The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Book One: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

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  Copyright 2013 by Andrew Wareham

  All Rights Reserved

  Language: UK English Spellings and Word Usage

  Contents:

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Book Two in the Series

  Author Bio

  Introduction

  Young Tom Andrews, a small-time smuggler in Dorset, escapes the hangman’s noose only to find himself shanghaied onto a privateering ship. The ship plunders its way across the Caribbean, before he and crewmate, part Carib freeman, Joseph, flee to America carrying illicitly obtained booty. They prosper in the vile corruptness of New York - a town destined to be on the losing side in the Revolutionary War. Betrayed and forced to return to England, they seek riches in the early industrial boom. Their shady deals and dubious acquisitions in coal, iron and cotton yield great wealth. Tom relishes the money, but also secretly yearns for love and social acceptance. His hopes rise on meeting the beautiful daughter of an impoverished aristocrat.

  Author’s Note: I have written and punctuated The Privateersman in a style reflecting English usage in novels of the Georgian period, when typically, sentences were much longer than they are in modern English. Editor’s Note: Andrew’s book was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.

  Book One: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter One

  Running, never stopping, a slow trot most of the time, a little faster where the fields were open and he might be seen; it was easier not to think when you were moving, not to remember the blood and the screams and the smell of a man’s guts opened and spilling out of his belly; pushing on and on, never a backwards look, choosing always the quickest, flattest path, left or right as was convenient to avoid villages or isolated farmhouses, making sure only that he never turned back on himself. Eyes wide open and his head turning from side to side, watching to spot every piece of cover in case he might need to hide, ears straining for the beat of hooves behind him – he would have a minute at best from the first sound, time to conceal himself, to hide from the searchers beating every bush or die. They would be angry, their mates’ blood still wet on their boots, in no mood to take prisoners – discovery would be followed by a slashing sabre however high your hands might be.

  He had to make some miles first, then he could decide where he should go – somewhere far away, a great distance eventually, but he had to make for a mid-way point, somewhere to get himself together, to become inconspicuous. He was a coastal man, known as such, so it made sense to head straight inland in the beginning, but he would have to get back to a port, to some place where he would not stand out. He could not hide himself in a farming village, never having walked behind a plough or dug a ditch or swung a scythe in his short life – he would stick out like a sore thumb on a farm. Make towards Yeovil for the hours of darkness and then he would have to turn east or west, back to the sea, but only after a day’s sleep; he was tired now, two days of hard sailing followed by the ambush on landing, the energy-sapping fight and the panicked, immediate flight had exhausted him. You didn’t get to run much on a fishing boat; you built muscles in chest and arms from the ropes and nets, and the occasional loading in a French port, but you would not run for more than thirty foot at most, and his legs were passing that message to him. No matter, if he was to live then he must push a little harder, force himself not to stop till the first dawn and sun enough to see what he was doing when he chose a place to lay up.

  He found an area of old woodland just before full light, down in a shallow valley bottom, mostly blackthorn with bracken and brambles under it, good cover, impassable to a horse. He worked his way out of sight, swearing as the briars snagged his skin, heaved bracken fronds up into a nest and disappeared from view, head and shoulders covered by his old leather jerkin in case of rain; he fell asleep quickly, his bruises aching, worrying and grieving his dad, but not enough to defeat the exhaustion and keep him awake.

  He was hungry and thirsty when he stirred in mid-afternoon; there was nothing to be done about the hunger, that would have to be put up with, but he could hear a small stream a few yards away. He sneaked through the little coppice, low to the ground, looking around nervously – there could be children playing or out gathering firewood, this would be just the place to pick up sticks for kindling, the ground was always dry under the thick tangle of blackthorn. The woodland filled the little valley but he could just see the hillsides through the branches, chalk downs, the one empty, the other running a flock of sheep – never a shepherd in sight, he would be up high where he could watch over everything without having to walk too far, but his dogs would check out any movement that might be threatening. He found the stream, saw that it ran clear over a bed of gravel; no cattle and no village within sight, with any luck the water would be safe; he had no choice, in any case, he had to drink. He tasted a handful cautiously, there was no taint and he could see half-inch long minnows swimming nearby - no fish in foul water, not as a rule. He drank his fill, knowing that if it was bad then his chance of escape was gone – if the spotted sickness did not kill him directly, he would be laid up for a month, with no food or shelter, dying slowly unless he showed himself in a village and gave himself over to the constable or overseer or beadle, whichever it might be. He glanced in a still pool, winced at the bruise showing across his cheek where a flailing backhand had scraped him; there was blood matted in his hair, contrasting dark red streaks against his light, reddish-brown mane – it wasn’t his and he scrubbed hurriedly at it, revolted, stomach turning. For the rest, it was just the face he was used to, square, blue-eyed, heavy on the chin – a typical local appearance – he didn’t look any different at all for the men he had killed; nor should he, bloody butchers – they had shot without saying a word, with no warning at all, no chance to put their hands up – they had deserved all they’d got.

