Tapping The Admiral

By Neil Willcox

Tapping The Admiral is a volume of adventures of an age of sail in a rich and glorious fantasy world. Follow Able Seaman Robin Button from the greatest battle ever fought at sea to sailing the oceans of the underworld. John Toris, a Master’s Mate, finds himself cursed by an ice witch, yet this is no obstacle to his career as he rises to the rank of Captain in His Majesty’s Navy. Will Fanshawe, Purser and Merchant, leads expeditions into the lands of the elves, and travels further to find himself besieged by the un-dead in a tropical fort. And Lizzie O’Leary, Surgeon’s Daughter who must force the world to recognise her as a Doctor, will find herself treating patients from the most illustrious to the meanest in all corners of the globe.

Thirteen stories follow these characters and more from the Battle of Cape Laurel to their destinies on the far side of the globe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Willcox
• Release date: Oct 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005008109

Neil Willcox

Having worked in the back office of an insurance company, as a fruitpicker, in a call centre, as a teaching assistant and as a ticket seller Neil is in no way qualified to write historical fiction, let alone make jokes about it. Yet here we.

Book preview

Tapping The Admiral

Neil Willcox

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text Copyright ©2018-20 Neil Willcox

Cover Image: Detail from Battle of Trafalgar, 21st October 1805 by Thomas Whitcombe

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 9781005008109

www.nightofthehats.blogspot.co.uk

[e-mail]

Contents

1. A Triumph At Sea

2. On The Rock

3. The Curse Of The Ice Witch

4. In At The Kill

5. A Voyage Out East

6. At The Court Of The Elf Lord

7. South Sea Pirates

8. To Whom It May Concern

9. On The Sea Of Glass

10. The Siege Of Observation Bay

11. An Expedition To Antipodea

12. Off The Gateway To The Forbidden Lands

13. An Admirable Engagement

Afterword

A Triumph At Sea

Tapping The Admiral I

A Triumph At Sea

Toris was watching when the Admiral was shot.

They’d been fighting for hours by then; the long slow approach, the sudden change of direction to charge the enemy fleet, the Whitland ships only able to respond with bow-chasers against the full broad-sides that hammered them. Cutting the enemy line, guns blasting out on both sides, then turning sharply, as sharply as the gigantic Triumph could manage, to lay alongside the enemy ship.

All this time Toris was on deck by the main-mast. A Master’s Mate, his task was to ensure the seamen worked the sails correctly. In normal times this would have been no great effort, they all knew their jobs after the long voyage. After this long war. With most of the men below decks serving the great guns and a storm of enemy metal ripping past it was no longer normal times.

The usual practice of the enemy ships was to fire high, aiming to damage the masts and spars to cripple a ship’s movement and leave them vulnerable to being raked from ahead or astern. Not today it seemed. Round-shot hammered at the hulls, the close range making a miss impossible, every cannon-ball tearing into the wood and sending splinters across the gun-decks to cut into the struggling men.

Not that it was any safer up here. The main-deck had its own guns, 12-pounders, and the enemy were as keen to target them as the bigger guns lower in the hull. As the ship swung round Toris yelled above the sound of the guns. Get those sheets in!

Not all the seamen could hear him but they all knew what was needed. He tapped one of them on the shoulder and he nodded, grabbing his mates and swarming up the rigging. With the sails taken in the ship would slow, staying alongside the enemy vessel.

Toris glanced over at it, a great hulking mass, stern almost alongside his position. For a moment he could see men labouring desperately there, cutting cables to clear debris, dragging bodies away. There was an all consuming crack as the guns fired and a cloud of smoke obscured the view.

A yard on the fore-mast swung free and Toris could see men tangled in the ropes. He grabbed an axe and ran forward, even before he heard the Captain’s loud, high-pitched cry. Mr Bosun. Some men to clear that if you please.

Toris wasn’t the Bosun but he saw what needed to be done. He swarmed up the mast, pausing to cut free a trapped man who blocked his way. Arriving where the yard met the mast at the fore-top he pushed aside the man trying to hack at it with his knife, and paused for a moment to inspect the knots, looking for the best place to cut.

