The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

  After breakfast Anson asked him back to his room and took him through the list of names.

  Griggs knew almost all at least by name, except those marked in the ledger with a cross. He knew none of these. ‘I’m taken somewhat aback, sir. Thought I knew pretty well everyone round here, or at least had heard of them by name. But I’ve never heard of these men. Must be newcomers.’

  The few marked with a P he did know, as local tradesmen. But they had recently been pressed into the navy and were now serving afloat. Hence the letter P, Anson surmised. But how could that be, if they had a fencible’s protection?

  He turned to the back of the ledger and showed Griggs the list of names with ticked dates. ‘Do these names mean anything to you?’

  ‘Indeed they do! These are tradespeople and the like. Tom Oldfield’s a butcher, Joe Hobbs is a cobbler, George Boxer’s an undertaker and Sampson Marsh is a fish-monger down at the harbour.’

  ‘What about Jacob Shallow?’

  Griggs frowned, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Why, he’s a greengrocer. Well, he was ’til he got pressed into the navy a couple of weeks back. His wife hasn’t heard from him since he was taken, and she’s havin’ to run the business with only their children and Jacob’s old father to help her. They’ve been trying to get the mayor to complain to the impress officer, but nothing’s been done. Pity, the business was already failing and I doubt they’ll be able to save it now.’

  ‘Tell me, did Shallow and the rest on this list have any association with the navy or the sea?’

  The landlord smiled. ‘It’d be difficult round here not to have some sort of connection to the sea. Jacob Shallow was a boatman afore he married into a farmer’s family and set himself up as a greengrocer. Oldfield and Hobbs were both fishermen afore they swallowed the anchor.’

  He explained: ‘Hereabouts when times is hard or you get a long spell of bad weather you need a second string to make a living and anyone like Tom Oldfield, who’s good at gutting and boning fish, makes a fair job of butchering, too. Joe Hobbs was always one for mending nets, splicing ropes an’ all, so he took to cobbling pretty well.’

  ‘What about Boxer and Marsh?’

  The landlord scratched his head. ‘Don’t know much about Boxer. He has the look of a navy man, but I try to keep out of the way of undertakers, so I don’t know for sure. But there’s not a lot of doubt about Sampson. Well, at any rate ’tis rumoured he was captain of a gun in a man-of-war. Yes, I reckon all those on this here list could have more’n a drop of seawater in their blood.’

  ‘Is Marsh a deserter?’ asked Anson.

  The question provoked amusement. ‘Dear me no, sir! He’s what you might call a God-fearing man, a reg’lar chapel-goer, true as a die.’

  ‘And now he’s a fishmonger down at the harbour, you say?’

  ‘That’s right. His shop’s the smartest and cleanest on The Stade. You can’t miss it.’

  Thanking him, Anson asked him to keep the matter to himself and the landlord readily agreed.

  As Griggs went to close the door, Anson held up his hand. ‘One more thing, tell me, do you know what became of Lieutenant Crispin?’

  The landlord glanced behind him to make sure no-one was listening. ‘You know about the rumpus down at the harbour when your lot was training with pikes?’

  ‘I do, but do you know what happened to the officer afterwards?’

  The man gave an evasive look. ‘I can’t get involved in this, sir. A landlord hears a lot of things, ’specially when there’s been drink taken … but we’re a bit like priests who never let on what they hear in confession. If word got out that I was tale-telling, I’d pretty soon lose custom, or worse.’

  It was clear from his answer that the man did know something about Crispin’s disappearance. Anson reassured him: ‘Anything you tell me will stay with me, on my honour, never fear.’

  Still clearly uneasy, the landlord replied almost inaudibly: ‘Some say as he was put ashore in France, drunk, still in his uniform, and not a penny piece in his pockets.’

  ‘By whom, smugglers?’

  The man nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Local men?’

  He shrugged and whispered: ‘Couldn’t say, even if I knew.’ And before Anson could ask anything else, he quickly closed the door and left, his footsteps setting the floorboards creaking in the passage as he headed for the stairs.

