by David McDine
Later, sitting in the bar sipping a tankard of ale, he listened in to the cheerful conversation around him. The peace was on everyone’s lips and despite the likely effect of it on people’s pockets there was an air of celebration. In the main these were people who had every right to be bucked by the news, Anson reflected. Invasion fears had vanished at a stroke and there was every chance that the hated new-fangled tax on private income introduced to finance the war would be scrapped.
One chubby man of business sitting nearby was even proposing a toast to the fact that he and his cronies need no longer fear being forced to learn French and dine on frogs and snails.
Anson sat alone, moodily contemplating his future, but his melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the porky businessman. ‘You, sir! Navy man, ain’t you?’
Anson inwardly groaned. He was not in the mood for banter with self-important civilians with whom he had nothing in common.
‘Most observant of you, sir. I imagine the uniform gave you a clue.’
The chubster chuckled. ‘It did, sir, and I was speculating with my friends here that the likes of you navy men will be cock-a-hoop now that peace has broken out with the French?’
‘Not exactly, sir. For one thing, I expect the politicos will now seize the chance to mothball our ships, and secondly, I have little faith in the peace lasting. The result will be that when war breaks out again, we will be unprepared.’
‘Now those are gloomy thoughts! Surely even the French want peace as much as we do?’
‘The people perhaps, but not Bonaparte. He needed a breather to get his colonies back and gird the nation up for the next campaign. If you want my opinion, I say it’s merely a truce, giving them a chance to rearm and prepare while we disarm.’
‘Tut tut! Come join us, sir, and we’ll banish those dark thoughts with a glass or three!’
Anson shook his head. ‘Kind of you gentlemen, but I was not long since wounded and must away to my bed. But I wish you well and that the peace delivers what you wish for and not what I fear.’
16
A Smuggling Run
Billy MacIntyre hefted the large club one-handed and tested it by smacking it down hard on his left palm. Calloused and desensitized as his paws were after years of holy-stoning decks and hauling on ropes, it still hurt like hell. Nevertheless, he grinned: pity the poor revenue man who got a clout round the head with a bat like that.
The weapon indicated MacIntyre’s new status in life — a bat-man for a gang of Romney Marsh smugglers. His role was to protect those bringing the contraband ashore and accompany the pack animals as they took the goods to distant hiding places to await distribution to eager customers far and wide.
In his belt was a loaded pistol and he had acquired a new knife to replace the one lost when he attacked Lieutenant Anson in the Mermaid at Seagate.
It was the first time the smugglers had used him on a run and he relished the thought of being involved and reaping the rewards.
He stationed himself near the new lighthouse whose beam served not only as a navigational aid but, tonight, as a beacon to guide the smuggling vessels to the rendezvous with the team ashore. And it was a large team. Dotted around the wide shingle beach were maybe a score of other bat-men and as many more were waiting by the boats drawn up on the shingle. Close by were a dozen pack horses and their handlers. It would be a brave or foolhardy revenue man who would dare interfere with tonight’s business — unless mob-handed or backed up by a troop of dragoons.
Preventative men were known to be overworked, outnumbered by the smuggling fraternity, poorly paid and therefore open to bribery. And there was no way they dare challenge the large gang of free traders carrying out tonight’s run, anyway.
A two-masted vessel appeared in the bay and three boats were rowed out to meet it. They went alongside and MacIntyre could see casks being lowered into them.
With nothing to do except hang around watching for trouble, he looked up at the lighthouse, impressed by its powerful construction. One of the local men had told him that this was not the first, a tower with an open coal fire at the top having been erected near the shoreline almost two centuries earlier. However, the sea had receded so it had to be demolished and another built to replace it. But that too was eventually left too far from the water’s edge and only a few years since — in 1792 — the present efficient lighthouse was erected.
It was built by Samuel Wyatt on a design similar to the Eddystone lighthouse. Its light was powered by oil and it was reckoned it could be seen from Cap Gris Nez in the Pas de Calais on a clear night. There was a cluster of single-storey buildings attached to its buttressed base, but there was no sign of the lighthouse keepers. No doubt they would be rewarded, either with spirits or coin, for looking the other way during the run.
MacIntyre’s musing was interrupted by a passing pack-man, evidently on his way to the animals waiting for the boats to come ashore.
‘Alright, mate?’ the man asked.
‘Aye, I dinna think we’ll be needing our bats t’night, pal.’
The man paused. ‘Scotch is it? Didn’t know we had any of you lot down on the Marsh.’
He came nearer and peered closely at MacIntyre by the thin moonlight and the glare from the lighthouse that threw long shadows from anyone standing under it.
‘Hang on a minute. I know you, don’t I? You were the sod who gave my cousin Jacob Shallow a bad time afore they kicked you out of the fencibles and you went to the press gang! What the hell are you doing here? With the revenue now, are you, spying on us?’
MacIntyre cursed inwardly. Just when everything was going his way this moron had to turn up and recognise him, but he tried to remain cool. He countered the accusation. ‘Don’t be daft. Do I look like a revenue man? I’m on the run from the fuckin’ navy meself!’
