Chapter 25: A Welcome for a Hero

July 1805

The following weeks held no excitement for Thomas. He spent some time in charge of Admiral Moorbanke’s barge, since the Admiral was residing in the Duke. For over a week, he was busy conveying the old Admiral all across the harbour, whilst rumours were flying of an impending attack on England by the combined fleets of France and Spain. Their admiral, Villeneuve, had escaped Nelson’s pursuit to the Caribbean and back, and it was feared that he would try to unite his ships with those in Rochefort and Brest, thus creating an overwhelming superiority. As against that, he would have to fight the Channel Fleet under Admiral Cornwallis whilst the French ships in Brest would need days to sortie through the narrow, winding outlet, the Goulet.

Thomas witnessed numerous discussions on the subject and from what he understood, it would be highly unlikely for the French to cross the Channel. Still, people worried, and the newspapers were preaching doom and gloom.

When he visited the Sea Rover, now on other days too, since his Sundays were often accounted for by commanding Moorbanke’s barge, he often had to soothe the women’s worries, assuring them, that the French fleet under Villeneuve had so far avoided any serious confrontation, likely for fear of Admirals Nelson and Cornwallis, the former a brilliant fighter, and the latter keeping the French forces in Brest in an unmerciful stranglehold.

With just about anything activated that could still float, the remaining 1st-class scholars in the Academy received orders to join ships. Robert was gone, too, when. Thomas returned from duty one evening, a hastily written farewell note was all that remained of his best friend of three years. Apparently, he had received his orders at noon and boarded his new ship, the sixth-rate frigate Nemesis, 28, a part of Cornwallis’s Channel Fleet, in time for the afternoon tot of rum.

Increasingly, Thomas served on Admiral Moorbanke’s staff, delivering letters, keeping the Admiral’s cabin in the Duke organised and ready, but also commanding the barge. He frequently dined at the Commander-in-Chief’s headquarter and was privy to the intelligence coming in. He was there, too, when the reports came in of Vice Admiral Calder’s inconclusive encounter with Villeneuve’s fleet. The French had refused battle, and all Calder could achieve was capturing two French sail of the line before he felt the need to break off the pursuit.

In the following days, the public’s fury, fanned by newspaper articles, was directed at Calder, whose action was perceived as lacking the decisiveness Lord Nelson would have shown in the minds of the people. That Calder was also responsible for the blockade of Rochefort and the Spanish Galician coast was ignored. At the Admiral’s table, the action was also discussed controversially, but Thomas gleaned that the more senior officers, those with command experience, rather held Calder faultless.

Still, the feeling that a French invasion was imminent began to spread in the populace, and the Sea Fencibles along the English coast were drilled twice weekly now, including the Academy scholars.

It was mid-August already, when the atmosphere of fear lifted a little. Thomas was with the Admiral when another midshipman, Mister Cairney, rushed in with a written notice. From his viewpoint, Thomas recognised it as one of the many messages coming from the optical telegraphs, the semaphores. Moorbanke studied the message and then fairly jumped up from his chair.

“Captain Haversham, the Clyde frigate is coming in with a captured French third-rate. Have the bells in the city toll! Assemble the Dockyard workers to line the quays and cheer! Mister Grey, my respects to Mister Bayly at the Academy, and will he send the young gentlemen to the quays, too! You’ll lead them!”

“Aye-aye, Sir,” Thomas got out before he fairly ran from the building. He knew of the Clyde, a beautiful 40-gun frigate captured from the French a year ago by the smaller Medusa fifth-rate under Captain Carter. Capturing a third-rate was a rare feat for a mere frigate, even a big one. Just engaging a third-rate was considered folly. Captain Carter must have been in a tight spot when he decided to accept the fight.

At the Academy, he ran up to the headmaster’s office, and he was out of breath when he knocked. Fortunately, Mister Bayly was not in class.

“Mister Grey, what can I do for you? You look winded.”

“Sir, Admiral Moorbanke’s respects, and would you release the classes for the next hours? One of our frigates is bringing in a captured French ship of the line, and the Admiral wishes for the scholars to cheer the victors from the quays.”

“I take it that was an unusual feat, Mister Grey?”

“Yes, Sir, almost unparalleled.”

“Then we should give the victors their due recognition! Kindly inform Mister Peabody, Mister Grey. We, the masters, shall also join the felicitations! When is the ship expected?”

“An hour at the most, Sir.”

“I shall instruct the brewers to provide some ale to toast the brave sailors. Let us get organised then!”

Not quite an hour later, the remaining 28 scholars, the teaching staff, and the household staff were assembled on the quay at the South Camber, watching as the damaged ships drew near. Clyde was leading and showing her damage, but behind her, sporting a jury rig, came a large third-rate, flying the Union Jack over the Tricolour. Knowing that the Church bells would soon start to toll, and wanting to be the first, Thomas led the first three hurrahs of the assembled scholars. Even the masters joined the cheering, and some of the topmen in the victorious frigate waved back at them, inciting even more raucous yelling amongst the young scholars.