A bullet whistled by and neatly took the top off the head of the man he’d just passed. Toris hung there by one hand for a moment and chopped, chopped again, and then a third time. The knot parted, rope whipping past, and the yard fell away. The men on the deck cleared it and he slid down the stay.

The blast of the guns stopped and he looked about wildly. There were cheers. She’s struck! Yes, the enemy ship they were alongside had hauled down her colours, indicating her surrender. The battle continued. Toris knew what would come next so he ran back to his post at the main-mast.

Let out a reef. The captain called, ordering more sail to put some way on the ship and move forward to the next enemy in line.

The sailors knew what to do and with the great guns no longer blasting they could hear the command. Gun crews dragged wounded to the hatches to go below, threw the obviously dead bodies over the side. Marines in the tops loaded their muskets, standing straight and upright in their smart uniforms though Toris could see smoke and tar had marred some of the white facings.

He took a moment to look at what was going on with the rest of the battle. It was hard to see; the ship behind was in a cloud of smoke as was her opponent. He could hear the guns – loud but nothing like the cacophony when the Triumph was firing.

As the ship crept forward he could see another enemy vessel ahead. He recognised her. L’Incroyable, flying an admiral’s pennant. Was this the fleet-commander or a squadron-leader? As the foremost gun bore on the target and fired he realised it hardly mattered.

A movement from behind caught his eye at the same time as someone cried out. A bowsprit was emerging from the smoke of the battle behind; a ship coming up on the starboard stern quarter. A brief glance at the figure-head confirmed what Toris had first thought; she was an enemy. None of the Whitland fleet had a sea-wyvern on the prow. Unless they beat L’Incroyable within a handful of minutes they would be bracketed by guns on both sides.

Triumph had two broad-sides of 50 guns, but with a crew of 800 and 12 men to a gun-crew it seemed unlikely that both sides could fight effectively at the same time. Unlikely had never stopped the Admiral though. For that matter impossible rarely gave him pause. How had he managed to find and bring to battle the enemy fleet in the track-less wastes of the world ocean? It was impossible so far as Toris knew, yet here they were.

The forward guns blasted out to cries of alarm on L’Incroyable. They had taken the other ship by surprise. Looking ahead Toris could glimpse why; they were too close to the ship ahead, in the midst of trying to avoid a collision.

A gust of wind caused him to turn his head – would the sails need trimming? – and he took a face full of gun-powder smoke. Coughing, he raised his neckerchief to cover his mouth and nose, blinking harsh, acrid tears.

L’Incroyable, alerted to their presence, was firing back. The fore-part of the Triumph was taking a heavy battering. As they slowly over-took the other ship the destruction moved steadily stern-ward, towards his position. He winced as a gun over-turned ahead, crushing a yelling Midshipman who had been urging the crew to greater efforts.

The first crash of shot came from behind. He glanced over. Yes, the other ship had caught up with them. There was a bark of musket-fire from above; the marines had held off to give a full volley against the new arrivals.

It was not clear what they had to fire at. The fore-castle protected the forward guns. Perhaps they were shooting at the double handful of men who worked on the fore-mast sails. And the enemy sharp-shooters in their fore-top.

One of whom raised his gun – a long one, strangely shaped to Toris’ eyes – and aimed down, past the aft-castle, onto the quarter-deck. The Quartermaster’s Mates at the wheel, Blaine and Campbell, were sheltered by the stern, so his target was the small group still wearing hats and coats – a Midshipman, some Mates, the Captain and the Admiral.

Toris couldn’t hear the sound over the shouts and the cannon-fire, but he saw the puff of smoke from the gun and when he looked down, the Admiral had fallen, hand clasped to his breast.

****

What good is the Purser in a battle? Will Fanshawe pondered this question.

The seamen who stood watches were all at their guns or on deck with the sails. It was clear what their role was. The officers, Captain, Lieutenants, Midshipmen, the Master and his Mates, all those had taken control of their various divisions. The Gunner, of course, had his place, prowling one of the gun decks, making sure there was powder and shot to hand, with his assistant the Armourer on another deck. The Gunsmith had handed out his muskets, and had gone aloft with his own. The Master-at-Arms had his chest of cutlasses and a barrel of boarding pikes ready if it came to close quarters.

