The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

  Anson reddened. The man had been summoned and must know by whom. If there had been any room for doubt, the uniform said it all. No, this was studied insolence.

  ‘I think you know exactly who I am, Mr Bosun MacIntyre.’

  The Glaswegian took another swig of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, revealing teeth like ancient lichen-covered tombstones, leaning every which way.

  He looked the officer up and down with a malign leer, starting slightly when he saw the ledger under his arm. ‘So, you’re Anson, are ye?’

  ‘Lieutenant Anson. That I am, and now you may put down your drink and walk over to the detachment where we can speak privately.’

  MacIntyre looked round at the other drinkers who were pretending not to be listening. They had learned from experience not to get on the wrong side of this hard nut who had been known to deck a man just for looking at him in the wrong way.

  ‘Why should I care if these fuckin’ southern worms hear what I say t’ye? Anyways, I’ve paid for this wet and I’ll drink it doon afore I go.’

  Ignoring the man’s insolent tone, Anson turned on his heel and walked out of the bar into the street. MacIntyre knocked back the dregs of his drink and banged the tankard down on the bar, startling the other drinkers. He gave them a last contemptuous stare and slowly followed the officer outside.

  They made an incongruous pair: the tall, slim, smart young officer and the short, bull-necked bruiser lurching alongside him with an alcohol-fuelled rolling gait.

  Saying nothing, Anson strode off.

  ‘Where’re yous going?’

  ‘As I said, to the detachment. I have questions to ask you.’

  MacIntyre snarled: ‘Ask away, it’s all shipshape and I’m the one who’s held it together since that other officer clown pissed off.’

  But Anson held his peace until they reached the detachment hut.

  Inside, he sat down in the one chair at the small table, leaving the Scotsman standing, and placed the ledger in front of him. ‘Now, Mr Bosun MacIntyre, let me give you the facts of life. You are history as far as the Seagate detachment is concerned. I have my own men. I want you out.’

  MacIntyre responded with a belligerent stare, but Anson faced him down. ‘I am not Lieutenant Crispin and I am not a southern worm, but your superior officer with the full power of naval discipline behind me, and I am sir to you, whether or not we are in public. Understand?’

  The petty officer clasped and unclasped his fists and stared sullenly back. ‘Didna’ call ye a southern worm—’

  ‘You can call me what you like so long as there’s a sir at the beginning or end of it. Now, answer me this: how many phantom fencibles have you been drawing money for and how many men have you blackmailed into paying you not to shop them to the impress?’

  MacIntyre looked down at the ledger shiftily, but said nothing.

  ‘I’ll say this for you. You’ve kept a good record – good enough to show your court martial exactly what you’ve been up to these past months. You’ve made a pretty penny and no doubt you’ve made some of these men’s lives a misery.’

  ‘It wasna’ me …’ the Bosun blustered, but Anson shook his head. ‘You’re about to try and blame it on Crispin aren’t you? Well, that won’t wash. I have witnesses who will finger you. You are a crook and a bully and you are hereby drafted out of here. If you’re lucky the impress service will take you on. They need hard nuts like you. But if you give me or any of my men any further trouble, it’s a court martial.’

  He tapped the ledger. ‘Just remember, there’s evidence aplenty here and I’ll be holding on to it – just in case!’

  With a sudden kick that belied his stocky build, MacIntyre knocked the table away and made a grab for the ledger. Anson, although expecting something of the sort, was genuinely taken by surprise at the speed of the man’s move, stumbled as he tried to rise, and was sent sprawling by a wild punch from the bosun that caught him on the shoulder.

  Before he could rise, MacIntyre had fled the building clutching the precious ledger under his arm.

  26

  Rising slowly, Anson massaged his shoulder. There was no doubt that the man packed a powerful punch – and now he had the ledger.

  But the new detachment commander had read his man well. By grabbing the muster book the bosun had confirmed his guilt, but it would do him no good whatsoever. When he came to dispose of the evidence he would discover to his alarm that it now contained only the remaining blank pages.

