Felix Wild and the Blockade Runners

By Peter Broadbent

Felix Wild is approaching his seventeenth birthday, if the horse doctor who originally estimated his age by examining his teeth is correct. He still has the remarkable ability to memorise and draw anything he has seen, but is now looking for a fresh challenge. Studying navigation appeals to him but fate - in the shape of Admiral Millinhall-Slice - intervenes, and he is whisked away from the comfortable home of Mr and Mrs Kettle on a dangerous mission into the heart of the American Civil War aboard a blockade-runner.
In this witty and engaging novel, Peter Broadbent creates characters worthy of Charles Dickens, including Pearly Yardstick, a carriage driver who – to the astonishment of the Kettle household – is not only a woman but one with 'the backside of an Epsom Derby winner'; Captain Achilles De'Kedge, whose walking stick was fashioned from the timbers of HMS Pickle, the ship that brought home the news of Nelson's triumph at the Battle of Trafalgar; and Doshie Dibbler, a mere thirty-three inches tall, but a perfect example of miniature womanhood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chaplin Books
• Release date: Aug 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781911105398

Book preview

FELIX WILD AND THE BLOCKADE RUNNERS

by Peter Broadbent

First published in 2018 by

Chaplin Books

5 Carlton Way

Gosport PO12 1LN

www.chaplinbooks.co.uk

Digital edition converted and distributed in 2018 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright © 2018 Peter Broadbent

Illustrations copyright © 2018 Yolanda Bull

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my editor, Amanda Field of Chaplin Books. Faced with my jumble of words, she worked her magic and transformed my story into a book worthy of publication. Without her skills and advice this story of mine would have languished in a desktop folder entitled ‘Scribbles’... unappreciated and unread.

1. A Medal of Friendship

ch1.jpg

Saturday the fourteenth day of March 1863 is a day of unrelenting rain and blustery winds. Commander Maximilian Otter (RN Ret’d), the Senior Officer of the cadet training hulk HMS Impenetrable, carefully levers himself up from his plush cushioned chair. He takes a series of lung-filling breaths and faces the class.

‘Sit up straight, boys. Give three hearty cheers for your departing tutor. Hip-hip!’

‘Hurrah.’

‘Hip...’ the Commander coughs into his fist. ‘... hip!’

‘Hurrah.’

‘Hip-hip!’

‘Hurrah.’

The Commander lowers himself back onto his chair. He rearranges a swathe of his iron-grey hair to cover his war-damaged ear for which he has never forgiven every French person that has ever lived. He nods to Felix Wild who is standing alongside his lectern on the opposite side of the classroom’s raised platform.

Felix, surprised and a touch embarrassed, mouths ‘thank you’ and runs a hand though his blond hair. It is the first time he has been given three cheers.

The class stands and enthusiastically applauds. The sound of youthful hands rebounds off the wooden bulkheads and the low-beamed deckhead. Impenetrable sways over to starboard as a smoke-belching steamer passes close down her port side. The clapping dwindles as everybody adjusts themselves to the roll.

Comfortably seated once again, Commander Otter holds his left hand up for silence. One boy remains standing.

‘Sit, Mister Awari.’

Mister Awari looks around, realises that he is the only one standing and sits down.

The Commander runs a finger around his uniform shirt collar.

‘Sit up straight all of you and fold your arms.’ He scans the class until everybody is sitting up straight with their arms folded in the prescribed manner: left forearm to the front. ‘Today is Mister Wild’s final day with us. We have all benefited from the knowledge he has imparted to us all during the past eighteen months. His artistic aptitude and fluency with both pencil and navigational chartage has inspired all of us in different ways. I am confident that sitting amongst you are future ship’s artists and perhaps a few of you will eventually become ship’s navigating Officers... as I was many years ago. The most respected of Naval occupations.’

Abdullah Awari stands.

‘Permission to speak, sirs?’ he asks, looking from Commander Otter to Felix and back again.

‘If you must, Mister Awari,’ says the Commander. ‘We are acutely aware that you are rarely short of something to say, when given the opportunity.’

Awari bows his head.

