The Hero's Curse Read online

  THE WORMWOOD SAGA:

  PART TWO

  “THE HERO’S CURSE”

  BY

  DAVID DONACHIE

  Cover: Dave Chisholm www.davechisholmcartoons.com

  A “Very Brief” Author’s Note

  (Skip if you read it.)

  Some reading this will be familiar with the fifteen David Donachie novels in the John Pearce series, the Nelson and Emma Hamilton trilogy as well as the previous six in the Privateersman books, mixing murder with seafaring and war.

  Up till now, all my novels bar two, have been traditionally published and distributed, which means I have shared revenue with the publisher. No more: from now on my naval fiction will be put up both as digital downloads and POD paperbacks by me.

  I hope you, my readers, with not only stick with me, but communicate too, giving me the kind of feedback which, at present, I’m denied. The story below is a departure in the nature of the narrative, but I hope you will enjoy it just as much as I did writing it: either way, you can now tell me what you think!

  The Wormwood Saga does not set out to be a realistic description of the King’s Navy in the late 18th Century. It was written for amusement and to be humorous, based on the certainty not all naval officers could have been brave and upright.

  We think we live in a corrupt and greedy society; compared to the reign of George III, we are in a collective Utopia. Nothing could be achieved without influence or money, so the acquiring and brokering of such commodities exercised naval minds as much as the thought of battle or glory. Not all could be competent either: some, surely, were frankly too dangerous to be let loose with even a bum boat.

  There was also a high degree of sexual licentiousness, hardly surprising given the young age and nature of those serving at sea, away from home in an entirely male environment for months on end, making every landfall an excuse to indulge excessively in drink and copulation. The wedded estate was hardly a bar either.

  It was the married Captain Horatio Nelson who declared that, “Every man is a bachelor east of Gibraltar!” and he had affairs prior to meeting Emma Hamilton, notably with and opera singer. One of his predecessors in the Mediterranean, Captain Augustus Hervey, was said to have fathered over fifty illegitimate children during the Seven Years War, surely a feat never equalled.

  Lest it be thought I don't admire our naval champions, let me say I most assuredly do, given the endemic corruption of the time, sailing sometimes in ships which might literally fall apart, added to the lack of support generally received from seniors, juniors, the general public and the government. That those who officered the Men O’ War achieved any success at all is amazing.

  They led the most bloody minded, best trained and effective seaman afloat, so could go into battle knowing whatever happened, the men before the mast, if there was the slightest chance of prize money, would never let them down.

  So would it be churlish to point out many plying their guns, trimming the sails and harrying the trade of Britannia's foes did it not for King and Country, but for the prospect of capturing intact a valuable enemy, none more than the most potent dream of all, the taking of a Spanish Plate ship. The capture of such a vessel was the equivalent of winning the modern Lottery and who, even today, would not wish for that!

  So I invite you to read on…..

  DAVID DONACHIE

  Deal 2020

  Email: [email protected]

  Website: www.twofingewrsbooks.com

  Facebook: Two Fingers Books

  Twitter: #twofingersbooks

  Prologue

  Admiral Sir Brinley Roscoe read the despatch before him, with Captain Barrow, Master and Commander of His Britannic Majesty’s sloop, HMS Childers, sitting stiffly to attention on the other side of his desk. They were in the Port Admiral’s quarters in Chatham, overlooking the River Medway, a house built around the time of Oliver Cromwell, which had seen Charles the First lay his soon to be parted head on the Parliamentary block. This difference in time, some 150 years, allowed the people and government of Britain, in a fine example of hypocrisy, to call out as barbaric the fact that the French had so recently guillotined King Louis XVI.

  The room was sparsely but beautifully appointed, the wooden panelling, furniture and flooring gleaming with many decades of beeswax, though the dark portraits of previous Port Admirals which lined the walls, not one of who seemed to be able to manage a smile, marred the tasteful decoration. Nor could the present incumbent: to him the despatch just delivered by Barrow was relatively straightforward.

