Chapter 21: Spartan

December 1804

HMS Spartiate, of 74 guns, was a third-rate ship of the line, built in Toulon in 1797, of 2,900 tons burthen, and armed with 32-pounders and 18-pounders. She had been captured from the French a year later at the Battle of the Nile and taken into the service.

She was roomy for her officers. Even shared by five commissioned lieutenants, a captain and a lieutenant of the Royal Marines, purser, surgeon and chaplain, her wardroom was far roomier than Odin’s.

Mister Webling, the former purser, left a well-kept Victualling Book and offered Will his slop chest wares for a good price. Webling charged the crew a fee for safekeeping their monies, but his books were kept meticulously. A first inspection of the meat and water casks, cheese and bread lockers also left nothing to complain for Will. His new steward, Peter Holbow, was a solid man, too, and Will quickly settled into his new responsibility for the feeding of almost 600 men.

It took four days until Will was interviewed by his new captain, Francis Laforey, an energetic officer with an excellent record from his days commanding frigates. He greeted Will with slight amusement, commenting on his youth, but also acknowledged that his own cabin stores had profited from Will’s initiative. In the end, Will was told to continue his good service and excused.

The Christmas dinner held in the wardroom gave Will an opportunity to get acquainted with his wardroom mates. It was a stiff affair, with the Nº1, Mister Stephenson, presiding with an air of austerity. Stephenson was about twice Will’s age, and a bitter man stuck in lieutenant’s rank for almost thirty years. Mister Webling had given Will some advice how to handle the man, but so far, Will had not succeeded in being on friendly terms with him.

James Clephan, the Nº2, was cut from the same cloth, only ten years younger and he had risen from the ranks. Surprisingly, the two senior lieutenants, for all their similarity, were not on easy speaking terms.

Gerald Gerárd, the Nº3, at least was an outgoing man of perhaps twenty-eight years, tall, energetic and with many interests. The Nº4, Adam Porter, was quite the opposite at first impression, being portly and of a laidback disposition. Still, a game of Draughts, played on the previous evening, had shown Porter to have a sharp mind. Gordon Coolidge, Nº5, and Jeremy Treleven, Nº6, did their very best not to draw attention, as one may expect two very junior lieutenants to behave. The two Royal Marines officers, Captain Chancer and Lieutenant Miller, very much kept to themselves and socialised neither with the commissioned nor the warrant officers.

The sailing master, Bill Royce, was almost as old as Stephenson, but rather easygoing and with a wry sense of humour. The surgeon, Mister Dougal Shaw was a Scot from Aberdeen, a little over forty years of age, and rather fond of the bottle. The chaplain, Mister Pendragon Jones was Welsh, even younger than Will, with fiery red hair, and the face of a street urchin. Mister Stephenson treated him with even less courtesy than Will, but the young chaplain was singularly unfazed. Like Will and the surgeon, he held a warrant outside the naval chain of command, and Stephenson’s ill will could not hurt him. The few times Will had seen him idle, he’d had his long, thin nose in one of his numerous books. All in all, Will was quite happy that the rigid seating order at the wardroom table placed him with the standing warrant officers and far away from the Nº1.

Writing his first letter to Abigail from his new ship, Will did not mention his misgivings, but rather extolled on the fine build of his new ship and on his spacious new accommodations. Indeed, his cabin off the wardroom was easily twice the size of the tiny alcove off Serpent’s wardroom which he had deemed pure luxury back then. So far, the weather on the French coast was not too cold either, and most days were even sunny.

Of course, life in a third-rate was quite different from sailing a frigate. There were no patrols, no pursuit of the French coastal shipping. Instead, the large ships of the fleet practiced evolutions all day long, with frequent gun and ready drills thrown in. Captain Laforey did his best to liven those drills up, but he had little support in this from his Nº1, who clearly abhorred change and variety.

