Fletcher's Fortune

by John Drake

  The door at the far end of the room opened and I saw money change hands as a respectable-looking woman entered and spoke in whispers to the Bosun. Silence fell as the prisoners strained to catch what was going on. The Bosun led her up to the barrier and one of the prisoners greeted her.

  “I’m here, m’dear,” says he, and the two of them just stared at one another like lost souls. She was a tiny creature; well-made and pretty and not much older than me. And she was pale as a ghost and trembling.

  “Now Missus,” says the Bosun, “just a few words, mind, and I’ll be watching everything you do.” And he hobbled off to join his mates, well-pleased with his bit of business. I thought she had come to bid farewell to her man but she brought out a small bundle of linen and offered it to him without another word.

  “What you doing there, Missus?” yells the Bosun. “What’s passing there?” She unwrapped the bundle and held it out for him to see. It was no more than pieces of old linen.

  “It’s handkerchiefs ... ” says she.

  “Very good, my girl! Don’t you just play me no tricks, or I’ll tan the bare behind off you!” The gang roared with laughter at this and added some coarse suggestions of their own. But the girl seemed not to notice and pushed the linen through the bars and stood still. There was something not right here, but I couldn’t see what. The prisoner spoke again.

  “Just like we always said. Now ... go on!” With that, he put out his right hand so that it rested on one of the bars of the grating, and closed his eyes. With the briefest of hesitation, she fumbled in a bag that she carried, raised her arm and brought something flashing down on her husband’s fingers.

  “Clump!” and a thumb and forefinger went spinning to the floor linked by a flap of skin.

  A gasp of horror burst from all who saw this fearful act. The man glared his teeth in agony as his wife stepped back, with one hand to her mouth and an axe dangling from the limp fingers of the other hand. Then the room went mad. The gangsmen bellowed and stampeded forward in a herd to seize the girl. She offered no resistance but, in his fury, the Bosun struck the small defenceless creature a terrific blow with his fist and knocked her senseless. This released the emotions of the prisoners in an animal yell. They bayed for the Bosun’s blood and the grating strained as they hurled themselves at it and lunged out their arms to get him. For his part, he stood there looking sick and wondering what to do.

  The noise brought Lieutenant Spencer into the room. He went up and down, slashing with his stick, till he had knocked order back into his men. Then he questioned the Bosun, and sheer curiosity brought silence as the Spencer pitched into the Bosun.

  “Let her in ‘just for a minute’ did you, you shithead bastard?” says the Lieutenant, in one of his politer sallies. “By God, Mister, I’ve a mind to put you in there along o’ them!” He pointed to us, to roars of extreme approval, and the Bosun shrank six inches in height at the very least.

  When Spencer ran out of curses, he turned to the rest of his men.

  “Get that female out of my sight,” says he, and noticing the thumb and forefinger where it lay in the dirt, added, “and heave that wreckage over the side!”

  Two of the gangsmen raised up the girl and carried her out. Another, taking Spencer at his word, picked up the “wreckage” and threw it out of the nearest window. There came a moment’s pause, then a screech from someone in the crowd outside, followed by a roar of outrage.

  Spencer nearly burst with anger at this and a perfect stream of filth poured from his lips as he beat his stick over the head of the luckless gangsman.

  “Christ almighty! You bloody lubber! Don’t you know no better than that? Don’t you know the mob? Take that, you bastard! My oath, if they storm this place, you’re in our front rank, my bucko, so’s they can do for you first of all of us!”

  Finally, Spencer broke the stick, threw away the stump, and went over to the window to see how things lay outside. He took off his hat and tried not to be seen, but somebody saw him and a stone came whistling up, to dash out a pane of glass and rattle across the floor. Spencer jumped back, grey-faced. He clapped on his hat and looked at his men.

  “Damnation!” says he. “Pistols, boys ... ” And an untidy scramble followed as coats, bags and odd corners were scoured to unearth the gang’s firearms. Among this slovenly company there was no such thing as an arms chest and men stood here, there and everywhere, loading and priming.