‘Thank you, sir. May I say how privileged I have been to know Mister Wild. As a foreigner to this wonderful country of England, I was anxious when I first arrived, sent by my father, the Senior Prince of Riau-Tempasuk in exile, to train for Naval service before taking up my princely duties. I will never forget the friendship of Mister Wild and what he has taught me since I have been here.’

Felix likes Mister Awari. A thickset boy, his hair is black and straight and his skin is the colour of well-browned toast. His eyes are of the deepest brown, unlike those of Felix - one blue and one green. Awari has proved himself adaptable and willing to learn. He has been an effective and well-respected class-leader for the past six months. Felix has absolutely no idea where Riau-Tempasuk might be - or why it is exiled. He has not liked to ask Awari, for fear of an overlong explanation.

Silence.

Awari holds his hand aloft.

‘I have a gift for Mister Wild, sir.’

‘A gift?’

‘A medal, sir. From the Sultanate of Riau-Tempasuk in exile. A medal of friendship that I have the authority to award to persons who have assisted me outstandingly in my day-to-day development, sir.’

‘And you wish to present this medal to Mister Wild?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Commander turns to face Felix.

‘Are you prepared to receive a medal?’

‘I would be honoured,’ says Felix, somewhat overwhelmed. He understands that medals are normally awarded in recognition of bravery in battle. Although teaching navigational techniques has sometimes been tricky, it has not been courageous by any stretch of the imagination.

‘Mister Awari,’ says Commander Otter. ‘Would it be fitting for us all to stand whilst you make your presentation?’

‘Yes, sir. After I have presented the medal, tradition dictates that there should be a cordial round of applause followed by a short period of silence before the recipient’s acceptance speech.’

The recipient’s acceptance speech? Felix wonders what the correct response should be.

‘Everybody stand,’ says the Commander, raising a hand. ‘Mister Awari, please come out to the front of the class and bring your medal with you.’

Awari takes a notebook-sized box from his valise and stands with it in front of the class. He is somewhat shorter than Felix.

‘Mister Felix Wild,’ he says, reading from a slip of paper. ‘By the authority given to me by the Sultanate of Riau-Tempasuk in exile, I present you with the gold medal of friendship complete with the chain of everlasting companionship, in recognition of your forbearance as my tutor onboard Her Majesty’s Ship Impenetrable.’ He offers the hinged box to Felix, who respectfully takes it.

The Commander invites applause.

Clutching the box to his stomach, Felix waits for the applause to die away and looks to the Commander for a signal to begin his acceptance speech.

The Commander raises his hand, Mister Awari looks at Felix and nods.

‘I am honoured to accept your medal of friendship, Mister Awari,’ says Felix. ‘Thank you.’

‘Class, sit yourselves down,’ says the Commander. ‘I have something to say before you are dismissed. Tomorrow is Mothering Sunday. The day when those of you who have families within a sensible travelling distance can return home - a carriage is arranged to take you into the centre of town. Those of you with more distant family will stay onboard and enjoy our annual luncheon to celebrate this special day in our calendar.’

Felix opens the box to display the medal and places it in full view on an adjacent stool. One by one the class line up to shake Felix’s hand as they leave the room.

Once all the students have left, the final handshake is between Felix and Commander Otter.

‘I wish you well in your future endeavours, Mister Wild,’ he says. ‘Working with you has been a pleasure.’

‘Thank you for your support, sir.’

‘What are your immediate plans?’

‘To return home and rest a while.’

‘To the home of Mister and Mrs Kettle?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You have certainly made your mark. You have blossomed into a talented and inspirational young man. Plucked from the streets of Portsmouth-’

‘Gosport, sir,’ interjects Felix. ‘On the west side of Portsmouth harbour.’

‘My apologies. Spoken like a man who knows his compass bearings.’ Commander Otter sits down on his comfortable chair. ‘Let me continue with my farewell tribute to you - I have thought long and hard about what I wish to say.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘From the back streets of Gosport to being awarded a medal of friendship in a span of three short years is a most remarkable transformation. Your ability to remember things that you see and subsequently draw them with stunning accuracy is an extraordinary skill. I declare that I have never met anyone with such a talent before.’

