by David McDine
Lloyd, he knew, enjoyed telling them that through the glass he could see Frenchmen in their gardens gathering frogs and snails for their supper. And more often than not he was believed.
But today’s visitors were something else entirely. His lonely vigil was about to be enlivened by his first-ever visit by ladies – and young and attractive ones at that.
The welcome on board the cliff-top station satisfactorily concluded, Armstrong showed the Misses Anson around his little empire, explaining: ‘There was a beacon site at the time of the Armada – imagine that! And it remains an important location for keeping an eye out for our enemies.’
Elizabeth was clearly fascinated by it all and bombarded him with intelligent questions. How like her brother, he thought.
But her sister Anne was less enthusiastic and sniffed: ‘I had assumed something dignified with the name of a signals station would be quite a grand affair, but this is … well, a hut …’
She was much more like her mother and her elder brother Gussie, Armstrong reflected.
Embarrassed by her sister’s rudeness, Elizabeth hastened to get back on track, asking: ‘Is your principal role to monitor French ships, sir?’
‘Indeed it is. When the wind blows hard from the west, which is pretty often, our warships sail for the protection of Dungeness Bay, over towards Seagate. And that’s when the French privateers grab the opportunity to swoop down and capture our merchant vessels. My main job is to spot enemy ships and signal warnings of their approach.’
‘But there are other tasks?’
‘We are also charged with keeping a look-out for French prisoners attempting to escape – and for smugglers unloading their cargoes. We have special signals for both eventualities and send them by hoisting different arrangements of balls and flags.’
‘But how will the next station know what the signals mean?’
‘Simple. They merely look in their copy of the code book that we are all issued with and all is revealed.’
Elizabeth laughed sweetly. ‘How clever!’
Anne was far more interested in status and reward, asking: ‘As a commander, are you above our brother Oliver, who is merely a lieutenant?’
‘Bless you, no. In reality we rank equally in our present shore-bound situations. Like Sea Fencible detachments, coastal signal stations are normally commanded by lieutenants—’
‘Yet you are styled as a commander?’
‘Styled, but not paid as … It’s a long, boring story. I was – am – a commander, but sadly there don’t appear to be nearly enough ships to go round, and being without one on half pay did not appeal.’
Anne mouthed: ‘Hmm, only half pay …’
‘So rather than lounge around for the rest of the war I reluctantly accepted an appointment to a coastal signal station where I can at least see the sea. Their lordships at the Admiralty were kind enough to allow me to retain my rank while paying me as a lieutenant.’
‘So, like our brother, would you prefer to be at sea rather than looking at it?’
‘Prefer? I’d give my right, er, my eye teeth to serve anywhere but here. In fact I have gone hat in hand a number of times to plead with their lordships for a sea posting, but am always sent packing with my tail between my legs.’
‘So you are here for the duration?’
‘I pray not but fear so. However, enough of my career frustrations, ladies, let us move on to more pleasant matters, such as luncheon!’
He had apologised in advance for what he warned would be a ragamuffin meal, but it proved not to be.
The truth was that Armstrong had ordered the courses from a Hastings inn. In view of the distance from inn to signal station he had deemed a cold collage safest, as fewer things could go wrong with it.
He had arranged for the dragoons to serve it up, being less likely to drop it in the ladies’ laps than his midshipman or the coarse-mannered sailors.
During the meal Elizabeth asked: ‘Tell me, sir, you were involved in that Normandy privateer affair with Oliver, were you not?’
‘I was indeed, Miss Anson. I was able to furnish your brother with intelligence of the privateer’s movements as the Frenchman sailed up and down the coast annoying coastal traffic. Your brother was thus able to prepare a trap.’
Pointing to a rack in the corner, he added: ‘Those are the very muskets we fired to alert him to the privateer’s approach.’
‘How very exciting! I should very much like to fire a musket, although I doubt I have the shoulders for it.’
Armstrong was on the point of telling Elizabeth that she had extremely attractive shoulders, when they were hailed from the duty look-out: ‘Deck there! Sail, approachin’ from the west!’
