The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

  They negotiated the corner into the alley and MacIntyre grunted in surprise as unseen hands dragged the girl away from him. Startled, he reached for the knife in his belt but before he could pull it free he took a sickening blow to the head from an apparition that had loomed up behind him.

  From his right side, another assailant cudgelled him across his forearm, sending the knife clattering on the cobbles. He staggered and fell forwards, blood already running down his neck from the blow he had taken below his right ear.

  As he lapsed into unconsciousness, he took a kick to his ribs from one of his attackers who was immediately dragged back by one of the others.

  ‘Leave him, Jacob, leave him! You want the swine to suffer, don’t you? And he’ll not suffer if you kill him now – but likely you’ll swing for it if he snuffs it here.’

  Annie’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom and she could see it was Sampson Marsh who had pinioned Shallow from behind and was pulling him off the stunned bosun.

  Shallow struggled for a moment but then went limp. ‘You’re right Sampson, I know you are. I’d like to ’ave killed the bastard for what ’e done to me and me family. But I know you’re right.’

  Marsh let him go and Fagg put an arm round his shoulder. ‘Sampson’s right, Jake. With what we’ve got in mind for this piece of Scotch shite ’e’s gonna suffer orlright. Come quickly now. Let’s get ’im down to the Stade afore the boat’s high and dry.’

  Boxer was the acknowledged expert at moving bodies, dead or alive. As soon as the Scotsman had hit the deck, the undertaker had disappeared round the back of the pub and emerged pushing a barrow he had noted earlier and borrowed for the job in hand.

  The undertaker took the feet, Marsh and Shallow an arm each, and they hoisted MacIntyre into the barrow.

  With his head lolling back between the handles, an arm dangling each side and legs hanging akimbo for’ard, they wheeled him off towards the Stade.

  Anyone seeing the strange little procession could assume this was a drunken sailor being wheeled back on board by his mates, with his worried woman walking alongside.

  Annie was muttering right enough, but not out of concern for MacIntyre. ‘Don’t know how I let you lot talk me into acting up to him, ’orrible beggar. Still feel him groping me – wiv all them people staring, too. Now they’ll all fink I’m ’is tart—’

  Sampson Marsh reassured her. ‘This is my neck of the woods. Once word gets round about how MacIntyre got his comeuppance and disappeared, folk’ll put two and two together and you’ll be a heroine for luring him out.’ Unconvinced, Annie muttered on until they reached the Stade.

  Among the fishing boats lying there was one showing a green light. ‘There she is,’ whispered Shallow. ‘The boys have had to take her out a bit.’

  ‘Aye, so we’ll need to row him out,’ Marsh confirmed. Their timing had been governed by MacIntyre’s movements, and for whatever reason he had entered the True Briton much later than usual.

  But this eventuality had been foreseen as a possibility. At the bottom of the steps leading down from the Stade, a small dinghy tethered to an iron ring set into the stone was bobbing with the swell. Nevertheless, there was barely enough depth to row out to the fishing boat.

  ‘Hurry!’ urged Marsh. ‘We’ll just about float with him and me in the boat. I’ll have to row him by myself.’ To cause a commotion by getting trapped in the mud would be unwise, as military patrols were a well-known hazard in these parts.

  Shallow and the undertaker grabbed the unconscious man fore and aft, lifted him from the barrow and carried him to the top of the stone steps.

  It was at that moment, as if on cue, that the sound of hobnails striking cobbles made them freeze. ‘Patrol!’ hissed Marsh. ‘Let me do the talking.’ Instinctively, Annie slipped away, her duty done, and Fagg followed her. He had no wish to answer awkward questions.

  A corporal, carrying a lantern and accompanied by two privates of the Cinque Ports Volunteers, appeared out of the gloom. ‘Hello! What we got ’ere then?’ the corporal enquired with the touch of sarcasm expected of a man of his rank. ‘A robbery is it, or … heh heh, mebbe a burial at sea?’

  The two privates simpered, and Marsh signed to his companions to lower their burden.

  ‘Evening corporal,’ said Marsh. ‘No, no – nothing so exciting. This poor sailor-lad has imbibed of spirituous liquor a little unwisely. We’re, er, escorting him back to his boat.’