  He had gone out with his father, no other crew on a thirty-footer, before dawn, as normal, but had headed straight across the Channel rather than south of west to their normal fishing grounds; three times running in the past week they had come in with their small fish-hold less than half-full, the fish weren’t about to be caught so they had to make their money the other way. Into a small inlet on the Normandy coast on the second dawn, tying up at the w
ooden jetty that stuck out into the river, waiting to be noticed; if they were ignored for a couple of hours they would know there was no cargo to hand and would cast off, never a word spoken. A villager trotted out to them in the first ten minutes, glanced at his father’s face and nodded recognition; a few minutes after that and a donkey cart appeared, fully laden with small barrels of brandy, a couple of longshoremen walking beside it. Three cart loads over as many hours and the fish-hold and all the other spaces below the deck were packed full, even their tiny cabin taken over. The tide turned soon after noon and they sailed out, tacking slowly against the onshore breeze, making a slow offing then a long leg to the south-west before beating their way across almost to the Devon coast so as to pick up with any other boats that were out, to seem to be just another fisherman. As they opened Torbay next afternoon they spotted an inshore crabber, their contact, and his father waved a red-striped jersey three times over his head before tacking a couple of miles out to sea to wait for full darkness; there would be a shore-party waiting to take their load when they ran up on the shingle in the cove below their cottage.

  The party was there and so were dragoons and Excisemen, armed and impatient.

  It was before mid-summer so the fields would be empty of anything edible, and he did not dare go into a village to try to buy bread – leaving aside that there might not be any sort of shop, was none in most villages so that he would have to knock on doors and ask to buy food, he would be seen, remarked on, possibly questioned, certainly remembered and commented on. It would take at least another day for hunger to weaken him; he had gone longer than this without food in dad’s boat several times when bad winds had held them out longer than expected and he knew that a couple of days starvation was a nuisance, no more. The sun was westering and he needed to make distance and a decision; eastwards, in all probability, was best – Poole was not too far away, Portsmouth less than a week’s walking, and both were big ports where there would be a way out. West was too long a walk, whether he tried for Bristol or the south coast; Poole was better, not only nearer but home to merchant shipping with a wage and the chance to sign off legally or to buy a cabin passage, he had enough money for that; Portsmouth meant navy, heaved aboard ship willy-nilly and off to fight the war in America for little money and that paid a year late. Getting to America was probably a good idea, but not in a naval ship, if it could be avoided; desertion was always possible, but it could be a damned nuisance to organise from all he had heard. Either way, he had to get there yet and he was probably no more than ten miles from home in a straight line and the hunt would be up, though he suspected they would be after the other four who had taken to their pack-horses and gone off on the highway, making for the Bristol road and hoping to out-distance any pursuit.

  “Not a chance! Bloody fools,” he said aloud, for the comfort of hearing a voice as he slipped from tree to tree, crouching in the hope of concealing his six foot frame. He was big, even for a Dorset man, and he still had some growing to do, he was only just sixteen. He sat in the last cover, suddenly found tears flowing as he saw his father turning to him in last night’s darkness and shouting to run and then the blood spurting from his mouth as he fell and a dismounted dragoon, clumsy in his heavy boots, charging him waving a sabre, mouth open, panting. Wearing light shoes, slipped on as he landed, he was much quicker on his feet, grabbed the flailing arm and snapped it and took the sabre and ran forward at the others stood by his father…

  He had no time to weep, not if he was to live.

  The woodland came to an abrupt end with a ditch and then rough pasture with a couple of dozen cattle; he could see the roofs of a small village a half mile or so ahead; not large, there were no more than seven or eight cooking smokes visible, and most of the labourers’ wives would have the stew pot on by this time of day. He did not know the area, but thought it might be one of the Piddles, not so far from Dorchester. If that was the case then he needed to keep a bit north of the town before working his way cross-country – there was a barracks with dragoons in Dorchester, and it was a fair bet that they would be out, patrolling the highways and maybe poking their noses down the bigger lanes. He was too well-bruised to deny that he had been in a fight, had obviously been out all of the previous night, sleeping rough, and would be taken up on sight. He stared all round, plotting the route he would take when night fell.

  Over the shoulder of the empty down on his right, the bare turf easy to walk on in the dark and just enough of a moon to see rabbit holes; it would probably be possible to see the streak of the roadway down in the valley as well, a guide to follow, to give him a rough direction. That road would eventually lead him to Poole, he thought; he had seen the port, but only from the sea, at a distance when they were following the herring run down the coast. Still, the hills of Purbeck would give him an unmistakable landmark; he could not get lost.

