by David McDine
They clucked and giggled over Armstrong’s wording, savouring his blandishments and titivated by the picture he painted of his signal station.
Elizabeth confessed: ‘I long to see him in his natural element, as it were, sweeping the Channel with his telescope and sending warnings of enemy ships. A telegraphic wonder? How thrilling!’
Anne was more down to earth. ‘Do you suppose it’s an imposing establishment? Like a mini-fortress, I mean? Oliver is only a lieutenant but has lots of men under him, so will Commander Armstrong have even more?’
Together they bearded their father in his study where he was relieved to be interrupted in his weekly chore of copying, mainly verbatim – and only slightly amending – an all-purpose sermon from a book of such exemplars.
It had been produced by a long-dead cleric who apparently knew everything there was to know about life and religion although he had not left the confines of his own rectory for more than half a century. Certainly he had been a past master at composing exceedingly boring sermons.
The Reverend Anson was keen to marry off both daughters as soon as possible to relieve some of the drain on his purse, so any approach from a likely suitor was welcomed.
He read the letter, sat back and smiled indulgently. ‘A visit to Fairlight and Commander Armstrong? Oliver’s friend?’
Elizabeth nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes father, you surely remember him staying at the rectory for the Brax Hall ball? The rather good-looking, gentlemanly officer …’
Of course the rector remembered him – a sturdily-built, sandy-haired fellow with a smiley, weather-beaten face, from a landed Northumbrian family and with impeccable manners learned while completing his education among the aristocracy of pre-revolutionary Paris. Now, if one of his daughters could capture such a man of evident means who had much impressed him, why, then he’d be delighted.
He teased his daughters. ‘Hmm, yes, I recall him vaguely and have no objection in principle, as long as you are both properly chaperoned …’
Elizabeth protested: ‘We would be chaperoning each other, father. And Jemmy would be with us.’
‘Oh, so you would wish to travel in the carriage?’
‘How else?’ Anne asked petulantly.
‘Hmm, well, your mother may well object. After all, it is a long way and we hardly know the fellow. I will put it to your mother and, as ever in all things, her decision will be final.’
*
Having learned his lesson the hard way, the rector deferred to his wife on all matters other than those directly involving his maker. Although he was nominally head of the household, she ruled the roost where he and their offspring were concerned.
Herself a clergyman’s daughter, she had high ambitions for their sons and daughters.
Augustine was doing nicely, already a minor canon and well on the way, she hoped, to becoming a dean, bishop or even archbishop. He was soon to be married to the archdeacon’s daughter – no beauty, but a sensible clergy daughter not unlike herself.
Oliver had slipped from her control when her husband persuaded her to let him join the navy. But she had no doubt that he would achieve flag rank, particularly if, as she dearly hoped, he married Charlotte who would bring a goodly part of the Brax fortune to the marriage bed.
Their youngest son, Abraham, was destined for the army, which was a pity, she felt, as it would mean mixing with a lot of rough fellows just as Oliver did with uncouth sailors.
But then there had not been a soldier in the family since great uncle Hannibal Anson was trampled to death by an elephant when tiger-hunting in Uttar-Pradesh. So if the youngest of her brood did well in the army, having a general in the family would be some compensation. It was early days, of course, because the boy was still at boarding school.
As for Elizabeth and Anne, well, it was vital that they made good marriages, and that meant finding wealthy and influential husbands. They had been expertly trained in parochial skills including arranging the church flowers and visiting the poor and sick whether they wanted to be visited or not.
When not on parish duty they painted in watercolours, embroidered and read poetry and romantic novels. But their education in affairs of the heart was sadly lacking, chiefly because their mother didn’t have one – or, if she did, it had hardened over the years.
Both were pretty enough to attract men, but it was finding the right ones that was the problem. Anne, who took after her mother and Augustine in temperament, would make an excellent wife for an up-and-coming churchman. Indeed, Augustine had already introduced her to a likely prospect.