  The corporal, a shopkeeper in Hythe when not in uniform, and a staunch chapel man, knew his Bible. ‘Be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess; but be filled with the Spirit, eh?’

  The quotation provoked more chuckles from the privates – and from Marsh. ‘Very apt brother, very apt. Ephesians, is it not?’

  The corporal smiled, recognising a fellow chapel man. ‘Heh, heh. Spot on, brother. Chapter five, verse 18 if memory serves me true. Now, d’you need a hand to get this sinner down them slippery steps?’

  Shallow could not resist poking his oar in. ‘This here cully’s bin on the slippery slope for ages orlright!’

  Marsh shushed him. ‘Now, now Jacob. There, but for the grace of God …’ and smiling at the corporal he added: ‘It’d be a kindness. He’s already bashed his head a-tripping down the step outside the pub door. If he takes another tumble down these here steps it could be the death of him.’

  The corporal examined MacIntyre by the light of the lantern. ‘Hmm, he’s taken a nasty blow to his head alright. Almost as if someone’s coshed him, eh?’

  Marsh knelt beside the unconscious Scotsman. ‘He’ll live, and once we’ve got him in his cot he can sleep it off.’

  ‘And mebbe foreswear the demon drink when ’e wakes with a thumping headache,’ Shallow volunteered.

  The corporal was still somewhat suspicious. ‘Are you shipmates of his?’

  ‘No brother,’ Marsh answered quietly. ‘We’re Sea Fencibles just come off duty. We saw him fall and came to his aid like. We’re what you could call Good Samaritans. Couldn’t just pass by on the other side, could we?’

  The corporal smiled at the reference. ‘Heh, heh. Fair enough. Better get him out to his boat afore the tide goes right out, otherwise you’ll be draggin’ him across the mud.’ Turning to his men he barked: ‘Look lively, lads, and give these ’ere good Samaritans a hand! But careful mind – those steps’ll be treacherous and I don’t want to lose half me patrol. Wouldn’t help me make sergeant, that wouldn’t.’

  Marsh went down first, taking care not to slip on the slimy steps that were covered at each high tide. The undertaker and Shallow took a leg each and the two soldiers grounded their muskets and linked arms to support MacIntyre’s head and shoulders. Gingerly they began their descent.

  At the bottom of the steps, Marsh felt for the rope holding the dinghy and pulled it close so that he could step in without it capsizing.

  The others negotiated the steps slowly with muttered instructions to one another. At the bottom, Marsh held the dinghy steady by its mooring rope while they swung the unconscious man aboard.

  Laying the Scotsman in the thwarts, Marsh unshipped the oars, touched his hat to the corporal, and signed Shallow to let go.

  As soon as the rope was untied and thrown into the dinghy, Marsh dipped his oars and rowed skilfully towards the boat showing the green light.

  The two soldiers mounted the steps to muttered thanks and picked up their muskets. With a wave, the corporal led them off to continue their patrol, while Boxer and Shallow headed for the British Lion to celebrate a successful operation.

  It had begun to rain, and the small pool of blood at the top of the steps gradually drained away until no sign remained of the drama that had been played out there.

  30

  It was three days before Sampson Marsh returned.

  He sent word to Fagg, Boxer and Shallow to meet him in the churchyard, where they could not be overheard, and reported that the cargo had been landed successfully at Hastings.

  MacIntyre, he told t
hem, had recovered some of his wits by the time he was taken ashore, but not sufficient to be able to talk his way out of being pressed.

  The impress men had found him, just as they had been informed, in a back street pub with a tot in his fist. There was a mess of blood-matted hair behind his right ear, a bewildered look about him – and he had no convincing story as to why he should not be taken to serve His Majesty in a man-of-war. His horny hands, tattooed arms and pigtail so clearly indicated a man who had followed the sea, and was therefore ripe for the taking.

  Even if his befogged brain had recalled what had happened and if he had protested that he was a proper navy petty officer serving with a press gang in the next county, who had been clubbed, kidnapped and cast ashore here, it would have cut no ice.