  He kept as low on the hillside as he could, just above the rough of the valley, so as not to outline himself against the skyline – there was probably no need to be so careful, none of the locals ventured out at night further than to the beer house and back, but there was no need to take any risks at all, not if he wanted his neck to stay unstretched. Five miles, two hours of slow walking, brought him to the far side of the down where he had the problem of what to do next: the lowland was clay, waste land in an unenclosed manor, left uncultivated by tradition and because it was held in common usage so that it was worth nobody’s while to spend out to clear it and make fields. It was covered in blackthorn and sloe bushes and brambles and nettles and patches of boggy reeds and rushes – slow ground to walk in daylight, impassable at night, so he could stick to the high ground and go miles out of his way to the north or follow the track through the middle. The waste would provide plenty of hiding places if he had to run, and he would be able to hear any party of horsemen in the very unlikely case that they were out at night; there would be no picket lying in wait, not on so small a lane in such an out-of-the-way place. He worked his way to the dirt path and stretched out in a fast walk to the south and east.

  He was wide awake, alert, watching everything, head never still. After an hour he spotted a black shape perched on a low branch near the track, hunched over, not upright like an owl – a pheasant from its size, strayed a mile or two from a sporting squire’s coverts. He cast about him, found a heavy stick, two fingers thick and a foot or so long; a fast throw from five yards and the bird was down, in his hands, neck wrung and tucked away inside his jerkin; it was poaching, in the close at that, but he was not too worried about standing before the Bench for that charge, poaching only carried transportation and they’d be hanging him first,

  Just before dawn the heavy clays ended and he moved out onto heathland, the sandy soils much drier and carrying only a waist-high vegetation of furzes and bracken, the gorse bushes just showing their golden flower, dense and impenetrable to horsemen. A man on foot, however, who knew what he was doing, could find dry cover in the foot or two of clear space between the lowest branches and the ground, crawling carefully underneath, pulling an armful of soft bracken fronds to cover the prickles and provide some warmth, looking out warily for the adders who also loved this cover. He slept undisturbed till late afternoon, then plucked and drew the bird, brushing the ants off it, and moved a couple of hundred yards away, still in cover, and pulled together a tiny fire of dead, dry twigs and stems, hot but almost smoke-free. He spitted the pheasant and waited patiently, turning it every few minutes until he was certain it was cooked all the way through; he dared not risk loose bowels, not if he was to keep moving fast.

  He ate the tough, dry, unhung meat, forcing it all down despite its lack of flavour, and moved again, a good half a mile away from the fire and smell of cooked food, laid up a few yards back from the road, waiting for darkness and safety. An hour before twilight his caution was rewarded as a large party of horsemen came into view. A full squadron of dragoons trotted slowly by, looking left and right, scanning the verges, coming from the directio
n of Poole and heading towards their barracks in Dorchester, at a guess. They were heavies, he noted, carrying carbines in saddle buckets and long, straight swords, not the lights he had met at the shoreline and who had used shorter, curved sabres. That meant at least two regiments quartered in the area, and maybe a dozen squadrons out, sufficient to cover all of the roads, including the highway to Bristol. Fugitives on slow pack-ponies would certainly have been run down, probably within a very few hours. If he was lucky, very lucky indeed, they might be content with them, might not even become aware of a fifth on foot; more likely they would question the four they had taken and then offer King’s Evidence to one so that he could not only save his neck, but could expect early freedom. The four would obviously blame everything on the fifth, the one who was not there to give his side of the story – not that he had much to offer, nothing that would save him from the hangman – and give his name and all they knew of him. Say one day to catch them and bring them back to barracks and then another day to wring them dry . . . the hunt would be up with a vengeance by tomorrow, the countryside aswarm with militia and cavalry combing the areas they had not covered yet. He needed be lying-up in town by tomorrow noon at latest, so he must run the most direct road tonight, there was no choice; he could not risk detouring inland in the hope of throwing them off the scent, he must get to Poole and on board a ship.

  The track quickly led him to the highway, such as it was; it was an old road, not a modern turnpike, which meant that it had no gates to pass but also that its surface was rutted, potholed, broken, thickly muddy where it crossed a stream, a dust-bath when it was dry, a quagmire when wet, but it was better than trying to force a slow passage across the heathland or through the river valley. It was a dry night and he was able to make an easy trot under the sliver of a moon and the bright starlight. There was enough light for him to be able to pick out movement at a safe distance, but the road was empty, only his figure moving through the desert of the night, local people had no call to be out of their villages after dark and carriers and carters worked the daylight hours solely; only the Mail coaches ran at night, and there were none of them on this local road.