Hungry Harry: An Orphan in the Ranks

by Andrew Wareham

  Harry was mystified, but he was not the innocent of two years before; there was something unlawful going on, and that was likely to pay better than a day of labouring or of whatever other work he might discover.

  Three miles took nearly an hour at regulation pace and Harry was sweating in the late summer sun when he decided he must be near the lookout point. He made a performance of staring about him as he walked the last yards; he was looking for a place or person he did not know but had been told about. The track he was walking was very close to the water’s edge, following a narrow shelf, the hills close inland rising increasingly steeply; it was a good location for a man who wanted to keep an eye on the sea and watch for traffic on the road as well.

  He heard a whistle, wondered whether it was directed at him or if another man was being warned of his presence. If they did not like strangers then there was perfect cover within yards of the roadway, a mixture of long grass and small trees, stunted by the salt winds and more like thick bushes than proper oaks and blackthorn. There could be a pair, or more, of muskets pointing in his direction, and not a thing for him to do about it. He hoped that, whoever they might be, they were not in the habit of shooting strangers without talking to them first.

  A man appeared at the side of the road, not ten feet from him, stepping out from behind a thicket where he had been invisible. Harry stopped and nodded a greeting. The man appeared to be unarmed, certainly had no musket though he might have pistols or a knife concealed; he was dressed in brown homespuns, but within reason new – not ragged and probably warm trousers and jacket over a thick shirt of heavy cotton or linen. Too comfortable to be a farm hand, Harry thought, but not like the sailors he had seen.

  “Jemmy Teaman said as ‘ow I was to talk to a man what might be found around about ‘ere, mister.”

  The scarlet coat told the man that Harry was – had been – a soldier. He knew enough to recognise infantry uniform - this stranger was not one of the dragoons allocated to assist the Revenue Men.

  “So, why do I want to talk to thee, soldier?”

  “Just back from the Slave Coast, discharged in Plymouth. Lookin’ for work, or to walk to Dorchester or Andover where I been told they’re taking recruits. You need a bloke what can use a musket, I can do that. If not, I got a strong back if you needs a hand for a few days for some job.”

  “What’s your back look like, soldier?”

  “Not a scar on it, mister. They made I corporal and I ain’t never been beaten.”

  “Never been caught?”

  “They never checked the stores afore us took ship out of Cape Coast Castle. The old Quartermaster took the fever and the sergeant was too busy coverin’ up for ‘imself to check any bugger else!”

  “Good money?”

  “Nah! Paid off me girl, what was only right, and put maybe two quid in me pocket over that. Better than nowt, and she was a good lass and it was fair that she should ‘ave a few bob in ‘er purse.”

  The man nodded his agreement; had Harry boasted of his profits he would have been suspicious, for he would not be walking the coast road if he had a few pounds to his name.

  “Fair enough, soldier. Down the track, a quarter mile about, and there’s a small fishing place on the shoreline. Go to the third cottage from this end and knock on the door and say ‘all’s right and tight’, and not a word else or different. Got it?”

  It was simple, a password.

  “Got it. Thanks, mister.”

  The man looked surprised – he was not used to courtesy in any form. He did not object, however.

  The cottage door was opened by a very different sort of gentleman – an officer, was Harry’s immediate thought. He was done up in shop-bought clothes and wore a neck-tie and, most significantly, a bob-wig. Harry came to attention and spoke his words.

  “Come inside, soldier.”

  Harry walked into an almost unfurnished room that took up the whole of the tiny ground floor of the cottage. There was a small table and a single chair, both plain deal and simple.

  “What’s your name, and why are you here?”

  Harry repeated his brief story.

  “What battalion?”

  “Bedfordshire Fusiliers, sir. Recruited special for the Cape Coast, nearly four hundred strong when we went out from Bristol.”

  “How many when you came back?”

  “One ‘undred, sir, maybe ten more, but some of them ‘ad the fever in them.”

  “Did you ever fire your musket for real?”

