The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

  *

  He learned little more of the Crispin affair – what Captain Wallis had referred to as the ‘little local difficulty’ – when he reported to Captain Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare, the divisional captain.

  Hoare, proud of his albeit distant connection to West Country aristocrats, was a jolly, plump fellow with side-whiskers bordering on the extravagant ‘buggers’ grips’ variety – and was well into the local social scene.

  He immediately made it clear that he was happy to let his lieutenants do the work. ‘There’s one thing …’

  Not one to mince words, the captain chose them with care. ‘Have you been made aware of the cock-up at Seagate?’

  ‘Sir?’ Anson held his tongue about what he knew in case Hoare could throw some further light on the affair.

  The captain toyed with his whiskers and sighed. ‘It’s not a pretty tale. The lieutenant who formed the detachment you’re taking over, one Crispin, is a gentleman but unfortunately given to drinking to excess. He was not popular with his men – not that popularity is necessarily a virtue. At any rate, he appears to have been highly unpopular, and while drilling them in public when drunk provoked what would have been called a mutiny if it had happened among real sailors at sea.’

  ‘So I’ll have my work cut out to get them up to scratch?’

  ‘You will indeed, especially as you’re to trial the first of the new gunboats. The men will need careful handling. We cannot have a total want of discipline and subordination, but I have to accept that they were appallingly badly-led by Crispin and have been systematically bullied by their bosun, a man called MacIntyre.’

  ‘And he’s still here?’ Anson asked.

  ‘Yes, and by all accounts he’s a devil of a tyrant. No bounds what he’s been up to since Crispin cleared off. If necessary, get rid of him and his mates, and start again, ideally with subordinates you know and trust. The impress service would no doubt be happy to take MacIntyre. They’re in need of bully boys.’

  Anson chose not to reveal that he already had his replacement, two in fact, standing by, and asked: ‘May I enquire if you know what has happened to Lieutenant Crispin, sir?’

  ‘That drunken sop was last seen an hour or two after that disastrous pike drill, three sheets in the wind and still knocking it down in one of the pubs. That was over a month ago, since when there’s been neither sight nor sound of him. It’s hardly surprising that he dare not show his face after what happened.’

  ‘You don’t think he’ll reappear, sir?’

  ‘I’ve marked him down as run, and good riddance to him! Disgraceful behaviour for an officer! Wherever he is, I sincerely hope he stays there and drinks himself to death to save us the expense and embarrassment of a court martial.’

  The pair spent the next hour discussing the nuts and bolts of Anson’s new command – the Seagate Detachment – and arrangements for the acceptance of the gunboats. Captain Hoare made it abundantly clear that the less he was troubled about day-to-day operational matters the better he would like it.

  ‘I’ve got an important job to do, liaising with the military and civil authorities, and cannot be arsed about getting involved in the nitty-gritty of every fencible detachment.’

  ‘Understood, sir.’ Anson was relieved that there would evidently be minimum interference from this quarter.

  Like Home Popham, Hoare had clearly warmed to his new subordinate. He added, kindly: ‘You know what is expected of you Anson, so do me the favour of getting on with it and only bother me when absolutely necessary. You’re a grown-up and you can be confident that I’ll back you up as long as you make a good fist of sorting out your detachment and making them efficient, which they’ll most certainly have to be if they are to operate these new-fangled gunboats effectively.’

  ‘I will do my utmost, sir.’

  ‘Of course you will, there’s a good fellow. However, if you come across any society types who need influencing about the navy and suchlike you might suggest they include me on their invitation lists.’

  Anson reflected that the captain clearly had little if no idea of the special role Home Popham envisaged for his new lieutenant, nor did he appear to give a damn what he did with the fencibles – unless it reflected well or otherwise on him, or in any way affected his burgeoning social life.

  *

  Hoare’s early naval career had been pretty much of a doddle, as befitted an almost aristocrat with a silver tongue and a ready pen devoted to ensuring his personal success.

