Dead Man's Island

by David McDine

  And the truth was, she knew that she was already expecting – hence going through the marriage ceremony at the earliest opportunity. But she had no idea whether the child, if male, would be a little trooper – or sailor.

  *

  During a lull at the lavish Brax Hall wedding breakfast that followed, the groom, having already imbibed copiously, found himself alongside the rector.

  ‘Dull service, old fruit, but I s’pose you’ve got to rattle through all that “ordained by God and let no man put asunder” stuff to make it legal, eh?’

  The Reverend Anson winced, but could not immediately think of a suitable response. Chitterling poked him in the chest and demanded: ‘By the way, that naval son of yours – the uppity fellow who attacked me on the way to the Mote Park review – what’s he up to these days. Off playin’ with his harbour rats, is he?’

  The rector started to stutter a reply but Chitterling had already spun on his heel and, spurs jingling, moved on.

  The rector was left feeling humiliated. Oliver had spurned the squire’s offer of a generous settlement if he had married Charlotte. In itself this would not have been a problem and he could understand why his son had shied at such a flighty, spoilt and headstrong partner.

  But as rector he himself was in thrall to the Brax family who held the advowson of the parish and were therefore able to dictate who would be the incumbent. This put him firmly under the squire’s thumb. And now the awful Chitterling, who clearly hated Oliver, would also be able to exert his malevolent influence.

  Added to that was the Reverend Anson’s feeling of discomfort and guilt at allowing his wife and Gussie to sway him over the business of Oliver’s refusal to marry Charlotte Brax which had opened a wide rift between him and his favourite son.

  All told, he had a feeling of depression and foreboding, heightened by rumours from the coast that, following his bombardment of Boulogne, Nelson was about to mount some great operation against the French.

  It was common knowledge that Nelson’s flotilla had returned to Deal, where there was now feverish activity and the naval yard had begun to collect oared sea-going boats. This could mean but one thing – there was going to be an attempt to cut out enemy ships. But where? And although he had no idea where Oliver was, he had a strong premonition that he would be involved and that it would not end well.

  38

  Volunteers to a Man

  Anson summoned Fagg and told him to call for volunteers to man both gunboats.

  Fagg laughed. ‘That’s sorted then!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Take it as they’ll all volunteer, sir.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘I’ll tell ’em. I’ll just ’ave t’say: you, you and you! They’ll volunteer orlright!’

  ‘No, no, no. That won’t do at all. This isn’t the proper navy. They’re not pressed men. They’ll need to be willing volunteers. Lord Nelson would not wish to include unwilling men.’

  ‘Look, sir, it’s like this: what wiv Nelson and you, too, well, you’re both what they call lucky orficers. So don’t you worry, sir, they’ll all follow ’im anywhere – and you, ’specially if there’s a whiff o’ prize money.’

  ‘More like a strong whiff of gunsmoke! I doubt there’ll be many prizes, if any. The admiral has made it clear that any enemy craft we can’t easily winkle out must be burnt where they are.’

  ‘Whatever, the boys’ll volunteer orlright.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Lieutenant Coney will be bringing some of his men and we have more in the detachment than we need to man the two boats, so we’ll only take real volunteers, is that clear?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘And I’ll check that they are truly volunteers, so there’ll be no pressing unwilling men, is that understood?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and another thing – only you and Hoover are to know the true objective.’

  ‘Boologny?’ Like many a Man of Kent, Fagg was completely unable to pronounce the name of the French port correctly although they lived only just across the Channel from it.

  Anson corrected him, not for the first time. ‘Yes, Boulogne. But the men are not to be told until after we are at sea. This is meant to be a surprise attack. With Kentish smugglers going back and forth to France all the time someone is sure to leak the target. So let ’em think it’s going to be Flushing, Dunkirk, the Normandy ports, or whatever …’

  ‘So I’m to tell ’em it’s not Boologny?’

  ‘If anyone mentions Boulogne, remind ’em that Nelson’s already bombarded the Frogs there and smashed a lot of their invasion barges, so more than likely we’re off to attack somewhere different.’

