by David McDine
This was the most hated room in the Admiralty – a limbo where unemployed officers awaited their fate, both the refuge and torture chamber for lost naval souls washed up, each hoped only temporarily, on shore.
It was a place of hope for a new ship and the promise of promotion, glory and prize money. But, more often than not, it was a place of shattered dreams leading to no new appointment, nor any prospect of escaping the ignominy of half pay – half life. A naval officer without a ship was like a cavalryman without a horse, a shepherd without sheep.
Among those already there was Armstrong, who greeted Anson with a wry smile and indicated a chair he had saved for him. But despite the wine-assisted chatter of the night before, neither felt much like making small talk and they soon lapsed into brooding silence, each awaiting his fate.
Written on the wall was a verse that summed up their feelings:
‘In sore affliction, tried by God’s commune
Of patience, Job, the great example stands,
But in these days, a trial more severe
Had been Job’s lot if God had sent him here.’
One by one a succession of officers entered, cheerily greeted anyone they knew, made a bit of small talk, exchanged gossip – and then themselves lapsed into silence. It was as if they felt telling one another their aspirations might bring bad luck. And, like most sailors, jobless half-pay officers were particularly susceptible to ill omens.
A bolder officer who went to the door and accosted a porter, demanding to know when he would be seen, was swiftly made aware that he was no longer on the quarterdeck and slunk back, tail between his legs.
Eventually, first one and then another of the supplicants was collected and marched off to an unknown fate.
Each time the door opened, Armstrong exchanged a questioning look with Anson, who shrugged in reply, and the clock seemed to move slower and slower.
Anson turned over recent events in his mind: making ready on board Phryne for the raid on Saint Valery-en-Caux; the desperate fight on the mole; trundling along in the wagon on the way to the Auberge du Marin; Thérèse’s embraces; and the escape.
So it was with a start that he registered his name being called, and he leapt to his feet and followed the porter, eager to learn his destiny.
Yet to be called himself, Armstrong gave Anson another wry smile and mouthed, ‘Bon chance, mon vieux!’
*
‘First and foremost sir, I should like to go back to Phryne.’
Captain Wallis shook his head slowly back and forth. In his post he was resigned to young officers requesting the impossible.
Anson hesitated at the clear rebuff, but pressed his point regardless. ‘And if it cannot be Phryne I should very much like to be appointed to another frigate.’
Wallis, sharp-featured and balding, blocked Anson’s plea with a raised hand. ‘I much regret I am unable to offer you anything of the kind—’
‘But why can I not return to my ship, sir?’ Anson persisted. The captain shook his head. He could guess exactly how a keen young officer must feel on being deprived of his rightful ship without any immediate chance of another. To your true seaman it was akin to losing a mistress without having a wife to fall back on.
He sighed. ‘Look here, Anson, you must forget Phryne. You were presumed dead, seen and reported dead, and your old appointment has been filled. Let me remind you that we are at war. We cannot chop and change at the whim of every officer who thinks he deserves this, that or the other.’
‘But—’
Wallis again raised his hand to silence Anson. ‘But me no buts, d’you hear? I sympathise with you. It’s most unfortunate, but there’s no going back. Accept that and look ahead.’
Anson blinked and twitched his mouth in reluctant resignation. ‘So is there no chance, sir, of another frigate?’
Captain Wallis again shook his head. ‘Not a cat’s chance in hell. I’m bedevilled with half-pay officers seeking ships. You join a long queue, I’m afraid, and there’s a good few of them in the waiting room again today. And some of them have …’
He stopped himself from saying that many of those on the beach awaiting appointments did not lack interest – that naval euphemism for influential friends in positions of power – and instead added ‘… some of them have, shall we say, priority.’
‘So, sir, what can I have?’
Wallis sighed. ‘Alternative employments for an officer in your situation are few. There’s here at Admiralty of course – highly suitable for an officer who enjoys sailing a desk and is partial to the social scene in town. Daresay I could find you an appointment here.’