‘Ah, this may be of interest to you ladies. Since we have more or less finished lunch, may I suggest we go outside and see what’s occurring?’
He led the way, grabbing his telescope, and they gathered on the seaward side of the station. Armstrong shouted to the lookout: ‘What’s afoot, Lloyd?’
‘Sail coming west to east just beyond the fishing boats. Looks quite big and a bit like a warship of some kind.’
Armstrong handed the telescope to Elizabeth. ‘Perhaps you’d care to take a look through this glass. I’m afraid it’s only one of Dolland’s navy issue versions. Your brother has bought himself a superior model, you know, having been lucky with prize money.’
Elizabeth took the proffered glass and raised it awkwardly, turning to Armstrong to ask sweetly: ‘It’s awfully heavy. Could you …?’
‘Of course. Allow me to help you hold it up and adjust it for you.’
Their hands touched lightly and her head brushed his shoulder as they raised the telescope together and she peered into the eyepiece, exclaiming: ‘Look at the fishing boats, how pretty they are, like little toy boats!’
He was enthralled himself and might have taken her in his arms there and then had it not been for her obviously disapproving sister watching like a hawk.
‘Oh, how close they look through the glass! But that one’s bigger and appears to have guns. It’s flying a very pretty flag of some sort, red white and blue, so it must be one of our warships!’
Armstrong shielded his eyes and peered out to sea. ‘No, by God! It’s not ours – it’s one of theirs – a Frenchman!’
Elizabeth laughed lightly. ‘How thrilling to see the enemy – and so close I feel I can almost reach out and touch them!’
He almost snatched the glass from her and focused on the mystery ship. ‘It’s a privateer for sure, of twelve, no, fourteen guns, and heading east. I’m afraid our party is over, ladies!’
He had seen similar vessels used in the Mediterranean along the North African and Spanish coasts for transporting horses. This looked as if it had been converted – a fast, flush-decked, three-masted vessel of 300 or 400 tons and a single tier of guns, roughly equivalent to a British sloop.
‘The crafty blighter … sorry ladies, I mean devil, is going right through the fishing fleet!’
Snapping the glass shut, he explained: ‘There is work to be done! That Frenchman is heading towards Dungeness, Seagate and points east, no doubt intent on snapping up merchantmen just as the Normandy privateer did. I must send a warning signal forthwith.’
He called for the midshipman: ‘Roust out the signal for enemy privateer off the coast, heading east – and look lively about it!’
The boy dashed to the store, but Lloyd and his mate had beaten him to it and were already putting the appropriate flags and balls together and attaching them to the ropes ready to raise up the yard-arm.
‘When they’re ready you may help hoist the signal if you wish, ladies, and help strike a blow for old England.’ But, he noted, only Elizabeth took up his offer, her face shining with the thrill of it.
Excusing himself, Armstrong went off to compose a written message and Dragoon Dillon set about readying his horse. It was a clear day and the flag signal would be copied down the line, but the only way to get a fuller me
ssage away was by one of the specially-selected, well-mounted, light cavalrymen attached to the station.
Armstrong emerged with the written message and Dillon took it, saluted, mounted up and trotted off towards the next station at Dungeness. From there, Armstrong told his visitors as they made their departure, the procedure would be repeated eastward, with the added warning signal, Number 65: “Sea Fencibles are to embark and the boats be in readiness to act.”
He raised his hat as the Anson sisters’ coach followed Dillon down the track and wondered if the alert would be received in time for the fencible detachments along the coast to man shore batteries and gunboats and see off the Frenchman.
In particular, he hoped Anson would be alerted in time to bring off another coup as spectacular as the capture of the Normandy privateer.
19
A Clash at Seagate
Sam Fagg was relaxing in a chair outside the Sea Fencible building enjoying an afternoon pipe and chatting to Tom Hoover when news of the latest privateer threat reached Seagate via a dragoon galloper from Dungeness.
Immediately Hoover set off to gather as many fencibles as he could find, telling them to rendezvous at the gun battery.
