The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘Stuff I’m taking t’other side.’

  ‘Contraband?’

  ‘Let’s say just a cargo, and can ye take that knife orf me throat? It’s diggin’ in me.’

  ‘When’s it being loaded?’

  ‘Take that blessed blade outta me throat and I’ll tell yer.’

  Anson relaxed the dirk a fraction. ‘So, when’s it loading?’

  ‘Some time tomorrow. It ain’t bin agreed yet. That’s why I’ve got to go back in there.’ He took a half step back towards the drinking den.

  ‘No, not yet. First take me to your boat, now!’ And to emphasise the point he raised the dirk blade and slashed it across the smuggler’s cheek, marking him with a deep scratch that instantly bled into his beard.

  The man’s hand flew to his cheek and he cried angrily: ‘Bugger me! What did yer do that for y’bastard? I’ll kill yer fer that!’

  ‘No, you’ll keep your mouth shut and you’ll take me to your boat. Now! Any nonsense and it’ll be your eye next.’

  As a midshipman, Anson had been in a boarding party that had taken on a much bigger enemy crew and won – despite absurd odds. The lessons of the value of audacity and surprise had left their mark on him. Having seized the initiative, and gained the upper hand, he intended to keep it.

  The smuggler continued to mutter and whinge, but held his tongue after the dirk swished again inches from his face.

  ‘Your boat,’ Anson commanded, and the smuggler set off reluctantly, shuffling along the quay.

  Anson stopped him, and with his left hand pulled the man’s arm over his shoulders, and put his right arm around him with the dirk turned back inside his coat, the point against his ribcage.

  ‘Go!’ he ordered, and the pair stumbled off looking like two drunks propping one another up as they rolled away from the drinking den.

  Their route to the smuggler’s boat took them past the fish market where Fagg and Hoover were hidden.

  Anson halted his captive and, after looking round to make sure there were no patrols near, called out to his fellow escapers to join him.

  They emerged from the shadows, the marine supporting Fagg in exactly the same way as Anson was linked to the smuggler.

  ‘Who the ’ell are they?’

  Anson snapped: ‘Keep silent! Just take us to your boat.’ And off they went along the quayside like competitors in some bizarre nocturnal drunkards’ race.

  Unmolested, they reached what Anson instantly recognised as a Deal lugger, tied up to a bollard. She was two-masted, indicating a small crew, and was typical of the type favoured by Kentish boatmen who used them to service ships sheltering in the Downs, for fishing – and other less worthy but lucrative activities.

  Their shallow draught made them ideal for negotiating the ever-treacherous ships’ graveyard of the Goodwin Sands, and for beaching in the absence of a harbour. There was a small forepeak cabin and crudely painted in blue on the lugger’s prow was her name, Ginny May.

  12

  Anson noted that the upper side of each of the lugger’s two sails was attached to a spar – a traveller – that could be hoisted up the mast by a halyard. The lower ends of the sails were held by ropes, easily adjustable.

  With the halyard attached near one end of the yard he could see that, when lifted, most of the sail would lie fore or aft of the mast. This rig would be no problem to work, once clear of the harbour. It would be simpler to handle than a square sail, and would enable them to sail close to the wind.

  ‘Is this it?’

  The smuggler grunted an affirmative and Anson let go of him, pushing him on board with the dirk at his back.

  Anson scrambled after him and Hoover helped Fagg board.

  ‘How many crew?’

  ‘Two and a boy.’

  ‘As well as you?’

  The skipper nodded sullenly.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘One’s on board, asleep on watch agin more’n likely. The others’ll still be ashore, pissed as coots by now on account of we ain’t sailing ’til tomorrow.’

  Anson corrected him. ‘You weren’t sailing until tomorrow, but you are now.’

  Hoover found the watchman, a beardless young lad, fast asleep with an empty wine bottle beside him. There was no need to secure him – the wine had already done the trick.

  The marine found some spare rope and bound the protesting skipper’s wrists.

  Fagg took the dirk and pistol and watched over him as Anson and Hoover searched the lugger.