Anson pulled a face but the captain appeared not to notice. ‘It’s also a berth in which you can be noticed and set yourself up, provided you pin your flag to the right rising star.’
Every officer knew all about the effect such interest could have on promotion prospects. The lack of it prevented many a first-class, sea-going officer from getting the ship or promotion he deserved, hence the popular wardroom toast to ‘a bloody war or a sickly season’. Those with well-placed interest did not have to wait for dead men’s shoes.
‘By the by,’ Wallis asked, ‘does your surname indicate a kinship with the Anson?’
Anson was well used to the question and shook his head with resignation. ‘I’m afraid that in all honesty it’s a distant kinship, many times removed. But of course all in my family, especially my father, are most proud of the great Anson’s circumnavigation and capture of the Spanish treasure galleon.’
‘Your father is a parson, is he not?’
‘He is indeed, sir, but a would-be sailor.’
‘So you sail in his place?’
Anson considered the thought and agreed: ‘Yes, I suppose I am fulfilling my father’s naval ambitions.’
He had never really thought of it this way before, but suddenly it was crystal clear. His grandfather, as rural dean, had obviously pushed his only son into the church, and eventually used his own influence to shoehorn him into the living of Hardres-with-Farthingham.
Likewise, in his turn, as firstborn son Gussie had been predestined for the church. And so Oliver, as second son, was actively encouraged to join the navy as a midshipman at the age of 12, although he had not needed pushing.
And now he could understood why, vicariously – an apt choice of word, he thought – his father followed his naval career with such close interest, quizzing him in the greatest detail whenever he returned to the rectory.
Captain Wallis returned to the question of Anson’s employment. ‘Well, would Admiralty suit? Such a surname as yours would be no hindrance here.’
‘No, sir. Most kind of you to suggest it and I’m quite sure the Admiralty would be an excellent place for some fellows, but I should hate to be cooped up, pen- pushing.’
Wallis appeared to miss the unintentional slight and nodded: ‘Well then, there’s the dockyards. Chatham, or Sheerness, perhaps? I’d advise Chatham. It’s nearer your home and Sheerness really is the arsehole of the world.’
‘It would still be pen-pushing—’
‘There’s the impress service of course. Vital work if we’re to keep the navy fully manned, but somehow I don’t think you’re cut out for that.’ Distaste had registered on Anson’s face. No, the thought of leading a gang of bully boys to press unwilling men was abhorrent.
‘Well, then there’s a signal station. Important work that, too, keeping an eye out for the French.’
Anson shuddered at the thought of what Armstrong had described over last night’s supper – a watch-on, stop-on, stress-filled life, looking out for few-and-far-between signals, ship movements and the comings and goings of smugglers.
‘So is there really nothing for me at sea at all, sir?’
Captain Wallis shook his head vigorously. But he had clearly taken a liking to this young officer and had a card up his sleeve. Convinced he had read his man well, he had deliberately chosen to save it ’til last. Face a man with options you
know he’ll reject, was his philosophy, and then the probability must be that he’ll jump at the one you want him to take.
‘Very well, Anson. We have now exhausted every possibility except one. I have the ideal appointment for you. It’s not at sea, of course, but it’s beside the sea and your local knowledge will be of the utmost value. You will be in command of men, quite possibly in action. Oh, and there will be minimal pen-pushing.’
Wallis tapped a docket on his desk. ‘I’ve been reading up on you, and I can tell you that your services during the Nore affair have stood you in good stead.’
Anson’s mind flashed back to a confrontation with mutineers the year before when his life, and much more, had hung in the balance. ‘Thank you, sir. It was a trying time with a more satisfactory outcome that we could have expected at the height of it.’
The captain smiled. ‘You did well and their Lordships are aware. Nevertheless, although at present I am not in a position to offer you a ship, there is something that you might find equally challenging.’
