Chapter 9: The Egyptian Campaign

Mediterranean Sea, late February 1801

With the ship freshly provisioned, there was no need to take water or other supplies, but Will was sent ashore with the captain’s steward, Jeremy Walker, to find additional cabin and wardroom stores. There were merchant shops near the water front where they purchased a few cases of — presumably smuggled — French Bordeaux wines, but also some West Country cheeses.

The wine merchant loaned them a handcart and his apprentice to transport their purchases back to where the side boat was waiting, but when they set out, a young man of Will’s age intercepted them. He looked like a sailor, but was dressed better than the average tar.

“Sir, are you from the frigate out there?” he addressed Will.

“Yes, my man. She’s the Dido frigate of 28 guns, Captain D’Arcy, en route to the Mediterranean. I’m her purser, Mister Potter.”

“Thank you, Mister Potter, Sir! I was wondering if you’re taking volunteers, Sir.”

Will and Parsley chuckled. What ship of the King was not?

“Yes, I believe there’s room on the muster roll,” Will answered. “What’s your name and rating?”

“John Somers, Sir, Seaman. I was wardroom steward in the Lord Howe Indiaman, but then the Nº1 brought in his nephew. I mustered off and went home. Now my money’s spent and I’d like a berth. Truth is, Sir, there’s an angry father looking to strip my hide off me with his bullwhip.”

“You sure they didn’t cast you out because you’re a rotten cook?” Will asked with a grin.

“No, Sir, indeed not! I learnt cooking in my father’s inn, before I went to sea. My mother’s a good cook, Sir. This was not about my cooking. Well, I filched some spices from the captain’s stores once, mebbe twice, but only for the wardroom.”

“You better not try that with my stores! What spices go with a mutton roast?” Walker shot at the young man.

“Pepper, some rosemary, salt, Sir, unless you want it real spicy, with curry, like in Bombay. Hard to find here, curry is, Sir.”

Will looked at Walker, and the man shrugged. “He can’t be worse than Oakham, Sir.”

Will grinned. “If he were as bad as Oakham, they would’ve drowned him.” He came to a decision. “I’ll present you to the First; it’s his decision. If it’s not the wardroom, then maybe the gunroom. At least, you’ll be safe from that angry father. You have your kit?”

“What I have, Sir,” Somers nodded, pointing at a bundle.

“Well, then, let us go!”

Tom Oakham was indeed the only man unhappy about the changes when Somers took over the care for the wardroom and he himself was assigned to the galley as cook’s mate. Oakham’s only saving grace had been his good hand for roasting coffee beans, but it turned out that Somers mastered that, too. For supper that evening, he produced a stir-fry from a mutton leg with a creamy sauce and with onion rings that almost caused a fight over the few leftovers between Donovan and Murdoch. Even Percival Montgomery found words of praise for the food, something that left his wardroom mates stunned. In the end, the officers drank to the transport captains for causing the delay.

At least, all the ships were ready for weighing anchor come the sunrise, and when the morning watch started, the small convoy was already approaching Lizard Point. The officers learned that the transports were sailing almost empty, only carrying some 120 troops of the 92nd Highland Regiment of Foot, with the rest of the regiment and their commander, Lord Gordon, waiting at Port Mahon. They also shipped weapons and ammunition stores for the regiment as well as other supplies.

Therefore, the transports made good speed, allowing them to reach the Strait of Gibraltar after only nine days. Will had never come near the Strait, let alone the Mediterranean Sea beyond, in his past sailing, but he was not alone in that. Clyde Barker and Percival Montgomery were new to the region, too, as were the captain and the master. Only James Muir had been east of the Strait, and what he knew was from the perspective of the gunroom, as he had been a junior midshipman back then.

It was late morning when they sailed past Tarifa, and just two hours later, they saw Gibraltar to port in the distance. They would not call there, but rather pressed on. Captain D’Arcy kept his ships towards the African side, not willing to risk an encounter with Spanish men o’war, and they kept their eastern course for the whole afternoon and into the evening.

Before going below, Will checked the slate by the compass housing. They were still sailing due East, and the last log cast had the Dido run at a half over 5 knots; a decent enough speed under the prevailing southwesterly wind.

The senior quartermaster cleared his throat, and Will looked up to see the captain approaching.