  It laid out the speed, course, destination and details of an action, which had taken Barrow’s ship into the estuary on the Brittany coast known as the Goulet, which led to the port of Brest, home to the French Channel Fleet. Meant only as a peaceful cruise of observation, it had turned out to be anything but; HMS Childers had sailed into a hornet’s nest, fired upon by the shore batteries protecting the anchorage. This was unanticipated as well as unfortunate, though not the object of Roscoe’s puzzlement.

  This centred on the heroics of Lord Charles Wormwood, a supernumerary midshipman not on the muster of HMS Childers. No matter how many times he read the despatch, he could not quite get to grips with some of the claims. No doubt the lad had more than done his duty, the despatch said as much, in fact it was fulsome in its praise for the example he had set. The admiral read the last page for a third time:

  A standard of steadfastness, of diligence as well as devotion to duty, which will stand in the annals of naval history and will serve to encourage all sailors by showing, whatever their rank, should they find themselves placed in the position of maximum danger, this, if they wish to prosper in the service of their Sovereign, is the example they should follow.

  The problem was not the words before him; it was the difference between those and the reports, received by word of mouth, which had preceded it. According to those earlier, verbal rumours, Barrow’s ship was little more than a hulk, with nearly all her rigging shot away. What was left depended on the strong and unrelenting grip of the very same eighteen-year-old midshipman, who’d lost one leg, three fingers off one hand, had several bullets in his chest, while it was suspected but not confirmed, he had also surrendered, due to another wound, the sight of one eye.

  The lad, who had been in upper rigging throughout the action, then insisted on holding the torn stays to such effect as to single-handedly keep aloft the sorely wounded mainmast, having returned to his post after swimming out from the side of the ship and capsizing half a dozen armed barges with his bare hands. When Barrow broke off the action, the young hero had reputedly demanded the right to stay in position, kept alive by tourniquets, bandages, ship’s biscuit and portable soup, until the HMS Childers reached her home port.

  Brinley Roscoe had been in the Navy a long time, so he knew how to allow for a mote of exaggeration. Also, he was of the opinion, on the whole, if it pleased and excited the populace, raising them to a more patriotic fervour, it was a good thing. Yet clearly he could see, out of his own window, a ship with all her standing rigging intact. To cap it all, Captain Barrow had informed him on entering, the young hero, so sorely wounded in the recent action was not, as the admiral supposed, being despaired of by the surgeons, his demise imminent. He was waiting in the anteroom to be presented.

  This Lysander had been acknowledged by the mob and, despite his lack of mortal wounds, had been cheered to the heavens. Roscoe was forced to acknowledge the ways of the public imagination were strange indeed. Besides, there was the whole nature of what had taken place. It was a moot point as to whether Captain Barrow, given his orders on sailing, should be praised or court-martialled, with the admiral not himself sure of which. He decided, true to his nature, to praise him to his face; he could
always damn him in absentia.

  ‘Well Mr Barrow, to you and your vessel fell the firing of the first shot in a new war with our old enemy. You must be on your way to London, their Lordships are eager to hear from you.’

  Though whether, the admiral thought, to congratulate you or hang you is something you’ll only discover on arrival. He, as well as anyone, knew how capricious fate could be; nothing was ever certain for a naval officer.

  ‘The way you handled you ship will, I’m sure, be seen as a credit to the King’s Navy and the country. I don’t think I’ll be breaking a confidence, if I say you may be shifting your gear out of your present command into something a mite bigger.’

  It was nothing less than a hint at Post Rank: titled captain he might be, but this was a courtesy title given to a lieutenants in command of an unrated ship, while to be made post and a true captain was the Holy Grail of naval existence, the route in time, death notwithstanding, to an admiral’s flag. There could no better news for a serving officer and Roscoe waited for the smile, the flushed faced, accompanied by the effusions of pleasure which always greeted such an announcement: he waited in vain.

