Young Dick Read online



  © John Jarvis 2011

  ISBN 9781301552337

  All rights reserved apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research criticism or review as permitted under the Copyright Act 1994. No part may be reproduced by any process without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction based on an idea from Barbara Stedman. The author has created all characters apart from major historical figures.

  Preliminary evaluation by Adrian Armstrong and his Saint Patrick’s College Silverstream Year Twelve English Class.

  John Jarvis

  Copyright 2012 by John Jarvis

  Proofreading by

  An Eye for Detail

  Wellington NZ

  Book preparation by

  Mondo

  Greytown NZ

  Young Richard Digby is rescued from a harsh Yorkshire boarding school by a friend of his father, who is a sea captain and always absent.

  He is signed on to Subtile as an oddsbody on a pre-Captain Cook voyage to find the Great Southern Continent.

  He encounters Burmese pirates, a marooning in what was to become New Zealand, and is rescued by an American whaling ship.

  He becomes involved with first the British in their post-Seven Years War against French activists, then takes command of his first ship trading between the Colonies and England.

  He falls in love, incurs the wrath of her father and pursues his love to Italy.

  Returning to a continent at war, he is commissioned in the new Continental Navy and employs tactics that are both successful and controversial.

  Young Dick is a ripping good yarn.

  John Jarvis retired from the martial arts in 1988 after twenty-five years of practice. He was Australasia’s most qualified teacher holding 16 black belts in five different disciplines and one of the few men to achieve the 100-man fight. He began his studies in London, lived in Japan for a year in 1967 and has made five return visits the last in 1989.

  He has had a parallel career in secondary school teaching, specialising in physical education and religious studies.

  He is a former consultant editor to International Martial Arts and a contributing editor to South Pacific Martial Arts. His autobiography is Kurosaki Killed the Cat.

  John is retired and lives on his yacht Gulliver in Wellington, New Zealand.

  Also by John Jarvis

  Kurosaki Killed the Cat

  Zakari

  East of Hydapses

  Valley Low

  Scipio’s Shadow

  Children’s book

  The Adventures of Zig and Zog

  Dedicated to

  ZAC

  PROLOGUE

  It had all begun with the sudden death of his mother while his father was captaining a merchant ship overseas. His father was not expected back for over a year. He remembered his mother as a loving caring person who had lavished affection and attention on him. Her death was not explained to him; one moment she was cuddling him and teaching him to write, the next he was shivering and crying beside a waterlogged grave as his mother was lowered and the deacon intoning words that sounded meaningless to a seven year old. An uncle took him away from home the next day. He would never see it again. A new detail; his uncle had not locked the door behind them. His uncle Silas believed in the sanctity of the work ethic and spent most of his time slaving in a ship’s chandlery while his aunt Elizabeth prayed constantly, sometimes to the annoyance of the local vicar. Both hated children; they made noises, smelled and worst of all, cost money. They suffered all this in the hope that God would reward them and more importantly, return Captain Digby to England – the sooner the better. In the case of the latter their patience would be sorely tested; ships were often away for two years or more trading locally before returning with a premium cargo. Richard gained some concessions from his aunt by asking to learn how to read the Bible; his goal had been to learn to read. He was rewarded with better food and had the opportunity to filch extra from the food stalls Elizabeth was always organizing to help feed the poor and the abandoned. It never occurred to her that her nephew was in that category. Richard had survived almost three years by teaching himself from books he concealed within the large family Bible and asking endless questions about everything of anyone who would listen. Finally, money had arrived from his father to enter him as a boarder at Saint Jude’s School for young gentlemen. Life for Richard was about to become more miserable.