“Good evening, Sir!” Will said dutifully.

“Good evening, Mister Potter! Have you an interest in navigation, too?”

“Not really, Sir. It’s just a habit from my last ship. I have to make the provisions last, after all.”

“Nothing wrong with an interest in nautical matters, Mister Potter. You may also see your first Tricolour flags soon,” the captain chuckled.

Will nodded. “Yes, Sir. It’ll be an interesting experience for me.”

“That is a good way to look at it. Should we complete our stores in Port Mahon?”

“Our food rations should last us a little under three months. Perhaps at least water, Sir.”

“Good to know. Whilst we are talking, what are the rules for awarding extra rum rations to the hands?”

Will thought quickly. “The Board frowns on it, Sir, unless the ship’s been in action. You can order it, of course, but the Board may claim the expenses back from you. I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Don’t! It’s those penny pinchers who make the rules, and not even the local commissioners. Well, if I order double rations, you can rest assured that the hands will have earned them, and if need be, I can find the monies to reimburse the Board. Another thing: Mister Barker told me that you enforce equal rations for all hands?”

“Yes, Sir. That’s how I was taught, Sir.”

“Nothing wrong with it. In fact, we cannot have a few ratings lord it over the rest. It’s bad for the discipline and fosters discontent among the crew. Your predecessor saw it differently, and I appreciate the change.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Well, it has been good talking to you, Mister Potter. I had better turn in now.”

“Yes, Sir. Good Night, Sir.” Will answered, as was proper for a very junior warrant officer who had been interviewed by his captain.

He found the wardroom still populated. Muir, Donovan and Murdoch were sitting at the table and enjoying some sort of brandy wine from the looks of it. Matthews was reading by the light of the oil lamp whilst Montgomery was playing a game of chess against himself. At least, that was what Will surmised, as he had never played the game or even seen one from up close. Montgomery looked up when Will entered.

“I don’t suppose you care for a game of chess?” he asked without malice.

“I’ve never played it before, Sir,” Will answered honestly. “I heard that it is a game of skills and thinking?”

“Indeed, Mister Potter. It is hard to play in a ship, too, as it requires time. Have you perhaps played Draughts?”

“A little bit, Sir. In the Serpent, I berthed with the captain’s secretary, Mister Edwards, and he taught me.”

“Would you care for a game? I do not play for money, just for the exercise.”

“It cannot hurt to try, Sir.”

“Umh, if you do not mind, you can call me Percy whilst we are amongst ourselves.”

“With pleasure, Percy. I am called Will.”

“Let us play then, Will!”

And they did. Will was rusty, not having played in over a year, and Montgomery won the first two games with ease. The third game was much closer, and in the fourth game, Will managed to out-fox his opponent, crowning one of his men, and then sweeping the board.

By now, it was close to four bells, and they called it a night. Will woke up frequently during the night, tossing and turning on his narrow cot in the stuffy little cabin. He was therefore still tired when Somers shook him awake.

“Mister Muir’s respects, Sir, and it’s nigh on 4 bells!”

Will shook off the sleep and swung his legs from the cot onto the small wool rug that gave him a modicum of comfort in his tiny cabin, clearing his throat. He opened his tie and combed his wavy, brownish hair back before retying it behind his neck. In his shirt only, he headed for the privy where he emptied his bladder, before grabbing a jug with seawater for a quick catlick. Two minutes later, we was dressed and ready.

The dawn was already in evidence, and Will climbed up to the quarterdeck to look around. To starboard, he could faintly see what had to be the Barbary coastline, but no sails were showing. The latter was expected since the masthead had not sung out any sightings.

Nothing seemed amiss, and so Will climbed back down to the main deck and went aft to the wardroom where Somers and one of the ship’s boys were setting the table. Donovan and Matthews were already sitting, and Will joined them.

“When shall we change course?” Will asked the master.

“A bit past Algiers,” Donovan answered. “We want to give Mallorca a wide berth.”

Barker and Montgomery entered in this moment, and the wardroom started their breakfast. They still had butter, fruit jam and moderately fresh eggs and would have those for another four or five days before they would have to resort to the normal provisions, and they enjoyed their repast amidst bantering conversation. Even Montgomery thawed considerably, but Will, being the latest addition to the wardroom, had to bear the brunt of the taunts. Not that he minded much. He had always been the Benjamin in any setting since joining the Navy, and he had learned to give back.