  Worse, if he had claimed he was already serving elsewhere, he could easily be branded as a deserter. And branded was the word: the minimum punishment was a flogging and having the letter D hot-ironed into his forehead.

  No, even in his still-befuddled state, MacIntyre had known it was wisest to hold his peace, go quietly – volunteer under a false name even, with the perks that offered over being pressed – and take the first opportunity to disappear, and avenge himself in due time.

  As he was led away, he had glimpsed a half-familiar face among the watching crowd. He stared at Marsh and as he passed him growled: ‘Ye’ve got somethin’ t’do with this y’bastard. I’ve marked yer card!’

  But Sampson had blanked him. And the press gang led their latest catch outside.

  *

  When the word got around Folkestone that the hated MacIntyre had received his long-due comeuppance, and that she was the one who lured him to it, Annie was indeed regarded as something of a heroine.

  How the Scotsman had been spirited away, no one knew other than those closely involved. And they were keeping quiet.

  Rumours abounded as to what had happened to him. Some said he had been marooned ashore in France; others that he had fallen from the Stade while drunk and been washed out to sea. Some were convinced that he had had his throat cut and been buried on top of another body in a recent grave.

  From his fish shop on the Stade, Sampson Marsh quietly started hinting that MacIntyre had spoken of being sick to death of Sassenachs and wanting to go home to Scotland. Within a few days, that was the version that reached the ears of authority.

  As for the officer commanding the impress service, the easiest option was to settle for that explanation for the Scotsman’s sudden disappearance. And it was with little regret that Lieutenant Coney entered R, for Run, against MacIntyre’s name in the nominal roll.

  *

  Anson rode off cross-country towards Barham Downs and then headed north on Watling Street, the old Roman road that ran from Dover to London.

  He overnighted at Ospringe and set off again at dawn, arriving stiff and chafed at Chatham Dockyard around noon.

  A naval officer was naturally a familiar sight in a dockyard with several warships alongside for repairs or replenishment, and Anson attracted no attention as he spent the rest of the day on intelligence-gathering.

  In the main dockyard, he was able to wander at will, admiring the newly-launched second rate Temeraire, now fitting out, and a new fifth rate under construction.

  He noted the great mixture of tradesmen: shipwrights, caulkers, smiths, carpenters, plumbers, riggers, sawyers, sail-makers and labourers going about their business.

  The new rope-house was of special interest to him. It was more than 1100ft long to accommodate the longest ropes made, and three storeys high, divided into 100 bays.

  Noting his obvious interest as an end-user of this vital product, a friendly foreman pointed out the two separate sections, the spinning floor where hemp was spun into yarn ready for tarring before being transferred to the laying floor, to be spun into rope – a bewildering myriad of thicknesses for as many uses at sea.

  But, however riveting Anson found all this, it was to the Gun Wharf that he paid particular attention.

  31

  They travelled with two large wagons, each drawn by four carthorses hired by Boxer on Anson’s instructions, and sturdy enough to carry a couple of 40-hundredweight objects.

  On arrival at the Ordnance Wharf that lay at the Chatham end of the dockyard, between St Mary’s Church and the river, a waved document was enough to allow them entry.

  A naval officer on one wagon and a sergeant of marines on the other were proof enough of official business for the porters who stood duty during the day. They were more interested in searching men leaving the yard to combat pilfering than in holding up apparently perfectly legitimate arrivals.

  The wagons drew to a halt beside storehouses containing great quantities of cannon of all calibres, plus carronades and mortars stored in regular tiers. Hundreds of gun carriages were laid up under cover and thousands of cannon balls were piled up in large pyramids. Nearby were cranes used for lifting the guns on board ship.

  Other storehouses and an armoury contained vast numbers of muskets, pistols, cutlasses, pikes and pole-axes. It was a treasure trove of weaponry.

  Anson strode off towards the offices, pausing briefly to look over his shoulder to check with Hoover: ‘You’ve got the necessary, and you know what to do?’

  ‘Sure do.’

  A lurking storekeeper looking as miserable as if he had the troubles of the world on his shoulders was told by the marine: ‘The officer’s just off to sort the paperwork. We’ve got to load four 18-pounders and two carronades.’