  Barrow’s face didn’t move, it remained in stony repose. Lord Wormwood had shown him, as well as all his subordinates, how an officer should behave and he was man enough to learn, even from someone half his age. Roscoe was disappointed; he rarely got the chance to tell anyone they were promoted, especially in peacetime and it was not in his gift to elevate Barrow now. But, like all flag officers, he liked to allude to a certain amount of power, even if he did not in fact possess it. Now he was faced with this flinty silence, which lasted long enough to be embarrassing.

  ‘Carry on, Captain Barrow,’ he said eventually. ‘And ask my Flag Lieutenant to fetch in young Wormwood.’

  1.

  Charles entered seconds after Barrow departed, his plain uniform contrasting with the glittering full dress outfit of the admiral, coming to attention before the Roscoe’s enormous desk, his hat tucked under his arm, the introduction carried out by said Flag Lieutenant.

  ‘May I have the pleasure of presenting to you, sir, Lord Charles Wormwood?’

  ‘Well,’ Roscoe responded, in a warm paternal way, ‘our first hero of the new war. Allow me to congratulate you, sir. They’re right when they say you’re a credit to the Navy.’

  ‘You are most kind, Admiral Roscoe, but I’m only conscious of having done my duty.’

  Roscoe smiled: this was more like it, a proper response to a compliment, especially after Barrow’s icy silence! ‘Capital work, nonetheless,’ he boomed, coming round the desk. ‘Allow me to shake your hand, young sir.’

  Having grasped one, he pumped it up and down, while the recipient wondered how enthusiastic he should be, never having shaken hands with an admiral before.

  ‘Capital work,’ the older man kept repeating. ‘Sit down, Lord Wormwood and join me in a glass of wine. Holmes, have my servant fetch us some claret.’

  The Flag Lieutenant walked to the fireplace and pulled the cord, which would summon the servant, while Roscoe half pushed Charles into a large, wing-backed chair.

  ‘Now, young sir, I could not detain Captain Barrow, as he had to be off to the Admiralty and, while the despatch tells us what took place, I look to you to give us a fuller account and fill in the details.’

  ‘Well, sir, we were making about five knots as we approached the Goulet on the rising tide, the wind was light and nor nor west.’ Both Charles and the admiral silently accepted drinks from the servant, who had appeared as if by magic. Charles noted the Flag Lieutenant had sat down behind him as he continued. ‘The wind was dropping fast, sir, but we had no idea of any impending threat.’

  ‘But Captain Barrow had been appraised of the danger of war breaking out before he put to sea,’ the admiral replied sharply. ‘His instructions were not to hazard his ship.’

  Roscoe looked over Charles’ shoulder and nodded. It had to be presumed Holmes was taking notes.

  ‘The forts had no colours hoisted, although from my position, in the tops, I could see they were making preparations to fire.’

  ‘You warned the deck?’

  The pause was minimal. Not able, due to a total lack of experience, to focus properly with a telescope, he’d been forced to rely on the rat-faced Able Seaman Kissock, now his sailor servant, to tell him what was going on, which he had done most comprehensively. Since then the sod had become insufferable, so it had been necessary to remind him of his place. This thought closed up his features, which also left the admiral waiting for an answer, engendering a rather sharp repetition.

  ‘Did you warn the deck?’

  ‘Yes sir, as soon as I saw the guns run out.’

  ‘Did you feel then the ship was in danger?’

  Charles hesitated; then he repeated the words back to Roscoe, something he had practised since first going to school, which would cover him for a few seconds if he were asked a question he could not properly answer.

  ‘It’s difficult to say, sir,’ he responded at last. ‘After all, the French could have been getting ready to fire a salute.’

  ‘Childers had her colours flying?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  He looked down. In spite of all the hours he had spent practising with Kissock, he’d made an elementary mistake. Cursing himself under his breath, he looked up again to face Roscoe’s steady gaze.