Suddenly, Thomas felt remorse. But for his selfish wish to stay in Portsmouth to enjoy the ladies at the Sea Rover a little bit longer, it could have been he waving back at the cheering crowds. Then the sobering thought that it could have been he, too, wrapped in a hammock, cannon shot at his head and feet, on the bottom of the Channel, came to him, quelling the guilty feelings a little.

Now, hundreds of dockyard workers made themselves heard and the Church bells started tolling, drowning out the paltry number of cheering Academy scholars. The Brewery staff was now handing out mugs of ale and toasts were brought out for the brave Clydes.

Both ships cast anchor now, and immediately, the gig boat of the Clyde was lowered and a tall officer in a lieutenant’s coat climbed down, obviously carrying reports. Quickly, Thomas found the headmaster.

“Sir, I must return to the Dockyard headquarters and my duties.”

“Well, you better rush then, Mister Grey. Thank you for alerting us. The young scholars will remember this for a long time.”

Thomas made it back just barely before the lieutenant arrived and was led before the Commander-in-Chief. Standing in the back, Thomas still heard everything.

“Sir, Lieutenant Fortescue, in acting command of the Clyde frigate and wishing to report!”

Fortescue certainly looked worn out, Thomas noticed. Moorbanke noticed it, too.

“Have a seat, Mister Fortescue!”

“Sir, if I may, I would first alert you to our urgent need for a qualified surgeon, preferably not one of the wretched sawbones. Our surgeon is in irons for drinking himself senseless in the face of the enemy, and we have numerous wounded needing qualified care most urgently.”

“Oh, dear!” Moorbanke exclaimed. “Your captain, too?”

“Yes, Sir, a leg wound and much loss of blood.”

Moorbanke looked around. “Mister Grey, you have young legs. Run, and I mean run, to Mister Caldecott’s house. You remember it? Good. Run there and summon him most urgently to the Dockyard. Better bring him directly to the quay and see him to the Clyde frigate in my barge!”

“Aye-aye, Sir,” Thomas snapped back, already on a dead run for the hallway and out of the building. He knew Caldecott’s house, having accompanied the Admiral there for a consultation.

When he reached the main gate, he saw a cab waiting for business and climbed in hastily.

“April Square, and make it quick!” he snapped at the befuddled driver, who nevertheless let his whip snap, and they moved along the streets much faster than Thomas could have done on foot.

Fortunately, Mister Reginald Caldecott, RCS, was in and having tea, allowing Thomas to discharge his summons presently. Caldecott listened to Thomas’s hurried explanation with outward calmness and nodded sadly when learning about the Clyde’s surgeon’s misconduct.

“Can I expect the usual varieties of battle wounds, Mister ... ah ... Grey?”

“I have no knowledge, Sir. I am on the Admiral’s staff. I only heard that Captain Carter suffered a musket shot to the leg.”

“Of course. Let us rush then. Wilmers, pack our instruments! You’ll accompany me.”

Mister Caldecott’s surgical helper appeared with a large valise a few minutes later, and using another cab, they drove to the Dockyard and there to the quay, where the barge was waiting. In no time at all, Thomas helped the surgeon and his helper up the Jacob’s ladder and followed them up. There was a lieutenant wearing a uniform that showed he had slept in it, and not just once.

“I am Midshipman Grey, of the Commander-in-Chief’s staff, Sir. Admiral Moorbanke charged me with conveying Mister Caldecott, RCS, to your ship so that he may tend to the wounded.”

“Welcome aboard, Mister Grey and Mister Caldecott. You’re a surgeon?”

“A member of the Royal College of Surgeons.”

“You’re heaven-sent then, Mister Caldecott. I’ll have the loblolly boys ready the sickbay for you. In the meantime, would you please come aft? Captain Carter was wounded. He lost a lot of blood and his wound could not be cleaned.”

“I’ll have a short look at him, but I treat my patients according to the urgency of their condition.”

“I understand. Mister Wescot, show Mister Caldecott to the captain’s cabin!”

“And you, Mister Grey, what can I do for you?”

“I was to bring Mister Caldecott here, Sir. I feel compelled to offer what help I can provide, but Admiral Moorbanke needs his barge back.”

“Thank you anyway, Mister Grey. We need a surgeon more than another midshipman,” the lieutenant grinned.

“Sir, I have Sunday free. I could come and spell one of your midshipmen...”

“That’s a handsome offer, Mister Grey, but our young gentlemen can handle things. Our humble thanks to Admiral Moorbanke!”

“Very well, Sir. The best of luck and health!”

Thomas was a little disappointed on the way back to the shore, but once he arrived back the headquarters, he was soon immersed in a dozen or more tasks, mostly running messages to the Admiral Superintendent of the Dockyard, the surgeon-in-chief at the infirmary, and the commanding officer of the Royal Marines in the Dockyard. Next came the Port Admiral who would have to allocate the French prisoners to the available prison hulks.

Whoever thought that being a midshipman on the staff of a shore-based admiral was a sinecure, had not watched Thomas on this day. It was after 11 p.m. when he tiredly limped up to his cabin in the Academy and when he woke at reveille, he had to fight the temptation to stay in bed. With a superhuman effort, he managed to make himself presentable, stuff himself with bread and cheese in the mess hall, and then run back to headquarters.