With Lieutenant Anson on his way to Dover, Fagg reluctantly sent Tom Marsh to inform Captain Hoare that a privateer was heading east along the coast and was expected in the Seagate area imminently.
The gallant captain arrived huffing and puffing from another session of “fostering good relations with the civic authorities” – a phrase and concept he had adopted with enthusiasm.
‘What’s afoot? Another damned Frenchman, eh?’
Fagg knuckled his forehead. ‘That’s right, sir. Anuvver bleedin’ Frog, and ’e’s ’eadin’ this way. In the habsence of Lieutenant Anson what’s gorn orf to Dover Castle, on orders like, I told meself I’d better hinform you, sir.’
‘Quite right, bosun. Now we must summon the men to man the battery.’
‘Already sorted, sir. Tom Hoover’s gorn orf roundin’ up as many as ’e can find and sendin’ ’em down ’ere. And as soon as I’ve got enuff I’ll get Striker under way.’
Now, following the already near-legendary Battle of Seagate the two new gunboats trialled successfully by the detachment had been named Striker and Stinger.
To their own considerable amusement, their crews had proposed they be named Flogger and Starter. This was a reference to the assurance they had been given when first parading under Lieutenant Anson, that there would be no flogging of his men with a cat-o’-nine-tails or “starting” as customary in the navy with a blow from a rope’s end to liven up dozy sailors.
But Anson, who preferred to lead by example and natural authority, drew the line at humour when it came to the naming of His Majesty’s vessels, however insignificant in the scale of things nautical. And so he had decreed names that implied aggression against the enemy rather than internal discipline.
Hoare gestured acceptance to Fagg’s assurance that the response to the latest privateer threat was in hand and, still perspiring from the effort of breaking away from his postprandial port and cheese, mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
The bosun asked cheekily: ‘You coming wiv us in the boat, sir, to take command, like, you bein’ what they calls the over-all big white chief …?’
A momentary look of alarm registered on Hoare’s puffy cheeks.
‘I’ll take charge ashore. There’s the second boat’s crew to organise and I’ll need to get the battery into action as soon as we have enough hands.’
Fagg’s opinion of the captain’s leadership skills could not have been lower after the Normandy privateer affair. To him, Hoare was one of those officers, fortunately relatively rare in the service, of whom it was said that men followed more out of curiosity than anything else. So the bosun was determined to taunt his superior.
‘Jacob Shallow ’ere can get the guns ready and there’ll be plenty to man the second boat when the word gets round. So you won’t be much use ’ere, will ye … sir?’ Fagg’s years as a cocky foretop-man had made him a past master at delivering the insolent delayed “sir.”
‘Don’t question me, man. Remember your place!’
A few fencibles had emerged from the pub and others around the town had been alerted and were gathering beside the battery. Fagg shouted: ‘Get yourselves down to the ’arbour and get the canvas cover orf Striker. There’s annuver Frog privateer ’eadin’ this way!’
They turned to go, but he called them back: ‘Nah, ’ang on, ’ang on! Don’t go empty-’anded! You, Bishop, get powder and wads. There’s shot an’ whatnot in the boat. And the rest of you take oars.’
They disappeared into the detachment building to get the equipment and Fagg cursed at the delay. But oars would disappear if kept in the boats overnight.
He turned to Shallow. ‘Jake, when Sar’nt ’oover gets ’ere tell ’im what’s ’appening and that we’ll need Stinger to back us up. Get the sar’n’t to see if ’e can cobble enough rowers together.’
‘Right-o, bosun!’
‘But you stay ’ere, Jake, and get the battery into action once you’ve got enough bodies. At least get everything ready for when Sampson Marsh gets here.’
He made to leave, but turned to order: ‘Once the Frenchman comes in sight, fire a gun. A bleedin’ great bang might frighten the Frogs orf!’
Hoare stood back, taking no part in giving the orders, merely commenting: ‘Very good, bosun. Carry on.’
