by David McDine
He let it be known to the landlord, and therefore no doubt soon to every busybody in town, that he was on a tour of inspection of all great gun batteries in the area. This gave him the excuse to have a long chat to the Bayle battery master gunner and take a careful note of his claims regarding manning and stores deficiencies – all without being once asked for proof of his identity or what his authority was, despite what remained of his New England accent.
‘Could’ve been a spy and he’d be none the wiser,’ the sergeant muttered to himself as he made his way to the Seagate battery.
There he found a large gun platform on the high ground away from the seafront, but instead of the expected six 18-pounders there were just two, both showing signs of rusty neglect. Nearby stood a long, tile-roofed building with a board over the door identifying it as the base of the Seagate Sea Fencible Detachment.
He made a great show of measuring and examining the guns, deliberately attracting attention to himself until at last a passing gnome-like figure paused to stare at him for a moment or two and then scuttled into the Sea Fencible building, no doubt to report his presence.
On cue, a surly-looking, scar-faced, thick-set, balding individual emerged, took a long look at the scarlet-jacketed stranger apparently appraising the guns and ambled over. ‘Looking to buy one, sodger?’ he enquired sarcastically. ‘Everythink’s got its price.’
Hoover straightened up from peering at a spider’s web down one of the barrels and laughed. ‘No mate, I wouldn’t give you tuppence for one of these. Give me 24s every time.’
‘Know a lot abaht guns, do yer? If so, mebbe you can tell me when us’ll be getting the rest of what we’re entitled to?’
Hoover seized the opening. ‘That’s exactly why I’m here – just making sure what you’ve got and what’s still needed. Four more 18-pounders, am I right?’
‘Blimey, that’s it right enough. We’ve bin waiting for ’em ever since this ’ere detachment was formed.’
‘Well mate, your long wait might soon be over – once I’ve made my report.’
The man was clearly impressed. ‘Who are you when you’re at ’ome, then?’
‘Me? I’m Sergeant Tom Hoover from the marines, checking on the guns down this stretch of coast. How about you?’
The man waved towards the building. ‘Sea Fencibles – name of Lillicrap, bosun’s mate.’
Hoover nodded. ‘Is the bosun at home?’
‘No, he’s orf on, er, official business up Folkestone way,’ Lillicrap lied easily. It was well known around Seagate that Bosun MacIntyre’s business at this time of day was with a bottle, and, if he was lucky, a floozy.
‘Well, ain’t that a pity? I was bent on inviting him for a drink at the Mermaid here while I make notes about the guns you need and all.’ Hoover hesitated. ‘I guess you’ll be too busy to join me instead of him?’
There was no way Lillicrap was going to refuse a free drink, and a short while later they were in the nearby pub, Hoover sipping a weak beer and pretending to take a few notes about the guns while he plied his dupe with tots of rum.
When asked innocently if the detachment had an officer, Lillicrap, warming to his benefactor by the tot, was only too willing to recount the tale of Lieutenant Crispin’s downfall, and the more he imbibed the stronger the hints he dropped that the bosun had turned the situation to his advantage.
‘He’s a right bastard is Black Mac, but ’e’s clever wiv it – and I can’t complain seeing as how ’e’s seein’ me orlright. Them there Admirality orficers would ’ave a fit if they knew ’ow he works their own book!’
He slung back his latest tot, gave his new best friend a gap-toothed smile and, overcome with generosity, slurred: ‘Let me buy you one this time, Tom. Thanks to Black Mac, I ain’t short of a bob or two these days.’
*
Once the ladies had withdrawn, decanters of port and Madeira appeared and commenced their voyage to larboard around the table. Anson was at first engaged by Colonel Redfearn, who wanted to hear of his adventures in France.
Anson gave him a selective summary, an outline of the raid on St Valery-en-Caux and his wounding, subsequent capture and escape – omitting any mention of the Auberge du Marin and glossing over precisely how he and his fellow fugitives had secured their passage home.
‘Commendable, commendable!’ the colonel enthused. ‘You showed the kind of initiative we sappers prize! Wouldn’t care to transfer, would you?’