  True, he had served his time as a midshipman and junior lieutenant without blemishes, and his perceived connections and influence had smoothed his early years in the service. But it was when the captain of the frigate HMS Seraphim, in which he was serving as first lieutenant, was decapitated by a cannon ball during a skirmish with a French fifth rate in the Bay of Biscay, that his chance had come.

  Heavily outgunned, and in grave danger of being raked by another broadside, Hoare had taken command, wisely broken off and fled, managing to get off a couple of balls from his stern-chasers as he manoeuvred out of danger. At many a dinner conversation since, these two balls had become a broadside.

  However, the incident had been sufficient for him, with his literary flair, to claim that, despite their patent inequality, he had damaged the Frenchman and avenged his unfortunate headless captain.

  Promotion to post captain was the desired, and as far as the Admiralty could judge from his somewhat extravagant report, fully justified result.

  But to Hoare’s chagrin, Seraphim went almost immediately into refit and he to a shore post. As divisional captain for a clutch of south coast Sea Fencible detachments, he found himself commanding half a dozen lieutenants, assorted human flotsam and jetsam of the Channel ports, and temporary owner of the scruffy huts that served as their bases.

  This was not the glory he sought, but he had soon discovered that he could leave all the work to his lieutenants and devote his own more valuable time to embellishing his social life and keeping his name, and the minor fame he claimed at every opportunity for his skirmish with the French, in the eyes of the county set.

  In short, Hoare, the almost aristocratic self-proclaimed hammer of the French, was a poseur and social climber par excellence.

  *

  Before parting with Anson to attend another a social event, he told him: ‘Let’s get this clear from the outset – if you want rid of your bosun or to make any other changes, just do it. I expect an officer of your rank and experience to get on with your job and not come bleating to me whenever you have a problem.’

  Anson was deadpan. ‘Of course, sir, with your permission.’

  ‘Carry on Anson, there’s a good fellow.’ And, as an afterthought: ‘By the by, as I was saying, about the importance of the social scene, your people are local, ain’t they?’

  Anson nodded. ‘More or less, sir. My father’s rector at Hardres-with-Farthingham and my brother’s a minor canon at Canterbury Cathedral.’

  ‘Really? That’s splendid. Perhaps you’ll ensure that they put me on any invitation lists that might be going. In my division I need to get in among the county movers and shakers, what?’

  Anson replaced his hat. ‘Of course, sir. I’m sure there’re many who’d like to meet the hero of an engagement with the French.’

  Appallingly, Captain Hoare showed no sign of registering the heavy irony.

  Whatever, Anson left with a sense of relief. Hoover and Fagg could be brought in without further ado and clearly he would be able to run the detachment exactly as he wanted without any interference from the gallant captain.

  As he walked up the old High Street heading for the Rose Inn, Anson wondered what had really happened to his predecessor. Was the pike training kerfuffle enough to make him want to vanish? Would even a drunkard risk his career by disappearing of his own accord? If he cared nothing for his commission, why had he not simply resigned?

  Or was there a more sinister reason for his non-appearance, and could he have b
een marooned in France as Lillicrap had hinted to Hoover?

  As he crossed Rendezvous Street and entered the inn, Anson resolved that as soon as he was able to establish himself as the new detachment commander down at Seagate he would seek to discover exactly what had befallen Lieutenant Crispin.

  24

  Charged with finding their own accommodation, Fagg and Hoover had steered well clear of the Rose. ‘That there’s orficers only now, so us’ll find somewhere a bit more lower deck,’ Fagg announced, and the marine was happy to agree.

  Life under the same roof as their officer would be like being on parade round the clock. The other main coaching inn, the King’s Arms, was also frequented by what passed in these parts as the upper crust, and was a might too expensive.

  Somewhere a little more relaxed beckoned. If they checked into one of the Seagate pubs they would be mixing with the fishermen and boatmen who were likely as not members of the detachment, men who would be unhappy to have their new bosun and master-at-arms living in one of their drinking dens.