After Christmas, the weather changed for the worse, with gusty winds and cold rains drenching the watch, whilst the choppy sea made even a third-rate tumble over the waves. The quarters were damp and smelly, with the few coal braziers adding to the thick air whilst giving only a modicum of warmth. Dougal Shaw, the surgeon, was busy fixing broken limbs and treating the various ailments resulting from exposure. The chaplain was also in much demand to console the injured and sick, much to Stephenson’s displeasure who did not want the men to be ‘coddled’. Being a man of the cloth and a fiery Welshman to boot, Jones did not heed the ill-tempered old man, but kept caring for those in spiritual need, praying with them and even writing letters for those who were injured and likely to be mustered out.

A week into the new year, the officers were starting to dine when Mister Jones joined them belatedly and seemingly a little shaken. Will immediately saw that the man was in turmoil over something, but of course, Stephenson felt the need to berate him.

“Have you been tending those shirkers again?”

Will was able to put a calming hand on Jones’s arm.

“Easy there, Pen!” he whispered, and he felt the young chaplain struggling to control his temper. His voice was even when he answered.

“Yes, Sir. One of those shirkers even went so far as to die, just to spite you. Able Seaman Warner it was, captain of the main top. He really had no business to be in the sickbay with only his back broken. I decided to give him last rites all the same.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your childish sarcasm to yourself, Mister Jones!” Stephenson snapped.

“And I shall thank you to keep out of my duties, Sir. I answer to the Church of England, not to you.”

“At my table, you will keep a still tongue in your head, you whippersnapper!” the enraged Stephenson screamed.

“I shall not. Being a minister of God, I cannot answer your insult with a challenge, but I shall lay charge against you for a conduct unbecoming of an officer. Sir!”

“You...” Stephenson started, but he was stayed by Clephan.

“Calm yourself, Sir! It is unbecoming to insult an ordained minister of the Church, or any other officer. I shall myself report your behaviour to the captain.”

“Ha! Mutiny?” Stephenson screamed. “I’ll see your court-martialled for this, Clephan!”

“It’s Mister Clephan, Sir, and that was another insult. Gentlemen, excuse Mister Jones and me!”

Everybody watched Clephan with open mouths. Nobody would have expected the man to act in such a manner, for all the dislike between him and Stephenson, but Will remembered him praying with great emotion during the Sunday services. Stephenson’s insult to a man of the cloth must have been too much for Clephan. Yet, before the two men could leave the wardroom, a midshipman appeared.

“Mister Stephenson, Sir! Orders from Captain Laforey, and will you report to him immediately, Sir!”

Stephenson smirked at Clephan. “I may just be the one to lay charge against you, Clephan!”

He left the wardroom with a sneer on his face, but as soon as the door had closed, Gerárd laughed outright.

“Hardly so! I’ll wager that his ill-tempered tirade carried to the captain’s quarters. A shilling to a pound that we’ll have a changed seating order.”

Porter nodded at the chaplain. “Well spoken, my dear Jones, and a right shame about Warner. We all appreciate your untiring service.”

“Hear, hear!” Clephan added. “I trust that you gentlemen with bear true witness in any proceedings?”

All of them but Treleven nodded immediately, but seeing the other officers react, the Nº6, too, nodded hesitantly, enforcing Will’s rather poor impression of the man’s character.

“Let’s continue dinner, gentlemen. I fear there won’t be any leisure this evening,” Clephan said in his usual austere manner.

They did not see Stephenson again that evening, nor at the breakfast table. At six bells in the morning watch, a solemn-faced Captain Laforey took his gig to the flagship, and at four bells in the forenoon watch, five gigs headed for Spartiate’s side. Five captains, led by Sir Thomas Hardy, the flag captain, came aboard and headed aft to the main cabin.

At the same time, Clephan called the wardroom together.

“Gentlemen, the Captain reported Mister Stephenson’s conduct to His Lordship, and a Court of Inquiry will be held over yesterday’s events. I must ask you gentlemen to hold yourself ready as witnesses.” He looked around. “You had better wear your best uniforms, too. Have any of you ever given testimony to a Court of Inquiry?”

Will was the only one who raised a hand. “Sir, I gave testimony in a Court Martial against an acting lieutenant in the Dido frigate.”

“You remember yesterday evening well?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’ll suggest you for the witness list, Mister Potter. You have no stakes in this, so you’re impartial.”

“Aye-aye, Sir!”

“Thank you, Mister Potter. Gentlemen, I stepped up for you yesterday, and I expect you to be truthful if called to bear witness.”

