Chapter 12: Reward

March, 1812

It must have been his 10th time in over two years of sighting the Mediterranean Fleet Thomas thought idly as he timed his next manoeuvre carefully. As usual, Tempest carried the mail for the Commander in Chief, and that set the priorities. No sooner had Tempest settled on a course a cable length athwart from the flagship than his gig splashed into the water, and then he was racing down the Jacob’s ladder with the mail bag. Only five minutes later saw him on the quarter deck saluting the flag of Sir Edward Pellew’s, who had succeeded Admiral Cotton a year before.

There was Captain Dancer, the Captain of the Fleet, waiting for him.

“Welcome aboard, Captain Grey. Had you a good crossing?”

“Mostly, Sir. Kirkland lost her mizzen mast off Quessant in a bad squall, and we had to tow her for a day until she could rig a jury mast. Never saw hair or hide of the Frogs.”

“Excellent, Captain. Why don’t you follow me to Sir Edward’s cabin?”

This was routine for Thomas by now, just like bringing along a bundle of the newest newspapers along with extra copies of the Naval Gazette. He also had extra consignments of cabin stores for a number of the captains on board. Even Sir Edward availed himself of these services which Thomas performed free of charge for his fellow officers. Entering the great cabin, Thomas was aware that he was wearing an everyday uniform coat that was showing the traces of two years of sea service, but he also knew by now how little his Commander in Chief cared about such matters.

“Your arrival is most welcome, Captain,” Sir Edward greeted him with a benevolent smile. Thomas knew that the admiral appreciated the reliable convoys under Tempest’s escort, but also the news and gossip from home which Thomas never failed to collect.

“Thank you, Sir Edward,” he answered before he caught the twinkle in the admiral’s eye. “Sir Edward?”

“You’ve commanded Tempest for how long?”

“Two years and four months, Sir Edward,” Thomas replied, asking himself what might be behind that question. His conscience was clear after all.

“I see. Your service has been exemplary in those two years, Captain.”

“Thank you, Sir Edward.” That was high praise from a man like Pellew.

“Well, your arrival is welcome because I shall need you in another posting. Captain Grenville of Kent died last week. It’s been coming for a while, the poor man. I have appointed Captain Clephane of Cerberus to Kent. Captain Garth of Dido has taken over Cerberus which leaves you to assume command of Dido. You know her?”

Thomas held his breath. Dido was one of the last 28-gun nine-pounder frigates, a sixth-rate post ship. He forced himself to answer while the thoughts were tumbling through his head.

“M-my most humble thanks, Sir Edward!” he managed to say without too much stammering. “Yes, Sir Edward, I know her. Twenty-eight guns, commissioned in ‘87 I believe. I saw her in Deptford a year ago undergoing revision.”

Pellew smiled at his captain of the fleet before looking at Thomas again.

“Have you been studying every sixth-rate in the fleet?”

Thomas blushed but nodded. “I believe I did, Sir. One always has hopes.”

“And justified in your case, Captain. Plan to transfer to Dido tomorrow. Tempest will be taken over by Mr. Everton. He’s 1st lieutenant in the Artemis frigate and he recently commanded a successful cutting-out action near Antibes. This will be his reward.”

“Very well, Sir Edward,” Thomas answered. Bell would be disappointed, but that could not be helped.

“You’ll be on detached duty suppressing French shipping along the Catalonian coast.”

Thomas eyes went wide. This meant the opportunity to catch prizes. Of course! Dido was of no consequence in any fleet action, but she was speedy, reasonably well armed, and drawing less than two fathoms.

“Aye-aye, Sir,” he answered belatedly.

“You’re a seasoned captain now. I trust you to distinguish between daring and foolhardiness,” Pellew admonished him gently, bringing him down to reality again.

“Of course, Sir Edward!” he answered quickly.

“You will operate under the orders of Captain Benning of Caroline. You know him well?”

“Yes, Sir Edward. I was his 3rd Lieutenant in Andromeda and had the honour of witnessing his wedding.”

