Flag Officer-Jamaica!

  FLAG OFFICER- JAMAICA!

  Copyright Brian Withecombe 2019

  FLAG OFFICER – JAMAICA!

  (A Giles Courtenay adventure)

  by

  BRIAN WITHECOMBE

  As ever, to my darling wife Maureen for her encouragement and patience!

  Also by the same author and available in Kindle format

  Giles Courtenay adventures

  The Claymore*

  Courtenay and The Seagull*

  The Seagull and LeCorsair*

  Aphrodite’s Quest*

  Amazon at the Nile*

  The Winged Avenger*

  HMS Pegasus*

  The Greek Warrior*

  Return of the Warrior

  The Scotsman

  Argyll’s Flag

  The Bulldog Breed

  Tempest

  Tempest in the East Indies

  Tempest and the Guerrillas

  Courtenay’s Pendant

  An Admiral of the Blue

  Courtenay’s Mission

  Courtenay and the Mercenaries

  Chris Metcalf stories

  CID Algarve – Metcalfe’s Challenge*

  CID Algarve – Café Culture

  CID Algarve – The Forty Thieves

  CID Algarve – A Lawyer’s End

  War

  At the Eleventh Hour

  Von Steifenberg’s Legacy

  Humour

  Sergeant’s Law

  Also available from Amazon in paperback

  Author’s Note

  To anyone who can read a chart or knows the area, it will be obvious that there are not two Islands off the south coast of Haiti. There is of course only one, but I invented the second one for the purposes of the story.

  2The group of Islands off Honduras referred to Las Guananjas are now known as The Bay Islands. Also, as far as I am aware, there is no such place as Tortola Key.

  ONE

  The small ship was bucking violently as one large wave after another passed beneath her keel, the strong winds thrusting her over on her port side as she struggled along on the starboard tack with her main and forecourses reefed in the face of the storm she was fighting. Above her, dark leaden grey clouds raced past, seemingly not that far above her main masthead, which was whipping back and forth in time to the seas that threatened to engulf her.

  On her small quarterdeck stood a knot of people, guarded against the elements as best they could in a variety of foul-weather wear. Movement on the maindeck had been stopped apart from those people absolutely essential to the working of the ship, and lifelines had been rigged to assist those who had to remain on deck. One of the people on the quarterdeck struggled to the binnacle to hold his time piece against its light to try and ascertain the time. It was in fact early afternoon and the watch had not that long changed, but for the visibility there was, it could have almost been dark. The man, the Captain of this small ship, grunted to himself as he saw the time, then tried to look forward beyond the spiralling bowsprit. In the gloom, and with the rain sheeting down, he could see nothing.

  He turned to the others near the wheel, now manned by four quartermasters, and tried to smile. “Quite a breeze gentlemen!” he shouted, cupping his hands. The others nodded, not saying anything, but the Captain, a young man not long confirmed in the rank of Commander, and not long in command of the ship, saw the look of concern on the face of the oldest man in the group and pulled himself close to him to shout into his ear. “If we are having it bad Mr Johnson, so our quarry will be! What say you?”

  Henry Johnson was the Sailing Master of this small ship, which was in fact a sloop-of-war, and although he had many years of experience as such, he was not that familiar with the waters they were now venturing into. He nodded. “Mebbee sir, but she was ahead of us, and she might have found some shelter by now!”

  The sloop-of-war was in the Caribbean, and more particularly, not that far off the coast of the mysterious Haiti, part of the larger Island of Hispaniola. Rumours abounded in the Caribbean Sea about the rituals and practices which allegedly were carried out there, and the people of the West Indian Islands, together with many others in proximity, tended to keep well clear. Black Magic and Voodoo were spoken about in hushed tones.

  “Your last approximation of our position put us several miles off the south-west coast of Haiti, did it not?” the Captain yelled at the Sailing Master, who nodded by way of a reply. “Well then, we are still well clear, yes?”

  Henry Johnson was not completely certain as to exactly where they were, because he had not been able to take Noon sights, and could only guess by referring to the last sights he had been able to take, and apply their rough speed together with any drift the storm may have caused. In fact, they were a lot closer to a small Island that was off Haiti than he, or indeed the Captain, realised.

  The sloop-of-war was part of the squadron operating out of Port Royal, on the Island of Jamaica, and which was the Royal Navy’s centre of operations in the western Caribbean. Yesterday they had sighted a small ship, a brig, and which might well be one of the ships they had been tasked with searching for when the Admiral in charge at Port Royal had despatched them on patrol. The actions of the brig when sighted had not done anything to alleviate the Captain’s intention to intercept her and examine her closely, because the moment the Royal Navy ship had been sighted, she had turned away and clapped on every available sail. That had made the sloop’s First-lieutenant, a likeable young man named Colin Peters, smile broadly, because he knew his ship was a fast sailer, She had recently had a bottom scrape, and given the right circumstances and conditions, she would have overhauled the other ship which had clearly been heading for Haiti. When the brig’s intentions had been realised, the Captain, Brent Williams, had given a small smile and said quietly to Peters, “If he thinks a King’s ship is going to be scared of ridiculous rumours about Voodoo and Black Magic and keep clear, he is in for a shock!” And so, the sloop had crammed on more sail and even after a couple of hours of pursuit it was obvious the gap was closing. Then, the weather changed, and changed dramatically. From a lovely day of blue skies and hot sunshine, thick, dark clouds had rolled in from the south-west, lowering across the sea and turning it from deep blue to dark grey, the wind had freshened, then strengthened, and the sea had got up so that large waves were passing under her keel. The weather got worse, visibility decreased, and it was more by the skill of one look-out who had tied himself to the quivering mainmast in his perch in the crosstrees than judgment that enabled the ship to more or less keep in contact with their quarry. She was glimpsed every so often through the driving rain and the spray being thrown back over the foc’sle of the sloop.