A chorus of aye-aye-sirs sounded. Clephan nodded and then looked at Will again. “Better borrow somebody’s buckled shoes, Mister Potter. You look like a frigate purser.”

That caused relieved chuckles all around, but also astonishment. It was as if Clephan was another person, one with a sense of humour.

“I have a pair of buckled shoes, Sir,” Will answered easily. “I just don’t wear them every day. They’re not practical for work in the hold.”

“All the better then. Gentlemen, hold yourself ready!”

The next hour was spent waiting for the summons. Will was a little nervous. His appointment to Spartiate was not confirmed yet, and he was acutely aware that the Court of Inquiry might exonerate Stephenson. He voiced his concern to Gerárd, who shook his head.

“That’s not going to happen, Will. The Captain asked for the Court of Inquiry. There is no way the captains of the court will reinstate Stephenson. At best, he’ll be transferred to another ship. He was completely out of line yesterday, and that’s simply unforgiveable for a Nº1. No, Adam was right predicting a new seating order.”

Meanwhile, Pendragon Jones was called to bear witness, and when he returned almost a half hour later, his face was inscrutable. Clephan was next, but when he returned he seemed at ease.

When a Marine corporal called for Will to appear next before the court, he was apprehensive. With an effort, he cleared his mind, and when he reported before the judges, his voice was steady.

“William Potter, Sirs, purser, at your service!”

Captain Hardy was the presiding judge, a good looking man in his mid-thirties with thinning hair cut short after the new fashion. He did not comment on Will’s age, a first from a captain for Will.

“Mister Potter, were you present at supper in the wardroom yesterday evening?”

“Yes, Sir Thomas.”

“Kindly tell us in your own words what you observed, Sir!”

“Aye-aye, Sir Thomas. We were all sitting at table except for Mister Jones, the chaplain, who joined us belatedly. Mister Stephenson then asked Mister Jones if he had attended the men in the sickbay. He called them ‘shirkers’, Sir. Mister...”

“One moment, Sir. Mister Stephenson referred to the injured men as ‘shirkers’?” another man in captain’s uniform asked sharply.

“Y-yes, Sir. Mister Jones then answered that he had tended to the dying captain of the foretop, Able Seaman Warren.”

“What happened then, Mister Potter?”

“Mister Stephenson called Mister Jones a ‘whippersnapper’, Sir He told him to keep a still tongue at the table, too.”

“And then?”

“Mister Jones replied that he answered to the Church of England, not to the First and that he would report the insult, Sir.”

“What happened next, Mister Potter?”

“Mister Clephan interceded, Sir. He admonished Mister Stephenson for insulting a minister of God. Mister Stephenson then suggested mutinous intentions by Mister Clephan and called him just ‘Clephan’. That was when Mister Clephan stood and made his intentions clear to raise a complaint with the Captain, Sir. Before he and Mister Jones could leave, Mister Midshipman Brewer showed and conveyed Captain Laforey’s order for Mister Stephenson to report.”

“Thank you for the concise testimony, Mister Potter. Are there more questions for the witness? No? You are excused, Mister Potter.”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas,” Will answered, meaning it. He briefly stood at attention and then left the cabin, fleeing to the wardroom.

“Pullman, a glass of wine!” he ordered, and the wardroom steward rushed to comply. Will emptied the glass in one draught and then leaned back in his chair. “Damn it! I’d rather face a horde of boarders!”

There were chuckles all around, but now Gerárd was called to the after cabin. By silent agreement, Will was not questioned about his testimony, and truth be told, he could hardly remember much of it.

At noon, the court recessed and had a small repast, but by two bells in the afternoon watch, they reconvened and called for Captain Chancer of the Royal Marines. He returned not ten minutes later, and he was the last witness called.

After that, the waiting continued. Will busied himself by updating his Victualling Book and going over the provision charts whilst some of the other officers engaged in a card game to pass the time. Finally, they heard the boatswain pipes as the captains of the Court of Inquiry left the ship. Five minutes later, the midshipman of the watch called them to the captain’s cabin.

The table was still laid, and Laforey asked them to be seated. Wine was served before the captain spoke up.