  ‘Lord Wormwood, I admire your loyalty to Captain Barrow but I would remind you, even in your position as a guest aboard Childers, you owe a duty to the Navy.’

  The admiral uttered this kindly, but his look implied otherwise and the inference was obvious. Good God, thought Charles, I could ditch the lot of them! His mind raced as he considered the pros and cons of such a course given he’d only been in danger because a fellow midshipman called Pettigrew.

  He had put him in jeopardy by inviting Charles to join him in the tops, in a manner which rendered refusal impossible. Worse, the sod had been called back to the deck, leaving him alone with a telescope he couldn’t use and with no idea what he was supposed to do. The thought of repaying Pettigrew was strong, but he was not alone. On top of it all, there was the cardinal sin, made by Barrow and the rest of the ship’s blue coats, of leaving him there. His confusion made him speak rashly, adopting what was a high tone to take with a man of high rank.

  ‘With respect, sir, I understood our orders were to reconnoitre Brest, with a view to gaining information on the state of the French fleet.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Roscoe responded, letting it pass.

  ‘Then, sir, I cannot see how this could be done, not having prior knowledge of the state of affairs between France and ourselves, without the risk of endangering the ship.’

  He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him as Admiral Roscoe’s face turned thunderous, which told Charles he had sailed very close to the bounds of insolence. He was, after all only a midshipman, a lowly creature indeed in the presence of a Rear Admiral. There is rarely time in an interview to think: later he would realise Roscoe only wanted to cover his own exposed position, in case of an inquiry.

  In King George’s Navy, since the unfortunate affair of Admiral Byng, shot on his own quarterdeck for the accusation of cowardice off Minorca, everyone took care to cover themselves against the vagaries of a fickle public, a devious government, added to a supine and overtly political Admiralty. Roscoe had issued Barrow’s orders: ultimately he was responsible for the man’s actions.

  ‘You are young, Lord Wormwood,’ he suggested quietly. ‘You have already shown you are brave. If you are to advance in the Navy, you will also have to demonstrate you are prudent.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Charles responded meekly, aware he faced a dilemma. How would he know the effect of his words, if he had no idea why he was being asked? Best just stick to his original story.

  ‘Now, pray been so good as to continue your account of the action.’

  Having re-established his authority, the admiral allowed
himself another smile.

  ‘Well, as I was saying, sir, I had warned the deck the French had run out their guns. The falling wind did cause me some anxiety, especially with the tide still making quite strongly. Perhaps it was more apparent to me than to those on deck.’

  Roscoe sighed happily: he was safe. In those few words this young tyro had ensured he could face an inquiry and, by damning Barrow, exonerate himself, covered as he was by the way he had written the orders. With what Charles had just imparted and, taking into account the way he had stressed no risks must be taken to provoke the French or endanger the ship, the captain of the Childers could not avoid censure. Always supposing anyone was going to be censured in the first place, of course. Barrow might be praised and, true to the nature of admirals everywhere, the orders ensured, if there were any credit going, Roscoe would get more than his share.

  ‘At that point,’ Charles continued, ‘the southern fort fired a warning shot. It may be it killed what little wind remained, I cannot be sure. By now we barely had steerage way and were being carried inshore by the tide. We hoisted our colours, they hoisted theirs and then they opened up with their whole battery, shortly to be joined by the fortress on the northern shore.’

  ‘Captain Barrow then anchored the ship?’

  ‘Why yes, sir, to avoid up drifting further inshore.’

  Charles continued describing the action, as salvo after salvo was aimed at Childers with, barring one ball which had unseated a cannon to cause several casualties, a remarkable lack of accuracy. He took care to emphasise his solitary vigil in the tops, never once thinking to mention Kissock had been up there too.

  When the admiral posed a question, one now usually detrimental to Captain Barrow, like the time taken to attempt the tow, Charles took refuge in the observation he’d been too busy doing his duty to be able to provide an answer. To questions about his own conduct, he had worked out the perfect reply.