Chapter 11: Convoy duty

Winter 1809/10

On the next morning, a boat from the shore brought two huddled figures in boat cloaks who turned out to be Mr. Paul Courtland and Mr. Erasmus James, recent graduates of the Royal Naval Academy at Portsmouth, who reported for duty in Tempest. Neither of them had been to sea before.

Thomas received them in his cabin and studied their papers. Somebody in the Admiralty must have been possessed of a grim sense of humour, or perhaps they expected him to be more tolerant towards the Academy graduates. He looked them over. Courtland was a pudgy boy of sixteen, with reddish, curly hair, red cheeks and a paunch. His father was a clergyman, and his grades at the Academy had been excellent. James was a bean pole of a boy, with dirty blonde hair and a face full of pimples. His grades had been average, and he was an orphan, raised by an uncle.

“It would seem that their Lordships hate me,” Thomas began. “Instead of seasoned warrant officers, they saddle me with two landlubbers. Well, this cannot be helped. You, young gentlemen, will have to learn seamanship and learn it fast. You’ll be rated landsmen and trained along with the raw recruits. If you do your duty, no harm will befall you. If you neglect your duty ... Well, let’s assume you won’t for your own sake. Now get settled in!”

Two very timid boys followed Master’s Mate Jackson out and disappeared towards the twilight of the orlop deck. Thomas cursed briefly. To have two landlubbers foisted on him was an infernal piece of luck.

Shortly after noon, another boat arrived which carried the long-awaited Mr. Bell. Thomas’s first reaction to seeing the man was a mounting despair. Bell was at most 20 years of age and his expensive uniform coat indicated a wealthy family.

“Lieutenant Algernon Bell; come aboard, Sir!” he reported smartly enough.

“Commander Thomas Grey, Mr. Bell. Welcome aboard,” Thomas replied. “Why don’t you come aft to my cabin?”

“Delighted, Sir!” Bell answered cheerily.

Thomas led the way to the cabin where he found Bartleby busy setting the table for his captain.

“Bartleby, this is Lieutenant Bell.”

“Welcome aboard, Sir!” Bartleby sang out, standing upright and with his knuckles touching his temple in salute.

“Kindly set the table for two, Bartleby,” Thomas ordered. “Please have a seat, Mr. Bell.”

They sat at the table in the friendly little main cabin, the table lighted by the wintry sun streaming in through the stern windows.

“Thank you, Sir. When I read ‘sloop’ in my orders, I imagined something much smaller.”

“No, this was a sixth-rate post-ship built in ‘76, but she’s a bit small by today’s standards. They replaced the main deck nine pounders with 16 carronades and rated her as a ship-sloop.”

“Almost 34 years old, by God, Sir. She looks smart enough though.”

“The French captured her in ‘01 and laid her up at first, but they gave her a thorough revision just six months ago and reactivated her. We cut her out from the Scheldt River.”

“That must have been exciting, Sir. I’ve never had a chance like that.”

Thomas looked at the logbook Bell had handed over. Captain’s servant for three years, then rated midshipman for another three years before he received his commission two years ago. All this in one ship, the second-rate Neptune, 98.

“I see. Not much adventure in a three-decker I imagine.”

“None whatsoever, Sir. That’s why I applied for transfer.”

“Did you ever sail in a smaller ship at all?”

“I was second-in-command in a captured brig for three weeks until we reached Falmouth.”

“Well, you’re second in command now, Mr. Bell and ... Ah, here’s Bartleby. Let us enjoy the food!”

Indeed, here was Bartleby with freshly roasted liver, potatoes and apple slices. He looked a bit miffed, without doubt having expected to have some leftovers for himself. As it was, the food was enough for two, and the two officers ate with appetite.

After they finished their meal, Thomas went over Bell’s duties with him and explained their current status. He also mentioned the two Academy graduates which brought a smirk to Bell’s face.

“Oh, dear, Sir! We’ve had one of them in the Neptune. They’re nigh on useless.”

“Be that as it may, we have to make do with them, Mr. Bell. Let’s not break them right at the beginning. If they learn their duties they may grow into being real midshipmen.”

“Indeed, Sir. I shall watch them closely.”

“Well, I better not keep you longer, Mr. Bell. I shall have dinner guests in my cabin and I ask you to watch over things tonight.”

Bell rose. “Aye-aye, Sir! I shall look after things and get current with all matters.”

This time, Thomas had his father greeted by four side boys and the boatswain’s pipes as befitted his rank, and Theodore Grey certainly enjoyed it. The boatswain’s chair was needed to hoist first Margaret Grey and then Mirabel Goodwin to the deck, from the cutter Thomas had sent ashore. After introducing his officers to his family, he led the way aft to his cabin.

One thing that the re-rating had accomplished was to give him more room in his cabin. Before the refit, Tempest carried two six-pounders over her rated armament, which crowded the tiny after cabin and the chart room. Now, no six-pounder competed for space, making the cabin quite spacious. His mother and Mirabel still thought it very small, but Theodore Grey disputed that vehemently.

