The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

  Rather, they were frequented by the very dregs of society – hopeless alcoholics, beggars, cutpurses and raddled sixpenny whores who had reached the very end of the prostitution line.

  These were filthy, smelly, grim and depressing streets, but for Fagg they were home.

  A snaggle-toothed crone offered from a doorway: ‘Oi, sailor boy – want a good time, dearie?’

  Sam Fagg was a changed man, woman-wise, since he had got himself hitched up with Annie back at Seagate, and in any case this tart was well past her shag-by date even for him. ‘Not just now, sweetheart. I’m orf t’meet me Ma.’

  ‘Can y’spare a couple o’ coppers anyhow? I need milk fer me babby?’

  Fagg shrugged and threw her some coins. There would be no baby, and no doubt the money would go on a pint of gin – and temporary oblivion. But so be it.

  She bobbed and grinned happily. ‘Ye’re a real gent, cap’n, that’s what y’are.’

  Fagg stomped on happily. Instant promotion for a few pennies was not half bad.

  This was the jungle of sordid streets where he had played as a child, where he had learned to fight, beg, steal – and to survive. And it was in the dark back alleys that he had learned pleasures of the flesh with willing older girls desperate to be wanted even for a few minutes in their otherwise loveless lives.

  At the junction with Cross Street he came to a house he could never forget. This was where he had been dragged up, in a couple of scruffy rooms up a flight of rickety stairs.

  He hesitated, fobbing off another cruising whore, before stumping up the stairway that reeked of stale cooking, urine and worse. At the very top was the familiar brown door. This had been home until at 12 he had run off to escape his drunken, bullying stepfather and volunteered himself as a powder monkey in a man-of-war.

  A rap at the door provoked a stirring inside and a female voice asked: ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me, Sam.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Is that you Ma? It’s me, Sammy.’ It was what she had called him as a boy.

  The door creaked open a crack and a dishevelled elderly woman peered out, repeating: ‘Who?’

  It was not his mother.

  ‘Where’s old Ma Fagg?’

  ‘Depends ’oo wants ter know.’

  ‘She’s me muvver and I ain’t seen ’er fer a year or two … ’ow long you bin ’ere?’

  The woman sniffed. ‘Must’ve bin more like three year. She’s bin dead long since and I bin ’ere comin’ up three year.’

  Fagg nodded. It was not unexpected, but he could not in all honesty feel grief. She had been racked by a constant cough and was thin as a rake when he last saw her. Old, and now dead, long before her time.

  *

  The arrival in Seagate of the horse-drawn wagons carrying the guns created something of a stir, which Anson encouraged by calling for the tarpaulins covering them to be removed.

  Idlers watched with interest as they passed and one wag called out: ‘What you got there mates, some popguns at last?’

  Anson raised his hat and called back: ‘Thankee, sir. They’re real enough. Climb up and take a look if you like. These’ll keep the Frogs at bay!’

  On-lookers laughed. Being first stop on the invasion route made people edgy and the more guns they could see around them the more secure they felt. At present the main defence for Folkestone was the long-established Bayle Battery up on the heights above the town and normally manned by volunteer gunners, and the East Wear Bay Battery, constructed the year before.

  And now the new big guns would join the two, commanding the approach to Seagate from the west. They would ease the minds of worried locals and would discourage enemy ships or landing craft from coming too close.

  Hoover followed the officer’s lead and prised open one of the wooden crates with his bayonet, took out one of the heavily-greased sea service muskets and held it aloft. ‘There’s plenty of these beauties, too!’

  There was no doubting that the watchers were suitably impressed, and Anson knew the arrival of the guns would be the talk of every inn and alehouse by nightfall. And no doubt the news would have crossed the Channel within a day or two.

  He had already sent messengers to round up every one of his fencibles who could be spared from his workplace, promising them a training day shilling just for an hour or two’s work unloading the wagons.

  In truth he needed but a few, but being part of this significant moment would give morale a huge fillip and boost their standing among their fellow townsmen.

  *

  The unloading complete, Anson climbed, hat in hand, on one of the 18-pounders and Fagg called: ‘Silence fore and aft!’ as if they were afloat.

  Pausing until the excited chattering stopped, Anson stuck his hat back on, cleared his throat and exhorted them. ‘Now we’ve got our very own battery here at Seagate, men – fresh from the foundry and brand spanking new. You’ll train on these until you can knock any Frenchman out of the water – if they should dare show their faces round here!’

  There was a growled cheer, but one bold soul called out: ‘Will it just be dumb show trainin’ like before sir?’

  Anson nodded his understanding. ‘Fair point. Wheeler, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘They’ll have to be some more dry training, but you have my word, as soon as Mister Marsh reports to me that you all know your stuff, I’ll authorise live firing from the cliffs.’

  The fencibles voiced their approval and on the spur of the moment Anson threw in: ‘And we’ll have a competition – with, er …’ he hesitated, trying to think up a suitable prize, ‘… yes, a barrel of ale and a guinea for the gun crew that’s first to blow a floating target to kingdom come!’

  This was greeted with great enthusiasm, and Hoover, standing close to the gun and conscious that he would be leading the training with the muskets, called up to Anson in a stage whisper: ‘Could we do the same for musketry, sir?’

  ‘An excellent idea, Sergeant Hoover. D’you hear that men? The master-at-arms proposes a contest for musketry too, and I will put up a … er … suitable prize for the best marksman.’