The Surgeon was down in the orlop, already at work. With him were the various women on board, who one might have thought super-numerary in a fight, but every one of them assisting with the wounded freed a man to work the guns or carry wounded down to the make-shift operating theatre with the Stewards. And the other servants, many rated as ordinary seamen, even the boys, had their tasks with the crew.

The Carpenter was at work. He and his mates had been ready with a spar when the yard came down, and were now haring off to repair the deck so one of the great guns could return to its place. The Sailmaker’s Mates were working guns, and the Sailmaker himself was with the Surgeon, ready to sew up a wound, or to bring out canvas if needed elsewhere. Even the Trumpeter had his place, ready to blast out commands that could not be heard over wind and wave, let alone cannon fire.

You would think that, like the Purser, the Captain’s Clerk and Admiral’s Secretary would also find themselves surplus to requirements once the enemy were in sight. Usually that might be the case, but the Admiral’s Secretary had fallen overboard several weeks and thousands of miles back, never to be seen again, so the Clerk was even now jotting down the occurrences of the battle in the log-book for the Admiral.

He might have taken charge of the beer-barrel, but they had run out during the long chase, all across the Thalassan Ocean and back again. Instead they had hastily bought up some rum (along with green vegetables, fresh beef, and a flock of chickens, most of which had been blown overboard during a minor storm on the crossing. The remnants were shut up in their coops, and had been stashed down in the hold. He despaired of making his accounts come out after the reck-less expenditure of a frantic twelve hours of victualling the squadron in Port Safety.) The Captain had placed the Cook in charge of the drink – with his fires out, he had nothing else to do.

So Fanshawe pondered, wondering how the battle was going, hiding the disgraceful thought of how this was an opportunity to declare some stocks of food and clothing destroyed by enemy action which might help to bring his books back into balance, wishing that he had stayed at home or perhaps shipped out on a merchantman for the Spice Isles. What good is the Purser in a battle?

None it seemed. He had been chased off the main-deck, driven from the gun-decks by the noise and smoke, and hustled out of the orlop-deck before the moans of the injured would have had him leave of his own accord. The Surgeon’s daughter, just a slip of a girl really, had given him the rough edge of her tongue. No lady she!

To summon the strength of will to ignore the raging fight and work on his account books would be super-human. The point was moot; his books and papers were in their water-tight chest down here in the hold with the other goods and chattels, packed away with the furniture and partitions when they had converted the ward-room into a gun-deck.

He ought to feel satisfaction; no ship could sail more than a day without the Purser’s preparations, let alone for weeks on end, twice across the Ocean. This battle could scarcely have taken place without him. He ought to feel curiosity; the greatest sea battle for a generation was taking place around him. He ought to feel fear, for the most obvious of reasons.

He felt bored and frustrated. He had nothing to do.

The Admiral has been shot! Despite the noise, the gun-fire, the impact of cannon-balls, the shouting and screams, he heard the cry over the noise. It was taken up by the crew, yelling in surprise, despair, because everyone else was shouting.

The Admiral has been shot, called Fanshawe and ran to the ladder, climbing up and up and up to the quarter-deck.

At the last flight he stopped. Men were coming down, holding a body, carrying someone. The Admiral; the pale face under the hat with three cockades was un-mistakable. And although weak, so was the harsh croaky voice. Don’t take me below you stupid b-----s! I have a battle to win!

The Admiral lives, called Fanshawe. He was nearly drowned out by the shouts of the wounded. He bellowed as loud as he could, a squeak in a hurricane. The Admiral lives!

A big sailor turned and saw. Wendigo, that was his name. The Admiral lives, he screamed, and his gun-mates took up the cry. The Admiral lives!

Lot of fuss over nothing, said the Admiral, struggling loose from the men holding him. Then he collapsed, blood running from under his sleeve.

Fanshawe almost fell down the stairs to the orlop-deck. Miss Elisabeth saw him and opened her mouth to order him out again but he fore-stalled her. The Admiral has been shot. They’re bringing him down.

The Surgeon looked up and met her eyes, hands deep in a bloody wound. She nodded in reply. If you will help me sir, she said to Fanshawe.

Help in this case meant moving the next man, laid out on a table made of planks and barrels, off and into the corner, ignoring his whimpering cries, then finding new, clean canvas to lay on top. They had just finished setting up when the Admiral’s party arrived.