But Elizabeth, who was much more like the sometimes flighty rector and her impetuous brother Oliver, would be harder to match.
It was while the rector’s wife was musing over such matters that her husband sought her out to show her Armstrong’s letter and consult her as to how their daughters should respond.
‘I am as keen as you are to marry the girls off, but we must only consider suitable suitors. And the question here is, would a mere sea officer be able to support one of them in the manner to which she has become accustomed?’
The rector agreed. ‘But of course, my dear, all that’s proposed at present is a mere visit – an outing for them, not a marriage market. I daresay that if he becomes attached to one or the other things might progress, but for the moment …’
‘As ever, rector …’ She only called him that when she was about to lay down the law or reprimand him, which was pretty often. ‘As ever, you are prepared to think the best of people and agree to almost anything off the cuff. Has it not crossed your mind that this man is a sailor? Have you forgotten the expression: “a wife in every port”?’
‘Actually I think it’s a girl, dear – a girl in every port.’
‘I rest my case! Kindly leave this with me. I will consult Oliver as to this man’s prospects and give you my decision after that.’
The rector nodded obediently. She was right again, of course.
Nevertheless, the thought of having another sea officer – and a commander at that – in the family did have its attractions. Why, one day both Oliver and his brother-in-law might achieve flag rank with all the wealth and kudos that would flow from it …
*
His mother was lying in wait for Anson when he returned to the rectory, and demanded: ‘This friend of yours, the one you brought to the Brax ball – Captain Armstrong. Apparently quite gentlemanly, despite being in the navy—’
‘Commander Armstrong. What about him, mother?’
‘All these ranks are most confusing. Where is he from?’
‘Well, at present he is at the Fairlight Signal Station, although itching to get back to sea.’
‘No, no. I mean where does he hail from – originally?’
‘Oh, Northumberland I believe.’
‘Great heavens! That’s somewhere near Scotland, is it not?’
‘Nearer there than here, for sure, mother. I believe he is due to inherit an extensive estate up there, or “up north” as some call it.’
Her sceptical expression faded at that and she tilted her head and pursed her lips speculatively. ‘Well, that is gratifying from an income perspective – as long as it consists of farms, forests, coal mines and the like and not just bleak grouse moors,’ his mother mused. ‘But no-one would wish to live in such a place, would they? So far north and devoid of civilised society …’
‘Mother, have I mentioned to you before that you are a dreadful snob? Anyway, why this sudden interest in Armstrong? Could it be to do with him inviting the girls to visit his signal station? Don’t tell me, you are lining him up as a target for marriage aren’t you?’
‘Well, when he stayed here he did pay a good deal of attention to your sisters. He seemed quite taken with them, although it was difficult to tell whether it was Elizabeth or Anne who interested him most.’
He thought back to Armstrong’s visit and the ball they had attended together at Brax Hall. It was there on that sultry night using the
excuse of needing to take the air on the terrace that Squire Brax’s voracious eldest daughter Charlotte had made such a play for Anson, and to his regret now, he had responded enthusiastically.
‘Mother, any sailor home from the sea or stuck in a signals station and deprived of female company for months on end will take an interest in any woman.’
That, he thought ruefully, was how he had allowed himself to become entrapped by the over-ripe and pushy Charlotte, desperate to find herself a husband. How he regretted succumbing to lust and sleeping with her – and now the scheming minx had painted him into a tight corner.
His mother’s protest brushed away his dark thoughts. ‘Your sisters are not women! They are ladies. Yes, they need suitable husbands, of course, and I would be failing in my duty as a mother if I did not vet possible candidates with due diligence.’
Anson laughed. ‘You make it sound as if Armstrong is about to sit the matrimonial equivalent of a lieutenant’s examination! He has merely invited them to lunch …’
‘It is clearly a declaration of interest and an opportunity for him to decide which of them he favours.’
