Majestic, p.1
Majestic, page 1
part #2 of Wharton Series
Majestic
George Edwardson
First published 2022
Copyright George Westropp, writing as George Edwardson, London 2022
Chapter One
The Right Hon. William Pitt MP, Prime Minister of Great Britain, looked with some concern as the young Grenadier Guards officer lowered himself gingerly into a chair. The man clutched his ribs for a moment and winced.
‘Are you injured, sir?’ Pitt enquired.
‘French musket butt in the ribs. I will live, I am told,’ Captain Ralph Faversham replied with a thin smile. ‘I bring you news from Paris, sir. You must judge if it be good or bad.’
Pitt rose from his chair, poured a glass of port for himself and another for his guest and carried it over to a small table by the soldier’s elbow. ‘How is France?’ he asked.
Faversham drained the small glass, settled himself as comfortably as he could and replied ‘The place is all excitement. General Bonaparte has all of Paris in euphoria. He has more than half a million men under arms, and this grows every month as he defeats country after country. We, or rather the Royal Navy, is the only fly in his ointment. There are shortages, of course, thanks to our naval blockade – coffee, sugar and the like - but this Corsican is whipping the national mood into a frenzy.’
‘All this I know, Captain. Tell me something that I don’t,’ Pitt growled waving his hand dismissively.
‘Toulon, down in the Mediterranean. Bonaparte is assembling a great fleet of warships and transports down there. Many regiments are there now, and others are following them south.’
Pitt nodded at the news. ‘We knew about the French fleet and heard rumours about the troops. Are you sure about the transport ships?’
‘Bonaparte is requisitioning large merchant ships from all round the coast of the Continent. These can only be for carrying troops. I know this from many sources, sir.’
‘You corroborate my other intelligence. The question is: What is Bonaparte planning for this great fleet? An attack on the British Isles, particularly Ireland, or some mischief in the eastern Mediterranean? I have sent one of my other intelligencers to the South of France to find out.’
‘Would that be my Irish friend Michael Vandeleur, sir?’ Faversham asked.
The Prime Minister sat up in alarm and then settled back in his chair. ‘Ah, you were picked up from France by the same Royal Navy ship which put Mr Vandeleur ashore. Yes, it is he. A very persuasive fellow is young Vandeleur. If anyone can find out the intended destination of Bonaparte’s fleet, he will. We shall have to wait to take a decision until he does.’
*
Lieutenant Robert Cuthbert RN, HMS Majestic’s Second-in-Command, turned sharply from the quarterdeck rail on hearing a hail from a small boat rowing hard towards the side of the 74-gun third rate. Perhaps this was the order for the fleet to put to sea from the anchorage at the Great Nore off Sheerness.
The First Lieutenant recognised the launch as coming from the flagship Ville de Paris with its distinctive red stripe painted below the gunwale. Surely, this was the long-awaited instruction for Admiral Earl St Vincent and the Royal Navy to sail for Portugal and then sweep the French out of the Mediterranean. Every officer at the Nore knew the decision was imminent.
Cuthbert could see two midshipmen sitting up in the bow of the launch and then heard a bump as the boat pulled alongside Majestic and hooked up onto the chains. He was surprised that the expected vital orders were being entrusted to such junior officers.
His captain George Blagdon Westcott was down in the great cabin signing off receipts for the last of the stores leaving Cuthbert in charge of the ship as officer of the watch.
The two midshipmen climbed quickly onto the deck and said something to the Boatswain that Robert did not hear. They both glanced up to the quarterdeck and hastened over to Cuthbert, giving him a smart salute.
‘Midshipmen Wharton and Hardy, lately of HMS Ville de Paris, reporting for duty, sir,’ the taller, dark-haired boy announced. ‘Captain Calder sends Captain Westcott his compliments but regrets to say that the Admiralty has still failed to order Lord St Vincent to sea. He was very particular that Captain Westcott should know that.’