  “Twice, sir. We attacked a tribe once, what ‘ad put a spear in a trader. Then we ‘eld the Castle when they came back at us. Didn’t like it much, but didn’t run, neither.”

  “Good. I will pay you one pound a week, and your keep. All your meals and a place to lie your head and proper clothes that do not stand out like a scarlet coat. You will carry a musket and a pair of pistols and if the Revenue Men come, or soldiers or the navy, then you will shoot them, if I give the word. Are you willing? If we make a good profit, you will get a bonus – extra money.”

  Harry shrugged; for a pound a week and his keep he would do as he was told. He was used to obeying orders, life was easier when you didn’t have to think for yourself.

  “That’ll do me, sir. What’s the job about? Who’s the Revenue Men what you been talkin’ about?”

  The man stared at him, narrow-eyed, suspicious, then weighed up his age and started to wonder.

  “Do you know how old you are, Harry?”

  “Eighteen, so they worked out, provided I got thrown out of the Magdalen when I were eight. They sold me to a coal mine and I run after eight years, so I reckoned. Then two years with Fusiliers; well, that was nearer thirty months when you reckon it, with training and sailing.”

  “No school ever, I would imagine?”

  “Not school, sir, but the missionary, Reverend Quaque, ‘e taught me my letters down on the Coast, and I picked up a bit of sums too. That’s how come I got to work in the stores part of the time.”

  “So you can read and write?”

  “Got to, if you wants to be a sergeant, acos of they keeps the Company Books. They does all the writing and the numbers and the captain of the company checks ‘em afterwards, or so they reckons. Most of the captains don’t like the writin’ work with the ledgers, so they just signs their names and that’s it.”

  “I can use a good man who can keep my books, making a record of all that comes in so that I can check the money I receive, and who knows what’s what. Six months to see if you are any use to me, and then, if you are, I shall take you on to be turned into a manager for me.”

  Harry gave his thanks; he did not know how long six months might be and in any case would believe it when it came. It sounded like a present to him, and he knew that rich people did not give anything to his sort, apart from floggings.

  “To answer your question – the trade is smuggling and the Revenue Men try to catch and hang us for our pains. To be exact, some of the Revenue Men try to catch us. More of them take our money and tell us where the Revenue Cutters and the Navy are to be found. Sometimes they are pushed to do their job – the dragoons are sent and officers come from London for a few days or a week or two to force them to make captures. Then we have a few problems and, very rarely, there is an actual fight with the Revenuers and the soldiers. Mostly they try to do the job at sea, taking our runners before they get ashore; the sea-smugglers will never try to fight the Navy, for fear of being hanged as pirates, the Navy not having to worry about courts of law, but we will exchange shots with the Land Guard. That will be your job, if it comes about.”

  “I can do that, sir. But a musket ain’t goin’ to hit much in the night. Do better firing that buckshot stuff than a ball, sir.”

  “Not ‘sir’, Harry. I am no officer. Call me Paul.”

  “Paul? Right you are, sir.”

  “Paul will do as a name - I saw the light, you see!”

  Harry did not see at all; the comment meant nothing to him.r />
  “Can you ride, Harry?”

  “What, on a ‘orse, Paul? Never tried.”

  “Then you must learn; you will be more use to me on horseback. Tonight you will follow me and keep silent; listen, that is all!”

  They left the cottage and walked a mile inland along a farm track across the shoulder of the hills. They came to a small barn, empty at this time of year, weeks before the harvest. Six men joined them over half an hour or so, greeting Paul and glancing at Harry but saying nothing to him.

  Paul started speaking as the last man came in.

  “This is Harry. He may run messages for me and will carry a musket for us, as we talked about last month.”

  They said nothing.