“Then you should get along perfectly, Captain. Expect your new orders before evening, and congratulations!”

“Thank you, Sir Edward! I shall do my best to justify your trust!”

“I trust you will, Captain! Bonne chance!”

A rather dazed Thomas then returned to Tempest for the last time. Watching his ship swaying gently in the soft swell of the Mediterranean Sea gave him a short pang of sorrow. She had been good for him, carrying him and the crew through gales and calms without ever showing weaknesses. Mr. Everton, whoever he was, was a lucky man to get her, Thomas decided.

Once he was on deck he ordered “all hands”. The men assembled on deck in divisions and Thomas let his gaze sweep over them for a moment. The hastily assembled crew from over two years back had been forged into a unit, the faceless men had become individuals with weaknesses and strengths, and now he would probably never see them again. He swallowed briefly before he raised his voice.

“You officers and men! I have been given orders to assume command of his Majesty’s frigate Dido of 28 guns. I will transfer tomorrow, but before I leave I want you to know that you men have done your duty to King and Country to my full satisfaction. Tomorrow, Captain Everton will take command of Tempest and I have no doubt that he will be as grateful for your service as I have been for over two years!” He turned to Bell. “Kindly dismiss the free watch, Mr. Bell. Thank you!”

He left the deck then to start and complete all the paperwork that his successor would expect him to hand over. He also promoted four seamen to able seaman, one able seaman to boatswain’s mate, and promoted the midshipmen ordinary Courtland and James to full midshipman’s rank, the latter with a degree of uncertainty. Courtland was by far the better of the two, and Thomas made certain to appoint him before James.

In between, a barge from the flagship arrived with his orders posting him to Dido. A promotion by a commander-in-chief on a foreign station was as good as always confirmed by the Admiralty, in particular if the admiral in question was the legendary Sir Edward Pellew, a hero of the ballads and arguably the best sailor of his time when he commanded his old frigates, Arethusa and Indefatigable.

Thomas also composed letters to his father and to Mr. Egerton advising them of his posting and of his new ship. Thomas did not know whether his father would be completely happy about his son now being his superior, but he would be proud nonetheless.

Early on the next morning, Thomas left Tempest in the longboat, with Bartleby, his cabin furniture and his cabin stores. The longboat set the large lateen sail whilst Tempest’s crew manned the yards in saluting their leaving captain. Thomas stood and lifted his hat to acknowledge the gesture and watched his ship get smaller until the sight was blocked by other ships.

Like Tempest, Dido was an old ship with a quarter century of service. Yet, she had never sustained great damage and had undergone a recent revision. Watching her during his approach, Thomas could not help but grin with deep satisfaction. In a few moments, after reading himself in, he would be Thomas Grey, Esquire, Captain, R.N. This was the pinnacle of his career. He was only 22 years of age, and from this day onward, seniority alone would bring him an admiral’s flag one distant day.

The longboat was hailed when it approached the small frigate and Thomas could not help the silly grin when Bartleby hailed back “Dido!”, signalling that her new captain was in approach. He checked for the appointment in his breast pocket, corrected the seat of his cocked hat and made certain that the scabbard of his sword would not entangle his legs, before he reached for the ladder and climbed up to the main deck of his new ship.

There was an older lieutenant waiting at the port behind the boatswain’s mates.

“Lt. James Muir, Sir,” he introduced himself with a touch of Scots in his voice. “I’m the Nº1.”

“Captain Thomas Grey, Mr. Muir. Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Thomas answered. “May I trouble you to call for all hands, Mr. Muir?”

A faint smiled creased the man’s eyes. “Certainly, Sir! Mr. Pollock! All hands on deck!”

Everybody had been waiting for the command for it took less than a minute for the ship’s company to assemble on deck in their divisions. Of course, Dido’s crew was well seasoned, and her captain would have hardly been appointed to a bigger ship had he been slack in his duties. Mr. Muir saluted Thomas.

“All hands on deck, Sir!”