  Back in his room, Anson had used his cut-throat razor to remove all the sheets containing information about the detachment, including the incriminating lists revealing the extent of the blackmail and fictitious names scams. Those pages were now secreted in his room at the Rose Inn.

  Maybe the former bosun would come in search of them. If he did, Anson would be ready for him, but for now he needed to meet up with Lieutenant Coney again to confirm MacIntyre’s transfer to the impress service.

  A court martial for fraud and blackmail, let alone striking a superior officer, would have been in order, but first and foremost in Anson’s thinking was the need to avoid embarrassment to the service and further disruption to the rebuilding and training of the Seagate detachment.

  *

  He found Coney at the impress rendezvous, dealing with the inevitable pile of paperwork that seems to dog naval officers serving ashore, and fending off a tearful group of female supplicants pleading for the release of their recently pressed menfolk.

  Relieved at the opportunity Anson’s arrival gave him to escape his duties for a while, he motioned his visitor to the privacy of an adjoining room and asked: ‘What can I do for you?’

  Anson rubbed his bruised shoulder. ‘I have had, shall we say, a brush with MacIntyre. I found evidence that he had been extorting money from some of the men, threatening them with being taken up for sea service, and claiming for men I don’t believe exist.’

  ‘So he has a good imagination?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Anson said ruefully.

  ‘So you will start your new command with a court martial?’

  Anson shook his head. ‘Certainly there is a case to answer. I already have statements from reliable witnesses and I believe I could find plenty more willing to finger him, but it would be time-consuming, disruptive and bad for the navy’s reputation. My mission is to re-form the detachment and train the men to meet the invasion threat, not drown myself in court martial paperwork.’

  That appeared to strike a chord with the paper-plagued impress officer. ‘So?’

  ‘So, I just want to be rid of him, forthwith!’

  Coney sighed. ‘Well, I’ve thought it over, as you asked, and from what I’ve seen and heard of the man I cannot say I warm to him. But if it helps we’ll take him. My lot are hardly angels, so he’ll be among fellow ruffians.’

  Relieved, Anson warned: ‘He’ll need to be watched in case he gets up to more mischief.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Probably in one of the pubs drowning his sorrows at the sudden drop in his income.’

  ‘Right, I’ll put feelers out and summon him to report to me.’

  ‘And you’ll be sure to get a grip of him?’

  ‘Never fear. I’ll let him know in no uncertain terms that if he puts so much as a toe, let alone a foot, wrong we’ll bring up the evidence for a court martial.’

  Anson smiled. ‘That’s very good of you. I will be greatly in your debt, but I have one further favour to ask of you. I’m anxious to discover the fate of a man called Shallow. He was blackmailed by MacIntyre and when he couldn’t pay up he was betrayed and taken by the impress in Hythe not long since. If it’s not too late, I’d like him back.’

  By law only professional seamen could be pressed, and Anson stressed: ‘Shallow has done a bit of harbour boatwork in the past but he’s no seaman – he’s a greengrocer.’

  ‘Taken up recent, you say?’ Coney queried. ‘If that’s so, he’ll doubtless stil
l be in a receiving ship – at Chatham more than likely. I’ll look into it and see what I can do.’

  ‘In return, you can have MacIntyre’s mate Lillicrap and a couple more of his bully boys with tar on their hands if you wish. I believe they were in on his rackets. We’ll be well rid of them in the fencibles but they’ll make very satisfactory man-of-war’s men.’

  The impress officer well knew that to suggest a man had tarred hands indicated he was a professional seaman – and therefore prime press fodder. ‘Done! A press gang hard nut and several right seamen for one greengrocer is a pretty fair exchange.’ Coney held out his hand and Anson shook it warmly.

  *

  Before the week was out, ex-bosun MacIntyre was with the press gang that cornered Lillicrap and two more of his former mates in a raid on a Seagate drinking den and hauled them off, protesting vociferously, to the hold of a pressing tender with an iron grating and armed marines ensuring that they stayed put. For them, a long spell of virtual sea slavery had begun.

  Two days later, they were transferred on board an old man-of-war employed as a receiving ship in Chatham to await allocation to undermanned vessels of the Royal Navy.

