by David McDine
‘These three men killed. Were they married?’
‘Brooke and ’ogben were, but Longstaff’s wife left ’im years ago on account of ’is drinkin’. Liked a drink, did Longstaff, well lots o’ drink, but whatever anyone says abaht ’im, ’e was as brave as anyfink at Boulogny.’
‘And the widows?’
Fagg hesitated. ‘Not supposed to tell, sir, on account of the gent involved wishing to remain a-nonymouse, like what I try t’be on board ship, but seein’ as it’s you... well, truth be told Lieutenant Anson’s friend Mister Parkin ’as sorted out some sort of pensions for ’em. Don’t know the ins and outs, but word is they’ll not want for nuffink — nor will their kids.’
Armstrong nodded knowingly. From what he knew of Anson’s other particular friend, the wealthy former banker, this was a typically generous gesture, looking after the families of men he could not have known. It was clearly enough for him to know that they were Anson’s men and they had died heroically for king and country.
‘By the by, sir. One of our blokes, Billy Rogers, was wiv us at Boulogny, and went wiv the boardin’ party, but no-one ain’t seen sight nor sound of ’im since.’
‘So, either killed or maybe wounded and captured?’
Fagg shrugged, unable to throw further light on the matter.
‘Was he married?’
‘No sir, nor did ’e ’ave no father nor mother what anyone knows abaht.’
‘Miraculous!’
They moved on to the wounded and Fagg went through the list.
‘And are they, too, being looked after?’
‘Agin, sir, Mister Parkin ’as seen ’em orlright. And I’m given ’em a king’s shillen whenever we ’as a trainin’ day, on account of they would he ’ere if they could but they can’t, what wiv missing bits, like.’
‘Very good. I’m sure His Majesty wouldn’t object to that. Now, with rumours of peace in the offing I hope we’re not taking on any of these would-be recruits you were on about.’
Fagg frowned at the prospect of an end to hostilities that might put them all on the beach. ‘Don’t know nuffink about all that politickin’, sir. The Frogs ’as always been our enemy and sure as eggs is eggs they ain’t goin’ to chuck it in now, are they?’
‘The powers that be reckon that they might be willing to, as you say, chuck it in, if for no other reason to give themselves a breather and time to regroup. I doubt that any peace will last, but while it does the Sea Fencibles, volunteers and all will probably be stood down. His Majesty’s government doesn’t like to spend money feeding idle mouths. Hence, it would not be wise to fill our ranks with new recruits amid all the uncertainty.’
Fagg spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Too late, sir. We’ve just taken on a few and right good men they are, too.’
‘How unfortunate, but then you were not to know. Who are these men?’
The bosun explained: ‘This ’ere’s the list. The ones we’ve took are good keen blokes.’
Armstrong scanned the list. ‘What was wrong with these men listed as rejects?’
Fagg explained: ‘This one, Wright, was, well, different...’
‘What’s different about him?’
‘That is what’s different, see, sir. Wright ain’t a ’e, ’e’s a she...’
‘Good Lord!’
‘It’s like this, sir. Our surgeon bloke—’
‘Phineas Shrubb?’
‘One and the same. Well, ’e came along to vet this lot, see, and told us abaht Gladwish thinkin’ ’e was King George, Pearse ’avin’ a wooden leg, and Wright lookin’ like a man wiv a beard and all, but ’e’s got tits too — and other bits and pieces what shows ’e’s a she!’
Armstrong scratched his head in bewilderment. ‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t asked. Look, I can understand why you wouldn’t take a man who thinks he’s the king — and some...’, he groped for the word, ‘...person, with female attributes—’
‘And a beard, sir.’
‘Harrumph. Yes, thank you for reminding me about the beard. You rejected the man with a wooden leg, too, I trust?’
‘No, sir, we took ’im on account of ’e can still get about well enough on ’is peg leg, and ’e’s a right good seaman.’
Armstrong could not immediately think of a reply to that and while he was still deliberating, they were interrupted by the clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside.