  They discussed how many they would need to man the boats, with spare oarsmen to ring the changes during long hauls rather than risk blowing the men.

  Anson announced: ‘I’ll take Hoover and Sampson Marsh as gun captain. And you and Lieutenant Coney can have Minter. He’s good with the carronade. And take young Tom Marsh. You won’t find a stronger rower anywhere along the coast.’

  That was certainly true, but Anson’s real reason for splitting Sampson and Tom Marsh was to try to avoid too great a loss in one family if things went pear-shaped and one of the boats was lost.

  *

  Later, Fagg sought out Anson in the Mermaid where he was finishing his supper and reported that the boats were ready, that the blacksmith Ned Clay and his mate had turned up with their bags of tools as requested, and that the rest of the men were gathered.

  ‘Good. I’d best let them know what’s what. They must be all agog.’

  ‘You could say that, sir. There’s bin orl sorts of rumours – everyfink from invadin’ France to Gawd knows what!’

  ‘Very well, let’s go.’

  The men stopped talking and there was an expectant hush as Anson entered the detachment building, Fagg preceding him shouting: ‘Gangway for the orficer!’

  They were all there: Sampson Marsh, the fishmonger turned gun captain; his crippled nephew Tom, the unit’s best oarsman on account of his upper-body strength resulting from a lifetime of hopping around on crutches; Boxer, the undertaker; Hobbs; Minter; Heale; Oldfield; Hogben; Shallow; Longstaff; and others who had been with him since he took over and had already seen action.

  There were new faces, too, some no doubt having heard some sort of operation was pending and anxious to be involved. All hoped that whatever it was would turn out to be another triumph like the taking of the Normandy privateer which was still the talk of the town – and for which it was rumoured those involved would receive a substantial share of prize money.

  Anson looked around, nodding to key men like Sampson Marsh and Joe Hobbs, a cobbler by trade and the detachment’s best coxswain, who grinned back, clearly flattered to be acknowledged.

  He was delighted to see that Phineas Shrubb, who had seen plenty of action as a surgeon’s mate during the American war, was among the volunteers to go. The apothecary-cum-Baptist preacher would, he knew, prove his worth tending anyone wounded in action and it comforted the men to know he would be there to patch them up.

  The bosun called the men to order and Anson addressed them: ‘Right men, it’s like this. Admiral Nelson is now down at Deal commanding the anti-invasion forces – including us …’

  There was a murmur of approval. Every man jack had heard of Nelson and knew of his winning reputation following his great victories at Copenhagen and Aboukir. Being included among those the great man commanded made them proud.

  ‘… appears he’s got something important to be done and the navy and the Deal and Dover men can’t handle it without our help …’

  The men laughed. There had always been rivalry between the Channel ports and the Folkestone and Seagate men, he knew, had long been convinced they were better than their neighbours at just about everything.

  ‘We’ll be taking the boats and Lord Nelson wants an officer in each, so I’ll be in Striker with Sergeant Hoover. Lieutenant C
oney has kindly volunteered to command Stinger and will be bringing along some of his men. Bosun, you’ll be with him.’

  There were some apprehensive looks. They were well aware that Coney was in charge of the local impress service, and normally the Seagate men avoided anyone associated with the press gang like the plague. But now some would be sharing a boat with them.

  Anson noted the uneasy looks and made use of them. ‘It’ll be handy because if any of you don’t do your duty the press gang boys can row you straight off to a receiving ship afterwards!’

  There were muted laughs. The thought of being pressed into naval servitude was no laughing matter, but they felt sure Anson didn’t mean what he’d just said. Or did he?

  ‘Now, I want volunteers for the boats – just volunteers mind, no pressed men. This could be a hazardous mission so I don’t want married men with children – nor newly married men.’

  Fagg held up his hand and to renewed laughter asked: ‘What abaht them like me as ain’t married as such, well, not churched like, but might ’ave lots of orfspring what they don’t know nuffink abaht?’

  ‘Very amusing bosun, but of course you will be considered to have volunteered as a matter of course. We need you.’