‘Thank you,’ says Felix. ‘I have to acknowledge your patience and understanding, sir. Without the encouragement of yourself and Mister Kettle, I would still be foraging in the mud of Portsmouth harbour.’

‘I understand you spent some time in gaol in Gosport? I have hesitated to mention it before, Mister Wild, for fear of embarrassing you.’

‘True, sir. But Mister Kettle rescued me from the Petty Sessions and all charges were dropped.’

‘Did you know your mother or your father?’

‘No, sir. I was taken in by the women of the laundry at Haslar Hospital when I was but a baby. They named me ‘Felix’ for luck.’

‘And the name ‘Wild’?’

‘Given to me by the Justice, sir.’

‘And now you are a man of standing, Mister Wild. To have been hired to draw the construction of HMS Warrior when only... fourteen years of age, was it?’

‘Approximately, sir. A Horse Doctor examined my teeth three years ago and declared me to be fourteen years of age.’

Commander Otter puts his hands over his face and Felix thinks he must be laughing about the Horse Doctor, but then realises that the Commander is actually shedding a tear.

‘I shall miss working with you,’ he mumbles.

‘Thank you, sir.’

The Commander wipes his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve.

‘I bid you God speed and farewell, Mister Wild.’

A hansom carriage waits in the centre of a large puddle at the head of HMS Impenetrable’s wooden access pier. The rain is heavy and the waiting driver lounges in the dryness of his cab.

Felix’s cases are secured to the back of the carriage by his students, organised by Mister Awari, the class-leader for the day.

Once all the cases are secured to his satisfaction, Awari presents himself to Felix.

‘Thank you Mister Wild. I will be forever grateful for your generous instruction. I shall never forget that a nautical mile varies mathematically in length according to the latitude.’ He taps his temple. ‘As the earth is an oblate spheroid with slightly flattened poles and not a perfect sphere, a nautical mile at the equator is six thousand and forty-five English feet plus eight inches... and longer at the poles where its length is six thousand one hundred and seven feet plus nine of your English inches.’ Felix places a friendly hand on Awari’s shoulder.

‘Only you, Mister Awari, could offer me such a complicated - and mathematically accurate - accolade.’

‘Accolade, Mister Wild?’

‘A noun derived from the French language meaning to confer, or give an award. Page forty-four of Mister Joseph Worcester’s Dictionary.’

‘I have immersed myself nightly in the writings of Mister Worcester,’ says Awari, smiling. ‘I have ordered a large number of copies of his dictionary to be sent to Riau-Tempasuk to be given to every member of our exiled government. Furthermore - that is a word I particularly have a liking for on page one hundred and ninety-five-’

Felix holds up an interrupting hand.

‘Furthermore what, Mister Awari?’

‘I have forgotten what I was about to say.’

They both laugh.

‘Mister Awari, I must be on my way. We are both standing in a deepening puddle. It is raining-’

‘As you wish, Mister Wild.’ Awari turns away and strolls back along the short wooden access pier without looking back.

2. This Politicking Business

ch2.jpg

William and Katherine Kettle are sitting in their favourite chairs at opposite ends of the library. William is quaffing tea and is immersed in an article about a new sport called Association Football that is becoming popular and is to be confirmed as a real sport at the Freemasons’ Tavern in Long Acre before the end of the year. In William’s opinion, balls are to be stylishly batted... not kicked or grappled with.

‘Is Mongrill collecting Felix?’ asks Katherine, lounging on the new Chesterfield sofa, an opened book on her lap.

‘He is arranging his own carriage,’ William mumbles.

‘I wonder how much he has changed.’

‘Who... Mongrill?’

‘Don’t be so absurd, William. Felix of course.’

‘Not much. Boys of his age don’t change markedly in three months.’

‘Eighty-five days... actually.’

‘How precise of you, Katherine.’

‘I‘m a precise person. It is exactly eighty-five days since he spent a whole Sunday with us. I remember it perfectly. It was the day the United Methodist Free Church lot were marching up and down the streets in an attempt to convert us all to their way of thinking.’

‘Was it?’

‘Do you know the significance of tomorrow, William?’

William folds his newspaper up slowly along its creases.