As soon as Admiral Moorbanke showed up — he looked as if he hadn’t slept at all — Thomas was sent to the infirmary to inquire about their needs. Their answer was simple — fresh surgeons and surgeon’s mates. They had finished treating the most urgent cases amongst the Clydes, but they still had 27 urgent cases amongst the French prisoners ahead of them. Moorbanke promised to find surgeons in the ships anchoring in Portsmouth.

There was also the man in charge of the surgeons’ supply warehouse, who refused to make bandages available for the French. When Thomas reported back about the man, Captain Fitzmoran on his peg leg stomped angrily from the headquarters, no doubt to bring the self-important pencil pusher to heel.

Meanwhile, the heavily damaged French ship had been docked. Clyde’s hull had not sustained underwater damage, and her crew was effecting the necessary repairs whilst at anchor, with some help from the dockyard.

Things calmed down over the next days. Captain Carter of the Clyde had come through the surgery by Mister Caldecott and was recuperating in his own, Portsmouth home. His crew, wounded or hale, were treated to fresh ales and fresh foods from his own pockets, whilst a London surgeon had arrived to lessen the load of the resident surgeons and Mister Caldecott. Moorbanke had assembled a report in which he urged the ministry to recognise Captain Carter’s courage and success. He was not alone. The newspapers, so critical of the Navy and its officers in recent weeks, made an about-face, praising the selfless daring and flawless handling of the Clyde during the battle.

Thomas, too, could only think and speak of Captain Carter in blatant admiration. If he, Thomas Grey, would ever attain command of a ship, he would mould his conduct on that hero. He contemplated a visit to the wounded captain, but a rare moment of clear thinking made him realise the folly of pestering a man recovering from a severe wound.

If his own adulation of the man could be topped, it would have been by the lovely, barely nubile Vivienne, in the Sea Rover. She read every newspaper article about him, even those from two years before, when his Medusa frigate had captured the. Loire in a pitched, close quarters battle in the narrow approach to Brest, another remarkable feat. She even spent a fruitless day watching Carter’s house off King’s Street, and returned crestfallen when she had seen several beautiful ladies entering and leaving the house. It was Thomas’s pleasant duty to console her.

Although he did not need Captain Conway’s help anymore, he still visited him regularly. Thus, he was the first to hear of coming changes, for Conway had purchased a house in Southside. The reason for this radical change in his habits was that Miss Maybelle had accepted his wooing and would soon be known to the world as Mistress Mabel Conway, leaving the Sea Rover under the stewardship of Miss Ginger, who had bought a stake in the ownership. The Conways would live modestly but comfortably with his captain’s pay and the surplus of the Sea Rover.

Thomas was in fact invited to the wedding. Being only sixteen, he could not serve as best man, but he was chosen to lead the bride to the altar. Commander Fitzmoran, who knew bride and groom personally and was invited as well, arranged for Thomas to get the necessary leave. Thus, on August 31, Captain Rufus Conway, Esq., and Miss Mabel Stockton exchanged their wedding vows in the chapel on the Royal Dockyard grounds, with Mister Wiseman, the Dockyard chaplain, officiating.

The small wedding party then celebrated in the festively decorated cabin of the Ville de Bordeaux, after the core crew and many of the berthed seamen manned the yards and offered a thunderous ‘hooray’ to the couple and their guests, amongst them of course, the remaining ladies of the Sea Rover. In the joyous mood, with the lovely Chastity at his side, Thomas got really drunk for the first time in his life, and he had to sleep it off in a hammock down below deck.

When he woke bleary-eyed and feeling sick, bride, groom and ‘maids’ of honour had already left the ship, heading for their new home or the Sea Rover, respectively, and Thomas nursed himself with tea and hardtack for a day.

The following day was a Monday, and he was back at the headquarters by 6 bells, still feeling slightly sick. Over the weekend, there had been an incident in the Dockyard where a Royal Navy carpenter’s mate and a Dockyard carpenter got into fisticuffs over some issue. It was a minor thing, and Fitzmoran had Thomas question the two men in the holding cells. As Thomas soon found out, the two men had a quarrel over some shoddy work done by the dockyard in the carpenter’s mate’s ship, and the carpenter had reacted badly to accusations of being incompetent. Heated words were exchanged mentioning the adversaries’ respective parentages, leading to pushing and finally blows.

Having had almost two days to reflect on their actions and the possible consequences, both men were rueful and agreed to make up, and since none of them had suffered injuries, Thomas’s report to Fitzmoran suggested docking a week’s pay for the carpenter and a two-weeks forfeiture of the rum allowance for the carpenter’s mate, to which Fitzmoran agreed.

This being settled, Thomas had a question for his superior.

“Sir, I haven’t received orders yet for a shipboard posting. Can you advise me what to do?”

“You applied, Mister Grey?”

“Yes, Sir, twice. It’s not that my duties here are not important...”

“But you want to go to sea,” Fitzmoran finished for him. “You’re the last of your class without a shipboard posting?”