  The bosun grinned. ‘Thank you very much, sir, ’appy to oblige.’

  ‘The boats are ready?’

  ‘Aye, ready, sir.’

  ‘Good, then we’ll make our way down to the harbour and rendezvous with Lieutenant Coney and his men. When we get there I want to see only those who wish to volunteer. Fathers and anyone not wanting or unable to go for whatever reason must fall out on the way. There’ll be no come-backs. I will choose from those still with us when we get to the boats.’

  He watched as Fagg ushered out the volunteers and one man caught his eye.

  ‘You can fall out Heale, you’ve already sacrificed two fingers for the King.’

  Heale protested: ‘Plenty more where they come from, sir. Anyhow, I’m bustin’ to go – to get revenge for me fingers, like.’

  ‘Very well. But hang on firmly to the rest of your body parts this time.’ Ned Heale was a good man, keener than ever to have a go at the French after being wounded in the battle with the Normandy privateer, and Anson was happy to take him.

  ‘Mister Boxer?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I wish you to be in charge of the rear party. I know you would give your eye teeth to come but I need you to stay here in charge of things and look after the rest of the men – and the families of those who go, if need be.’

  ‘But, sir—’

  ‘No buts, Mister Undertaker, it’s an order. Oh, and please take a note of the names of those chosen to go. Once we have gone kindly inform their families. Tell them we hope to be back, I think, in a few days. Now, let’s go!’

  As they walked down to the harbour Anson singled out Clay. ‘You know what you and your mate must we do if …’ he corrected himself,‘… when we get on board an enemy?’

  ‘Look for mooring chains and break any we find, sir?’

  ‘That’s right, but these will more than likely be pretty hefty chains.’

  ‘Every chain has a weak link, sir, and I’ll find it.’

  ‘Good man, but be under no illusion. You’ll be doing it under fire. It won’t be quite the same as knocking out a piece of iron back in your forge.’

  ‘I’ll cope, sir.’

  ‘Good man, Clay, I’m sure you will.’

  *

  The two gun-boats, Striker and Stinger, were of a new type trialled by the Seagate detachment. Clinker-built row galleys, each had a slide for’ard extending back to the third thwart for mounting a 12-pounder carronade and, aft, were pairs of throle-pins to accommodate eight oars a side.

  The slide for the carronade was pivoted at the fore end so that it could be elevated or depressed, and on rollers at the after end for training it to starboard or larboard.

  The detachment had used these boats to great effect in two skirmishes with the Normandy privateer, resulting in its capture, after a hail of splinters sent on their deadly paths by a carronade ball had killed and wounded many of the Frenchmen.

  Now, with all oars manned, they cut through the swell with ease as they passed Folkestone heading for the Downs anchorage.

  The row was easy-paced to conserve energy, and Anson and Coney did nothing to discourage the good-natured banter between the two boats.

  When Stinger fell behind a wag aboard Striker called out: ‘Oughta rename your tub Slug not Stinger!’

  The offended crew put in a spurt, passing Striker with the rejoinder: ‘Who’re the slow coaches now? You couldn’t catch a tart in a brothel!’

  And so it went as they passed Dover and headed for Deal.

  From way off, the 12-mile-long anchorage appeared like a forest of masts. It was sheltered four miles out by the notorious Goodwin Sands, graveyard of many a ship over many a century – victims of the shifting sandbanks that could make a fool of any pilot.

  Here, Anson knew, East Indiamen and traders of every shape and size, passenger vessels and warships gathered to await a favourable wind to head up into the North Sea or down-Channel into the Atlantic.

  The forest of masts turned into a flotilla of naval vessels. Nelson’s flagship, the 32-gun Medusa lay at its centre, flanked by several other frigates, gun brigs, bomb vessels and gunboats of every type, and, to his surprise, even a few Revenue cutters.

  39

  Band of Brothers

  Coney ordered Fagg to ease off, allowing Anson to lead the way.