‘Sunday mornings are our-’

‘Tomorrow is much more than our normal messing-about Sunday.’

‘Is it?’ He sighs audibly, folds his paper and places it on his side table.

‘Tomorrow is Mothering Sunday, William. And conveniently we will have our adopted boy Felix back with us again!’

‘Mothering Sunday is it?’ William asks the rug at his feet.

‘Felix is developing into a fine young man, don’t you agree?’

‘I do.’

‘He is taller than both of us - almost six feet tall. And I swear his hair is becoming more golden in colour the older he becomes.’

‘I suppose such things are of great importance to women.’

‘A fine appearance goes a long way these days.’

‘If you say so, dear.’

‘I know what is topmost in your mind these days, William. When are you next away to your by-election place?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Who are you up against?’

‘An Estate Manager named Renton... Erasmus Renton, who wears the most obnoxious black tuft.’

‘I believe that hair tufts for men are unfashionable these days,’ says Mrs Kettle with a sniff. ‘Frowned upon by polite society.’

‘Good!’ exclaims William. ‘Then there is Squill, a boy so young that I doubt he is entitled to vote for himself. He attended a recent selection meeting with his shirt incorrectly buttoned.’

‘And your third opponent, William?’

‘Albert Turnbuckle. A man of repugnant appearance who was the manager of a small building contractor in the City and who left his last employ under a cloud of financial wrongdoing. The selection committee are looking into the matter and will soon make a ruling as to his suitability.’

‘Could he be brown-balled?’

‘Black-balled, dear. If there is grist to the mill, they will surely scratch him off.’

‘Leaving only the three of you?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Will that make your victory more likely?’

‘Depends on what people think. I believe this politicking business can be a fickle creature.’

‘I understand that strumpets short on money sell their locks to hair tuft makers,’ says Katherine.

‘Even those for men?’

‘Hair is hair, is it not, William?’

‘I have no opinion worth voicing on the matter, Katherine.’

William unfolds his newspaper.

In the hansom carriage Felix opens the hinged box. Inside, nestling on a bed of green silk, is an octagonal gold medal with a delicate frond decoration around the edges and a colourful enamelled flag depicted in the centre. In the lid is a handwritten card on which is written the exact words that Mister Awari used when presenting him with the medal. Behind the green silk lining is a gold chain of finely ornate linkage embossed with gemstones set at regular intervals. It is an impressive piece of jewellery that Felix considers far too ostentatious to be a simple token of friendship.

It has been a memorable day. The kind tributes he received have both humbled and surprised him. Felix now understands that he has skills that others are keen and thankful to learn from him. He knows he should make the most of his inherited gifts but wonders about the future: what will he do now? In the meantime, should he draw portraits of the Commander and Mister Awari? Yes of course he should. He will draw the faces of his entire class: Mister Awari’s complexion will be a challenge. He is running short of paper. Did Awari put his remaining sheets in his valise as he asked? He will have to ask Mister Kettle to collect some more paper for him. Felix fumbles in his pocket and discovers that he has two shillings and thrupence. How much good paper could he buy for that? It will be nice to relax for a while and not have to work out how to teach boys to master mathematical numbers.

He leans back, closes his eyes and pictures Katherine Kettle, still without doubt the most beautiful woman he has ever clapped eyes on. He also conjures up a particularly revealing image of the Kettles’ maid, Bridget Marie-Therese Kelly, stark naked. He is looking forward to getting home.

Katherine Kettle hears the noise of the carriage wheels on the recently renewed area of shingle leading to the main door. She sends Bridget away to her attic room.

‘If this is Master Felix’s carriage, stay in your room until he is settled and had something to fortify himself.’

‘I would like to welcome him back, madam, so I would.’

‘It has only been eighty-five days since he was last here, girl.’

Bridget flushes, bobs farewell and shuffles off to her attic room. Unfortunately her small window doesn’t overlook the drive of the house where the carriage will let her Felix out.

Katherine Kettle breezes across the library, giving William’s newspaper a slap on her way past.

‘Felix is here!’ she cries.

Felix’s feet barely hit the entrance hallway carpet before he is enveloped by Katherine.

‘Felix, my boy. It has been such a long time.’