The colonel’s attention was captured by the portly magistrate and Anson looked across the table to see Squire Brax staring at him.
Having already downed several glasses of port on top of the sherry and various wines, the squire was red-faced and well on his way to being comprehensively drunk. ‘Well, my boy, now you’ve had a sniff of my young fillies, do you fancy a canter with one of ’em, eh?’
Taken aback by the squire’s directness, Anson stifled a nervous cough and decided not to be led down that dangerous path.
‘’Fraid I’m not much of a hand at riding, sir. Horses and naval men tend not to mix too often – nor too well.’
The squire registered pretended outrage. ‘Can’t ride! Never heard of such a thing. Good God man, the son of a hunting parson and you can’t ride!’
Anson, keen to steer away from the fillies the squire had in mind, stammered: ‘I can ride, of course, but not well and it takes a few weeks ashore to get over being saddle sore. As to hunting, I’d prefer to harass Frogs rather than chase foxes.’
Brax quaffed his port, thought for a moment, and countered: ‘Oh, very good! Daresay the Frogs leave a scent in their wake. Strong whiffs of garlic, eh?’
Turning to the rector, he added: ‘Never thought of that when you were off a’ huntin’ did you parson? Chasing a snail-scoffin’ Frog would be capital sport, what!’ Polite chuckles greeted his remark, but Brax thought it hugely amusing and guffawed.
Then, to Anson’s horror, the squire seemed to realise he had been taken off at a tangent and dragged him back to the subject of his daughters. ‘Fobbed me off, didn’t you, my boy? I was askin’ if you fancied one of my gals?’
‘All three are quite delightful young ladies, sir. But I wouldn’t presume—’
‘And pray why not? Not one of those navy wallahs who prefers boys to gals, are you? I’ve heard all about you navy men.’
Anson was stung. ‘Certainly not, sir!’
‘So what is it then? Didn’t get some of your faculties blown off when you were wounded, did you?’
‘I can assure you, sir, that I am completely … er, intact.’
‘Good to hear that, but if so, what’s wrong with me daughters?’
‘As I said, sir, all three are delightful, but—’
Brax mused, ‘Isobel is a touch young, I’ll grant you – only 14. Jane’s 18 and sturdy enough, but a bit on the plain side. Gets it from her mother’s family, I s’pose. But Charlotte’s old enough, pretty enough and certainly she’s ripe enough for the marriage stakes.’ He smiled salaciously. ‘And she’d come with a tidy dowry.’
It was well known that there were few enough eligible suitors around and he would not be sorry to marry his eldest daughter off before she ran to fat like her mother.
The rector nodded encouragingly, but Anson was highly embarrassed at the turn of the conversation and struggled to extricate himself with honour. ‘You have me on a lee shore, sir. You will appreciate that apart from seeing your daughters in church on Sunday, today is the first time I have been with them since they were playing with their dolls and I was not much older.’
And, recalling Charlotte’s full bosom straining at her dress and hypnotising him during dinner and her hand stroking his thigh, he added: ‘Most certainly I hope to see much more of them before duty calls again, sir.’
Brax grunted, and apparently satisfied, turned to the engineer colonel. ‘D’you hunt sir? Not going’ to tell me that the army ain’t any good at ridin’ either, are you, eh?’
The port and Madeira
decanters continued their voyage and the conversation reverted to hunting, shooting and fishing – and, predictably, the infernal nuisance that the war with France was becoming with its outrageous tax on income that was about to be introduced, and the inflated prices of everything.
Anson shrank back into his chair and held his peace, relieved to be out of the verbal firing line. Clearly, navigating the society minefield was far trickier than life afloat.
While the rest of the male guests were burbling on about field sports and politics, it was something of a relief for Anson when Colonel Redfearn turned to him again and asked if he yet knew what his next appointment would be – or if he had a preference.
‘The Admiralty has informed me that I cannot return to my frigate, sir, nor will they give me any other sea-going appointment. So, against my wishes, I’ve had to accept a Sea Fencible appointment.’