All a lot of nonsense, said the Admiral as they laid him down, though he eagerly drank down the cup of brandy Miss Elisabeth held to his mouth. She opened his coat to uncover the wound and he fainted.

Very well, she said, though to Fanshawe the mess of blood staining the shirt and oozing out across the Admiral’s chest seemed the opposite of well. She took up a pair of shears. Fanshawe winced as the loblolly boys took hold of the Admiral’s arms and legs but she just snipped the cloth away. A single bullet, she said.

The Surgeon called out; it seemed that he was still engaged with the other injured man and she was vocalising her actions to allow him to offer advice. Fanshawe did not understand his words, but she nodded and handed him the shears, indicating a pot of pink water. He plunged them in.

He turned back and shuddered. Miss Elisabeth was probing the wound with what looked for all the world like a pair of ear tweezers. Blood welled and she muttered in frustration, unable to see. This is no... good, she said swallowing a word.

Should you... not wait for your father? asked Fanshawe diffidently. He regretted his words; the look she gave him was full of doubt and fear.

Mr Fanshawe! cried the Surgeon. Blood welled from the Admiral’s wound; it spurted from the man on the other table. Unless you have been concealing some previously unknown medical expertise, I would take it as a great favour if you could find my assistant some hot water. Only the best for the Admiral!

Fanshawe ignored the jibe, rushing gladly out of the terrible room. In his hurry he nearly trod on the ship’s dog, Barnstable, who was sitting next to an injured man He had the stray thought that the dog was not doing her job of chasing rats. Unlike Fanshawe. This was a task he could undertake; though he would have to light a fire to do so, heating water was within the capabilities of the meanest Purser, even in battle.

****

The Admiral was going to die. Lizzie was sure of that. Oh it was possible that Providence would smile on him in this as she had so many times before, but one could not depend on a miracle. Nor had the Admiral relied on one in this, his final battle. Even Lizzie knew that; the ward-room had been full of talk of his bold plan, to break the enemy’s line in three places, bringing the fleet against their ships in sequence, each enemy ship being pounded in turn until it must strike or flee.

It had been the talk of the ward-room as the Admiral had been sure to pass on his orders to every ship’s captain from that of the great, lumbering, Hightown Castle down to the 14-gun sloop Miserie, standing off to leeward to carry news home in the event of victory or disaster. Then on, from Captain to Lieutenant, Midshipman, Master, Bosun, Gunner, Master’s Mate, Bosun’s Mate, Gunner’s Mate, and down to every man-jack in the fleet. Not all would have taken it in, but enough had to follow the battle; the division into three squadrons, the turn into the enemy guns, then the breaking of the line and attack at close range. And even those who did not understand would have fathomed the last line. "No Captain can do very wrong if he places his ship alongside that of the enemy."

Those words had come to the Lieutenants, and from them to the Surgeon and finally to his daughter Lizzie. Who now stood over the Admiral they had come from, trying to tease the threads of his shirt out of a wound she was sure would kill him. She wished her father was performing this procedure, though as he was saving the life of the man on the next table she could not wish too hard.

Just because the patient is going to die that’s no reason not to do a proper job. That was one of her father’s sayings. At the very least she could make sure that the Admiral did not die now, this hour, in this hold, while the battle raged above them. It was possible he might wake and be able to exert command again; pass on vital orders, turn the tide in the fight.

These thoughts distracted her from contemplating the gruesome wound. In truth the damage the bullet had caused, though terrible, was not near as savage as those made by storms of splinters and flying metal when a cannon-ball tore the ship into deadly missiles.

It was bad enough. The bullet had damaged his back-bone; he would never walk or stand again. He might live out the day, or even the week. No more. They would say he had been killed by an incompetent butcher of a Surgeon’s daughter, or perhaps that she was too delicate to do the work and had killed him through hesitation. But no, she knew the King’s Doctor himself could do no more than she had done; clean and bind the wound.

She stood upright, putting the needles and cloths into their buckets then turned to see that the Admiral’s eyes were open again. You can do nothing for me, he said. I have but a short time to live. I am shot through. His eyes closed again. A tear leaked from one and she wiped it. Thank you Miss Lizzie, he said. If I must die here then at least it is with as fair a flower of the female portion of our race as I might ever see.