‘Three months, madam,’ Felix mumbles through the layers of lace encircling Katherine’s overly fragrant neck.

‘Eighty-five days exactly. Come and sit with me in the orangery and tell me all about your final days on the hulk.’ She sounds breathless. ‘I will tell Churchill to stoke up the fire.’ She gently moves his head away from where it is comfortably nestled and looks into his eyes. ‘I believe you have grown a couple of inches since I last saw you, Felix. You are almost six feet in height, I wager.’

Felix smiles and takes a number of revitalising gulps of fresh air. He had almost forgotten how comforting Katherine Kettle’s frontage can be.

He and Katherine sit facing each other alongside a pair of mature trees on the south-facing glass wall of the orangery.

‘How were your final days on the hulk?’

‘Very pleasant.’

‘Things here have not changed that much since you have been away. Mister William is convinced that he is the best-placed contender to become the official Tory Party candidate for the forthcoming Parliamentary by-election.’

‘Is he at home?’

‘In body he is... but not in spirit. He is in the library reading his newspaper.’

Felix nods. ‘And Bridget, how is she?’

She waves a dismissive arm.

‘I am concerned, Felix, that the girl may be more interested in you than a girl in her position should be. Do you notice how her eyes bulge and she acts full-of-beans whenever you are around?’

‘Not really,’ he lies. He quickly wonders how Mrs Kettle would react if she knew about their high-jinks.

‘I recognise the signs of infatuation when I see it, Felix. I hope against hope that you do not encourage the girl in any way?’

‘I don’t encourage her, madam.’ Felix lies again, knowing full well that Bridget Marie-Therese Kelly needs little encouragement to whisk off her working garments.

William and Katherine are awake. Bridget opens one of the curtains to let the low spring sun illuminate one side of the bed. She bobs a quick curtsey before skipping away.

‘I wonder if the Queen herself was present at the royal wedding at Windsor last month?’ Katherine asks her dressing table mirror. She is naked.

‘I know not,’ William replies on behalf of the mirror.

‘When you are a Member of Parliament, William, you will be one of an exclusive band of people who will be in-the-know about such Royal events... and perhaps earn invites for the both of us?’

‘Will I?’

‘I should hope so. Shall I put something on, William?’

‘Not yet.’

‘William!’ Katherine swivels on her stool, an expectant look on her face.

‘I may need help with my new Easter undergarments.’

‘Where shall I begin, William?’

‘Second drawer down.’

‘Romantic to a fault, husband.’

‘I have things on my mind, Katherine. It is not a straightforward matter being a prospective Tory Party candidate.’

‘Second drawer down, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘I shall remove my womanly form forthwith, William,’ she declares as she gets to her feet. ‘And glide seductively across the room to the distant chest of drawers, retrieving my recently discarded new Easter nightdress on the way!’

‘As you wish. Tomorrow I intend to accompany Felix to Weatherall’s to open an account. He still has that sixty-five pounds from two years ago burning a hole in his pocket... and anything he has earned from his teaching on the hulk.’

On the way to the City, William instructs Felix in the business of all things he understands about banking. How to deposit money, how to withdraw money, the writing of cheques and most importantly the exclusivity of the Weatherall Bank that many years ago his late father had introduced him to.

‘Don’t deposit every penny of your money, Felix. Keep some for yourself.’

‘I will keep some and give the bank the remainder, sir.’

‘Very shrewd. Did you earn much on the hulk?’

‘Nothing I am aware of, sir. The Navy were very poor at paying us. Commander Otter claims that he hasn’t been paid for almost a year.’

William and Felix are welcomed into the plush Weatherall Bank offices by a smartly dressed bewhiskered gentleman. Felix is given some basic banking information and invited to open an account. He is given a blank sheet of paper and a pen and invited to practise his signature; something that he has recently rehearsed on the advice of Mister Kettle. His favourite signature is a testament to his artistic ability, the letters churning and swirling in an imaginative way while remaining readable. William and the bewhiskered gentleman exchange impressed glances. Felix signs his name to numerous papers and somewhat reluctantly hands over sixty-one pounds, which the bewhiskered gentleman counts and recounts before passing it to a clerk who quickly disappears with Felix’s hard-earned money.