Fagg gathered up the half dozen fencibles carrying oars and powder, and they set off for the harbour at a trot – or in his case a fast limp, his ankle broken during the failed cutting-out operation in Normandy still giving him trouble.
The canvas was already off the carronade when he arrived trailing after the rest and flung himself into the boat, breathing hard.
He noted with relief that Joe Hobbs, the detachment’s best coxswain, was already at the tiller and a few more men had appeared.
‘Right boys, let’s get to it!’ he shouted, and some elderly fisherman dropped the nets they were mending and helped shove the gunboat away from the harbour wall.
*
Through a borrowed glass – a fine three-foot model by Dolland, purchased at the princely sum of six guineas out his own pocket by Anson and kept in the detachment building – Hoare watched proceedings.
The privateer was now in plain sight heading directly for a coaster that had been caught unawares and wisely struck immediately after a single shot across her bows.
Hoare was joined by the mayor, who had heard the Frenchmen’s warning shot and came hurrying from his shop in the High Street. He was wringing his hands. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, Captain Hoare, another attack!’
‘Ah, Mister Mayor. Fear not, all is under control. I have despatched some of my men in one of the gunboats to see off this Frenchman and I’ll send the other boat as soon as I have enough hands to man it.’
‘Thank heavens you’re here, sir. What would we do without you?’
Hoare smirked. ‘Merely doin’ me duty. I’m about to get the battery into action so we’ll soon send this pesky privateer packing.’
‘Bravo, sir! Is there anything I can do?’
A brainwave struck Hoare. ‘Why, yes, I do believe there is. You can join me and a few of our brave lads in manning one of the guns.’
The mayor looked doubtful.
‘Just think: if you’re seen to be helping us to get rid of this Frenchman you will be the talk of the town by nightfall. Why, they’ll be making up songs about you in the pubs!’
The mayor liked the sound of that, but protested: ‘I know nothing about gunnery whatsoever … I’d be useless!’
Although Hoare privately agreed, he saw the value of involving the chief citizen and countered: ‘Worry not – you’ll be told exactly what to do.’
They moved over to where Jacob Shallow and a few fellow fencibles were busily uncovering one of the battery’s 18-pounders.
Shallow had already sent two m
en off and now they came hurrying back, one with a swab and leather bucketful of water, the other with powder and wads.
Hoare pointed to a small pyramid of shot. ‘Perhaps you’d care to select a ball to send to the Frenchmen, eh, Mister Mayor?’
‘I would indeed, sir.’ And, with a grunt at the effort, Seagate’s chief citizen picked up one of the heavy balls and brought it to the gun.’
There was no time to obtain a slow match, but Shallow had a solution. ‘You, Jacko!’ he shouted at a newly arrived fencible who had a clay pipe clenched in his teeth. ‘Keep that there pipe a-burning. We’re going to need it!’
Hoare decided the moment had arrived to assume command but was unsure of what to do next, so tapped Shallow on the shoulder with the telescope. ‘You, Swallow isn’t it? Give the orders.’
‘It’s Shallow, sir. Aye aye, sir,’ and, desperately trying to recall the drill he had learned from the detachment’s chief gunner, Sampson Marsh, he yelled: ‘Sponge!’ and grabbed the sponge stick himself, dipped it into the bucket to wet it, plunged it down the barrel and wiggled it.
‘Load cartridge!’ The powder man obliged and rammed the cartridge home.
‘Load ball!’
Hoare interjected: ‘That’s you, Mister Mayor.’
The mayor staggered forward and put the shot into the mouth of the gun as daintily as if he was presenting a bouquet to a lady and it, too, was shoved in with the ramrod.
‘Load wad!’ Again the powder man obliged.
Shallow cried: ‘Point!’ and looked around for someone to aim the cannon.’
‘Then give the order to fire, Swallow!’
Shouting: ‘It’s Shallow, sir!’ the greengrocer-cum-gunner snatched the pipe from the smoking Jacko’s mouth, blew on it to make the tobacco flare and tipped some of the embers into the touchhole.