  Meanwhile the shouting had increased outside and missiles were pouring through the windows. Stones, cobbles and the occasional dead cat came bounding in and the windows were rapidly cleared of glass. We prisoners were like schoolboys on holiday. Protected by our grating we could enjoy the fun with impunity and a great cheer went up every time one of the gangsmen caught a clout from a stone.

  “Now then, boys,” cries Spencer, over the din, “when I give the word ... aim over their heads and don’t kill none o’ the buggers if you can help it!” With much reluctance, the gang crept across the floor on its hands and knees, and sheltered against the walls and under the windows.

  “Present! ... Aim! ... Fire!” says Spencer. About half the gang actually rose to aim. The rest kept well down, and fired at the empty sky. A ragged volley clattered out, and powder-smoke filled the room. Poor effort though it was, it did the trick and the mob ran for it to screams of fear. Silence fell as their pattering feet faded in the distance.

  Spencer brushed the dirt from his coat and looked about him.

  “Now then,” says he. “Time these lot was on board of the tender. We should just have time before the mob gathers again ... Move yourselves!” This set the gang bustling. They were not a smart crew but they knew their work and set about it after their fashion. The prisoners began to moan. They realised what Spencer’s words meant, which is more than I did. I had no idea what was meant by that little word “tender”. But Spencer was speaking again.

  “Where’s this lubber with the clipped wing?” says he. “Rout him out, Mr Bosun, at the double!”

  “Aye aye sir!” says the Bosun, hobbling forward. He found some keys and opened the grating door to let out the wounded man.

  Outside the grating, the man looked about him in much unease. He was white with pain and unsteady on his feet. The linen scraps were bound round his hand and he hugged the bloodstained mass to his breast. Lieutenant Spencer considered him.

  “Pah!” says he. “No damn use to the Service now, are you? Couldn’t run up a hoist of signals like that ... Get out of here, you half-man! Go on!” and he pointed to the door and turned his back in contempt. The man looked back once at the other prisoners and slowly walked out of the room, free from the press-gang for ever. The prisoners murmured.

  “Good luck to you, mate!” says one of them, half in pity and half in admiration of his dreadful courage. [All who admire Britannia’s Navy will be saddened to learn that this instance of wilful mutilation to avoid service is not unique. The Times newspaper of 3rd Nov. 1795 reports the case of one Samuel Carradine, taken by the Press, who was visited by his wife while in prison awaiting transfer into the Fleet. Carradine thrust his hand beneath the cell door so that his wife might strike off his thumb and forefinger with a mallet and chisel. By this terrible means Carradine secured his release. S.P.]

  After that, things moved fast. The business in hand was to transfer the prisoners from the Rondy to the hold of the Impress Service brig Bullfrog, at anchor in the harbour. (This was the tender Spencer had referred to.) The gang had it down to a drill; they’d let out a handful of men at a time and rush ’em down the stairs and out to a launch at the harbour stairs. To my surprise, I was seized and hustled out with the very first batch. I tried to call out to Spencer, but the Bosun clouted me backhand across the mouth and we all went thundering down the stairs and out across the cobbles in the thin February sunshine. The mob was gone but a few bystanders were about.

  “Jesus help that poor boy,” cries one old woman. “The Press have took him!”

  “No
!” I thought. “No ... they can’t have taken me ... it’s all arranged with the Lieutenant ... ”

  But I was shoved down the harbour stairs, down the old stone steps with the green weed and the smell of the sea, and into the stern sheets of a big launch. They made me sit on a thwart and I grabbed the gunwale as the boat rocked with all the bodies pouring into it. There were about thirty men aboard: eight prisoners and more than twice that number of gangsmen, with the Bosun in charge. No chance at all to overpower them or escape.

  Some of the gangsmen took the oars and pulled for the middle of the harbour and the Bosun stared at me with vicious amusement writ all over his face. He was obviously pleased at my plight and I suppose he thought I was being paid back for Bonzo’s attentions to his person.

  I stared back in disbelief at the Rondy with its big Naval ensign flying from an upper window. Where was Lieutenant Spencer? What was happening? I felt my chance to escape was fading away. And I was absolutely correct. Once upon any waters deep enough to float a ship, we were in the absolute power of the Royal Navy; which power stretched the whole world around and acknowledged no laws other than its own. I was, to all intents and purposes, lost to the world of land-living folk.