  “Next run is due two nights from now, dark of the moon, as is best. Two small runners, probably Breton luggers, about eighty tons of hold space between them according to the message. Brandy in barrels; bales of silk; sugar from the French islands which comes either in chests or in barrels; lace, in canvas-wrapped bundles; leaf tobacco, where from, I know not. The tobacco is the possible problem, for not knowing whether it is baled or in barrels or even in sacks. We will need wagons as well as pack-ponies and, because there is silk that must not get wet, the luggers will have to tie up rather than run boats into a beach; that means Dartmouth again.”

  “Risky, Paul. Mortal chancy, twice in the same year.”

  Paul agreed, pointing out that he did not choose the cargoes or the vessels that ran it.

  “Can you get hold of the wagons, Luke?”

  The man who had spoken said he could; he would have to pay farmers to look the other way when their hay wains rolled out at night, and that would add to his costs again.

  “Same as you paid last time, Luke. Cash up front – if you pay them first then they are accessories before the fact and will find it less easy to peach on us.”

  Luke agreed, put his hand out for the money, a heavy draw-string purse of silver coins; his farmers would never see gold guineas, would draw attention to themselves for possessing them.

  “Jack, Mick, Jonathan, Godbegot – are you able to provide your pack-ponies and drovers as normal?”

  The four said that all was well, as always; they took their money.

  “Walk-Humbly-In-The-Lord, can you get hold of at least eighty labourers?”

  “Times are ‘ard, Paul, mortal ‘ard. For thy three shillings a head I can find eight bloody ‘undred, shouldst thou ‘ave use for they.”

  “Then get twenty extra this time. If possible hire on the sons of some of the labourers we use already – a bit of a reward to their families.”

  The men agreed that to be a good idea – loyalty needed to be bought, just in case the Revenuers started to offer rewards.

  “Right. Nine of the church clock, two nights hence, unless it is blowing a full gale, down at the warehouse on the quayside.”

  The six left and Paul waited five minutes before taking Harry back along the farm track.

  “What was that last one’s name again, Paul?”

  “Old Walky? His old father was a lay preacher for one of the Devon sects of Ranters. They all named their children in that sort of fashion. Don’t happen quite so often now but you still find a few.”

  They returned to the fishing hamlet where Paul led Harry to a small stables to watch as he harnessed up a gig to a single horse.

  “Get in, Harry, there’s room for two. Brixham for us. I have my house there and you will stay at the White Hart pub; they will provide you with a room and cook your meals for you. Tomorrow they will find clothes for you but for the while you must keep that red coat out of sight. I shall arrange for you to be taught how to ride, starting this week, I hope.”

  Harry made his thanks, unable to understand how he had fallen on his feet in such a fashion. Paul did not enlighten him – he had no need to know that he was valuable because he was invisible to the authorities. Harry had no parents, or family of any sort; he had never worked in England and so had made neither friend nor acquaintance in the ordinary way of things; he had been discharged from the Army, his battalion disbanded and no officers or sergeants to hand to answer questions. Harry hardly existed, and if he became an embarrassment for any reason he could completely disappear with none to ask any awkward questions; he was an ideal aide for a man in an unorthodox line of business.

  Chapter Six

  “Too much wind in the Channel to bring a cargo across the beaches, Harry. Winter time we move less, but all of it through harbours. Exciting time of the year!”

  Harry grunted.

  “You do not sound overjoyed, Harry!”

  “I likes the quiet life, Paul. We use Dartmouth too much already. Once a fortnight since I been here. Six times.”

  “No choice in autumn and winter, Harry!”

  “We ought to find another place to use as well, Paul. Two or three hours away so that they can’t watch both from one Revenue cutter. Stretch ‘em a bit. I don’t like the feel of just using one place.”

  Paul listened, having come to like Harry. The youngster was reliable, Paul thought. Hardly drank at all, was always where he should be, would take a message or sit down on a boring look-out for hours, whatever was asked of him; he handled his musket and pistols easily as well, gave the impression of safety. Harry was one of those who would shoot any man who needed to be dead, and would leave anyone else strictly alone – there was no swagger, no rodomontade in him.