  For a few short moments the rain abated, and there was a yell from the maindeck that carried clearly through the thrumming of the wind through the rigging and the crash of the seas against the sloop’s side. The Bosun’s voice carried clearly as he yelled ‘Land-ho, ahead!” At the same moment the brave look-out yelled down the same warning. The Captain threw up his glass and cursed under his breath.

  “Damme to hell and beyond, the Bosun is right by God! Mr Johnson, I will trouble you to put the helm down and alter course to the east, quick as you like!” Then he fixed the man with a steely eye. “Thought we were still several miles off that damned island we have been heading for? We will have words later Mr Johnson about this!”

  Johnson was already barking orders to the men on the wheel, and to the men still on deck, and soon the Bosun’s mates’ whistles were bringing more men tumbling on deck, gasping as spray, rain and wind hit them in their faces. “Tail onto the braces there! Put the helm down lads! On deck there, let go and haul! Haul damn you!” Johnson’s panic, which was fairly obvious, tr
ansmitted itself to the men on deck, and they hauled at the yardarms, bringing them round to harness the wind as the wheel went over and the sloop’s beakhead came round, agonising slowly. But it came round, and soon the sloop was on a better course, moving to the east. The rain came back down again, but before it did, the look-out yelled down he had sighted the brig ahead of them. The First-lieutenant had his telescope glued to his right eye and he was the first to notice something odd.

  “Sir, that brig has changed tack slightly. Not a great deal, but she seems to be moving away from that Island?”

  “What?” said Williams, trying to find their target through his own glass. “Why the hell would he move further out the sea? He must realise when this passes we will be up to him?” He looked again through the glass, and for just a moment again, the rain eased and Peters saw him tense, just as the look-out peeled down a hasty message.

  “Deck there! Rocks ahead!”

  Williams looked at his Sailing Master. “I think we know about those rocks Mr Johnson?” The Master nodded, tight-lipped and still smarting from the Captain’s earlier comments.

  “Yes sir. There are two large ones out to sea of the south-eastern end of that small Island. He must be tacking around them to avoid them, because on this course….”

  “I am aware of that Mr Johnson. Is there not a channel between the Island and those rocks?”

  “Well….there is sir, and normally, there would be enough room to get the ship through it, but not in this weather sir. I would not want to even try!”

  Williams wiped the spray and rain off his face and smiled. “I daresay Mr Johnson, but mine is the final responsibility, and I want that brig! He has hauled off to starboard because he does not have the confidence to try the channel in this weather, but I do Mr Johnson, I do, and we are going to. We will go through the channel, come out the other side and be almost on top of him!”

  “I would not do that sir. With all due respect sir……”

  “Yes Mr Johnson, your opposition to my intentions is noted, and it will go in the log. You do of course have the right to advise me, and you have. However, I am Captain. Now, let us alter course a point, and make for the entrance to that channel.”

  Johnson looked at his young Captain with as much opposition on his face that it was safe to show, and turned away to issue orders to the helmsmen. One of them, the senior quartermaster and who was a whisker away from being made a Master’s Mate, looked at him in sheer disbelief, but as was the way in the Royal Navy, obedience was immediate, and he spun the spokes, letting the ship fall off a degree or so, before looking up at the sails and the dark grey clouds which seemed to be skimming the mastheads. Then he looked at his mates on the wheel and shrugged his shoulders. The men on deck hauled again on the braces.

  The rain was quite heavy again, and spray was still being thrown over the side by the waves. Johnson tried again. “Captain sir, I really do have to protest! It isn’t safe to try that channel!”

  Williams looked at him with grim determination on his face. “Noted, Mr Johnson.”

  The sloop headed for the entrance to the channel between the two towering rocks and the rocky and dangerous coastline of the small Island. A look-out in the bows was passing back information as to their progress, and men held onto what support they could find as the ship continued to rear and plunge in the heavy seas. It seemed she would be able to get into the channel roughly in the centre, and there were a few relieved looks from the helmsmen. Then, disaster struck.

  She had completed another slight alteration of course when she was struck by a freak wave, which towered over her starboard quarter, and a sudden violent gust of wind. The wave came down on the quarter, and with the wind, pushed the ship’s stern to port, at the same time pushing her towards the rocky shoreline. Then, in quick succession, came another huge wave, pushed along across the Caribbean by the strong wind which seemed to be growing ever stronger all the time. All on the quarterdeck, aside from the helmsmen clinging to the wheel, had been thrown into the scuppers by the force of the impact, and as they struggled to gain their feet, the second wave hit them, lifted the ship almost bodily, and with the shrieking wind, pushed it towards the rocks lining the shore.