  Alone again, Anson pondered his predecessor’s likely fate. After the shambolic pike training it would not be surprising if some of the fencibles had decided to rid themselves of the man who had made them a laughing stock.

  Or had the bosun seized the opportunity to off-load him? If it were true that Crispin had been marooned across the Channel, the likelihood was that he would have been quickly picked up by the authorities and would by now be kicking his heels in a French prison, or, worse, selling everything he knew about English coastal defences for drink.

  Either way, Anson could do nothing about it now.

  Instead he stared at the muster payroll. It was pretty clear now. Those names completely unknown to the landlord were almost certainly fictitious, and their 100 per cent recorded attendance was no doubt aimed at falsely obtaining the maximum amount of training pay for the perpetrators of the swindle.

  The list at the back of the ledger was of real men and the P after the names of local tradesmen was self-evident. It marked those the landlord knew to have been victims of the press gang, the most recent being Shallow. But protection against the impress went with membership of the Sea Fencibles. So why had these particular men been pressed?

  And as for the others listed at the back of the ledger, did the regular sums of money against each name mean that they were being blackmailed to keep themselves clear of the press? Had Jacob Shallow’s failing business meant that he could no longer pay for protection, and had the blackmailers arranged for the press gang to take him, maybe as an example to the others on that list?

  Anson was now convinced he had uncovered a lucrative fraud – claiming pay for men who did not exist. And he guessed it probably also involved fingering into naval slavery anyone who did not go along with MacIntyre’s schemes, or could not or would not cough up protection money.

  And could this be the real reason for Lieutenant Crispin’s disappearance? A drunkard he may have been, but supposing he had found out about the racket, threatened to expose the perpetrators, and been silenced? If so, Anson could be placing himself in grave danger if he took the matter further.

  In order to prove wrong-doing, he needed to find victims willing to provide evidence and to that end he now went systematically through the list of supposed blackmail victims.

  Then he sent for Fagg, instructing him to seek out Sampson Marsh down at the harbour, and despatched the inn’s pot boy to find George Boxer.

  25

  Summoned to the Rose, where Anson was sitting waiting for him in a secluded corner of the bar, Boxer was sullen. ‘Why’ve you called me in? Your bully-boy isn’t due until Friday.’

  Anson gestured to a vacant chair and passed the ledger page with the blackmail list across the table. ‘Check the number of ticks for payments you have made. Are they correct?’

  The man glanced at them. ‘You must know they are.’

  ‘Will you sign a statement confirming how much you have paid, and to whom?’

  Boxer was mystified. ‘Why would you want that? You know the figures.’

  Anson shook his head. ‘No. I know you have been blackmailed into paying protection money, but I do not know the amounts. Armed with that information, and a sworn statement from you, and from others on that list, I will be able to bring the blackmailers to justice.’

  Boxer’s face showed a mixture of hope and disbelief.

  ‘I am what you might call a new broom here, Mister Undertaker, and I intend to clean out this Augean stable. There will be no more blackmail and no more fingering men for the impress. But I need your help, so will you co-operate?’

  The
undertaker might not have been familiar with the Labours of Hercules, but he caught the officer’s drift. He pondered for a while, then nodded. ‘I’ve felt shame at giving in to blackmail, but I had to for the sake of my family and the business. Yes, I’d like to nail the bastards who’ve been screwing me – and who gave poor Jacob Shallow to the press gang.’

  ‘Good man!’ Anson was triumphant, but could see that Boxer, although determined, was still a worried man.

  ‘I promise you that you’ll not regret this.’

  Boxer shrugged resignedly. ‘I won’t regret MacIntyre and his bully boys getting their comeuppance. But I’m old enough and ugly enough to know that the impress will hear who’s shopped their slave-traffickers and will come for me one of these nights.’

  ‘Then you need a proper protection and I can offer you one.’

  ‘You can … sir?’ It was Boxer’s first acknowledgement of Anson’s commission – and that he was now dealing with a proper officer.

  Anson explained: ‘I have now taken over the Seagate Sea Fencible detachment. The blackmailers are being removed and the unit will forthwith be run on proper official navy lines. Those who sign up will get a shilling a day for the time they put in, and a cast-iron protection against the press gang. Are you interested?’