‘If you forgive me for making an observation,’ says the banker, ‘you are uncommonly young, Mister Wild, to have such an amount of money to deposit in your own personal name.’

Felix nods, not knowing how to respond.

‘However, may I formally welcome you to the Weatherall Bank, Mister Wild. Your account with us will give you all the most modern of banking facilities. You are welcome to deposit additional monies whenever you wish.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘We are well known for our coffee. Can I offer...?’

‘Yes, strong and hot coffee for me,’ says William. ‘The boy would prefer a glass of clean water.’

The next morning, William bounds into the dining room waving a sheet of paper. He is beaming.

Katherine, aware that William’s wafting of a paper signifies an announcement of sorts, sits back in her chair. Felix slides the remains of his breakfast to the side of his plate. William coughs in modest fashion as he seats himself.

‘You both have the honour of sharing your table this morning with the confirmed Tory Party candidate for the forthcoming Parliamentary by-election,’ he says.

Katherine springs to her feet. Her chair falls over. She skips over to where William is still holding his paper aloft and throws her bared arms around his shoulders.

‘So the bewigged person, the inappropriate businessman or the young Squill didn’t get it?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘I had every confidence in you, William - the confirmed Tory Party Parliamentary candidate indeed. I shall let all our voting friends know before the sun is highest.’ She stiffens her back. ‘Churchill, arrange for the carriage to be made ready - I have some essential morning business to conduct.’

The manservant, Churchill, stops what he is doing and bows his bulldog face.

‘The girl can pick up my chair and continue with serving,’ says Katherine.

Churchill nods and shuffles away.

‘He’s slowing down these days,’ says William.

‘No matter,’ says Katherine, waving a dismissive arm. ‘As the Tory Party’s Parliamentary candidate-’

‘Confirmed,’ William corrects.

‘As the confirmed Tory Party’s Parliamentary candidate in the forthcoming by-election, we can surely afford a younger, more sprightly manservant. We could give Churchill the boot. At the same time, we could rid ourselves of Mongrill, our abomination of a coachman.’

‘But-’

‘I will not allow you to do your campaigning for the forthcoming by-election whilst being driven around by the disgusting Mongrill.’

‘I will give your suggestion the consideration it warrants, dear.’

‘You have mastered the Parliamentary brush-off already, William. You will clearly make the ideal Parliamentarian.’

William is reading his newspaper and Katherine is absorbed in an illustrated broadsheet about all things fashionable with London’s movers-and-shakers.

‘The Queen didn’t attend the recent royal wedding at Windsor,’ mumbles William. ‘It says so here.’

‘She obviously had better things to do,’ replies Katherine without looking up. ‘I do like the latest footwear, a favourite of Miss Ellen Terry.’

‘Who?’

‘Ellen Terry, the popular Shakespearian actress. The same age as Felix and rumoured to be hitching herself to that elderly so-and-so George Watts.’

‘Lucky George Watts.’

‘Indeed he is. Ellen Terry is a most vivacious young lady. Mister Watts, by all accounts, is himself no oil painting.’

‘Then he is a most fortunate and enviable man.’ William folds and refolds his newspaper. He opens his mouth, but decides to say no more on the subject.

‘Have you finished with your newspaper, William?’

‘Not completely. I have yet to read a lengthy Parliamentary article about something-or-other. I need to be abreast of all things political now - I may be cross examined.’

‘May I have a quick look at your newspaper?’

‘If you do, unfold it carefully and fold it correctly when you have finished.’

‘Churchill will do that for me.’

‘What is the name of the old sea-dog who lives next door to the Sparrow woman?’ asks William, handing over his newspaper.

‘The woman who lost her husband when his ship was lost with all legs?’

‘Hands, Katherine - lost with all hands.’

‘My apologies.’

‘Can you recall his name? The old sea-dog who lives next door to the Sparrow woman?’’

‘De’Kedge.’

‘That’s him - De’Kedge.’ William clicks his fingers. ‘A friend of mine at the Admiralty suggested that I make contact with this Captain De’Kedge individual. Apparently he could be of help to Felix. He is a navigational expert, though long retired.’