‘So who are you?’
‘I’m Billy Black and like I said, I’m on the run so I’ve joined yous lot.’
His inquisitor stared at him. ‘Black? You’re black right enough — Black Mac, they called you. I don’t know what you’re up to, but we don’t like impress men down here on the Marsh as you’ll find out when I tell the other boys who you really are...’
MacIntyre took a furtive look around. There was no-one close and the rest of the gang’s attention was on the unloading of contraband.
He could not let this idiot shop him, and in an instant, he knew what he had to do and did it. He swung the bat and clouted the pack-man round the head with all the strength he could muster.
There was a crunch of bone and the man fell, pole-axed: dead.
Breathing hard, MacIntyre stooped, pulled the body into the shadow of buildings at the foot of the lighthouse and moved quickly away.
He stooped again to clean the blood from his bat with a handful of wet shingle and walked down to the water’s edge where all eyes were on the incoming boats.
Putting the bat aside, he helped unload a barrel and roll it up the shingle towards the pack animals but the gang-master spotted him and shouted: ‘Hey, you, Billy boy! You’re supposed to be a bat-man, not friggin’ about unloading barrels. The tub-men can do that. You couldn’t wait to get at the brandy, eh?’
‘You’re right there, boss! Sorry, I’ll get back to guarding.’
The tub-men were each slinging two tubs of spirits or wine from rope harnesses and carrying them up the shingle to where the pack-men were waiting with the horses, most borrowed from sympathetic farmers for a cut-back.
MacIntyre retrieved his bat and walked over to the pack animals, quietly delighted that he had been noticed well away from the murder scene. And when the body was discovered, as it surely soon would be, there was nothing whatever to connect him with it.
On the contrary, he had shown himself willing to get stuck into the smuggling game and the one man who could have queered his pitch was spread-eagled on the shingle, skull crushed by un unknown hand and very definitely dead.
17
Messrs Adkins, Woolsack and A
dkins
A hearty supper and a good night’s sleep at the George put Anson in a better mood and after a late breakfast he quizzed the landlord about the availability of mail and stage coach seats to London.
Learning that there were none to be had until next day, he set off for a stroll around the town before calling upon the prize agent.
He found the offices of Messrs Adkins, Woolsack and Adkins close by the dockyard and entered hoping against hope for positive news about the sale of the Normandy privateer.
An elderly clerk, bent over a large leather-bound ledger totting up figures, looked up and, recognising Anson’s naval rank, ordered the office boy to show him straight into the adjacent lair of the three partners where the younger Mister Adkins was working alone.
Anson was greeted warmly by the junior partner and to his astonishment received confirmation that the sale of Égalité had indeed gone ahead.
‘My father is dealing with it personally, sir. He and Mister Woolsack are presently visiting a potential client and then taking an early lunch, but if you are able to wait, I’m sure he will be able to quote figures and give you an idea of when the money will be distributed.’
Anson was delighted. It would mean that he could send his share to his father to repay at least some of the allowance he had received until their estrangement. And it would be good news for his fencibles. If they were indeed to be disbanded now that peace had broken out then at least they would have something in their pockets.
The young Mister Adkins summoned the office boy to bring coffee and found Anson a seat at one side of the large paper-strewn desk he assumed was shared by the two senior partners.
‘Now, sir, while we are waiting, I should be obliged if you would recount the story of the capture of your privateer. Our work here is very dull, you know. We seldom hear of the daring deeds performed in capturing prizes. Our lives are inhabited merely by the legal niceties and figures, endless figures.’
And so, although he played down his own part in it, Anson allowed himself to be persuaded to recount the story of how his Sea Fencible detachment, with help from men from the impress service, had trapped and taken the troublesome Normandy privateer.
Already it seemed part of the distant past, the Boulogne affair being uppermost in his mind, and the sanitised outline he gave bore little comparison to the blood and guts of the operation.
Nevertheless, the young Mister Adkins was clearly enthralled. ‘My, my! What lives you naval fellows lead...’ He sighed and frowned: ‘Yet how dull am I, trapped here with my ledgers, these plain figures hiding such tales of derring-do.’
Seeking to lift the junior partner’s spirits, Anson assured him, ‘Nevertheless, sir, think how helpless your naval clients such as I would be without you representing us, jousting with the prize courts, monitoring the sale of captured vessels and marshalling the resulting pounds, shillings and pence on our behalf!’
Young Adkins was touched. ‘Kind of you, sir. Most kind. But we do well enough from our percentage without having to spill any blood.’
Anson, now in good spirits at the thought of the coming prize money, faltered slightly. He had heard of agents’ and other costs involved in such cases swallowing up most of the returns from the sale of captured vessels.
But then, he consoled himself, the disposal of Égalité had been relatively straightforward and Messrs Adkins, Woolsack and Adkins had always been fair as far as his affairs were concerned. Being based in Portsmouth within pistol shot of the dockyard they would not have lasted long in the business if they acquired a reputation for being anything other than totally straight with their naval clients.
His thoughts were interrupted by the return of Messrs Adkins senior and Woolsack from what had clearly been a good lunch.