  In the tiny cabin they found a musket, various knives, an axe, and several clubs or bats that Anson recognised as weapons favoured by Kentish smugglers to deter Revenue men and nosey parkers. There were nets on board and hooked lines. But he guessed the fishing gear was more for show, disguising the true role of the free trader.

  The smuggler protested: ‘What the ’ell are ye doin’? I can’t sort out the cargo tied up like this, and ye can’t sail without me and me crew.’

  Anson found a piece of sacking ready to gag him, just in case a patrol chanced by.

  ‘Don’t fret friend. We’ll sail on the tide, and we don’t need you – nor your cargo.’

  ‘But what about me crew? You can’t leave ’em ’ere.’

  ‘If they turn up in time they’re welcome to take passage. If not, they can stay and drink themselves stupid until you return for them – after we’ve got back to England.’

  The gag reduced the smuggler’s protests to grunts.

  Hoover expertly re-primed the smuggler’s pistol that Anson had confiscated on the quay. ‘If you wanted a job done properly,’ he muttered, ‘do it yourself.’ Satisfied that there was now no fear of a misfire, he handed it back to Fagg who was watching over the skipper, the dirk still at the ready.

  Next, Hoover loaded and primed the musket. It was a weapon totally familiar to him, a shorter-barrelled sea service version of the Army’s Brown Bess.

  Anson warned: ‘If the other crewmen come back before we sail we must take them without shooting.’

  Fagg and Hoover nodded. A shot would raise Cain and surely bring a patrol running. No, blades and the bats would do the necessary.

  An hour passed and the trussed-up smuggler appeared to have fallen asleep – thanks, no doubt, to the drink he had put away earlier.

  Anson was watching the steadily rising tide that was now bumping the line of fishing boats against the quayside where they were berthed.

  A low whistle from Hoover. Two figures had emerged from another drinking den and headed towards the line of boats. Predictably, they appeared the worse for drink, staggering as they approached the Ginny May.

  Anson signalled Fagg to stay low.

  Sure enough, the men stopped next to the boat and drunkenly half climbed, half fell on board, giggling inanely – the taller of them still clutching a bottle from which he took a long draught. When he lowered the bottle from his lips there was a blade at his throat and the shock of it made him choke on the spirit he had just swigged.

  Anson emerged from the shadows swinging one of the bats and the other crewman gaped and stared, terrified as a rabbit confronted by a stoat.

  Recovering some of his wits, the taller man slurred: ‘Steady mates. We won’t give no trouble. What d’ye want?’ And holding out the bottle he offered: ‘Here y’are, ’ave a swig.’

  Like any Kentish smuggler, no doubt he had seen what damage a batman could do to anyone interfering with the landing of contraband during a run.

  Hoover snatched the bottle, dropped it overboard and searched him, pulling a knife from his waistband. Anson swished the bat in front of the other prisoner who hurriedly reached into his smock and dropped a cudgel on the deck.

  Although drunk, the crewmen were not so far gone that they couldn’t take in the scene – their skipper bloody-faced and tied up, and the three well-armed strangers clearly in control of the lugger.

  Anson made the situation clear. ‘We’re sailing on the tide. If you do
as you’re told you’ll come to no harm, and there’ll be grog for you when we land on the other side. If you don’t play straight I’ll kill you and throw you overboard. Choose now!’

  They knuckled their foreheads. However unkempt he might look, there was no questioning his authority. ‘Anyfink you says, master.’ And the smaller crewman echoed: ‘Aye, us’ll play straight yer worship.’

  Anson smacked the business end of the bat into the palm of his left hand several times. It stung, and that was only a tap. God alone knew what damage a determined blow could do. Break an arm or leg? Crack a skull? No question.

  The two crewmen were clearly impressed and he had their complete attention. ‘Now lads, I want you to go about your normal duties and make ready to sail. But quiet as mice, right?’

  More knuckling of foreheads. They might be drunk, but they must know their way around the Ginny May blindfolded. Although he and Fagg were experienced seamen, Anson was not familiar with handling luggers and needed their help to clear the port without drawing unwelcome attention.