  While they were being processed, the bewildered greengrocer Jacob Shallow was told he was being discharged, handed a shilling to help him on his way, and told he was free to go home.

  *

  Fagg and Hoover lost no time in making the shabby detachment building shipshape.

  In his element as master procurer, Fagg set about obtaining everything needed to get the near-bare building up and running as a training base. As a marine, Hoover’s eye for smartness was exercised. Rubbish disappeared and such equipment as he found there was tidied.

  Word soon got around that the Seagate Special Boat Detachment of the Sea Fencibles was under new command: new officer, new bosun, and new master-at-arms, and that all existing members were to report at six o’clock the following Friday evening whereupon they would receive a day’s pay apiece.

  It was a clever ploy. The fencibles would quickly work out that they could do their normal day’s work and still receive a shilling for just an evening in the service of King George.

  With detachment numbers severely depleted thanks to Black Mac’s machinations, Anson set about composing a handbill:

  ‘SEA FENCIBLES

  NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN

  That all persons residing on the Coast between Folkestone and Dymchurch, or in adjacent parishes, who are not already engaged in any Volunteer Corps, and are ambitious of stepping forward at the alarming crisis, in defence of their King and Country, and for the protection of their Families and Property, against the formidable threats of an infatuated and implacable enemy, have now a glorious opportunity of manifesting their loyalty by enrolling in the Seagate Special Boat Detachment of SEA FENCIBLES, raised in the above district, for which purpose Lieutenant Anson will attend on WEDNESDAY, at the Mermaid in Seagate, in the forenoon and there explain to such as may be inclined to enrol themselves, the nature and extent of the service.

  God Save the King and State.’

  Within a few days the printed version was to be seen posted around the town, and Fagg delivered copies for publication in the local newsheet.

  *

  Next Wednesday, the first of what was to prove a steady trickle of would-be new recruits sought Anson out.

  The call to arms in his poster had clearly begun to lure fish. Those who could read were no doubt spreading the word. And a regime that did not include MacIntyre but did include a shilling for a day’s training, and the promise of a protection against the press gang, had great attraction, as Anson learned from his first caller.

  He sat at a table in a corner of the Mermaid bar, apparently engrossed in paperwork, a pile of coins at his elbow, and pretended not to notice the first man who came looking for him.

  The man, shabbily dressed and wispy-bearded, but thick set and sturdy, looked around furtively before sidling up to the table. Anson’s pen continued scratching, and after being ignored for some minutes the newcomer cleared his throat noisily and ventured: ‘’Scuse me. Are you …?’

  Anson paused mid-scribble and looked up, noting the man’s single gold earring, a sure give-away of someone whose work took him afloat. ‘The new Sea Fencible officer? Indeed I am. And what can I do for you?’

  The man snatched off his hat revealing an almost completely bald pate which he proceeded to knuckle in salute. He mumbled: ‘I’ve come ’bout the notice what’s bin put up round about. Sea Fencibles and whatnot …’ And, clearly wishing to be respectful, he added ‘your worship’.

  ‘Sir is quite sufficient for an officer of His Majesty’s navy. You are what … a fisherman, boatman?’ Anson avoided the temptation to add smuggler, which he knew most of the local harbour rats were when the opportunity arose.

  ‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir. A bit of both, sir.’

  ‘So you’ve come to find out more about joining the fencibles?’

  ‘Yes, yer worship, I mean sir.’

  Anson looked him in the eye. ‘Why now? Why not sooner? The detachment has been here some time.’

  ‘’Twas your notice, sir.’

  ‘Come, man. There was a notice calling for recruits before. Why didn’t you come forward then?’

  The man looked shifty, wringing his hat in his hands, and Anson coaxed him. ‘Come on, no one’s listening except me. Let’s have the truth now.’

  Looking round to make sure no one could overhear, he muttered: ‘It was Black Mac, sir.’

  ‘Do I take that to be Bosun MacIntyre?’

  ‘That’s the truth, sir.’

  Anson leaned back in his chair, balancing on its back legs. ‘And now you know Bosun MacIntyre has been drafted out of the fencibles?’