  The man sniffed. ‘That’s as may be, but there’s plenty more ahead of you lot.’

  ‘Right mate, but I bet they ain’t all gonna give you one of these.’ And Hoover produced a golden half guinea from his pocket and spun it nonchalantly in the air with one hand, catching it in the other.

  The storeman perked up immediately. That coin represented a lot more than a week’s pay.

  Hoover ventured: ‘Why don’t you drum up a crane crew to get our cannon loaded, so’s when the officer gets back it’ll all be shipshape and these here wagons will be ready to roll.’

  The man looked interested but doubtful, so Hoover pressed on. ‘He’s a generous man, this officer, and I reckon if we’re all loaded up they’ll be another half guinea to join this one. So what’s it to be? Do we join the queue and you get nothing, or do we jump it and you get to treat yourself and your missus to a few comforts?’

  Convinced, the storekeeper looked around to make sure no one was watching and reached out his hand for the coin. Hoover handed it over, but as soon as the man had pocketed it he threw in: ‘You’ll need to treat the labourers, too. They know what’s next to be loaded and they ain’t going to get off their arses for sod-all. We gets paid a pittance in this here yard – not enough to make us want to jump to it every time some smart-arse in uniform comes demanding guns.’

  Like any marine or navy man, Hoover knew of the poor rates of pay dockyard men had traditionally received – the downside of a pretty safe job for life. There had been trouble in years past, when not only were the men badly paid, but sometimes received nothing at all for months at a time when their masters failed to pay them.

  So it was not surprising that they had earned a reputation for idleness and susceptibility to bribery and theft. It was different now that the war had imposed greater demands on the dockyard, a vastly increased workload that brought with it greater prosperity – and the promise of pensions – for the workers. But the old attitudes still prevailed, and Hoover was under instructions to do what it took to promote his demand to the head of the queue.

  He clapped the man on the back. ‘Right you are, mate. You can tell your boys there’ll be a half crown in it for each of ’em when the wagons are loaded.’

  The man nodded. ‘You’re on, but give ’em it surreptitious like. We don’t want no come-back – and your officer’s paperwork better be straight afore you leave, else the clerk of the cheque’ll be arter all on us.’

  That official
would have to be squared by Lieutenant Anson, Hoover decided. Greasing the palm of a storekeeper was one thing, but dealing with the senior men in charge of issuing ordnance was something else altogether.

  Meanwhile there were half pikes, muskets, pistols, ball ammunition and powder to be drawn and the cannon to be secured aboard the wagons, and he called to Boxer and Marsh to bring them up to the pile of 18-pounders.

  ****

  Anson’s earlier visit had provided him with invaluable intelligence, and when he called upon the Ordnance Board office he was ushered after a brief wait into the presence of a senior officer who greeted him warmly.

  Signing Anson’s paperwork, the officer confessed: ‘This smacks of queue-jumping, my boy, and it may not be strictly legal. But, after what you did during the Nore Mutiny and the fact that you are now in the front line agin the French, I’d be willing to be court-martialled for helping you over this.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I am greatly in your debt.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. All I ask is that you don’t go around gossiping about my part in this. If certain man-of-war captains hear that a Sea Fencible has jumped the queue there’ll be hell to pay!’

  ‘My lips are sealed, sir.’

  The officer chuckled at a sudden thought. ‘In any event, by the time the paperwork comes home to roost, the war will probably be long over and we’ll either be speaking French or laying up our victorious fleet and melting down the cannon to make doorstops or turning them into street bollards! Meanwhile, sailing a desk is thirsty work. Will you join me in a glass?’

  Mission completed, Anson was happy to oblige.

  *

  Leaving Hoover in charge of loading the wagons, Fagg stomped off to the poorest area of Chatham: Smithfield Banks.

  This bleak, overcrowded stew of crumbling tenements, only a musket shot from the yard, was distinguished by the grandiose names of its chief thoroughfares – King Street and Queen Street – but it was a safe bet that royalty had never trod, nor was ever likely to tread, these mean streets.