  The tide had risen fast and was on the turn. Looking over the side, Hoover saw the outline of a small dinghy tied up next to the Ginny May. This must be the lugger’s boat for harbour work.

  He pointed it out to Anson and made a rowing motion.

  The officer nodded, looked down to gauge the state of the tide and put up both hands, fingers extended indicating ten minutes.

  Anson waited, watching to see the tide abate. Finally satisfied that it had turned, he climbed over the side, lowered himself into the dinghy, untied it and threw the rope to Hoover who made it fast to the lugger’s prow.

  He cast off from the bollard, pushed against the harbour wall to get the Ginny May moving and called softly: ‘Take her away.’

  In the dinghy Anson pulled on the oars, clumsily at first until he struck a rhythm, and to his relief the lugger began to move slowly away from the quayside.

  At last they cleared the harbour and Anson secured the dinghy and clambered back aboard the lugger. He ordered the inebriated crewmen to raise the fore and aft sails, and they headed north-west for the Kent coast – and home.

  *

  During the night, once clear of the French coast, Anson freed the surly skipper and allowed the crewmen to sleep off their excesses.

  The skipper snatched at the hardtack biscuit and cheese Hoover offered him and sat munching morosely, muttering when he thought his unwelcome passengers were listening: ‘Fuckin’ pirates!’ But he offered no trouble.

  The drunken youth came to in the early hours, stared uncomprehendingly at the interlopers and turned to throw up the previous night’s booze over the side. His older companions remained comatose.

  Precise navigation on a cloudy night was impossible and first light found them a few miles off Dungeness in a slight swell. It was farther west than Anson had wished, but no matter.

  There had been no encounters with other vessels, foe or friend. Now all that remained was to get ashore.

  Anson roused the crew and ran the Ginny May before the prevailing westerly, no more than a breeze now, down the familiar coast past Dymchurch and Seagate. The skipper, sprawled with his back to the mast, took no part but followed Anson’s confident handling of the vessel and crew with close interest.

  Off Hythe, Anson went to him and handed him a piece of cloth tied with string. It clinked. ‘Your money, as I think we agreed, though I admit it was rather a one-sided bargain.’

  The smuggler fingered its contents through the cloth, fiddled the string loose and tipped six golden guineas into his cupped palm. A look of genuine astonishment replaced his scowl and he stared at the gold coins, clearly hardly able to believe these ‘fuckin’ pirates’ would keep their bargain once they had reached their goal still holding all the weapons.

  Notwithstanding his amazement, he quickly stuffed the coins into his pocket. No sense giving his crew false expectations.

  Anson smiled at the skipper’s surprise. ‘Now, I believe, we’re quits.’

  The smuggler fingered his wounded cheek, the deep scratch now crusted with dark dried blood. ‘I still owe yer for this,’ he said ruefully. ‘And this ’ere money ain’t nuffink to what I’d ’ave got for a full cargo.’

  ‘Come now, no hard feelings. You’ve helped three of old England’s sons of the sea to live to fight the Frenchies another day. Ain’t that a happy thought?’

  The skipper scowled. ‘Navy men – I blurry knew it! Stitched up by the fuckin’ navy!’

  Anson squatted beside him. ‘Now friend, we’ll go ashore in Wear Bay.’ The skipper showed surprise at this indication of local knowledge, but said nothing.

  They were now off Folkestone, which had grown from a fishing village clustered around its man-made harbour to a small town with a church and some gentrified housing perched atop the grass-covered downs. It was a place Anson knew well. He had been at school there.

  The headland of Copt Point was fast coming up on their larboard.

  Hoover removed the flints from the musket and pistol, went aft and hauled the dinghy, which had been towing behind, up close.

  Anson stirred the skipper with his foot. ‘Now, just as a precaution, you’re going to accompany us ashore. In fact, you can row.’

  The man grimaced in disgust, but struggled to his feet.

  ‘Once you’ve dropped us off you’ll be free to sail away wherever you like, back to Gravelines for that cargo of yours for all I care.’

  The Ginny May stood into Wear Bay and Anson ordered sails to be taken in and the small kedge anchor to be lowered. It caught, sufficient to hold and steady the lugger.