‘Was he? I shall be sure to pass Captain Calder’s interesting news on at my first opportunity,’ Cuthbert said with an amused smile. ‘We have been expecting you. Your papers, please,’ he added holding out his hand.
Johnnie Wharton looked around the deck while the First Lieutenant glanced through the midshipmen’s records of service. Majestic’s deck seemed huge after the boys’ extraordinary summer aboard the little brig-sloop Magpie. He could see 14 18-pounder cannons down each side and knew there should be the same number of 32-pounders on the deck below. Magpie’s biggest guns were merely 6-pounders plus the carronades.
‘Both passed your master’s mate examinations, I see,’ Cuthbert commented with a satisfied smile. ‘Perhaps you will be useful after all. Go and stow your gear in the wardroom and report back to me at the start of the Dog watch this afternoon. I will have decided on your divisions by then.’
Duly dismissed, Johnnie Wharton and George Hardy made their way down to the wardroom with their dunnage and peered inside. Seated with an older midshipman and a master’s mate was Robert Simpson, a former shipmate from HMS Gibraltar and fellow veteran of the victory over the French at the ‘Glorious First of June’ out in the Atlantic.
‘Bobby Simpson! Are you visiting or part of the crew?’ Wharton asked with a broad smile on seeing his good friend again.
‘A Majestic man these last four months,’ Simpson replied. ‘Are you both coming aboard? Where have you been since Gibraltar?’
‘Winning prize money, landing spies at night along the French coast and doing our very best to annoy the Frenchies,’ Wharton said with a wide grin. ‘We were ‘loaned’ to Commander Jimmy Carthew on the brig-sloop Magpie for the early summer while Ville de Paris was being readied for sea. Much more diverting than being stuck at anchor here at the Nore, I imagine.’
George Hardy placed his box of possessions with the other midshipmen’s dunnage and slipped onto the bench beside Simpson. ‘What news of this mess, Bobby?’ he asked looking around the gloom of the wardroom.
‘Good sorts, mostly. Arthur White styles himself ‘President’ of the wardroom and, in truth, he does manage to keep matters on an even keel here. He takes his Lieutenant’s Examination in a week or so and he will be gone, we think. Jack Hargreaves is next in line and he should win our vote to take over from Arthur. Another Devon man and I like him. So, the news should be good.’
‘We’ve met the First Luff. He seems straight enough,’ Wharton said taking a seat beside Bobby Simpson.
‘He was the second lieutenant on Queen Charlotte at the Glorious First and impressed Admiral Howe. It won him this posting to Majestic. A fair officer, we all think, but he doesn’t suffer fools. Have a care of your uniform when on the quarterdeck. He abominates sloppy dress and will pick you up on the slightest infraction.’
‘Sounds difficult and I appreciate the warning,’ Johnnie said. ‘Captain Westcott?’
Simpson looked quickly around before he responded. In a quiet voice, he said ‘He has favourites. Four of the middies came with him to Majestic and they seem to get an easier passage than the rest of us. Otherwise, we seldom see him. I’ve only spoken to him once in all the time I have been aboard.’
There were boisterous shouts from behind them and four more midshipmen spilled into the wardroom. They were all strangers to Wharton and Hardy, so Bobby did his best to make introductions. By the time the midday meal was piped, the newcomers had met almost every member of the wardroom.
A new ship and new shipmates – the regular lot of every midshipman in the Royal Navy.
Chapter Two
Midshipman Wharton stood in front of the wheel with Majestic’s Sailing Master Howlett, in preparation for the daily Noon sighting of the sun. Captain Westcott and Lieutenant Cuthbert were in discussion on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, as two junior lieutenants and several midshipmen waited for Howlett’s signal to raise their sextants.
Majestic was third in line as Earl St Vincent’s fleet was crowding on sail down the English Channel, bound for the Tagus and Lisbon. Lord Spencer’s order from the Admiralty to sail for Portugal and then the Mediterranean had arrived at the Nore just 24 hours previously. It had come as a great relief to the thousands of officers and men, bored after months at anchor off Sheerness.