  There was no extra money for a coach to Saint Jude’s some fifty miles to the north so a kindly farmer delivering produce took Richard to York. He walked the rest of the way. Before he left Aunt Elizabeth gave him a tatty copy of the New Testament and Uncle Silas a well-worn sailor’s kit bag whose owner had long gone to Davie Jones’ locker. They had both smiled for the first time, happy to be relieved of their family duty. A new detail: they had not waved goodbye. Richard recalled his first view of Saint Jude’s situated on the wrong side of the moors. It looked bleak and abandoned like its resident pupils, and the prevailing winds had blasted away any futile attempt to grow flora. He was admitted and sent straight to the dormitory where the older boys laughed at his old fashioned and tattered clothes. In later life, Richard never recalled his time at Saint Jude’s; it was too painful apart from one event of which he was extraordinarily proud. After a year of bullying by the senior students and the disgusting fagging where he had to clean toilets, polish shoes and run and fetch, he devised a diabolical plan. Every Sunday after Church service he had to clean the pots and pans in the kitchen after the only meal of the week that contained some form of meat. He had heard that the following Sunday the cook would bake a huge chocolate cake for the head prefect and his cronies. The cook had been paid extra and the chocolate sent up from London. The next Saturday Richard had reported sick at the infirmary, he said he had constipation, a common malady amongst the boys. Matron promptly prescribed an evil laxative that clung to the side of the stone bottle. Richard did not take it and waited for Matron to turn her back before emptying the draught into a smaller bottle and topping it up from the stone one. He was cuffed away to await results. On the Sunday Richard seized the opportunity to empty the bottle into the cake mix while the cook washed her hands. The cake was then consigned to the oven while the cook prepared the icing. Richard finished his chores and was dismissed. Early in the evening Richard heard the prefects’ party; they had obviously smuggled in hard liquor. Late in the evening when everyone had gone to sleep, Richard stayed awake; he did not have long to wait. Several of the seniors crashed open their upstairs dormitory door and tried to reach the outdoor lavatories. Most did not make it and squirted liquid shite over their long underwear, the stairs and each other. There had been no time to light lamps, so more seniors staggered out of bed and into mire. The few who did make it to the lavatories found that after venting there were no buckets and sponges available to clean their aching bums; they had been all cleaned and neatly stacked by the water pump for distribution the next morning. That night Richard had smiled himself to sleep.

  Richard started as the dormitory door opened. Strangely, it did not slam open as usual. In the doorway stood not the head prefect but the Rector’s assistant.

  “Richard Digby, pack your clothes and come with me to the Rector’s office!”

  It took Richard all of a minute to pack and then follow the assistant downstairs to the rector’s office. He never said anything to his roommates and he never looked back. The Rector should have been completely bald; it would have been better than the isolated tufts of white hair that sprouted around his scalp. Folds of fat hung over his not-so-white collar and almost reached his black frock coat. However, Richard was not looking at the Rector but at a large man who leapt to his feet and then steady himself, as if unused to a stable floor.

&
nbsp; “Richard young man, your father asked me to secure his son, not a skeleton.” He had the rich burr of a southern Scott and gave the Rector a hard look.

  “Times are hard,” wheezed the rector, “And we have had to make savings.”

  “It is a pity your austerity has not extended to yourself!” thundered the man as the Rector shrank back into his chair. “You may call me Jamie until we are on board. Come, let us push off from this pathetic place.”

  He gave Richard a hug and pushed through the door, slamming it so hard that a hinge fell off. A two seat coach waited outside with its lamps lit and driver ready. Richard was bundled inside and as the two horses clopped down the drive he had yet to say a word. There was enough light for the driver to see the road and after two hours they stopped at a coach station with attached accommodation. A room had been booked, but it had only one large bed. Jamie gave Richard an understanding look. “Leave your clothes on laddie and dina worry, you are safe with me.” It took Richard ages to get to sleep, unused for so long to a warm bed.

  The morning’s breakfast filled Richard with more protein than he had consumed in a month: fried eggs, thick slices of ham, sausages and thick newly baked bread smothered in butter.

  “Need some more luv, you poor scrawny thing?” invited the landlady. Richard shook his head; he was afraid to speak in case his small tight tummy overflowed. On the post coach to London Jamie gave Richard his instructions.

  “I am a man of few words, laddie, and have used far too many to date; ask no questions and enjoy the scenery.” Jamie pulled down his tricorn hat and fell asleep despite the coach’s bumps and sways. The only other passengers, a prim looking middle-aged couple, nodded approval and tried to read their books. Richard watched the severe northern landscape give way to a more condescending farmland supporting sheep, a few pigs and on the next day, lush pastures supporting villages and towns flowed past the window. The most dangerous part of a coach ride is the starting off and stopping; this is where most accidents occur, and the coach now had to slow down and stop frequently to pick up his Majesty’s mail and new passengers. Even Jamie stayed awake and took stock of his surroundings, noting their progress towards the Thames. They exchanged the coach for a cabbie and banged over the cobbles until they reached Tilbury. There by the docks was an inn called The Safe Anchorage; this was to be Richard’s home for the next month. Jamie settled him in, paid the bill and left a few florins for new seaman’s clothing.