  The crewmen, now much recovered from their excesses of the night before, helped the three escapers and their reluctant ferryman down into the dinghy. Although unwilling, the skipper did not need telling that this was the only way he would be sure of getting his boat back.

  It was cramped in the dinghy, but they were only 50 yards or so offshore. As he worked the oars, the smuggler grumbled: ‘What if we gets taken by the Revenue now, and what will ye tell the navy as to ’ow ye got back? Ye’ll drop me in it, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘No need to worry, friend. You’re just honest fishermen going about your lawful business, ain’t you? Picked up us poor escaped sailors drifting in a dinghy in the Channel and brought us home out of love for King and country, didn’t you?’

  For once the smuggler managed a half smile. ‘So I did, didn’t I?’

  The dinghy crunched on shingle and Anson stepped into the water and held it steady while Hoover helped Fagg, still clutching his makeshift crutches, to disembark. They waded ashore and Anson turned to dismiss the smuggler, but he was already pulling back towards the Ginny May.

  They were safely ashore back in England at last – and free.

  13

  At Dover, the naval captain greeted Anson and his companions with some suspicion. Small wonder – their clothes were filthy and in tatters. They were exhausted, unshaven, dirty, and gave off a strong smell of fish – and worse. All three, weakened by lack of proper food and living rough in all weathers, had hacking coughs.

  The port officer motioned Fagg and Hoover to remain outside and led Anson into his office. Leaving him standing, he heard the story of their capture and escape in silence except for the squeak of his pen as he made occasional notes.

  Anson kept it brief: how all three were wounded during the abortive cutting-out raid at St Valery, eventually escaping while en route to Arras and making their way, not without difficulty, to the coast.

  He ended with a sanitised version of their Channel crossing and was taken aback when the captain laid down his pen, gave him a searching stare and demanded coldly: ‘You broke your parole?’

  ‘No, sir, I did not break parole.’

  ‘How is that, when it is customary to honour it?’

  ‘I was not in a position to give it or withhold it, sir. I was wounded, unconscious.’

  ‘But surely when you had recovered sufficiently
?’

  ‘No, sir. By the time I had recovered my senses we were already heading for Arras in the back of a wagon driven by a peasant and guarded by two extremely dozy French soldiers. I doubt they knew what parole was.’

  The captain remained sceptical. ‘Enquiries will be made. Meanwhile, go and get yourself and your men cleaned up and report back to me when you are decent. You are a disgrace to the navy in that state.’

  ‘But we have no other kit. Everything was left aboard Phryne. And we have no money. What’s more, as you have seen, sir, one of my men needs medical attention to his ankle. Also, we have not eaten properly for days.’

  The captain relented somewhat. ‘Very well, I will instruct my purser to advance you sufficient to see you through. No doubt he can also rustle up a change of clothes from slops if the mood takes him, although getting anything out of the hammock-counters is akin to squeezing blood from a stone.’

  *

  The purser, a cheery, chubby soul grown fat on the perks of his office, proved more accommodating than forecast, although Anson had to sign and sign again for what they received.

  They repaired to a dockside inn where the gnarled, heavily-tattooed and obviously ex-navy landlord took kindly to them when he heard they had just escaped from France.

  He led them to a pump in the inn’s backyard and, while they stripped and washed, he fetched a razor so that they could scythe off the worst of their whiskers.

  Cleaned up, they donned their rough issue shirts and trousers and returned to the bar-room where they devoured cold Romney Marsh mutton with boiled potatoes, cheese and porter. It was, Fagg observed: ‘The fust square meal what we’ve ’ad since that there auberge – and not a bleedin’ snail or frog’s leg in sight, thank Gawd.’

  Replete, they sat back to sip from their mugs of ale, relishing the familiar Kentish voices around them and the freedom to drop their guard and truly relax for the first time in weeks.

  *

  On his return to the port captain’s office, Anson was greeted more warmly. On the desk lay a copy of the Kentish Gazette.

  ‘My dear boy! Why didn’t you tell me? You’re the fellow who’s supposed to be dead, aren’t you?’