  “Good idea, but we’d end up on another man’s patch, Harry. Trespassing. I get to run anything for ten miles on either side of Brixham, but further out than that belongs to other people. I don’t know who – none of my business – but they wouldn’t like me to be stirring up trouble on their ground.”

  Harry had not thought that far; it made sense.

  “No way you could put the word out… No, no point in trying to work together. Just get too big, too easily seen. What about Brixham itself, Paul? There’s a big fisher fleet and some coastal trade as well. What about bringing a lugger or brig in first thing in the morning, tucked away in with the boats coming in with their haul? The fishermen go to their quays and our boat ties up quiet and peaceful to a wharf by a warehouse. You know what it’s like when the fishermen come in, all pushing and trying to race each other to be first to unload and get their crans ashore. Not a chance that one small boat more would be noticed in the dawn.”

  Paul liked the idea – bringing the cargo in under the very noses of the Revenue men; there was pride in that!

  “Easy to do, Harry. You might put a cargo of some sort, wheat perhaps, in sacks on top, bales and barrels underneath. There’s almost no corn grown in Devon and the bakers and provision merchants bring their grain in by sea… A big wagon trade going out to the villages as well – the land is so rough and the roads so poor that most goods go by sea, are brought in from the nearest harbour. Everything hidden in plain sight! No trains of pack-ponies in the night to draw attention – couldn’t be better. What would we need now?”

  “A warehouse with men workin’ it and keepin’ their gobs shut, that’s the first thing!”

  “Pay the labourers a day’s money extra whenever a cargo comes in; they all know about the Gentlemen and have heard what happens to informers. The only problem is to find a warehouse that ain’t too successful, Harry, so that there’s empty racks and bins in it.”

  “I’ll poke me nose about during the week, Paul. You can’t, being as ‘ow you’re too much of a gentleman to be seen getting your own ‘ands dirty!”

  Paul was a man of leisure, with a private income, who lived in a large house on the outskirts of Brixham. He was the only son of elderly parents, his mother poorly after his birth and dying before he was breeched and his father surviving until he was twenty. Only on his father’s death had Paul discovered that the old man was a younger son of County family, and that his allowance had died with him; he was left without an income and with no profession and little education. Paul’s father had saved a little from his
own income over the years, sufficient for the young man to exist on for a year or two while he found an occupation. Paul had been wild enough as a youth to know the smuggling pubs and to have a few casual acquaintances in the Trade; within six months he was running the land side of the local gang’s operation, and putting away a very respectable sum each month. Ten years had made him a master smuggler in his own right, all the while seeming no more than a lounger in his own little town. Most of the local gentry assumed Paul to have inherited his father’s tiny income and to be living sensibly on it, too poor to marry but quite comfortable in a small way. He would have no reason to be seen around any warehouses or to be conducting any sort of business, and it was important that he should raise no questions in any man’s mind. Smuggling was a way of life in the town and the Revenue Men were alert to anything out of the ordinary in the existence of the local population.

  “Do it for me, Harry. What do people think about you, by the way?”

  “They all know me, Paul. They’ve seen that I always got a shilling or two in me pocket, and the wide awake ones have spotted me to be carrying pistols. The girl what does me room in the White Hart knows I got a musket there, and she’ll ‘ave told one or two… They all knows I was a soldier and they reckons I been sent here by the Revenuers to keep me mouth closed and me ears open. They talks to me, and tugs a forelock now and again, and all of they laughs on the quiet for knowin’ they got me fooled. Every week or two one of ‘em talks a bit loud where I can hear, about a run there’s goin’ to be down coast a few miles – always far distant from where we’re goin’ to be any night!”

  Paul laughed – it was a near-perfect disguise.

  “They will not be at all surprised to see you poking your nose into the warehouses at the quays, they will expect you to want to know everything, and they will know that there is nothing to be found there and will laugh the harder. Are you at risk, do you think? Might they decide to knock you on the head one day, just as a matter of general principle?”