Ships of War

CHAPTER 1 

PORTSMOUTH — 1791
 

A knock on one’s door can often be quite telling and this broadside was no exception. Even and yet heavy, dragging with the moderation of three distinct thumps, squarely each bang boomed, almost professionally one might think. It was verily enough to mostly awaken the dead.

‘Good grief Coops! Is the rent paid?’ gasped Spencer as he shot out of his armchair, anxiously righting himself as if battle had been declared.

‘Quite,’ Cooper calmly responded, only for a moment lifting his nose from the latest naval journal to thoughtfully eye the door. The hearth before him was warm and in turn his gaze bore deeply upon the random flickering within the embers, the casual wandering of a sharp mind. An intrusion it definitely was, not quite an unannounced French invasion of England, but an intrusion of some proportion nonetheless. Never, not in their wildest dreams, were they expectant of company and in consideration, Portsmouth’s early months of 1791 had produced a most astonishing and most bitter cold. It was irrefutable. Only a mad lunatic recently escaped would be out. Nonetheless, Cooper railed through the logical choices, his mind tinkering before finally dismissing the worst. Well, what did it really matter he thought. His cottage was comfortable, albeit somewhat small and undeniably quaint, nonetheless a saving grace if truth be told. And though it was evenly shared with his particular friend, it was a grand manor in comparison to the officers’ berths that more or less acquainted their lives at sea. He detested such commotions, such intrusions, but the villain soon enough would be uncovered. To be sure, probably some beggar not worth waiting on he finally considered and eventually he motioned to the door. ‘Be a good fellow would you then, Spence?’

Spencer cautiously levered back the lock. Even as officers in the Royal Navy, they rarely had the honour of receiving guests, lest it be collectors of debt or arrears in rent. Times had been hard, the buzz of the last war some eight years distant now. Most ships had been paid off and summarily had his majesty’s men scattered to the four corners of England’s best bars, pubs and houses, never to be seen again. It was true from time to time an old shipmate might stumble on in, scrounging for work. After all, it was Portsmouth, a shipping port of some considerable note. Unfortunately, the prospect of employment was scarce, let alone good employment. Indeed, it might prove refreshing to receive a guest, hopefully one bereft of frostbite of course. But the likelihood was hardly high, especially considering their lowly stations as lieutenants in the navy, not to mention the annoying imposition of continuing peace, an unfortunate nuisance which had set their careers nigh upon a lee shore.

Spencer barely knew what to think. It was late and it was cold. What the blazes, surely not another effrontery duel! Please no, not that again he silently grumbled and he peered out into the waning daylight hoping for the best, very much expecting the worst. Oddly before him stood a diminutive but officious looking fellow, a little plump as most often these gents are, but splendidly dressed. In one hand the fellow attempted to clean his rounded spectacles, whilst in the other he proffered a sealed letter. Spencer at once recognised the wax seal, the Admiralty of the Royal Navy, his attention now duly collected.

‘And who might you be sir?’ enquired the man sharply, adjusting his spectacles to take immediate examination of him.

‘Oh, Lieutenant Charles Prescot Spencer, sir, of the Royal Navy,’ he stoutly replied, a little miffed. ‘And you sir, are?’

‘Here for Lieutenant Cooper,’ he asserted, quite deficient of any semblance of cheerfulness. ‘I have come a long way, directly from the Admiralty,’ he pompously added. ‘Good god, is it supposed to be snowing out here?’ he grumbled.

‘Then you must come in sir,’ Cooper interrupted, now standing beside Spencer. ‘Take a drink perhaps, it is deathly cold. You have had a long journey? Allow me to introduce myself, I am Lieutenant Hayden Reginald Cooper, at your service.’

‘Quite, very well, alright then, but first the dispatch,’ he insisted, shoving it into his hand, before quickly making his way to the hearth. He looked about as Spencer offered him a glass, only to find himself comfortably seated. ‘Perhaps some brandy or a port, if you please Lieutenant?’ he begged, rubbing his hands.

‘I regret, deeply, as officers beached on half pay with little prospect, we unfortunately have neither on offer. Perhaps, rum?’

Cooper broke the seal and read the dispatch. His eyes drew swiftly down the page, glancing the obligatory wording to which he was quite readily accustomed, “required and directed…fail and answer the contrary at your peril…” and of course, the complimentary close “By Command of Their Lordships…”. It was abundantly clear. It was summons.

‘Sir, I am Fredricks. May I have your answer?’

‘Aye, yes, yes, of course I will attend,’ he quickly returned, still wandering over the particulars of the letter. ‘Inform Their Lordships that I will attend at my earliest convenience, most definitely in the next day or two, weather permitting.’

‘Oh dear,’ Fredricks lamented, shaking his head. ‘I dare say sir, oh dear, that will not do. No, it will just not do.’

‘But the orders do not stipulate a specific time?’

‘Indeed, they never do, do they.’

‘And the winter of good Portsmouth has turned shockingly bleak. Bewildering is it not? You may have noticed, but there is even snow on the ground. Snow! Can you believe it! Outrageous!’

‘Nonetheless, I am to take you back directly sir, tonight.’

‘Upon my soul man, what the blazes for? Am I to rush to Whitehall in the extremes of my own risks in this godforsaken weather, only to waste around for days, nay maybe weeks, withering in the Admiralty waiting rooms! It behoves me to wonder as to why this dispatch was not sent by the regular means. After all, we are not at war and what the living hell could they ever want with me? Meanwhile, there are some good positions on some very good ships which will be petitioned tomorrow. Do you hear me, tomorrow and tomorrow only sir!’

‘Of course you are right. And I am sorry naturally as to your predicament, but there you have it. I have my orders. And yours, sir, now sit before you. If you are to accept the order, you must come with me tonight, if you please, sir.’

‘If I am to accept the order? If I am to accept the order!’ he indignantly bellowed. ‘Are you sure you’re from the Admiralty or even the navy? Have you not gone mad! This is the Royal Navy man, the parchment is a rhetorical courtesy, lest one wants to hang! And disobedience would surely see the end of my half pay and reserve status.’

‘Not to mention the hanging,’ whispered Spencer casually.

‘Quite! And they would likely throw Spence in with my lot as well, just for the pleasure of proximity. Hell, they might even nab Larboard here, our scrawny little cat, just to be sure. What's one or two more ’ey, dangling from the yard! I do wonder, what the devil is going on?’

‘Indeed Coops, it’s got to be eighty miles!’ added Spencer.

‘Seventy three and one half miles Spence, my dear fellow, from here to Central London and best guess, we won’t be there until evening tomorrow, not in this muck. Now sir,’ he pressed to Fredricks. ‘Am I to see Their Lordships in the morrow evening? Really? Come now, madness!’

‘Your answer, if you please sir?’

‘Very well, very well,’ he reluctantly announced, shaking his head with a polite huff. ‘It seems we are outgunned and must strike. Spence, I see no other course here, time to weigh anchor. Let’s get the cottage battened down and make our usual arrangements.’ Lastly, he turned to Fredricks. ‘Well then, lead the way my good man, to Whitehall. We have not a moment to lose!’

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