He opened the docket. ‘Since the Nore business, by something of a miracle you have played a part in a successful frigate cruise taking prizes in the Med, survived your reported death in Normandy and escaped from France. So I would say that makes you a lucky officer, and we will need lucky officers when the Frogs invade—’
‘Surely after Aboukir there’s no way they can invade, sir?’
‘It was indeed a great victory for Nelson and his band of brothers – and would that I had been there instead of being cooped up in this …’
Lost for the right word, Wallis coughed drily and continued. ‘I’ll grant you they’ll not attempt it for a while. They’re not ready. And Aboukir has certainly bought us time to put our defences in order.’
Anson nodded. He had heard similar comments from officers in the gossip-ridden waiting room.
Captain Wallis’s fingers found the British Isles on the large globe beside his desk. ‘The French have suffered a major setback, but their objective has surely not changed, and by hook or crook they intend to defeat us here in these islands. To avoid that, we’ll need to continue to frustrate and blockade them forever and a day.
‘Mark my words, before long they’ll be building invasion barges in every port from Cherbourg to Zeebrugge and beyond. All they’ll need is for our Channel fleet to be lured away or otherwise off station, a fair wind – and they’ll be over here forcing us all to eat frogs’ legs.’
‘You really believe they’ll invade, sir?’
‘I say not if they’ll attempt an invasion, but when, and we’ll need lucky officers to frustrate their landings.’
Anson was ahead of him, and Armstrong’s warning about life with the Sea Fencibles came back to haunt him. ‘Not fencibles, sir?’ Anson’s disappointment was written all over his face.
‘Why not? Has some kind person put you off them?’
Anson held his tongue.
‘Don’t tell me!’ Captain Wallis nodded knowingly. ‘It’ll be Armstrong, I’ll warrant. Always here at the least excuse, pleading for a ship. No doubt you’ve heard him wittering away in the waiting room. I saw the wretched man there earlier—’
‘I did have occasion to discuss possible appointments with Armstrong over supper last night, sir, and it’s true he was dismissive of service with the Sea Fencibles.’
Wallis shook his head and sighed. ‘Armstrong, just as I thought. He’s a good enough fellow, but itching and bitching to get back to sea. However, I can assure you not all fencible and signal station appointments are as wearisome as he finds his.’
Anson was still overcome with disappointment at having his hopes of a sea-going post dashed, and said nothing.
‘You are from Kent, and familiar with the coast – the invasion coast?’
Anson could but agree. Sea-mad, he had learned his small-boat handling out of the fishing port of Folkestone and knew the coast well from the North Foreland to Rye.
‘The Channel has been a useful defensive ditch for many a year, but it’s not guaranteed to stop an enemy invading successfully. The Romans managed it well enough, albeit second time around. The Normans and Dutch weren’t put off, and the French are a damned sight better equipped to do it now. If only they can win control of the narrowest strip, between Dover and the Marshes and Calais-Boulogne for a day or two, I’m convinced they’ll try it.’
Anson did not agree. ‘But surely the Channel Fleet’ll never let them take control, sir.’
‘Maybe, maybe not, but the weather might interfere to their advantage. It did, in reverse, for the Spanish Armada. We forget the lessons of history at our peril. The Spaniards had plans to land at Dungeness, create a beachhead, bring troops across from the Netherlands and march on London – and with better luck they might well have made it.’ Every naval officer knew of the Great Wind that blew Philip of Spain’s would-be invaders to destruction – with a good deal of help from Drake’s fireships.
Captain Wallis warmed to his argument. ‘With some clever manoeuvring, like a break-out from one of their blockaded bases, and the right wind – or better for them no wind – and the French could wrong-foot our ships. That could leave the way clear for their invasion barges to cross, rowing all the way if necessary.’
Anson saw the point. ‘Given a reasonable sea state, and with our ships off-station, they could row across in a few hours?’
‘Just so, and once across the Channel they could regroup before we could gather enough soldiery to strike a decisive blow against them. We may have a great number of men under arms in the south east corner – regulars, militia and volunteers – but they are spread wide and it would be difficult to concentrate enough of them to oppose a landing when we don’t know where the Frogs will come ashore.’