She turned away to see the Purser, Will Fanshawe, staring at the Admiral in horror. He held a pot of steaming water, his hands wrapped in sail-cloth against the heat. They froze in a tableau for a moment.

There was a cry from the other table and the Admiral burst out in a coughing fit. She took the hot water – useless for the Admiral but perhaps of use in cleaning instruments or the wounds of other men – and barked out at Fanshawe. The Admiral needs a drink. Find him some lemonade!

The man bounded away. The Admiral wheezed and she turned back to him; for a moment she thought he was enduring a death-spasm, then realised he was laughing. Well done Miss Lizzie. That showed Mr Fanshawe what for, eh? But I would have preferred wine.

Time for wine as well as lemonade, she said, then was bustled out the way by the arrival of her father.

Shot through the back-bone, b’god, he said. The Admiral’s preference was always for plain, straight-forward speaking. My apologies for being otherwise detained sir.

Quite so, said the Admiral, eyes flickering. If you could get me Masterman I would be obliged.

I’ll go, said Lizzie and bolted before her father could question her as to the wound and her treatment.

Captain Masterman would be on the quarter-deck, commanding his ship and, with the Admiral now taken below, whatever parts of the squadron could see his signals. She bounced up the steps to the lower gun-deck, then paused in sheer shock as a nearby cannon fired. At close range the discharge disarrayed all the senses, leaving her quivering.

A passing powder-monkey saw her as he scampered by, empty bucket swinging. He stopped from his errand and turned, saying something which she could not make out. He pulled the scarf from around her neck and pulled it up around her face, being sure to cover the ears, then tucked a bit of cloth into each ear-hole. There you go Miss Lizzie, that’s better. He turned and left.

She shook her head. Another cannon blasted out; better prepared this time she merely shuddered and took a step towards the ladder.

There was another crash, unlike the first, and just behind her the gloomy deck burst open in a swarm of splinters and screams; the powder-monkey came rocketing back into her. She opened her mouth to chastise him – even in battle some standards had to be maintained – when she realised his slight form was even more diminutive. He had been cut in two by an enemy cannon-ball.

This at least was familiar; gore and blood and guts, not usually in quite such quantities (though on one famed occasion the crew had optimistically brought a decapitated body to her father in the hope he would be able to work some magic). She took a deep breath, regretted it, and climbed to the upper gun-deck.

More smoke, more noise, though a different quality to it; the cannon up here, though still enormous metal beasts, were smaller than those below and roared rather than bellowed. She ignored the shouting, sweating men, most of them stripped to the waist as they worked their guns, and climbed again.

To the open deck. If she had had any hope of learning of the progression of the battle from here it was dashed. Still more smoke, more cannon-fire – a barking noise from the quarter-deck 12-pounders.

Captain Masterman was walking by the rail, peering closely through the smoke. As she stumbled forward he paused and shouted something to the men on the wheel. A bullet hit the deck by his shoe and he strolled on.

Captain sir, she yelled.

What is it lad, he said absently, watching as the enemy cannon belched out smoke and fire again. I mean, miss, he said, catching sight of her. You shouldn’t be up here.

The Admiral is asking for you sir, she said, wincing as a stray rope swung between them.

How is he? said the Captain, continuing to walk, more bullets striking the deck.

Dying sir. Better to be clear about it no matter how blunt. He did not seem to hear her so she repeated herself. He is dying sir.

A d—n shame, he said shaking his head. He turned to the man by his side. D’you think this d----d idiot is going to give up or shall we be forced to pound him to splinters Mr Partridge?

Partridge, the taciturn Sailing Master, grunted something back. Masterman nodded. Well then, we shall simply have to keep pouring on the...

She’s struck! John Toris, a Master’s Mate, was up in the main-top, hanging from the edge by one hand and one foot. She’s struck sir!

There was a cheer. Lizzie tried to look through the drifting clouds of gun-smoke to see the hull of the enemy but could make nothing out. Though if they had indeed struck their colours there would be nothing to see as the flag would have been hauled down.