  Williams pulled himself up, clinging to the binnacle, and then there was a terrible crashing noise as the sloop was driven up onto the rocks. She was left perched on an outcrop for just a moment, then the fore and mainmasts came down, dragging with them yards, rigging and sails, and a third wave came and hit them, driving the ship further aground on the rocks. There was a tearing, rending noise, and just as Williams and the rest on the quarterdeck realised that was their ship breaking its back, the mizzen came down, slamming across the quarterdeck and crushing most of those on it. The wheel shattered, sending splinters everywhere, and killing all the helmsmen where they stood. Williams was alive for a few moments, feeling the weight of the broken mast across his chest and dimly being aware of the blood running out of his mouth and onto the rain and spray-lashed decking, then he died. Peters, the First-lieutenant, had been decapitated by a line that had been bar-taut and which had broken and whipped across him. Johnson had gone, thrown overboard by the force of the collision and the heavy seas.

  Those men who were still alive, guided by the leather-lunged Bosun, hurried to get off the ship onto the rocks. Many of their shipmates had died below as the ship ran aground and broke its back, drowned by the inrushing water or simply crushed. There were precious few alive to scramble down what was left of the ship’s side and get ashore, scrambling across the rocks to safety. As they did so, they came across the sight of the brave mainmast look-out who had stayed at his post, and who had been flung ashore when the mast came down over the ship’s port side. He had been thrown onto the rocks, and his blood was now mingling with the sea-water which was hissing around them. The Bosun looked around for the Second-lieutenant, but one of the men shook his head sadly. “’e’s gone as well Bosun. Didn’t even get on deck. Shame, ‘e were a good lad.”

  “All right. Let’s get as far away from these rocks as we can. There’s nothing we can do for now.” No-one mentioned anything about being rescued. That would come later when they took stock of their whereabouts and realised what rations they had. “Per’aps when this dies down we might be able to salvage something from the old lady.” He stood for a moment as what was left of the ship’s company struggled further ashore, looking at the once proud sloop and removed his hat. “Shame you had to go this way old girl.” he said to himself, then turned and went after the others.

  On the rocks, the wreck of the sloop continued to be battered by both the strong seas and the savage wind. Part of the ship, the fore-part, was still mostly in one piece, but the after- part was being torn apart by the action of the wind and the waves. The sloop had seen many years of service and now she was being torn apart by the sea she had so proudly sailed upon and where she had served with distinction. One part of her transom had been badly damaged as she had been driven ashore, and part of it fell into the sea and was soon being dragged away by the rollers. Part of it contained, in gold lettering, the name of the sloop. Seagull.

  TWO

  Vice-admiral Baron Courtenay of St Marychurch, in the County of Devon, would never have dared admit it to his beautiful wife, but he was bored. He enjoyed being with his family, and often when torn from them by the demands of duty he felt guilty at leaving them. The feeling had grown worse and worse over the years, but this was the first time he had been away from the sea for as long as he had. After his return from West Africa, following his discovery that the King of Balathia, Kalfani, was the author of the problems his diamond-rich country had been facing, he had enjoyed a good long rest, and although he had been offered one or two lucrative posts as Flag-officer in Command where he could have made quite a lot of money, he had turned them down. He had done so because he knew only too well he would turn into someone ‘sailing a desk’. An administrator, someone who would spend all his time at one reception or another,
exchanging small-talk with one boring Government Advisor or Official after another. The odd thing was that he knew very well his wife, Lady Jessica, would not have liked the life either. He had had short command of a small squadron on a ‘fly the flag’ exercise to the Mediterranean, to show the people with whom HMG wished to trade that the Navy was capable of protecting the merchant ships which would visit them for trade (the Barbary States were still showing a certain amount of willingness to find white slaves), and although the people he met were impressed by the Flag-officer who had been sent in command, it was not his life at all.

  He and the family had spent as much time in Tor Bay as they could, but Jessica had kept up certain business interests which were that of her late father, Sir Geoffrey, with of course her husband’s blessing, and this required that she spend a certain amount of time in London. That was presently where they were. Edward was due home shortly for a brief leave before he took up his new appointment. He had just left the brig Justify and which was now in the hands of the dockyard at Devonport for an overhaul. His Captain, Jonathan Pountney, had received promotion to Captain in rank as well as substance, and he was off to another command. Edward, it seemed, was appointed into the frigate Tredegar, a 36-gunner. She too had undergone a refit and was at Portsmouth. His appointment was as Second-lieutenant. He was thrilled to be going back to a frigate, even one which, strictly speaking, was now a little out-dated.

  His mother, as he knew from her letters, was bemoaning the fact that soon she would be losing another of her children. Timothy had decided he wished to become a Royal Marine and had enlisted the help of a certain Brigadier Nicholas Strathmore. He was ordered to report to Eastney Barracks, which was close to Portsmouth, to begin his officer training.