Wharton could see the bulk of Ville de Paris a nautical mile ahead, with Bellerophon and Minotaur following at a safe distance, and Majestic next, leading a further six ships. He thought the fleet must make a brave sight to the people of the Kent and Sussex coastal towns.
Howlett had mentioned that Majestic was as good a sailer as any 74-gun ship-of-the-line in the Royal Navy. At only 10 years old since she was launched at Deptford, she had a copper sheath below the waterline and was easier to handle than any Frenchman of a similar size or bigger. Wharton smiled to himself at old Howlett’s obvious pride in the third-rate.
The ship’s bell clanged out Noon and a dozen sextants, including Johnnie’s, were raised towards the watery sun. The midshipmen noted down their readings and lined up under the eye of Lieutenant Cuthbert to report their estimated longitude to the Master.
There was laughter and some boyish giggles at the unfortunate readings of the two youngest middies, which drew a firm cough from Cuthbert and nervous glances towards the captain. It took time and practise to perfect reading a sextant.
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The forenoon watch now over, Johnnie was about to drop down to the wardroom for the midday meal when Lieutenant Cuthbert waved him over. ‘The Captain and I have now had the opportunity to have a proper look at your and Midshipman Hardy’s papers. Commander Carthew has painted an exciting picture of your spring aboard his brig. Ship to ship battles off Britany, prizes and putting agents ashore on the French coast. He also made you both up to acting lieutenant for the two cruises, he says. Is this so?’ Cuthbert asked with an amused smile.
‘Aye, sir. Captain Carthew lost his two officers, one to drink and the other to enemy action, early on in our time on Magpie. He told us that he had no other option but to make temporary promotions. He said that it would be good experience for us.’
‘When are you due to take your Lieutenant’s Examination?’
‘Next year, sir. We will both be 19-years old. We took our master’s mate on Ville de Paris a few weeks ago.’
Cuthbert looked over Wharton’s shoulder for a moment, apparently in thought. ‘Hardy and you are now among our senior midshipmen. Captain Westcott is keen to push you forward. You will have recognised that by the Divisions that I have allotted you. Keep your noses clean and put in the effort to be the best you can. There are always opportunities on a ship this size heading to give the French a bloody nose.’
Johnnie’s division was on the gundeck and included the forward seven 32-pounders on the starboard side. They had split the two friends. George’s battery was on the larboard side of the upper deck. Perhaps Captain Carthew had mentioned something about their gunnery experience in his report of the last two cruises on Magpie.
Getting to know all his messmates in the wardroom was going to take time. Bobby Simpson made many introductions and was particularly keen that Wharton met Toby Smeeton, the senior gunner’s mate.
‘He should be a midshipman or better, everyone thinks so,’ Simpson said. ‘Something different about him from the other mates. He’s a quiet man but seems to have great authority. Educated above the normal, I would say. He has theories on the best weight and spacing of cannon fire for specific situations. The First Luff and he seem to spend time together going over large plans and calculations drawn up by Smeeton. All a bit of a mystery to me but then most things are,’ he added with a laugh.
Almost on cue, Toby Smeeton walked into the wardroom and received friendly greetings from many of the men in the mess.
Simpson waved the man over. ‘Toby, meet my old shipmate, Johnnie Wharton. He has just spent the spring on a brig capturing Dutch merchantmen and fighting a duel with a Frenchie sloop. Claims to have an interest in gunnery. You will have something in common, I reckon.’
Smeeton was as tall as Wharton and wore a mate’s blue uniform coat with the brass fouled anchor buttons, a white waistcoat and breeches. There was something about the way the man held himself which attracted attention.
‘Experienced with the long guns, Bobby Simpson tells me,’ Smeeton said as he and Wharton sat down on the bench together, as the mess boy was preparing to dole out the midday meal of boiled beef, accompanied by biscuit and a pint of grog.
‘Not really, more the carronades. George Hardy and I had several chances to improve our aim and elevation on the brig-sloop Magpie. We had a good teacher and a touch of luck,’ Johnnie replied. ‘Where are you from? I can’t place your accent,’ he remarked, surprised at the mate’s educated tone.
