The Middle Sea

The Call of the Sea - Book Seven - The Middle Sea Andrew Wareham Copyright © 2023 Andrew Wareham KINDLE Edition All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them. PublishNation www.publishnation.co.uk Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter One “Lieutenant Smithers! Aloft with you, if you please. Put your glass on Fearless, discover whether she is still ours. Having established that, a quick survey of the Spanish frigates.” “Aye aye, sir. The Harkers, sir… Never mind. Later, sir.” Smithers ran, duty before any other consideration. “Poor lad is upset by the loss of the little boys, sir.” “I cannot say I am best pleased myself, Mr Kennet. Ten years old and twins. The one dying to a random ball, the other throwing his life away in his rage. Not what I had ever hoped to see on my decks! We take children to sea, Mr Kennet, and lose a damned sight too many of them! I could wish Their Lordships might do more than publish regulations which are casually ignored, a fact they must be aware of. Not younger than twelve, they say, but they know damned well there are sixteen years old lieutenants who have served their six years, and not just one or two of them!” “They ignore them as captains, must remember that as admirals, sir. It is just so useful to have a supply of bold, wild young lieutenants of Smithers’ age, youngsters who will fight anything and anybody without a second thought. We have a bold Navy, sir – as you exemplify – and to a great extent it is because the bulk of our officers have not reached the age of discretion. I do believe, sir, I am the sole quarterdeck officer in this ship out of his twenties!” “Ah, but, Mr Kennet – you are in your fifties and so bring the average up tidily!” “More than twice my captain’s age, sir! Small wonder you are so wild and have earned your name!” “Bloody Nick? I gained that name by merest accident, Mr Kennet, but I will admit I cherish it now. I much suspect it goes some way to keep me in the First Lord’s mind… Three minutes we have been talking, Mr Kennet. It is not like young Smithers to delay so long in making a report.” They glanced up to the main topgallants, saw Smithers stood tall and using both hands to focus his long telescope while the lookout clasped his waistband with one hand, the mast with the other. “Something he cannot make out. I wonder what, sir. A lad as bright as him can normally tell what is going on.” Another full minute and Smithers yelled. “On deck! Fearless is boarded and the quarterdeck taken, still fighting in the waist and forecastle. One frigate is busy looking to her wounds – she has taken a full and close broadside and fore and main masts wounded and guns overturned. She is drifting away from the fight with too many of her men down. A second, the biggest of the three, is grappled onto Fearless and the third, and smallest, shows signs of a part-broadside, nine pounders only perhaps, in the quarterdeck. I do not believe she is under command. It is very untidy, sir. I am sure I have seen some of Fearless’ lower gundeck twenty-fours still shooting into the frigate alongside.” “Come down.” Nick pursed his lips, glanced at the windvane, swore very quietly. “Wind is dying away, Mr Kennet.” “Two knots if we are lucky, sir. Studding sails?” “We are distant two miles, at least. In an hour the Dons may have made repairs, got themselves together. Going into battle with a full suit of sails is not precisely recommended, Mr Kennet. No damned choice! Set stuns’ls!” The command surprised the bulk of the crew, almost all of whom knew the rules for fighting an action. They ran to obey. “Hardly time to step the royal masts and set them… What are we making, Mr Kennet?” “Three knots, sir, a little more. Forty minutes until we are alongside Fearless.” “No. Steer to set us between the two wounded frigates. A broadside into each, even at a distance, must at very least prevent them from sailing away. If we cripple them, we can tidy them up later. As for Fearless, her people are putting up a fight, even if her captain led them incompetently. Whoever has command on the main deck is doing the right thing. If he can put a few more loads of grape into the frigate, he may even be able to lead his gunners up into the fight and possibly turn the tables there. Better far that Fearless should have the chance to win her fight than that Alcibiades should be her rescuer – it makes a far prettier victory for the Navy. Fearless to defeat three frigates, Alcibiades assisting merely to tidy up. For those who do not know better – the great bulk of the country – it becomes another stroke of glory.” Kennet paused, thought the proposition through and reluctantly agreed. “Captain Treloar,