  5

  As the harbour stairs grew smaller behind me, I began to worry in deadly earnest. Was it possible I actually was going to be pressed? I couldn’t believe it. I tried to reason with the gangsmen in the boat but they just ignored me, and worse, the other prisoners turned nasty.

  “Why you so special?” says one of them. “Better ’n the rest of us, eh? You just shut it, or I’ll punch yer head!” There was a growl of agreement. If they were caught, then why shouldn’t I be? That was about their measure. So I kept quiet and tried to think. I had more brains than the whole boat load together, so why couldn’t I think of a way out? I decided to wait until we got to the tender. Surely there would be officers there who I could talk to. And while I thought, the gangsmen shipped oars. I looked forward and saw the bulk of a ship: His Britannic Majesty’s brig Bullfrog, of one hundred tons, and a dozen four-pounder pop-guns.

  Now I’ll have you know that I’ve led a most eventful life (in the teeth of my own inclinations, certainly, but I have). I’ve sunk ships and I’ve looted temples. I’ve seen Jappos slit their own bellies and I’ve seen the Indian rope trick complete with the climber disappearing at the top. In addition, I’ve had more than my share of wounds: I’ve been shot by Frenchmen, sabred by Poles, knifed by a Turkish tart and bayonetted by our very own Royal Marines. The scars are all over me. But my time aboard Bullfrog hurt worse than anything. It left wounds of the spirit and it left memories that still come to me in nightmares after all these years between.

  The game started with my first sight of Bullfrog. She was making ready for sea. Men were in the rigging and others were hauling on lines to raise the sails. I felt a sharp ache of fear. Where were my employers? They should have come for me by now. Enoch and David must have told everyone that I was taken by the Press, so why hadn’t Mr Pendennis descended in his wrath to annihilate the felons and secure my release?

  With a bump, the launch ran alongside and we were helped up the side with kicks and cudgels. My first experience of entering a ship and the strangeness of it fell upon me. It smelt of tar and wet and timber ... and something else. Something nasty that hung in the background. We were immediately driven towards the hold where the cargo was kept. The cargo was men. The accumulated product of the Polmouth press-gang’s activities over the last few days. The main hatch-cover was off, and as I reached the coaming, I looked down and my stomach heaved as I caught the full, hot reek of putrid sweat.

  Down below was a seething mass of naked limbs, running sores and eyes staring up in fear and malice. There must have been a hundred men down there, under conditions that would have disgraced an African slaver. I was choked at the smell, disgusted at the sight, and terrified by the thought that these were the men we relied on to keep the French off! The only way down was by a knotted rope made fast to a ring-bolt in the deck. I thought I would die rather than go down that rope and cast about for something to do. I fastened on one of the tender’s crew standing by. He seemed to be in authority.

  The man was powerfully built; less than my height but thickset with his belly hanging over his belt. Like all the tender’s crew, his face was tanned brown and heavily lined. Little black eyes glared steadily out of the leathery face, alert and vicious. He looked about forty years old and was swinging a length of thick rope from his right hand. It was three feet long and knotted at the free end; my first sight of a “starter”.

  How in God’s name should I try to influence this creature? The mind of an ant in the body of an ape. I gave him my best effort, trying hard to sound confident. Thanks to Dr Woods, I had the voice of a gentleman and this was the time to use it.

  “Sir!” says I. “There has been a great mistake.”

  “Ugh?” says he.

  “A mistake, sir! I should not be here and I certainly cannot go down there.” I contemptuously dismissed the hold and its inhabitants. So far, so good. I had his attention and a silence fell as those around me took note. Expression flickered across the flat face as he calculated what I might be. Finally he jabbed at the stern with his thumb.

  “Cap’n’s yonder,” says he. “You go tell he what ’tis, an’ he say what’s to do.” I looked where he indicated and saw an officer complete with cocked hat and sword.

  “Thank you, sir!” says I and turned to go, taking him at his word.