‘Mother, I think you will find that Elizabeth has already aimed a cupid’s dart at the gallant commander in the guise of a heavily-scented letter sent some time ago. I reckon this invitation to visit Fairlight is a direct response.’
‘What! You tell me she is in correspondence with this man without my knowledge? I sincerely hope nothing improper has been said … or occurred!’
Anson had helped his sister draft the note following the Brax ball so could vouch for its chaste nature, but chose not to put his mother’s mind at rest and instead threw in provocatively: ‘No doubt they’re planning to run away together and Anne is merely invited along as cover …’
His mother almost choked but then noticed his sly smile and rebuked him: ‘This tendency to the lowest form of wit is not what we are used to in church circles and you were most definitely not brought up to it. It clearly comes from spending too much time in the company of rough sailors.’
‘Mother, I can think of no-one in the world less like a rough sailor than Armstrong. He is a well-mannered, educated, honourable man of good repute and good family. There is no-one – no-one – I would choose over him to call my brother-in-law. I hope that satisfies your examination board and that you consider due diligence done!’
Amused, he gave her an exaggerated bow and made his exit, thinking as he left that he would prefer the company of his rough sailors to the prim and prudish inhabitants of a rectory any day of the week, be they family or not.
*
‘Brother?’
Anson looked up from the Kentish Gazette report he had been reading on the latest manoeuvres of the Kentish volunteers and sat back in his wicker-work chair as his sister swept into the rectory summerhouse. ‘Yes Elizabeth, what can I do for you?’
She flopped into a chair beside him. ‘I was just wondering about how ranks work in the navy, and, perhaps the marines too?’
Anson knew that Elizabeth had been attracted to his friend Armstrong and was itching to visit him at Fairlight. No doubt she was following the same line of enquiry as their mother.
He decided to indulge her. ‘Well, you no doubt recall that I began life – my naval life, that is – as a midshipman?
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I was very little, but I do remember you wearing your pointy navy hat and chasing us around with a dagger when you were supposed to be helping the servants to pack your trunk.’
‘Dirk, not dagger. It was a midshipman’s dirk.’
‘Whatever it was, you terrified Anne and I with it and mother was very cross with you.’
Anson had never forgotten that time when, a day short of his thirteenth birthday, he had gone off on his own full of notions of adventure and glory to join his first ship at Chatham.
A lot of water had passed under the bridge since then. There had been years of being run ragged as a midshipman, seemingly endless boring hours on watch in all weathers on blockade duty off the French coast, and the many discomforts of life living hugger-mugger in the confined conditions of His Majesty’s warships and existing at times on a less than wholesome diet.
But there had been plenty of adventure and comradeship, a sort of shared glory perhaps from exploits like the escape of HMS Euphemus from the Nore Mutiny, the successful prize-taking cruise of HMS Phryne in the Mediterranean and the capture of the Normandy privateer by his Seagate Sea Fencibles.
His sister brought him out of his reverie, asking: ‘But how did you get to become a lieutenant? That’s what you are now, are you not?’
‘That’s what I was the last time I looked. What did it take to become one? It took a great deal of sea time – a minimum of six years – and then I had to pass the examination. Ship-handling, navigational problems – ever a trial for someone like me, always struggling with mathematics. I still shudder at the memory of it. It was a far worse ordeal than escaping from France.’
‘But you passed?’
‘I suspect the three captains who examined me must have thought I had a closer kinship with the Anson than our family actually has.’
‘So why is Commander Armstrong a commander, and is that better than being a lieutenant?’
‘Ah,’ thought Anson, ‘so this is all about Armstrong, as I expected.’
Elbows resting on the arms of his chair, he clasped his hands and rested his chin on them as if deep in thought before looking up to find her waiting expectantly for his response.
‘Well, you see, Armstrong is somewhat older than me so he has been in the service longer, and is no doubt considerably wiser. That’s why he is senior to me in rank.’