‘Nor when, of course,’ Anson ventured.
‘Exactly, so we have to have a plan to hit them before they land. And if the Channel Fleet is off-station for whatever reason, we are left with the Sea Fencibles …’
Captain Wallis sat back in his chair, cupping his chin with his hand, and studied the earnest young officer expectantly awaiting a decision on his future. It was clear that the scenario was beginning to interest Anson, but pressurizing him was almost certain to be counter-productive. The role he was being offered required a keen volunteer – not a pressed man.
‘We have been overly successful in raising Sea Fencibles, particularly on the Kent coast. I would like to think this is due to a clamour to serve King and country, but I fear it has more to do with the protection they obtain against proper naval service,’ Wallis confided.
Like every serving naval officer, Anson was aware of this dodge enthusiastically seized upon by seafarers in the coastal towns. By joining the fencibles, they qualified for a certificate exempting them from being pressed into the navy proper.
And a part-time – and paid – role based ashore was infinitely preferable to infinite service in a man-of-war. Small wonder men who feared the press gangs were eager to sign up with the fencibles.
Wallis explained: ‘There is already a Sea Fencible detachment down at Seagate that has something of a chequered history. The company was formed under a Lieutenant Crispin who appears to have left under a cloud, and it’s apparently now being run by his bosun. We want you to take over.’ He paused for effect, but Anson showed no reaction.
‘The district captain, one Captain Hoare, will brief you about that little local difficulty. He tells me that many of the original recruits have, shall we say, melted away. But no doubt you’ll soon fetch ’em back. All you need tell ’em is that it’s Sea Fencibles or a man-of-war. Fear of the press is a pretty good recruiting device!’
Anson could but agree.
‘The present bosun is somewhat suspect following the Crispin affair,’ Wallis warned, ‘so you will need your own senior rates. Proper navy men you can rely on.’
Anson’s mind went immediately to his fellow escapers. Their loyalty to him, personally, and their reliability in a tight corner
was proven beyond doubt – and this could be his opportunity to repay them.
‘Think it over while I check something.’ Wallis rose, opened the door to his outer office and spoke quietly to one of the clerks. Anson could only ascertain that he was asking about the movements of some other officer and when he would be in Dover.
Although he was not happy with what the captain had told him, Anson already knew he would have to accept the fencible appointment. Clearly he could not have what he wanted – above all a return to Phryne – but then, being in the front line facing an invasion could be a whole lot better than skulking in a dockyard, pen-pushing in the Admiralty rabbit warren, or worst of all, unemployed and sitting the war out on half pay.
Wallis returned, remained standing beside his desk, and gave Anson a friendly smile. ‘Well, my boy? Do you need more time to think it over? You are due more leave to get over your ordeal in France—’
‘No, sir. I would much prefer matters to be sorted out straight away … and I’d like to accept the Seagate appointment.’
‘Bravo! Good man! I’m quite certain none of us will regret it. By the by, now you’ve accepted it I should explain that there is, shall we say, an extra dimension to this appointment—’
‘Extra?’
‘Yes, but I am not at liberty to tell you more. That’s the province of Commodore Home Popham. So this is what I want you to do – go home and rest up for another couple of weeks. Then I want you to get yourself to Dover to meet him while he’s there to see the progress on some, let us say, special craft.’
‘I am intrigued, sir. May I ask—?’
Wallis interrupted him. ‘Trust me, Anson. I know things that you do not – yet – and let me tell you that if you’d already seen what’s afoot down there and heard what Home Popham has to say, then I am confident that you would not just have been agreeing, you’d have been biting our hands off to accept this commission.’
Anson had heard of this Home Popham, known in the navy as ‘a damned cunning fellow’. The description had been given to him not in a derogatory sense but out of admiration for his ability to think outside normal parameters – and for his inventiveness, particularly regarding signal codes.