  Before I had gone one step, something crashed across my shoulders with ghastly force. It hurt more than anything in all my life and I screamed aloud as the shock scorched into my very heart. And there he was, grinning merrily and swinging his piece of rope, poised for another blow.

  “Right, my lovely,” says he, “you got till I count three to get down there, or I’ll have the soddin’ ears off you with the next one!” He was thoroughly enjoying himself and, of all things, would most like me to hesitate so he could strike again.

  Well, I never was a slow learner and went down that rope like a monkey. He called after me. “Hey! Boy!” says he, and I looked up to see him leaning over the hatchway. “I’m Dixon ... you remember me, cos I’m going to remember you!” And he laughed. What a jolly fellow! What a sense of fun! Here, truly, was a man who enjoyed his work. Soon after that they crammed in the rest of the prisoners from ashore and dropped the hatch on us.

  I’ll pass over the horrors of Bullfrog’s hold; it was like the Rondy only worse. It was filthier, nastier and far more violent. You had to use your fists just to keep standing and not be trampled into the deck. Added to that came the agony of seasickness once Bullfrog left harbour and shoved her bows into the big waves of the open sea.

  Once Bullfrog had fairly cleared the harbour and was rolling westward up the coast, she fell into her routine. This was a continuous process of bringing men up from the hold to be examined, to be fed and watered and “to blow the stink off ’em” as the crew so aptly put it. A few of the pressed men were even allowed to stay on deck. These were good seamen who looked docile and could be useful in working the ship. I was included in this number, though in my case I’d have been better off in the hold.

  It turned out that my friend Mr Dixon, who was Bosun aboard Bullfrog, was responsible for the choice of men. He had me up and rated me ship’s scavenger: the cleaner, scraper and lowest form of life in the ship. His reason for this was to let him play a little game upon me. This consisted in his setting me on a piece of work then creeping up behind me to deliver a sudden whack with his starter when I wasn’t expecting it. An unexpected blow hurts worse than anything you’ve tensed yourself to receive and Mr Dixon exploited that to the full. Whack! ... Across my back. Whack! ... Across my shoulders. Whack! ... Around my legs. And always, there was Dixon with a smile on his ugly face.

  I naturally thought to complain to the officer in command: Lieutenant Salisbury. Surely it was not permitted to abuse men like
this? But Dixon wouldn’t let me near him and in any case, before I could say a word, I had the good fortune to see what kind of man the lieutenant was.

  He was another prize beauty. He looked like money and was immaculately dressed, there on that floating cess-pit of a ship, from his gold-laced hat to his silver-buckled shoes. He was young, no more than twenty, tall and thin and had an unhealthy air about him.

  In the afternoon of that first day at sea, Mr Salisbury was examining a batch of prisoners up from the hold. Dixon was at his elbow and I was swabbing away nearby and had the chance to watch. Half a dozen men were lined up in their rags, steaming in the cold air, as he considered them with a handkerchief to his nose. Then one man collapsed and sank to the deck. I recognised the fisherman who had been working on his knee in the Rondy (Norris Polperro his name was).

  “Argh!” says he. “Please, your honour, but it’s this old leg. Been sick for years. Doubt I’ll be any use to the Service at all ... ”

  “Dear me,” says the Lieutenant quietly and bent over Polperro with his hands clasped behind his back. “Show me the wound, my good man, for I’m something of a doctor and might venture an opinion.” Polperro stirred with hope and showed the “ulcer”.

  “Ah!” says the Lieutenant, “I’m pleased to tell you that I have just the thing for conditions such as yours.”

  “Oh?” says the fisherman.

  “Yes,” says the Lieutenant and straightened up. “Mr Dixon, apply the treatment,” and Dixon lashed out with his rope’s end. Polperro leapt to his feet with a yelp and Dixon cut him neatly across the buttocks as he tried to skip clear. That far it was funny and a ripple of laughter came from the other men, but Dixon kept it up beyond reason. A rain of heavy blows upon a man who could only hop about the deck and try to dodge the worst of it. The slightest show of resistance would bring death by hanging. In his own good time, Salisbury stopped it.