Sergeant Hoover, just back from visiting the wounded men, went out to greet a blue-jacketed dragoon mounted on a sturdy grey. He returned with the messenger who saluted and reported: ‘From Hythe signal station, sir. Lieutenant Dixon couldn’t be sure a signal would have reached you with this fog about, so here it is, verbal like.’
‘Jolly good. Verbalise away, Dragoon...?’
‘Lewis, sir.’
‘Thankee Lewis. So what’s afoot?’
‘Seems some fishermen have reported spotting a French warship off the coast, sir, most likely out of one of the Channel ports — Calais or Boulogne.’
‘Headed?’
‘Appears the fishermen couldn’t be sure, sir, what with all this fog about.’
Armstrong reached for his telescope.
Fagg, who had poked his nose out of the door, offered: ‘Don’t fink you’ll see a lot through that there glass, sir. I can’t even see the effing Mermaid from ’ere.’
‘Hmm, it’s come to a pretty pass if you can’t even see the nearest pub, bosun. Nevertheless, I’ll give it a try.’
Outside, Armstrong swept the sea with his glass for signs of a sail, but after a moment or two accepted defeat and snapped the telescope shut.
‘Where are you due next, Lewis?’
‘Dungeness, sir. One of their dragoons’ll have to take the message on from there.’
Armstrong nodded. As the former and most unwilling incumbent of the Fairlight signal station further down the coast he knew the routine only too well. When visual signals could not be seen the dragoons attached to each station would carry messages like this to the next signalling post and Sea Fencible detachments en route. One of the Dungeness dragoons would take it to his old station at Fairlight, and so on.
‘Very well, you’d best get under way then.’ He pondered a moment. ‘But add to the message that the Seagate gunboats are launching as a precautionary measure.’
The dragoon remounted and touched his helmet in salute. ‘Precautionary measure? Understood, sir, I’ll be sure to add that.’
As the messenger rode off to the west, Armstrong turned to Fagg and Hoover. ‘In this fog there’s a simple choice. Either do nothing or get the boats out there.’
‘So shall us get some of the men and launch, sir?’
‘Quick as you can, bosun. And as soon as we have enough oarsmen, I’ll take the first boat out with Sergeant Hoover here. You’re handy with the carronade, sergeant?’
‘Handy enough, sir, although I prefer my musket.’
‘Take that too. If nothing else we can use it as a warning in the fog. And bosun...’
‘Sir?’
‘Follow us out in the second boat as soon as you have enough men.’
The bosun had already busied himself loading one of the battery’s 18-pounders with wad only, clapped his hands to his ears and fired it. The gun lurched back and Fagg chuckled. ‘Heh, Heh, that’ll wake the town up and bring the boys a-runnin’ dahn ’ere!’
*
No sooner had the gunboats pushed off than they lost sight of the shore — and each other.
Hoover, in Striker, cupped his hands and called: ‘Ahoy Stinger! Row to the sound of my voice. We’d best be roped together for safety.’
Fagg’s voice would be heard ‘Aye-ayeing’, oars splashed and Stinger appeared out of the fog.
A rope was thrown across and, now linked up, the two boats were rowed out to sea in silence, all ears alert for the sound of the mystery ship.
They had ceased rowing and been drifting for an hour or more, with carronades loaded, when Joe Bi
shop at the prow Stinger called softly that he thought he’d caught a glimpse of a ship within musket shot.
Armstrong heard and called to Fagg. ‘You’re nearest. Did you see it, bosun?’
‘No, sir, but Bishop don’t make stuff up. Shall we fire the carronade?’
‘No, no. It could be one of ours, or a merchantman. We’ll have to take a risk and alert them.’
Fagg seized the initiative. ‘Right ye are then, let’s fire a bleedin’ musket and see what ’appens.’ He picked up the weapon he had brought along for signalling purposes — primed, but not loaded with ball.
Pointing it skywards he cocked it and pulled the trigger. But the damp had got to the charge and nothing happened.
‘’Effin’ ’ell!’ he swore. ‘Ye know all further ’ope’s lost when an angel pisses on the flintlock of yer musket!’