  So Hoover proposed the British Lion in Folkestone, where he had stayed during his reconnaissance visit and where he was again welcomed by the obliging landlord. It was cosy and friendly, the clientele being mainly shopkeepers and the like rather than seafarers who would have viewed any uniformed stranger as a potential threat to their liberty.

  So it was that over another tankard of ale they quickly struck a bargain with the landlord, taking two small rooms for an indefinite period.

  Once settled, Fagg confided: ‘What I need now more’n anyfink is to find meself a woman. I could just go a round or two with some nice cuddly lady, a widder woman with a bit of flesh on her, p’raps. One of them as you can pull on comfortable, like an old sea boot!’

  Hoover, brought up far more straight-laced than Fagg had been in the stews of Chatham’s Smithfield Banks, frowned his disapproval.

  But rather than get into a debate, he announced that he was off to inform Lieutenant Anson where they were now lodging. And with some relief, Fagg clumped up the stairs to his newly acquired room to try out the bed, study the ceiling and give his throbbing ankle a rest.

  *

  While Anson was in the inn’s stables, supervising as Ebony was being tacked up for his ride to Seagate, the landlord called him to the bar where a fellow officer was waiting for him.

  The man, well-built with a lived-in face, blond hair queued at the back and wearing a naval officer’s uniform that had clearly seen much service, stood as he entered and offered his hand. ‘Anson? I’m the most popular man in town – Matthew Coney of the impress!’

  Anson smiled at the irony. The lieutenant commanding the local press gang would be about as popular as a fox in your hen-house. He shook the proffered hand and asked: ‘Will you take a drink?’

  They sat alone in the bar that had miraculously emptied in seconds. Coney raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘See what I mean? Wherever I go, all the men suddenly find an urgent reason to be elsewhere.’

  The landlord appeared with a jug of wine and two glasses and Anson winked at him. ‘Worry not, Mr Griggs, Lieutenant Coney’s off watch – and anyway, I expect he’ll think you a touch too old to be taken up for sea service!’

  The impress officer was used to such banter and took it with good grace. ‘Yes, yes, all very amusing. But as you might imagine, the impress service wasn’t my choice. It was either this or being cast up on the beach on half pay.’

  Anson sympathised. ‘You could say the same for me. I would have given my eye teeth for almost any job afloat, but that wasn’t to be, so here I am, about to take command of a bunch of harbour rats.’

  Coney confessed: ‘I’d rather be in your shoes than mine. Pressing men who don’t want to serve is no sinecure and it can be devilish unsettling if you allow it to get to you. Wailing wives and children, complaining mayors and magistrates – you’ve no idea …’

  Anson asked about the fate of his predecessor, but Coney knew no more than he did himself. ‘Crispin was not just a hard drinker. It was more like an illness with him. It’s hardly surprising that he appears to have come to a bad end.’

  ‘What about his bosun? MacIntyre, isn’t it?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a bully boy and I could do with more like him in the impress. In fact, he’s given us some pretty good tip-offs of late.’

  ‘Would you consider taking him, if I wanted to bring in my own man, that is?’

  Coney shrugged. ‘In my line of business you need a few hard cases like him, so I’ll certainly give it thought. ’

  ‘Thank you. I’m just off to Seagate but will be in touch.’

  ‘Then I wish you joy of your new command and hope you’ll be happier in your berth than I am in mine!’

  They parted swearing mutual support should the need arise.

  *

  Over the door of the large shed-like building was a chalked sign that read ‘S. Fencibles – Seagate Det.’

  Anson tied Ebony to a rail outside and pushed at the door. After the sunlight outside, he had to peer into the gloomy interior for some seconds before he could make anything out.

  A lone, grizzled man in a striped shirt was seated at a trestle table, engrossed in making entries in a large leather-bound book. He looked up, blinking as he focused on the tall figure silhouetted in the doorway.

  ‘An’ vot can I do fer you, cully. Come t’join the fencibles has you?’

  Anson guessed, correctly, that this was one of Bosun MacIntyre’s bully-boy mates. He barked: ‘Stand up when a naval officer enters!’