‘But if he is a commander why is he not given a ship to command, not just some building in Sussex?’
Anson laughed. ‘It’s not just a building, it’s a signals station! But as to why he, and I, come to that, have not been given ships, well, you had best address that question to their lordships at the Admiralty. But I very much doubt that you will get a positive response.’
‘So why don’t you go and ask them? Surely they would listen to you after all you have done.’
‘Armstrong and I have both gone hat in hand and pleaded for sea-going posts and slunk away ship-less with our tails between our legs. There are more than 2,000 lieutenants and commanders, around 500 captains and only 100 or so admirals of various hues and ranks. That’s why in the navy we pray for a bloody war or a sickly season so that we can step into dead men’s shoes. Other than that we patiently wait our turn, unless we have interest.’
‘What do you mean by interest?’
‘Influential friends in high places who can help advance one’s career.’
‘And the marines? Anne particularly asked me to find out about the ranks of the marines. Is it as difficult for one of them to become an officer?’
Anson frowned, wondering what lay behind this question. Could his younger sister have fallen for Lieutenant McKenzie at the memorial service?
But while he was still pondering his answer, George Beer appeared at the summerhouse door to announce that lunch was being served, giving Anson the excuse to escape further interrogation.
18
A Warning Signal
Amos Armstrong, the unwilling incumbent of Fairlight Signal Station on the gorse-studded headland high above the old fishing town of Hastings, was growing impatient and snapping at his underlings.
Dressed in his very best uniform – the one he wore for his visits to the Admiralty seeking a posting to a ship, or anywhere other than his present draughty command – he was anxiously awaiting visitors. And not just any visitors, but eligible females, rare as rocking horse droppings in his lonely eyrie.
His moon-faced midshipman was also in best fig, such as it was, and the youngster’s face positively glowed from the good scrubbing he had been ordered to give himself earlier.
The two signalmen who, in the absence of a recognised uniform, which the navy had
not yet got around to providing for inhabitants of the lower deck, were in new striped shirts, baggy white trousers and straw hats specially bought for them from a Hastings tailor by Armstrong himself. He was adamant that they would not disgrace him, certainly not in the matter of dress.
The two dragoons assigned to the station, Dillon and Hillman, were normally reasonably smart enough in their regimentals, but today they too had made an extra effort – and their horses had been favoured with a comprehensive wash and brush-up.
At long last Lloyd, the cheekiest of his signalmen, keeping watch from the roof, shouted: ‘Deck there! Sail in sight approaching from the east.’
Armstrong responded: Most amusing, Lloyd. I take it you are referring to that carriage I can now see approaching.’
He raised his navy-issue telescope and focused on the carriage, hoping for an early sight of his guests, but at first he could only see the Reverend Anson’s young groom at the reins.
As the rig drew closer he spotted an undeniably female face at the side window and he called his men to action stations, taking up his chosen position ready to take the salute. The moon-faced boy stood beside him ready to open the carriage door.
The signal station was a small wooden building, with two main rooms and a newly added extension that could quite easily have been taken for a poor cottage were it not for an eighty-foot mast with a thirty-foot gaff attached for running up flags and signal balls.
Armstrong had paid out of his own pocket to have the extra room built on as his private retreat, but it was furnished with plain deal tables and chairs much like the sailors’ accommodation except that he had a cot rather than the hammocks they favoured – and a pair of comfortable armchairs that had cost him a week’s pay.
He had described it to Anson as a dire place – day after day with naught but the whining midshipman, oafish signalmen, strait-laced dragoons, and occasional picnickers and dog-walkers for company.
The commander did not welcome these idle gawpers who made themselves a nuisance by trespassing on the site, giving him concerns for the security of the small arms, signal code book and logbook that he guarded with his life – and engaging the sailors with ridiculous questions, a favourite of which was: ‘Can you see what they’re up to in France from here?’