Bartleby had set the table for them, and he had prepared three courses. Of course, all the ingredients had come from the Greys’ estate, but nevertheless he was hosting visitors on board his ship for the first time ever.

After dinner, they played a game of cards before the Greys decided to return to their lodgings for the evening. Thomas insisted on accompanying them back to the shore in the cutter.

Over the next days, the last provisions came aboard. A young surgeon, aptly named Mr. Cutler, joined the wardroom. A powder barge came upriver from the arsenal to deliver cartridges and gunpowder. Another barge came on the next day with 1,600 32-pounder rounds, 200 nine-pounder balls and 600 six-pounder rounds. The gunner and his mates oversaw the stowing of the shot whilst Thomas had himself rowed around the ship to assess the effect of the stowed round shot on the ship’s trim.

It was December 20 when he reported his ship ready for sea, and on the next morning he was given his orders. As had to be expected, Tempest was detailed to escort a convoy, in this case 12 Navy transports headed for Gibraltar. The rendezvous was between January 3 and 6 in the Downs south of Ramsgate, and Tempest was to be supported by a small gun brig, the Dasher, 14, under a Lt. Carver.

Thus it came that the Greys celebrated Christmas on board HM sloop Tempest with Thomas’s senior officers. It was a crowded affair in the captain’s cabin of the small ship, but the officers appreciated the food and the female company, for Miss Harriet-Anne Paddington also followed the invitation. She greeted Thomas like a long lost relative and charmed everybody. Mr. Bell in particular looked like a love-sick idiot by the time the Greys and Miss Paddington returned to the shore. Thomas accompanied them and there, on the embankment, he bid his parents good bye.

Miss Paddington would return to Guildford with the Greys whilst Mirabel was moving in at Sir Robert Norton’s mansion to start her position as Lady Norton’s companion. Thomas returned to his ship and spent an hour or two writing a letter to Mrs. Catrina Duncan, wishing her well and informing her of his new command and destination. He also sent a letter to Mr. Egerton, thanking him for his support and assuring him that he was more than satisfied with his ship and rank.

On New Year’s Day 1810, HMS Tempest weighed anchor with the running tide and travelled downriver under easy sail. The weather was sunny after the fog lifted, and Thomas used the time to exercise his crew aloft. Sails were set and taken in, topgallant masts were taken down and brought up again, and stay sails were manned up on deck and set to simulate emergencies such as the loss of a mast. Young Mr. Courtland had a hard time of it given his girth and weight, but he kept at it with dogged determination even though he shed some tears of desperation. Mr. James had another problem, namely being afraid of heights, but he manfully suppressed his fears. When they anchored at dusk, the entire crew was dog tired.

The next day, whilst they rounded the North Foreland, Thomas ordered a gun drill. For three hours, guns were loaded and run out, unloaded, loaded again, and finally fired once. Thomas not only watched his crews but also the ship to find out how the 34 year-old hull could handle the 32-pounder fire. Whilst there was quite a lot room for improvement on the part of the crews, the ship passed this test with flying colours.

When they finally approached the roads south of Ramsgate, Thomas could already see three of the transports at anchor. Dasher was still missing, but she could not be expected to arrive a day early. Thomas anchored his ship a cable length to seaward from the transports and sent the watch below for the night.

During the next day, Dasher and three more transports arrived at the rendezvous, and Thomas invited Lt. Carver over for a short meal and a discussion of their task. Carver was an old hand at the escorting business, having been in command of his brig for four years already. He and Thomas quickly settled on the ground rules for the convoy duty, with Dasher posted as vanguard towards the French coast and Tempest always to windward of the convoy.

Surprisingly, the rest of the transports arrived over the next day so that Thomas could order anchor up on January 5. With the wind coming from south-east, their progress was very slow at first until they were past Dover. Even with the wind coming a touch more from the south then, they sailed close-hauled on a south-western course. Under these conditions, the transports could make little more than 4 knots, but that progress was at least steady.

Tempest proved to be a surprisingly handy ship. The reduction of weight on her gun deck made her less top-heavy than other ships of her size, and her clean bottom gave her a good turn of speed.

Once they were in the open Atlantic, the wind shifted to north-east, giving them almost ideal conditions. Climbing the long Atlantic rollers under a full press of her sails, Tempest was a delight to her captain. The landsmen had learned their stations by now and grown sea legs, and their morale was improving noticeably.

The transports proved to be a constant worry. They had a tendency to spread out, and Thomas had twice seen the need to bear down on one of them and to use signal flags and even a six-pounder signal shot to compel her commanding officer into maintaining proper position.

Thomas knew that those transports were commanded by senior lieutenants who had no hope of advancement, and he suspected that most of them resented him, a young man of twenty who was already their superior. He was convinced that they provoked him on purpose and he resolved to do something about that once they reached Gibraltar.