‘Ah, Lieutenant Anson is it not, kin to the great circumnavigator?’ asked the older Adkins, red-nosed presumably from the wine he had consumed and rather plumper than his client remembered him.
‘Only very distant, I fear sir...’
‘Nonsense my dear fellow. However distant, a relationship to be proud of and one that will stand you in good stead in the service. Why, I fully expect you to be made post at any moment!’
‘Hardly, Mister Adkins. Their lordships are not exactly falling over themselves to promote mere Sea Fencible detachment commanders.’
‘Ah yes, I deduce that a fencible command is a bit of a step backwards on the promotion ladder. But nonetheless, it gave you the opportunity to take that Normandy privateer, did it not?’
He rubbed his hands together in a gesture Anson had noted before as common among men who dealt with money.
‘Anyway, it’s good news, Mister Anson, good news indeed! As my son will no doubt have told you, the sale of Égalité went off successfully.’ He consulted his ledger. ‘Hmm, very successfully, I should say. In capturing her I see you took great care not to do much more than superficial damage and that has translated into a good sale price.’
Only superficial damage? Anson had a mental picture of the carronade shot from his gunboat smashing a hole in the privateer’s side, sending a cloud of dagger-like splinters on their deadly path and felling a good many of the crew.
But he chose to play along. ‘Yes, I suppose that once the odd hole had been patched up, the blood washed away and the garlic fumes had dispersed we did leave her in reasonable condition. The French had been kind enough to refit her not long since, you see, so she was in pretty good shape.’
‘Capital, capital!’ Mister Adkins senior wrung his hands again. ‘Now, let’s cut to the chase, eh? Now, as I am sure you are aware, to be eligible for prize money various conditions must be met.’
‘Indeed. You no doubt recall that I gained some experience in the Mediterranean and so, once the dead and wounded had been removed, I ordered the hatches to be nailed down to prevent theft. My Sea Fencibles are not rich men and the temptation to rummage below deck would have been irresistible.’
‘Wise of you, sir, very wise. So you met that condition — and of course there was no doubt whatsoever that she was an enemy vessel.’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Now, as again I know you will be aware, the prize money is distributed according to a fixed scale. Normally three eighths of the sale price goes to the captain...’
Anson grimaced. The thought of the majority share going to the preening nincompoop of his then divisional captain — the odious Captain Hoare — filled him with disgust.
The agent raised a hand to catch Anson’s attention. ‘As I say, normally the captain gets the lion’s share, but extraordinarily in this case Captain ...?’
He hesitated, scanning through the relevant document for the name.
‘Hoare. Captain Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare.’
‘Ah yes, rather pompous name, don’t you think? Well, your Captain Hoare seems to have incurred their lordships’ displeasure.’
Anson pretended ignorance. ‘Really, Mister Adkins, in what way?’
‘Who knows? In fact I see that they chose not to attempt to interfere with the machinations of the prize court but instructed the captain to renounce any claim on account of some irregularity.’
Anson smiled at the euphemism. ‘The fact that he was not present until all was done and dusted?’
‘At any rate, it’s sufficient to say that the court has seen fit to decree that his not inconsiderable share—’
‘Three eighths.’
‘Precisely. That his three eighths should go to the officer in charge of the operation. In short, you.’
‘Good grief! Me, sir? I was under the impression that I would get no more than one eighth — and would have been content with that.’
‘Whatever, with Captain Hoare ruled out, it was adjudged that not only were you in locum parentis, as it were, but you were not acting under direct orders from a flag officer, who would have been able to claim one of your eighths. So, the lion’s share falls to you.’
Anson was almost more gratified that Hoa
re’s deception in claiming credit for the capture of the privateer had clearly been rumbled than he was to hear of his own good fortune, welcome though that would be.
He made a mental note to try to find out who had shopped Hoare to the Admiralty. But that was for later. Right now, he wanted to know how his men would fare in the prize money share-out.
Adkins consulted his papers. ‘An eighth goes to the other officer involved. Bunny, or some such name?’
‘Coney, the impress officer,’ Anson corrected him.’
‘Ah yes, knew it was something to do with rabbits. A further eighth goes to the boatswain, one Fagg, I believe, another to your sergeant of marines...’
Anson was delighted to hear that his two fellow-escapers from France would benefit, and, he hoped, handsomely too.
‘Yes Fagg and Hoover. Both first-rate men.’
‘Splendid, splendid. And the remaining quarter — two eighths, that is — will be shared among the rest of the men who took part.’
‘That is most gratifying, sir. They’re good men and most of them in sore need.’
Adkins nodded. ‘Not my place to advise you, Mister Anson, but based here in Portsmouth a mere saunter from the dockyard I have seen many a sailor with back pay or prize money burning a hole in his pocket throwing it away in the pubs, wasting it on the dubious charms of raddled whores — or both. Pub walls, sir. They either piss it or knee-tremble it away against ’em, forgive my French.’
Raucous shouts and singing from a group of passing seamen no doubt celebrating the peace confirmed his point.
‘Rest assured, Mister Adkins, I will do my very best to keep them on the straight and narrow.’