“Thank you, Mr. Muir,” Thomas replied, already unfolding his orders. “Orders given to me, Thomas Grey, Esq., Captain in the Royal Navy, by Sir Edward Pellew, Knight Commander of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Vice-Admiral of the Red Squadron and Commander in Chief of His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels in the Mediterranean Sea.

“Sir, you are hereby requested and required to assume immediate command of His Majesty’s Ship Dido, of 28 guns, currently sailing off Toulon, and attached to the 3rd frigate squadron of the Mediterranean Fleet.

“You officers and men, I trust that we shall continue to serve our King George and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland to our best abilities and with the absolute loyalty expected of us. I am proud to be your new captain and I shall reward loyalty with loyalty. That’s all. Dismiss the hands, if you please, Mr. Muir!”

“Hats on!” Muir commanded with a stentorian voice. He was every bit as tall as Thomas, but fuller figured, with a voice to match his barrel chest.

“If you have the time, Mr. Muir, I would be grateful for a brief interview in my new cabin,” Thomas told his new second-in-command.

“Certainly, Sir,” Muir answered.

Thomas already headed for the cabin where a marine sentry snapped to attention and held the door open.

“Thank you,” Thomas said politely as he entered his new home.

He looked around briefly. Compared with Tempest’s after cabin, Dido’s was only marginally bigger, and that additional space was taken up by one of the six-pounder guns. The chartroom was off that cabin to port, as was his private privy. The cabin was bare of any furniture. Obviously, Captain Garth preferred his private furniture in his new ship, just like Thomas. There was only a desk and a chair left and Thomas shrugged, preferring to stand.

“My steward will need help to move my furniture in here,” he said, to which Muir nodded. “But that has to wait for a few moments. What can you tell me of Dido’s condition?”

“She went through revision last year, Sir. She’s old, as you probably know, but she’s not showing it. The timbers are sound, there’s no hog in her keel, and she gives a pretty turn of speed. We still carry long nines on the main deck, but four of the six-pounders were replaced with carronades. We’re fully provisioned again and we have water for 84 days at full rations. Spare sails and spars are complete. I cannot think of anything wanting, Sir.”

“Very good, Mr. Muir. How are we set for a crew?”

“Twelve under complement, Sir. We may still get three or four fresh men from the transports.”

“Not bad at all,” Thomas opined, meaning it. Hardly any of His Majesty’s Ships were manned to complement, and twelve under was good. “Officers?”

“There’s Mr. Lark, 2nd lieutenant, and Mr. Bellows, 3rd, Sir. Both less than two years seniority. Mr. Miller, the sailing master, was appointed last year, but he’s an able man, Sir. The two master’s mates, Corbyn and Oldroyd, are solid. Of the midshipmen, Mr. Aldershot has almost five years sea-going service. The other two, Partridge and Cameron, less than two years, but they are doing well.”

“I shall study their papers soon. So, in your opinion, we are ready?”

Muir nodded emphatically. “Yes, Sir, we are. My word on it.”

“Very good to hear, Mr. Muir. How long have you been 1st lieutenant?”

“Eight years, Sir.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “That’s long.”

“Yes, Sir. I shan’t get promoted, ever.” Muir said with a shrug.

“And pray, why is that so?”

“I was reprimanded by a court martial after the loss of the Carver in ‘97, Sir. I had been watch officer when we struck the Black Rocks off Brest. The court found I should have roused the First Lieutenant and warned him about Captain Billingsham being drunk and commanding the manoeuvre, Sir.”

“Good Lord! What happened to your captain?”

“Firing squad, Sir. ‘Twas a bad year to face a court martial.”

Thomas nodded. 1797, the year of the mutinities of the Spithead and the Nore. The Royal Navy had been in its biggest crisis in that year, and officers could not hope for much leniency if found guilty of any negligence on their part.

“I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Muir. Let us make the best of our situation though. I suppose we shall have to engage and take an enemy ship of equal or bigger size. That should overcome a fifteen year-old reprimand.”