie’s words, decided they still applied.
“No quarter for privateers. They sink or they swim and make their own choice which, without our assistance. In Channel waters your privateer may be respectable, truly a private man o’ war, but out here half of them are pirates and the other half are waiting their turn, so down they go, gentlemen, and if they can’t swim, they can always beg the sharks for a helping hand, like calling to like, as it were. ”
The words had been spoken, and the fate of future privateers had been sealed as far as Magpie was concerned.
Making port uneventfully in Kingston, they found William a couple of days in after escorting the convoy almost to Ireland, there being a general nervousness amongst the merchantmen and far too much interest with the Admiralty to ignore their wishes.
Magpie came to a berth a cable astern of William, considerately shielded from direct view of the flagship – what could not be seen could not be rebuked, and a new captain could be given a little leeway, especially when he was a very young and cherished new captain.
Immediate orders to repair aboard the Admiral, as expected; the longboat, towing behind as soon as they entered sheltered waters, became the captain’s barge, Ablett mustering his newly selected men, each with Magpie neatly lettered on the band of his sennit hat, freshly shaven and tidy in clean shirt and trousers.
Frederick entered his barge nervously clutching the great heap of papers even a short voyage generated, all for the Flag Captain to narrowly, mean-mindedly inspect or casually pass on, depending on his whim, character and hangover.
Paperwork was an unending, terrifying imposition on the semi-literate seafarer – and the navy produced hardly any other sort; a clerk was essential, and knew so much that he had to become a follower, a personal retainer, not to be recruited lightly.
A few sotto voce calls as they passed William, rowing very proudly, en route to the Admiral’s aged but seaworthy 64, relegated, like most survivors of her class, to colonial waters, to overawe the natives – in this case the Americans, who had chosen to build nothing larger than a frigate.
“What ho, the shitehawk!” was loftily ignored, but “Huzzah for Hercules!” received smiling acknowledgements.
Pipes and sideboys as he climbed the flagship’s side, still a delight – Frederick suspected they might always be – Flag Captain’s handshake and formal greeting, introduction to Rear Admiral Masters, renowned as a bloody-minded, nit-picking, petty autocrat, face wreathed in unexpected smiles.
“Welcome, Captain Harris! Truly, sir, I am honoured! Not many of us have trodden the decks of a Frog 74 – and none living that I know of from a sloop. Well done, sir!”
Frederick had been told that Masters had taken a French line of battle ship at the Saints, had excited little public comment, being one of several such victories in that great battle, had wondered if he might not show jealousy.
Instead he found himself welcomed to the circle of the elite, which was very flattering, but possibly where Farquhar led, Masters followed.
Brief inspection of his report, details of the convoy and his further orders, oblique reference to Hermione, the navy’s shame, rapidly glossed over.
“You will dine with me today, Captain Harris. Firewood and harbour food for your people, sail tomorrow forenoon.”
The invitation held status of a Royal Command, could be refused with decorum only by a despatch carrier. Frederick accepted instantly, sure of a good meal, certain of too much wine.
Bright and shiny in his best Frederick was returned to the Admiral for half past two, shore time in harbour, exactly ready to dine at three o’clock, the accepted meal time for the most senior officers.
Formality at first, all conversation led by the Admiral as they assaulted his fresh beef, chickens and crayfish; a little more relaxation as a second remove entered and more wines circulated, blood hot in the tropical afternoon.
Finally, an English suety pudding and they had reached the stage of toasting.
The captain of William caught the Admiral’s eye and rose in his seat, turned and bowed towards Frederick.
“A glass of wine with you, Captain Harris. To you and your victory, sir!”
Glasses drained, banging on the table and cries of approval from the navy; polite enquiry from the army, two colonels and a major; comprehension and respect from a quiet, black coated civilian, a functionary from Whitehall, Frederick had understood, on some sort of visit to the Sugar Islands.
William’s captain was prevailed upon to tell the story, of the two frigates snapping at the stern of the great third rate, failing to cripple her rudder, the desperation measure of sending in the sloop with her heavy carronades to cut up her rigging enough at least to slow her in her pursuit of the merchantmen.
“Just a hope, sir – we knew Athene’s gunnery was good, had just seen her destroy a post ship in ten minutes.
Ainslie of Thetis was senior, gave the order, warned us to take advantage of the distraction in any way we could.
Athene bore away as if she were shy, the Frog ignoring her, then spun on her heel at a mile, set her courses and swooped downwind, banging away with a long thirty-two chaser, turned a fraction as if to open her quarter and give a broadside before running, then crossed her bows unexpected at pistol shot firing chain, destroyed jibboom and foretopmast. Unfortunately they went over the side, sails set, like a sea anchor, spun the Frog through a right angle, broadside on.
One full discharge and Athene’s done for, on her side and under the Frog’s forefoot – and they climbed aboard, cool as cucumbers, and set about the Frog’s crew!
William and Thetis followed and between us we got their surrender, mainly because Athene’s men cut them up something vicious the ten minutes they were on their own.
Three black men, two of them enormous fellows, had got a couple of skips of iron grenadoes, were tossing them calm as you please wherever the French tried to form up; one of the Athenes had gone mad, was slashing at everything in sight; Mr Harris here was leading a wedge of men, breaking them up.
He pistolled two officers in person, I know, and his sword was running blood and him well-splashed with it when we met on the maindeck. ”
They looked at Frederick with a sort of knowing awe – they had all seen his like before, normally at their funerals.
Mild-seeming chaps, well-mannered, quiet, slightly reserved and utterly insane in a fight, unbeatable because they had never learned to be defeated; there was generally an expression of surprise on their dead faces.
They smiled and nodded to Frederick, glad he was on their side, not one they would ever have to meet across a blade.
The civilian ventured to speak, nervous it seemed in such company.
“I give you joy of your victory, sir! More than ever I think I took the wiser course in not seeking a military or naval career – I do not think I am made of that sort of stuff, sir! Were your casualties very high, Captain Harris?”
“They were the highest I ever heard of, Mr Critchel,” Masters interposed. “Captain, second, master, two midshipmen and nearly seventy hands out of a bare hundred.”
“I beg you will not forget the surgeon, sir! He and the purser and some French prisoners from the corvette were lost from going below to try to rescue more wounded from his sickbay. They could have saved themselves, had just enough time, but chose to aid the unfortunate, knowing the ship was foundering underneath them.”
“Well said, Captain Harris.” The Admiral was silent a few moments, then turned to the civilian as if continuing an earlier debate. “There is still honour, sir, even amongst the bloodiest of Jacobins and regicides, it would seem.”
“So I see – I concede the point. Being a Member of Parliament and living my days at Westminster I have become a stranger to the concept, of course. Possibly, on second thoughts, I should have been better advised to go to sea!”