When they had finally reached the point where they could wear ship to a south-eastern course, one transport again kept her old course ignoring the signals and her consorts. Thomas sent the Dasher after her, refusing to be baited himself, but as with the previous instances, he entered the event in his log book. Eventually, Dasher herded the black sheep back into the fold and resumed her position to south-east of the convoy.

The transport, the brig Lady Anne under a Lieutenant Proctor, behaved better from then on, but Thomas had already decided to make an example of her. When the convoy reached the mouth of the Strait, the transports were coerced into sailing in two columns of six, with Dasher and Tempest covering them to the North against any attempts from out of Algeciras. With Spain having switched sides again, it was now an ally, and their ships were no threat to the convoy. However, Thomas did not know if the French controlled the port.

They made it safely into Gibraltar and anchored in the roads. After the bustle of anchoring, Thomas turned to Mr. Courtland.

“Signal to Lady Anne: Report to convoy leader.”

It took almost a quarter hour before the brig launched a jolly boat which headed for Tempest. The man sitting in the stern sheets was wearing a midshipman’s lapel on his coat.

“I wonder what happened to Mr. Proctor, Sir,” Bell mused beside Thomas.

“I suppose we shall find out soon,” Thomas replied.

A few minutes later, the jolly boat hooked to the lee chains and a midshipman of perhaps 25 years entered through the port. He was met by master’s mate Evans and then sent aft to where Thomas and Bell were waiting.

“Midshipman Ernest Brown, Sir, reporting to convoy leader!”

“Very well, Mr. Brown. Where’s Lieutenant Proctor?”

“Umh ... Sir ... He’s sick, Sir.”

“Sick? Perhaps we should send our surgeon?”

“No, Sir! It’s ... Seeing how we’ve cast anchor already, Captain Proctor c ... celebrated already, Sir.”

“Drunk?” Thomas asked curtly.

Blushing deeply in spite of his mahogany complexion, Mr. Brown bit his lip and nodded.

“Was he perhaps celebrating too when your ship missed the change of course?”

“I-I wouldn’t know, Sir. I was watch free when the quartermaster sent for me. Dasher was already closing on us and I changed course according to the signals, Sir. I went to the cabin, but the door was closed and the Captain shouted that he was sick.”

“More likely ‘shick’, Sir,” Bell opined.

Thomas nodded, suspecting the same. His problem was that he was not really Proctor’s superior. Sure, he held the higher rank – barely – but he could not relieve the man of his command. A senior post captain would get away with that, but not a commander of less than 8 weeks seniority. Yet, the port admiral might decide to take action, Thomas hoped.

“Mr. Bell, sent signal to Dasher: report to convoy leader. When Lt. Carver arrives, kindly inform him of the situation and ask him in my name to inspect the Lady Anne and her commanding officer. I am sorry, Mr. Bell, but you are junior to Mr. Proctor.”

“I understand, Sir.”

“Mr. Evans, my gig!”

Master’s mate Evans had the watch, and he relayed the orders for the captain’s gig. Fifteen minutes later, Thomas had landed. At the port admiral’s office, a smartly dressed lieutenant explained that the most senior officer was Captain Tushingham, who, though retired from the service, was temporarily appointed to the position of port admiral by Vice-admiral Sir Charles Cotton.

Captain Tushingham was a man in his early sixties whose grey hair was tied into an old-fashioned queue. His weatherbeaten face showed his disgust when Thomas reported about the Lady Anne and her skipper.

“Not responding to flag signals you say? And that midshipman said he’s sick. Well, we’ll see about that. You have your gig, Captain?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then let us visit the Lady Anne!”

For his age, Captain Tushingham walked briskly over the cobbled streets down to the quay. Thomas’s boatswain made big eyes when a full captain climbed down the steps. The bow man shoved off, the starboard oars held water and with three strokes of the port side oars the boat turned away from the quay. The Lady Anne was lying at anchor two cable lengths away from the shore and in mere minutes the gig, propelled by six oars, hooked on to her chains.

Thomas discreetly helped Captain Tushingham to get a footing on the Jacob’s ladder and climbed up after him. On the deck, they found Lt. Carver on the quarter deck. He came forward immediately.

“Captain Tushingham, may I introduce Lt. Carver? He commands the Dasher brig, and I sent him over to inspect the ship.”

Tushingham nodded. “What could you find out, Mr. Carver?”

“Sir, I tried to speak to Mr. Proctor, but he’s barricaded himself in his cabin and refuses to open.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Tushingham said with a shake of his head. “Let us see if he responds to orders.”

He stepped up to the cabin door and rapped it sharply with his sword hilt.

“This is Captain Tushingham, acting port admiral. Mr. Proctor, open your cabin door!”

“Leave me alone! I’m sick!” came the answer from inside. “Leave. Me. Alone! I’ll rather see you dead, God damn you!”