  ‘I do, yer worship.’ Anson raised an eyebrow. ‘I mean I do, sir. I know ’e’s gorn, from the fencibles like.’

  ‘Very well, let me get this straight. You didn’t want to join the fencibles because of MacIntyre?’ A nod. ‘And now you want to join because of MacIntyre?’

  Another nod. ‘On account of ’im being gorn, like. Y’see, sir, he’s got a bit of a repitation like.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Well, join now and you’ll have a protection. But you’ll have to work for it, and for your shilling a day.’

  ‘Not afraid of ’ard graft, sir.’ His gnarled hands and powerful shoulders confirmed that.

  ‘Good to hear, Mister what’s-your-name?’

  ‘Minter, sir, Jeremiah Minter, but they always calls me Jemmy.’

  ‘Right Jeremiah, alias Jemmy, Minter. Pull up a stool. The landlord’ll draw a mug of ale for you, courtesy of the navy, and you can give me some particulars. I’ll jot ’em down in this ledger and get you to sign your name or make your mark. Then you’ll be a fencible.’

  Minter looked anxious. ‘And will I get me protection chitty straight off, sir?’

  Anson waved his hand dismissively. ‘Yes, yes – and your first shilling just for turning up to volunteer.’

  Minter nervously grasped the tankard that the landlord, with a knowing wink at Anson, had placed in front of him and took a tentative sip of ale. ‘Thankee sir, thankee very much.’

  ‘And, Master Minter, you can do something for me?’

  ‘I can, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you can tell all your boatmen mates that Bosun MacIntyre really has gone, and if they’d rather be Sea Fencibles than be pressed for men-of-war they’d best get along quickly and sign on with me.’

  The formalities completed, Minter left with a beaming gap-toothed grin, clutching his precious protection and first day’s pay.

  Anson caught the landlord’s eye. ‘Best start lining up the tankards, Mr Griggs. I’ve a shrewd suspicion we’ll soon have a queue of recruits.’

  27

  Anson spent a night at home and breakfasted with his parents, his father scanning the Kentish Gazette between mouthfuls.

  The Reverend Anson snorted and gesticulated at an advertisement on th
e front page.

  ‘What is it dear?’ His wife was well used to the rector’s little outbursts whenever he spotted some annoying item in the news sheets.

  ‘That Baptist quack is peddling his fake wares again. Bare-faced effrontery … should be a law against it.’

  ‘Who? And what’s he peddling, father?’

  ‘Just listen to this!’ The rector jabbed the paper with his finger and read:

  ‘Hardres Minnis. Phin. Shrubb desires to acquaint the Public, that he innoculates in the new and most approved Method (with all desirable Success) on the most reasonable Terms.’

  ‘Against the smallpox? Why shouldn’t he father? It’s being put forward as a good preventative is it not?’

  The rector huffed. ‘Certainly, when in proper hands. But this fellow’s a dissident, a Baptist! And listen to this, the newspaper informs us that his specific powders, for the cure of all sorts of agues, are sold by him at 2s 6d per dozen. That’s more than a day’s wage for most poor labourers. …And he has the cheek to use God’s name to sell his quack cures. He’s appended this ill-written verse to his advertisement!’

  Almost apoplectic, Reverend Anson quoted:

  ‘See Britons now what Mercies God hath sent,

  An Epidemic Evil to prevent,

  Trust in the Lord therefore, and use the Mean,

  Which safely will you from this Evil screen.’

  He flung the paper down. ‘Why, it’s bordering on blasphemy, and what’s worse, it doesn’t scan!’

  Anson was amused at his father’s vehemence. Any mention of non-conformists had always produced a strong reaction at the rectory. And the Baptists, partly because of what the rector considered as their puritanical streak, and the fact that most had settled in an extra-parochial enclave to the west of the common to avoid having to pay tithes to the established church, were absolute anathema to him.

  But of course, in a household maintained in some style by the church’s own taxation system, it would be impolitic to raise that controversial subject just now.

  If non-conformists of all persuasions – Methodists, Moravians, Muggletonians and whomsoever else – were normally taboo at the rectory, the local Baptists were doubly so.