  There was something so authoritative about the gaunt figure that convinced Bosun’s Mate Lillicrap this was no joker. Sullen and reluctant, and after a pause bordering on insolence, he rose slowly to his feet.

  Anson entered, strode up to the table and looked the man in the eye. ‘My name is Anson, the new detachment commander. And you are?’

  The man did not respond quickly enough and Anson barked: ‘Answer, damn you!’

  The man croaked: ‘Lillicrap, bosun’s mate …’

  Anson growled: ‘Sir!’

  ‘Lillicrap … sir.’

  Anson wrinkled his nose. ‘Ah well, a rose by any other name.’

  Puzzled, the man asked: ‘Rose, what rose?’

  ‘Never mind. Now, Mr Bosun’s Mate Lillicrap, where is the bosun?’

  ‘Down at the pub gettin’ ’is, er, dinner … sir.’

  Anson’s eye fell upon the ledger. Lillicrap made to close it, but the officer read much into the move and held out his hand. ‘I’ll take the book, thank you. The detachment’s muster and payroll I presume?’

  ‘But the bosun says not to let anyone ’ave the book, sir, it being conferdential like.’

  Anson stared him down. ‘As I have told you, I am the new commander of this detachment. Now, give me the book.’

  Reluctantly, realising there was no alternative, Lillicrap pushed the heavy ledger towards the officer.

  Anson sat down in the only chair and opened the book. The pages were laid out in columns. To the left were the names of detachment members with their civilian occupations, addresses, ages, marital status, number of children and so on, and to the right were what appeared to be records of attendance at training sessions, and pay.

  He noted that most of those listed were connected to the sea – boatmen, fishermen and the like. Their ages varied from 17 to a few men in their 50s. Most of the married men had several children.

  Some of the names, he noticed, were marked with a small cross.

  Anson demanded: ‘What do these marks mean?’

  Lillicrap shook his head. ‘No idea what-so-hever … sir.’ He had responded a little too quickly and emphatically to be entirely believable, and again the delayed ‘sir’ bordered on insolence.

  His hasty denial confirmed Anson’s gut feeling that the book might reveal some kind of wrong-doing.

  Making a mental note to deal with Lillicrap when it best suited him, he snapped the volume shut and r
ose, putting it under his arm.

  ‘Bosun won’t take kindly to the book leavin’ here,’ Lillicrap blustered. ‘He’ll be needin’ it for dolin’ out the trainin’ money.’

  Fixing the man with a steely stare, Anson spoke menacingly. ‘You can tell the bosun that he has a new master. Tell him that I will be going through this ledger with a toothpick. And tell him to wait on me at the pub here, the Mermaid is it not, at noon on Friday when I will be ready to interview him.’

  Such was the authority in the officer’s voice that Lillicrap could not help himself replying: ‘Aye aye, sir!’

  *

  Next morning Anson rose early and began to study the detachment muster roll in detail, making notes as he went.

  What struck him, immediately, was that those men with a cross after their names appeared to be the most regular attenders at training sessions. In fact, according to the book, every one of them had attended every session to date, receiving the shilling they were entitled to each time they turned out.

  Attendance by the rest was more haphazard, and a few who had the letter P after their names appeared to have left the unit after only a few weeks.

  The entries took up only a few pages, but some instinct told Anson to flick through the rest of the book, and there, sure enough, on the last page was another, shorter list of names. There was a series of weekly dates, and against each name a row of ticks up to date as of the previous Friday. But in several cases the row of ticks had ended a month or two ago, except for a man by the name of Jacob Shallow. The row of ticks against his name had ended two weeks before and the letter P entered after the last tick.

  Lacking up-to-date local knowledge, Anson decided to take the Rose Inn’s landlord into his confidence. Years of weighing up men told him Griggs was trustworthy, and, like most publicans, a mine of local information. He seemed to know everything and everyone in and around the area and had clearly taken a shine to his new, potentially long-term, paying guest.