One of the 12-pounders barked eagerly. Cease firing d—n you! said Masterman. Cheers broke out. Well then, make more sail, he said. We must catch up with who-ever is ahead of us. This battle is not yet done.

He turned about on the spot, causing Lizzie to spin and almost trip where the deck was slippery. More sand, roared Masterman, catching her hand to steady her. Tell the Admiral I shall be with him when I have seen to my ship. He marched off.

Lizzie paused for a moment then ducked aside as a boy, blackened by smoke, scampered past spreading sand from a bucket to improve the footing. There was no arguing with that. It was an article of faith within the Navy that a Captain’s first duty was to his ship. This though the Articles of War clearly stated that it was to the King, and his Commissioners forming the Admiralty Board, and to the superior officers placed above him. This conflict of interests had occasionally led to disobedience and sometimes, albeit rarely, thence to mutiny, court martial, death and dishonour.

She turned to go, seeing something looming out of the smoke on the starboard side. Another ship, white bowsprit leading the way. She frowned. The Navy did not paint their masts and spars white. Nor did the enemy for the most part. In fact there was only one she had heard of, quite a notorious...

"It’s the Gloire, called out John Toris again. On our starboard quarter!"

The Gloire, 120 guns, the enemy flagship. She seemed to be turning away and for a moment Lizzie felt relief, that they would be spared engaging them. She quickly realised that this was to allow the enemy’s broad-side to bear.

Man the starboard guns, said Masterman. And get below girl, you have a message for the Admiral. This will be no place for a woman in a minute’s time. He squinted at the yelling men on the Gloire’s forecastle. No place for any living soul for that matter, though some of us have our d—n duty to do nonetheless.

Lizzie scuttled away, the guns on the starboard side running out raggedly as the gun crews ran from one side to the other. Though the ship carried 800 men (less now of course) there were only enough to man one broad-side at a time. Being engaged on both sides at once was a thankfully rare occurrence.

John Toris voice rang out again. Enemy ship on the port bow! Was he the only one watching out? Perhaps so; this deep into the battle everyone had a task to do and only the most attentive – or curious – would see anything but whatever was in front of them. "Sans Pareil!"

The name was unfamiliar to her; a brief glimpse suggested a line-of-battle ship. No monster like the Gloire; ironically Sans Pareil looked to be a third-rate of the most common type, with 74 guns. Usually the Triumph’s 100 guns could eat such a vessel for breakfast. Being engaged on both broad-sides at once would make this a tricky business.

A cannon fired as she half-jumped down the ladder, but the scarf did its work so rather than shocked into immobility she was merely surprised enough to stagger as she landed. Perhaps she was actually getting used to the noise and concussive force.

She plunged on and down to find the Admiral propped up in a corner, lying on a pallet and covered in a coat, the Purser pouring a little lemonade into his mouth. She nodded to herself approvingly. It seemed that if he kept at it Fanshawe might make a decent nurse.

The Admiral saw her and swallowed, then ducked his head when Fanshawe tried to offer him more. She ducked an inconvenient beam herself and joined him. Masterman, he gasped.

The ship is heavily engaged sir, she said. Captain Masterman sends his compliments and has said he will join you when...

A white hand emerged from under the coat and tried to seize her, failed from lack of strength. Bring Masterman to me, he said, his voice nothing like the roar he used to call during a gale. Immediately. This is an... order.

Lizzie shook her head, not in denial but because of what she would have to do. To fulfil the dying wish of the man in charge of the fleet she would have to climb back up through the gun-decks while the ship was being fired on – from both sides – then up on to the quarter-deck, exposed to fire from sharp-shooters in the rigging, then convince the captain to abandon his post and come down here. The Admiral’s eyes pleaded as she stood, then relaxed as she wrapped her scarf about her face again, stuffing corners in her ears.

She looked over at her father, still at his work, then back at the Admiral. As she strode away she could hear him asking the Purser for wine.

She climbed easily. After all she had an impossible task. To get the captain to abandon his post while heavily engaged. The ship shook as cannon-fire hammered into it, and it was no matter to her; if she was killed on the way up it was just another way to fail the Admiral.

She was not killed and reached the quarter-deck to find that smoke had drifted across it. She covered her eyes as the acrid cloud blew