‘Well, I hear from your voice that you are from Devon,’ Smeeton said with a short laugh. ‘I come from a village in Leicestershire but taken by the Press in London just as I was starting my articles to become a lawyer in Gray’s Inn. Never got the chance.’
‘Taken by a press gang? I thought the legal profession was protected.’
‘In theory. Hard to protest when you are secured in the orlop of a 74-gun third rate around 20 nautical miles out into the North Sea. I reasoned that the Good Lord had other plans for me than lawyering and decided to make the most of it. I have not regretted it.’
Wharton looked surprised. ‘You are obviously educated. Why not apply to be a midshipman rather than stay before the mast?’
‘The Royal Navy does not work like that. You have to have influence to gain a berth as a middie and my father, being the rector of a parish in the middle of England, had none. Leicestershire is a long way from the sea,’ Smeeton added with a pleasant smile. ‘If you are really interested in gunnery, I can attach myself to your guns at the next practice. Where is your division?’
‘Forward battery on the starboard side of the gundeck. I would be grateful for anything you can teach me. What do you know of my gun captains?’
Smeeton paused before replying. ‘They are all trained to fire their guns as quickly as possible. Nothing wrong with that and it is the difference between the French and us. However, we can be better. I have been speaking to Lieutenant Cuthbert about how we might achieve accuracy and distance as well as speed.’
‘What does the Master Gunner say about your methods?’ Wharton asked.
‘Old Rowlands has no objection. He gets the laurels for any success by the guns after all. If my methods prove not to work, it is not his fault.’
Other midshipmen just off watch joined them at the table at that point and Smeeton rose, waved and walked over to another groups of mates settling down to their meal. Johnnie knew he was going to enjoy the company and lessons from the gunner’s mate as the cruise went on.
Chapter Three
Midshipman Hardy, telescope raised, was wedged up in the mainmast top scanning Lisbon across the Tagus when a call from below drew his attention to a frigate sailing in from the Atlantic. With every stitch of sails aloft, she was making directly for Admiral Earl St Vincent’s flagship HMS Ville de Paris.
The British fleet had been anchored out in the wide Tagus for nearly a week. Frustration at the apparent lack of urgency was felt by every officer. Surely, the Admiral should order his ships down to Gibraltar and then on into the Mediterranean?
They did not have long to wait. The inbound frigate had a famous passenger. Rear-Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson was carrying orders from Lord Spencer at the Admiralty instructing St Vincent to detach a squadron of three ships of the line and three frigates to sail immediately around to Toulon, to shadow the French fleet and military transports, wherever they went.
Nelson had command of this squadron aboard HMS Vanguard and chose not to take Majestic, much to the rage of its captain. Ever the fire-eater, George Blagdon Westcott stormed around the quarterdeck swearing, while the watch tried to keep out of his way, including Midshipman Wharton. He came to understand that patience, apparently, was not one of Westcott’s virtues.
With no sign of orders to follow Nelson, several captains, including Westcott, sought permission to sail a few miles out into the Atlantic to practice sailing manoeuvres and exercise guns. Earl St Vincent reluctantly approved the requests on condition that no ship strayed more than 50 miles from Lisbon.
Majestic was one of the first ships to take advantage of the release and with Lieutenant Cuthbert in command, sailed due west tacking into the prevailing wind. When well offshore and with no other British ship within a dozen miles, Captain Westcott appeared on the quarterdeck and ordered an all-gun exercise of the long cannons.
Men ran to their divisions, awaiting the order to pull back and load. ‘I want full battery broadsides. Live firing – first port and then starboard. After discussing this with the master gunner and Mr Smeeton, I have set a target of 10 seconds for each broadside to be completed and a maximum of two minutes between firing, pull back, reloading and running out again,’ the captain announced.
There were quick glances of surprise between the other officers at the unobtainable time targets and the whole crew waited for the bosun’s call to run all the long guns back and prepare to load.