  Boxer nodded. ‘I knew that before, sir, and I would have dearly loved to have the protection but, protection or not, MacIntyre shopped anyone who wouldn’t toe his line and I couldn’t have done that, so I paid up.’

  ‘Well, you can join now although in truth you’d be more use as a pioneer, digging holes and suchlike. It’s what you do, is it not?’

  Boxer protested: ‘It isn’t digging holes, sir. Undertaking is making all the arrangements when someone passes on: dignified funerals, black horses, hearse an’ all the trimmings for them as can afford it – more modest interments for those as can’t.’

  Anson asked: ‘Since I’ve yet to meet anyone who’s lived for ever, I take it you’re probably not short of a guinea or two?’

  ‘That’s right, it’s a good business, and I’ve got a nice house up the town.’

  ‘But to get the proper protection, you’re willing now to enlist for the fencibles?’

  Boxer pulled back the sleeve of his coat to reveal a tattoo of a fouled anchor.

  ‘Now that you’ve told me the score, I’ll come clean with you. It’s this, sir. What with the press always on the go and knowing that I’ve helped shop MacIntyre it’ll only be a matter of time before they stop me, see this here anchor and take me up.’

  No landsman would sport an anchor, ranking in popularity as sailors’ adornments with ripe-chested mermaids, bleeding hearts, old ships and a variety of wildlife from serpents to – British – lions.

  ‘So you were a man-of-war’s man before you took to undertaking?’ Anson asked.

  ‘I cannot deny it, sir, but—’

  ‘Run?’

  ‘No, no, not run, sir. I’m no deserter. I never ran. I was a seaman and sometime pusser’s assistant in the old Brunswick on account of being able to read and write and being good with numbers. But I was wounded at The Glorious First of June.’

  ‘In that scrap with the Vengeur? A bloody encounter that was—’

  ‘Aye, sir. Anyway, they paid me off. Thought I’d most probably lose my leg. But over time it’s got better so’s I only limp on a damp day or when I’ve walked too far. So I took to undertaking on account of this girl I met. Well, her father had followed the business all his life, and his father afore him. So he took me into the business when I married my Lizzie, and now he’s retired I run it. Someone must have told MacIntyre I’d been a navy man and that I’d now got a good business. And that’s why he got his claws in me.’

  Anson stroked his chin. ‘And now that you’re not going to be paying him for protection you fear the impress men will still take you for a seaman on the strength of that tattoo?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. When there’s a hot press they’ll take anyone they can get their hands on whether or not he smells of tar and rolls when he walks.’

  ‘And you have had some close shaves?’

  ‘They’re always a-hunting through Seagate, Folkestone and Dover and I’ve come close to being taken several times.’ He added meaningfully: ‘It’s cost me a bit paying off the gangs, too. So to be honest with you, I’m desperate for a protection – desperate enough to pay the blackmail money. And now, if you’ve got rid of the likes of MacIntyre, I’ll be happy to get one with the fencibles.’

  Anson nodded. ‘Alright Mr Boxer, you’ve got yourself a protection. But only as long as you, er, undertake your duties as a Sea Fencible with due diligence. I will carry no passengers.’

  The undertaker was delighted. ‘I surely will. And thank you kindly, sir.’

  Hoover came into the bar and Anson beckoned him over. ‘Fall out, Mr Boxer, and give the sergeant here your details: full name, age, marital status, abode, number of children, trade. Sergeant, put him down as a seaman undertaker.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Then, once you’re sworn and have your precious protection, I’ll take down your statement myself and you can put your name towards getting MacIntyre the desserts he deserves.’

  It was a mutually advantageous bargain. Boxer had his protection, and instead of yet another lubber, part-time smuggler or near simpleton, Anson had a prime man-of-war’s man, and a pusser’s writer to boot, intelligent, clearly honest; a man who had come through a major sea battle. And a man whose undertaking skills might also come in useful.

  *

  From his scruffy appearance there was nothing to suggest that Fagg was a newly-promoted petty officer of the Royal Navy.