‘I venture this is not a time to concern ourselves with our personal aspirations, Anson. We need good young naval fellows like you to sort out our shoreline defences. After all, as Miss Brax – that is, one of the Miss Braxes – said earlier, this is the frontline county.’
‘Indeed sir, but—’
The colonel waved his hand dismissively. ‘Never mind all that. You’ve been over the other side more recently than anyone. Give me your assessment of the mood of the French.’
In truth, Anson had little to offer other than to say that the ordinary people had not seemed overly concerned about the war unless it interfered directly with their lives. There had been a general belief in French invincibility, he recalled, but as to the overall strategic picture, well, the average peasant had little or no idea what was going on outside his patch. Nor did he much care.
The colonel listened intently nevertheless. ‘You are a resourceful fellow Anson, and did well to make your way out of an enemy country. Tell me, in your opinion, how easy or otherwise would it be for someone to infiltrate and make their way around the Pas de Calais observing what the Frogs are at?’
‘If you had some French and went in disguise, ideally as a Dutchman or some such in the French service, I think it would be relatively easy, sir. Gold talks, of course, as it did for me. I was lucky enough to have taken some of my prize money sewn into my jacket. It proved better than a passport.’
Colonel Redfearn went on to ask Anson’s opinion about shore defences, whether he had heard anything of invasion preparations in Normandy and the Pas de Calais ports, and how troop-carrying barges might best be destroyed if they ran the gauntlet successfully to evade the British fleet and attempt a landing on the south coast. Tongue loosened by the wine and port, Anson was happy to air his views with all the assurance of an admiral.
By the time they rose to join the ladies, he had the feeling that he had been almost surreptitiously but thoroughly interrogated by the colonel and perhaps out of bravado had made wandering around France and blowing landing craft out of the water sound all too easy.
He had an uncomfortable feeling that had he been a soldier the colonel could almost have been sizing him up for a return trip across the Channel. But that could not be. Interested though he might be, surely the engineer could play no part in his destiny.
*
Back from his reconnaissance mission, Hoover recounted what he had learned from his session with bosun’s mate Lillicrap at the Mermaid tavern. ‘He was three sheets in the wind by the time I got around to asking him about Lieutenant Crispin and he was more than happy to talk about it.’
Anson smiled. ‘Excellent. I felt sure a bit of digging around would pay off.’
‘It did that, sir. It appears the early training had not gone well and Lieutenant Crispin took this bully boy, name of MacIntyre, on as bosun to sort the men out. But, from what Lillicrap told me, he treated the volunteers as if they were raw lubbers in the devil’s own man-of-war.’
Hoover’s turn of phrase amused Anson. ‘Go on …’
‘Well, the bosun made up two or three like-minded mates, including Lillicrap – each of them known bad hats and bullies – who took cane or rope’s end to the men for the merest trifle. That idiot Lillicrap actually boasted about it to me after half a dozen tots.’
Anson held up a finger. ‘You must give me a note of what you’ve spent. I can’t have you being out of pocket.’ And, frowning, he queried: ‘The men didn’t retaliate?’
‘They could do nothing for fear of worse official punishment, or of being shopped to the impress. It was kind of a regime of fear and it seems you can’t get away with treating volunteers like that ashore.’
Anson agreed. ‘But didn’t this Crispin do anything about it?’
‘Seems he is, or was, a weak man and the bosun despised him and wanted rid of him so that he could operate some kind of swindle. Lillicrap told me that MacIntyre forced it to come to a head when he persuaded Lieutenant Crispin to give the fencibles pike drill down by the harbour when he’d drink taken as usual. He couldn’t remember the correct commands and the men were stumbling every which way in confusion, dropping their pikes and muttering. You can imagine it – the gawpers made fun of them and fell about laughing.’
It was easy for Anson to picture the scene. There was nothing half so effective as public ridicule for putting men who were trying to do their best out of sorts.