The boat’s crew tittered at the timeless joke but some were clearly relieved that they hadn’t drawn attention to themselves. What if the ship Bishop had spotted was the Frenchman they’d been warned about? One ball could sink them — or they could easily be taken and end up in a French prison dining on snails and frogs’ legs for the foreseeable future.
After an hour or more drifting fruitlessly around in circles sighting nothing, Armstrong ordered both boats back to Seagate, to the relief of all concerned.
14
The Fog of Peace
Anson, awake early thanks to the noise of men holystoning the deck, was somewhat revived after a good night’s rest.
He breakfasted and was on the quarterdeck chatting to the officer of the watch when one of the foretop-men sent aloft to keep watch in the fog shouted down: ‘Deck there! Think I saw a ship ahead, but can’t see anything now in the fog.’
Allfree shouted back: ‘Warship or merchantman?’
‘Couldn’t say for sure, sir. Warship, I think.’
Allfree turned to Anson. ‘This is one of those confounded dilemmas, ain’t it? If I beat to quarters and rouse the captain it’ll turn out to be a figment of the imagination and I’ll be the butt of all the gunroom jokes.’
Anson smiled. ‘But if you do nothing it could be a Frenchman about to give us a broadside? I know what I’d do.’
‘Exactly! Bosun, beat to quarters!’
As if keeping step with the tattoo beat of the marine drummer, Captain Phillips came bounding hatless up onto the quarterdeck, telescope under his arm and attempting to button his coat one-handed.
‘What’s afoot, Mister Allfree? Kindly report.’
‘Can’t be sure, sir, but one of the look-outs reported a ship in the offing. He reckons he caught a glimpse of it but then it disappeared in the fog.’
Phillips harrumphed. ‘Man-of-war or merchantman? Ours or theirs?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
‘Then call the man down and let’s hear exactly what he thinks he saw.’
Bosun Taylor had anticipated the order and the lookout was already scrambling down the rigging.
He landed awkwardly, twisting his knee, and hobbled across to the captain who was sweeping the fog with his telescope.
‘Well, Gubbins? What d’you think you saw?’
‘A ship, sir, to larboard, close, mebbe pistol shot distance.’
‘Merchantman or man-of-war?’
‘Dunno, sir, but didn’t look like a merchantman.’
‘So a man-of-war. But French, or one of ours?’
‘Sorry, sir. I just had what you calls a glimpse, like. Then it was gorn, like a ghost ship.’
Phillips raised his eyebrows. Sailors were notoriously superstitious and the last thing he wanted was for his men to be spooked by a phantom disappearing vessel, which the more imaginative among them would no doubt soon man with a skeletal crew with the devil in command.
‘Nonsense Gubbins! There’s no such thing and don’t you start spreading daft tales like that.’
‘Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.’
Allfree seized the opportunity to impress his captain. ‘Was there anything at all that you noticed about her, Gubbins? Three masts, or two?’
‘Three, sir, I’m pretty sure of that. And there was one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘I thought I saw some kind of white flag flying from her mainmast.’
*
Alone with the servants and his collection of stuffed creatures, Josiah Parkin missed the companionship of his niece and was pleasantly surprised when she arrived back earlier than expected, explaining that she had quickly tired of her cousins’ endless chatter about fashions and possible suitors.
Privately, Parkin suspected that the real reason for her early return was to be at Ludden for whenever Anson returned.
Cassandra was clearly disappointed to hear that he was currently at sea, but as predicted, was delighted at the prospect of a visit from Elizabeth Anson. Oliver had often spoken of her as his favourite sister and she longed to become her friend.
Not least, Elizabeth would be the perfect chaperone when Oliver returned.
Cassandra helped her uncle compose a further note to the Reverend Anson making the necessary arrangements and before he sealed it, she added to the packet a note of her own:
My dear Elizabeth
I have heard so much about you from your brother Oliver and am thrilled beyond measure that you are coming to stay with us at Ludden Hall. My uncle and I so look forward to welcoming you and sharing time with you, and your brother of course. I am quite certain that we are destined to become the firmest of friends!
I attach a list with suggestions as to dresses etcetera that you may wish to bring...