So early in the journey, they were still in excellent mood, with no frictions noticeable to Will, not even between the English and Scots officers. That was not always the case as Will knew, as the cramped accommodations over time exposed differences of character mercilessly.

“Think we’ll get shore leave in Port Mahon, Clyde?” Muir asked. “I hear the doxies are pretty around the harbour.”

Barker shrugged. “The Captain has not said anything, but I believe we are hard pressed for time.”

“It’ll be at least two days to ferry the 92nd out to the transports,” Murdoch opined.

“Likely,” Muir nodded. “Add another day for those blasted horses. That’ll be fun to watch. How many mounts, Peter?”

“James, you have the colonel, the lieutenant colonel, two majors, eight captains plus quartermaster and adjutant, that’s fifteen. Add five spares, and you need to ship 20 horses. That’s five for each transport.”

“I thought the 92nd was a Regiment of Foot?” Will asked naively, causing chuckles around the table. Murdoch explained.

“Will, my young friend,” Murdoch grinned, “the officers pay between £3,500 and £6,500 for their commissions. They won’t walk if they can help it. They’ll bring their horses, their servants, their grooms, their private food stores, their tents, everything.”

Will nodded. “I think I get it.”

“You’ll see, Will,” Barker mumbled around a bite of hardtack in his mouth. He took a sip of the coffee. “I just hope that we shan’t have to host any of the blasted redcoats in our wardroom. No offence, Peter.”

“None at all taken, Clyde,” Murdoch grinned back. “Can’t stomach them meself.”

A few minutes later, with their breakfast finished, the officers got up and saw to their respective duties. Will spent half the forenoon watch in the hold with his steward, examining the dry foods and making certain that no bilge water could reach them. Dido was a rather sound ship, better maintained and newer than the old Serpent, and her pumps were only worked a few minutes during each watch. Still, a lot of his money was riding on the stored foods, and Will was cautious.

It took them until the next morning to reach their point of departure from the Barbary Coast, but come four bells in the morning watch, the crew was roused for a change of course to north-northeast. Once the small convoy was heading for Port Mahon, with Dido positioned to windward of her charges, officers and crew had their breakfast. It was a Sunday, too. The captain himself led the service, with Dido not shipping a chaplain, having the crew sing two hymns and saying the Our Father. This was followed by a reading of the Articles of War, as prescribed by the Admiralty, so no man could claim ignorance of his duties. Then Captain D’Arcy inspected the men as they stood on deck in divisions; again, a weekly ritual on board each Navy ship or sloop. To nobody’s surprise, the captain found nothing disagreeable during his inspection, since Clyde Barker was a conscientious 1st lieutenant who also had the benefit of knowing his captain’s ideas for over a year. His inspection finished, Captain D’Arcy addressed the crew again.

“You officers and men, I am very pleased with your conduct this last week. This being a day of steady sailing under a sunny sky, and with you having done your duty faithfully and with good skill, I declare a rope yarn Sunday. Enjoy your day!”

Essentially, D’Arcy gave the free watch free rein to spend their time.

“Mister Barker, let’s split the afternoon watch in two and have a single dogwatch,” D’Arcy added, to give both watches the opportunity to make use of the leisurely sailing and nice weather.

Soon, tubs appeared on deck, to be filled with seawater, in which the ratings washed their clothing. Lines were rigged all over the deck for the drying and airing of the garments. Sailors sat in small groups playing games of chance waiting for their slops and sweaters to dry.

For Will and his steward, John Alwyn, it was still a busy day. Will opened his slop chest under the quarterdeck, and the men made good use of the buying opportunities. Most purchases were made by deduction from the monies the men had deposited in Will’s care, but some coins changed hands, too. A few men who had been unlucky at cards or with the dice made withdrawals to settle their debts or had monies transferred to another rating’s account. The lively business continued almost until grog time when Will and Alwyn closed the slop chest and doled out the watered-down rum to the men.

The convoy kept the course through the night and over the next day, but by the first dogwatch, the island of Minorca appeared on the horizon, and by nightfall, the ships had dropped anchor at Port Mahon.