‘Crispin kept giving rambling instructions that only made the situation worse and at that point the bosun, MacIntrye, stepped in and ordered them to fall out for a short rest. They broke up into small groups, talking loudly of going home, and when they were ordered to fall in again it was well nigh impossible to get them to obey – even with the bosun’s mates threatening them with the rope’s end. When they did eventually get back into some sort of order, Crispin tried to continue with the exercise, but got the orders wrong again.’
‘Good grief!’
‘The word had gone round and drew a crowd, including some off-duty soldiers, and as you can imagine they found the scene real funny …’
‘Sounds like a complete shambles!’
‘That’s the impression Lillicap gave me, sir – a complete farce. And the more Lieutenant Crispin tried to remonstrate with the men the more they hooted and hollered, shouting “Wrong, wrong, wrong” and “Home, home, home!” It was only when the officer staggered off that the bosun managed to quieten them down sufficiently to dismiss the parade. Since then MacIntyre – I understand the men call him Black Mac – has taken complete charge, but there’s been no more drilling in public, many of the men have melted away and the detachment seems to be totally ineffective.’
‘Did you get any hint of what’s happened to Lieutenant Crispin?’
Hoover shook his head. ‘All I could get out of Lillicrap was that he’d be seen no more this side of the Channel.’
‘What do you think he meant by that?’
‘Sounded to me as if he might have been deliberately marooned over the other side, but I can’t be sure.’ He paused. ‘There’s one other thing, sir. I got the impression from Lillicrap that, with the officer out of the way, MacIntyre has got some kind of swindle going at the detachment.’
‘What sort of swindle?’
‘He spoke about the bosun coming up with a clever scheme and cutting him in on it. He let slip that it was something to do with some kind of official book, but I couldn’t get any more out of him. He was pretty well soused by then.’
Anson rubbed his hands. ‘Good work. Sounds as if I need to pay them a surprise visit before they find out they’re about to have a change of command.’
21
On the appointed day at the appointed hour, Anson sought out the temporary office Commodore Home Popham was using at Dover and handed over the letter of introduction from Captain Wallis.
A clerk bade him take a seat, knocked on the inner office door and handed in the letter with a muttered explanation. After a few minutes, an officer with iron-grey hair, startling eyebrows, side whiskers and an air of dynamism about him, appeared in the doorway and fixed his visitor with a
friendly stare.
Anson rose and the commodore shook his hand. ‘Lieutenant Anson? I’m Captain Home Popham, well, temporarily a commodore, the fellow to blame for creating the Sea Fencibles and the reason you are here today. Come in.’
He led the way into the inner sanctum and gestured to Anson. ‘Do sit.’ He pulled up his own chair and appraised the young lieutenant for some moments before asking, ‘Any connection to the Anson?’
Anson’s eyes went ceiling-wards and he answered for the umpteenth time: ‘Only a very distant kinship, I’m afraid, sir, many times removed.’
Home Popham snorted. ‘Distant eh? Still, not a bad name to be saddled with in the navy, what?’
‘No, sir, I’ve heard worse.’ Then he realised the commodore might think he was referring to his peculiar name and wished he could un-say what he had just said.
But Home Popham had clearly not taken the remark personally. He murmured ‘Quite, quite,’ and, elbows on the desk and hands clasped in front of him, the commodore got down to business. ‘Perhaps I should explain that as a result of my experience as a naval staff officer with the Army in Flanders four years ago, I came up with a plan for the organisation of a kind of naval militia for flotilla work.’
‘What are now called Sea Fencibles?’
‘Just so. My plan was adopted and I’ve been appointed to command the most important section of the force – covering the area from Beachy Head to Deal. Each area under me is commanded by a naval captain, which is why I’m temporarily a commodore, and a lieutenant commands each detachment.’
He held up the letter of introduction and fixed Anson with a steely look. ‘I need competent officers to serve under me. Captain Wallis has told me something of your record. Your escape from France tells me you are a man of initiative and courage, and that is why we want you to take over a special detachment, based at Seagate. And you’ve accepted, I gather?’
Anson nodded. He was flattered but still not entirely convinced about his competence for leading what he saw as essentially a part-time, part-trained parcel of man-of-war dodgers.