  Seated on a bollard, he had a mug of ale purchased from a nearby pub in one fist and a long clay pipe in the other. From time to time, he sipped one and sucked on the other as he watched the comings and goings of small craft in the harbour. His game leg was stuck out in front of him, testament to his sacrifice for King and country.

  Seagulls strutted around him, cackling and brawling over scavenged scraps.

  For a while he continued to gaze seaward, showing no interest in the fishmonger’s shop behind him. But when the fishmonger emerged during a lull in trade, Fagg half turned and touched his knitted woolly hat in salute.

  ‘Mornin’.’

  Sampson Marsh wiped the fish scales from his hands on his apron. ‘Mornin’ to you, brother. You’re a new face round here.’

  ‘That I am brother, jest washed up here on account of the navy ain’t got much use for game-legged foretopmen. But you’d know that, ’avin’ swallowed the anchor yerself …’

  This clearly puzzled Marsh. ‘And what makes you think that, brother?’

  ‘The same fing what makes me fink you’ve done some years afore the mast, captained a gun, left honourable like – and now ’as t’pay a certain Bosun MacIntyre to forgit that you’d still make a prime seaman worth the impress men draggin’ orf to a receivin’ ship … brother.’

  Startled now, and apprehensive that unpleasant things were in the offing, the fishermonger looked nervously around as if expecting a press gang to be waiting to pounce. Reassured that the threat was not imminent, he beckoned Fagg into the shop, hung a closed notice on the door and locked it.

  ‘Now brother, p’haps you’ll tell me what this is about.’

  ‘Gladly, mate. I’ve come t’warn you that the next hot press will take you, bribe or no bribe.’

  Marsh showed his annoyance. ‘MacIntyre knows full well I’m paid up to date. Who in hell are you? How d’you know about me? And who got you to put the squeeze on me? Is it Black Mac?’

  ‘No, no matey. I’m not puttin’ the squeeze on anyone and I’m nuffink to do with Black Mac. I’ve come from the detachment’s new orficer to offer you a protection, watertight agin any press, and you won’t ’ave to pay a penny piece. Matter of fact, we’ll pay you. All you need to do is tell the orficer ’xactly what this MacIntyre bloke’s bin up to …’ />
  Half an hour of persuasion, and Fagg emerged clutching a bag of fish along with the fishmonger’s word, sealed with a spit-and-handshake, that he would appear next morning at the Rose to sign on the dotted line for a Sea Fencible, and dish the dirt on Black Mac.

  For Sampson Marsh, the encounter had clearly come as a great relief. A shilling a day for the odd bit of showing the greenhorns how to fight the great guns was a bargain compared to paying out bribes and risking being taken by the impress anyway.

  And Fagg was cock-a-hoop, bursting to report his success in finding someone else willing to testify against MacIntyre and at the same time recruiting a trained man-of-war’s gun captain. Lieutenant Anson would be delighted.

  *

  Next morning, after spending two hours with the lieutenant, Sampson Marsh happily signed the statement the officer took down, spilling the beans on the rackets MacIntyre and his bully boys had been running. Then he signed on as a Sea Fencible, drank off the free tankard of ale Fagg brought him, and pocketed his first shilling, confessing ruefully: ‘That’s a first. Usually it cost me every time I had a brush with your lot …’

  Next to appear in answer to the officer’s summons, were the butcher Oldfield and Hobbs the cobbler. Both had similar stories, were visibly relieved to hear that MacIntyre was no longer a threat – and were happy to sign on as fencibles.

  After they had left, Anson took out his watch. Bosun MacIntyre had much to answer for – and there was just time to get to the Mermaid for noon.

  *

  When he entered the bar and looked around at the handful of drinkers, his eyes were immediately drawn to a thickset man with the look of an old sailor, short but with powerful shoulders, tattooed neck, shaven head, and a nose that looked as if it had been broken several times. It was noticeable that the other drinkers were keeping their distance.

  ‘MacIntyre?’

  The man remained leaning on the bar, tankard clutched in his big misshapen right hand. He took a deliberate sip of his drink before half turning and staring at the newcomer. ‘Who wants him?’