  Their approach had been noted and a burly young lieutenant hailed them with a speaking trumpet from a jolly-boat that had clearly been co-opted as flotilla sheepdog.

  ‘What boat?’

  Anson cupped his hands to his mouth: ‘Sea Fencibles, from Seagate.’

  The lieutenant consulted a list. ‘Do your boats have names?’

  Anson cleared his throat: ‘Striker and Stinger.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘Striker and Stinger!’

  ‘Commanded by?’

  ‘Stinger by Lieutenant Coney, Striker by me. Anson’s the name.’

  They were close enough now for the lieutenant to dispense with his loudhailer. ‘Lieutenant Anson? Are you any kin to the Anson?’

  The usual question, the usual answer. ‘Only very distantly I’m afraid.’

  ‘You are nevertheless most welcome to Admiral Nelson’s proposed outing to enjoy the delights of Boulogne. Perfect for a run ashore at this time of year, I’m told …’

  The boats drew level and the lieutenant briefed Anson on what lay ahead.

  After being towed across, both boats would be in the second division commanded by Captain Parker.

  Anson had not met Edward Parker, but had certainly heard of him as a great favourite of Nelson who was reputed to refer to the young man, only 23, as “my child” – which most believed indicated the admiral thought of him as the son he never had.

  Certainly Nelson’s “little Parker”, who had left command of a sloop to serve as the great man’s aide-de-camp, was being given the chance of glory that most ambitious officers – Anson included – would literally be willing to die for.

  Once in position outside Boulogne, Anson learned, the attacking boats would be joined by as many marines as they could squeeze into the thwarts and when the signal was given the crews must follow the directions of the lead boat of their division and row like hell for the French line.

  They were to board the nearest French vessel, take it, cut its moorings, tow it out of the defensive line and take it out to sea.

  ‘So y’see, nothing much to it, is there?’ the lieutenant quipped.

  Anson laughed. ‘Everything will be fine just so long as we can break the Frogs’ chains, eh?’

  But the sheepdog lieutenant had already turned his attention to another arrival, shouting through his speaking trumpet: ‘What boat?’

  *

  In his great cabin, before leading the
flotilla down-Channel towards Boulogne, Nelson was again writing to Lady Hamilton:

  Medusa, Deal, 15th August, 1801

  “As you may believe, my dear Emma, my mind feels at which is going forward this night; it is one thing to order and arrange an attack and another to execute it. But I assure you, I have taken much more precaution for others, than if I was to go myself … After they have fired their guns, if one half of the French do not jump overboard and swim on shore, I will venture to be hanged … If our people behave as I expect, our loss cannot be much. My fingers itch to be at them.”

  *

  A few hours’ sailing away, his adversary Rear Admiral René-Madeleine La Touche-Tréville was expecting another attack after the earlier bombardment.

  During the afternoon he was alerted to increased activity among the British ships patrolling offshore. And now, in addition to the 74-gun HMS Leyden, to which he had become accustomed, a newly arrived frigate appeared to be the centre of attention – Medusa and Nelson!

  Reports from spies, smugglers and fishermen who traded scraps of intelligence along both coasts, and news from escaped prisoners had already reached him stating that the English admiral was now flying his flag in the frigate.

  At first he had doubted what he heard, but now he felt sure it was true. Through a glass he could see that Medusa was accompanied by two other frigates and around them were many flatboats, barges, cutters, gunboats and other small craft.

  It was certain indication of a coming assault. And the only way to attack Boulogne was via the defensive cordon of 24 ships moored across the harbour mouth.

  It would have to be a night raid otherwise the shore batteries would decimate the attacking boats and he knew that when it grew dark the French gunners would fear hitting their own ships.

  And, he judged from the increased activity he had witnessed, it would be this very night that the British would attempt to board, cut out and tow away vessels from the cordon protecting Boulogne.

  Confident he knew exactly what to expect, he turned his mind to his defences. Since the earlier bombardment he had reinforced the defensive line with bigger ships. More soldiers had been sent on board so that each vessel was defended with both musketry and grapeshot, and patrol boats were deployed by night to give early warning of an attack.