*
With her guns manned and run out, boys hastening up from the magazine with cartridges and slow matches at the ready, Phryne sailed on in eerie silence broken only by the flapping of sails and slapping of waves.
On the quarterdeck Phillips went into a huddle with the first lieutenant, the master and Anson, who was embarrassed to be a mere passenger and anxious to take on whatever role he might be able to fill.
‘We have a dilemma, gentlemen, and I don’t like dilemmas. Gubbins is not the kind of hand who imagines he’s seen something when he hasn’t.’
‘No, sir,’ Howard agreed. ‘He’s a sensible man, not given to seeing things.’
‘So we must assume he did indeed see a ship, a man-of-war.’
‘And they must surely have heard us beating to quarters—’
‘Yet they have not responded in kind or fired a signal gun, as one of ours would surely have done.’
Howard spread his hands. ‘Quite right, sir. So, a Frenchman then? But the white flag Gubbins believes he saw. What can that mean? Surely they’re not trying to surrender?’
Captain Phillips was something of a glass half full man and rejected the idea out of hand. ‘Chance would be a fine thing, unless they’re crippled in some way in which case surely they’d try to remain hidden in the fog.’
Anson raised his hand. ‘As we know, sir, there was talk of peace before we sailed, so a white flag could mean that they want to parley.’
‘You mean peace may have broken out and they know, but we don’t?’
‘Yes, sir, but it’s merely a guess.’
‘But a reasonable assumption nevertheless.’ The captain frowned and fingered his chin, a habit of his when pondering a problem, Anson had noticed.
‘Hmm, if this does mean peace it’s more than I dare to break it or endanger it. If I do, I’ll be running a Pembroke chicken farm quicker than you can say Jack Robinson. But if it is peace, I suppose I’ll be doing that pretty soon anyway.’
Howard offered a new perspective. ‘There’s one other possibility. The French royal standard was a plain white ensign before the Revolution — and that’s what they fought under in the American War.’
‘So?’
‘So this ship, whatever she is, could have gone over to the royalists.’
Phillips was dubious. ‘What do you think Anson? You’ve hobnobbed with the Frogs mo
re than any of us one way or another.’
‘That’s true, sir. If you count being captured by them at St Valery and getting a bloody nose from them at Boulogne as hobnobbing, then I suppose I have. But no, I don’t buy the royalist idea. Anyway, gentlemen, for whatever reason the white flag appears to indicate that they want to parley and, with respect, I suggest there’s only one way to find out why.’
Howard spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance. ‘Permission to launch the jollyboat, sir, and I’ll go and investigate.’
‘Is your French up to it?’
The first lieutenant hesitated. His French was known to be of little more than ‘la plume de ma tante’ standard. So Anson offered to replace him. ‘I have some of the lingo, sir, and I’d be happy to go with Howard.’
‘Very well, so be it.’
The bosun, who had been awaiting a decision, hurried away to supervise the lowering of the jollyboat. Anson advised: ‘Best carry a white flag too, sir, to show them we’re unarmed and wish to negotiate.’
Howard shouted after the bosun: ‘The men are to carry no weapons, Mister Taylor, and get the pusser to find something we can use as a white flag!’
While the boat was being lowered the drifting fog revealed the lookout’s ‘ghost ship’ for a moment, hove to within pistol shot. But the brief glimpse was enough to confirm that she was indeed a French frigate with a dirty white flag flapping limply from her mainmast. Men could be seen in the rigging and on deck, but, importantly, her gun-ports were firmly closed.
Howard and Anson climbed down into the boat and Midshipman Finlay, at the tiller, ordered the coxswain to shove off.
The first lieutenant shushed the low chatter from some of the oarsmen. ‘Keep the noise down lads and row smartly. The Frogs will be watching us closely. We think they want to parley so that’s what we’ll do, but you mustn’t give them any lip while Mister Anson and I are aboard. Is that clear?’
There were muttered ‘Aye ayes.’
‘Mister Finlay. Take the name of any man who so much as sticks his tongue out at a Frog!’