  Hoover held up the musket he had pulled from the crate and already marked as his own, and the men cheered.

  They were even more cheerful when Boxer called the roll, handed each one a shiny coin and got them to make their mark on the pay sheet. It was the easiest and quickest shilling any of them had ever earned. The ale would be flowing this night.

  From the depths of seething discontent when Lieutenant Crispin had made such fools of them in front of a jeering crowd, to their relief at MacIntyre’s comeuppance, the arrival of the new gunboats, and now this, it was small wonder that morale was sky high.

  And, leaping down from the gun, Anson felt sure at last that he had the makings of a company who would do their duty – and, given time and training, would do it well.

  *

  The Kentish smuggler’s news was greeted with interest by his French military paymaster in Boulogne.

  ‘So the gun batteries around Folkestone and Seagate are now complete – up to strength?’

  Apart from the occasional dropped aitch and his rather too precise form of speech, the Frenchman’s command of English was impressive.

  The smuggler confirmed: ‘I’ve seen the new guns meself. I joined the fencibles to stop gettin’ pressed for the navy, remember?’

  ‘Ah yes, the Sea Fencibles. The last line of defence, are they not?’ The French officer adjusted his spectacles and queried. ‘But what about the gunboats? Do they now ’ave guns too?’

  ‘That’s right. What they calls carronades.’

  ‘Extraordinaire! So, even the English are not foolish enough to continue to operate gunboats without guns at such a location!’

  The paymaster shrugged, moved the pile of the latest English newspapers to the side of his desk and consulted a small red-backed ledger. Then, taking some coins from a cashbox in a top drawer, he handed them to the Eng
lishman. ‘We need to know more of these guns – the calibre, where they keep the powder and shot, exact dispositions and so on …’

  The smuggler glanced at the gold before placing it carefully in an inside pocket of his coat. ‘I’ll see what I can find out, monsewer.’

  ‘Do that, mon ami. But, most importantly, I also require a copy of the latest edition of Steel’s Original and Correct List of the Royal Navy. I find it extremely useful but the copy I ’ave is a little out of date.’

  There was no doubt that the list, published monthly, would be of great interest to an intelligence officer, its pages listing every ship in commission, their officers and stations, signal station officers, impress officers – even their pay rates – and sailing dates of all packet brigs.

  ‘It is a wonderfully useful publication, how do you say … a fountain of all knowledge of the British Navy. With such openness, who needs spies? I fear that we in France do not reciprocate. We prefer a certain, shall I say, mystery?’

  The smuggler asked: ‘So ’ow will I get a copy of this ’ere list?’

  ‘It will be delivered to you via one of our many sympathisers in London. You will bring it to me … together with news of the state of the gun batteries. Mr Steel’s list costs a mere sixpence at his Union Row warehouse in London, but to me it is almost beyond price – and there will be more gold for you when you deliver it.’

  32

  Ten days later, over breakfast at the Hardres Minnis rectory, the Reverend Anson called his wife’s attention to an item in the Kentish Gazette.

  ‘This, my dear, must be our son’s doing d’you suppose?’ He cleared his throat and read aloud:

  ‘The Sea Fencibles of Folkestone and Seagate consist of upwards of 80 men, and 30 of them, who have been formed into a new detachment, were on Saturday last mustered at one of the batteries there, and trained for nearly two hours in the use of the cannon. Of the strength of those robust sons of the ocean, we had sufficient demonstration, nor do we doubt but their courage will prove as conspicuous, should our boasting foe entertain a serious thought of visiting this part of our sea-girt island. We observed, with much pleasure, several of the respectable inhabitants of the town assisting in this exercise.’

  Mrs Anson clucked appreciatively. ‘That’s nice, dear. How charming of them to call our Oliver a robust son of the ocean. He will be pleased.’

  *

  It was a training day and the Seagate men had been summoned to Folkestone from their normal work to earn their King’s shillings learning the arts required of a Sea Fencible.

  Down in the harbour, a dozen of them had assembled beside the detachment’s two new gunboats and were preparing to row one of them out where they could practise firing the carronade, albeit without shot.

  The carronades had been mounted on their slides and at least the men would be able to work out how to use their turn-screws to elevate them and the rollers to point them to starboard or larboard.

  When they did come into action their low-charge, low-velocity balls could plough into an enemy hull and send deadly splinters flying inboard like daggers among its crew. They were faster to load, powerful, yet far lighter than a long gun, and the slides would absorb much of the recoil.

  Anson listened as Fagg warned the crews about slovenly boat-handling. ‘Wiv the world and ’is wife starin’ at us, we don’t want t’look like a bunch of lubbers, do we? If you lot of ’arbour rats can’t row proper then I dunno who can. So you’ll row smart as the crew of a hadmiral’s barge. Got that?’

  A few chorused weakly: ‘Aye aye, bosun.’

  ‘You’d better put more life in yer rowing than ye do with yer aye aye bosuns. I said, got that?’

  They responded with a louder ‘Aye aye, bosun!’ drawing curious glances from the town’s idlers hovering on the sidelines to watch what promised to be free entertainment.

  ‘That’s better. Now, you’ve all rowed afore, ain’t ye?’

  There was a murmur of assent except from Apps, a sawyer by profession. His response, bordering on cheeky, brought a titter from the rest. ‘I ain’t never rowed, bosun. Not much call for it in the timber trade—’

  Fagg gave him the evil eye. ‘Orlright, orlright, so you ain’t rowed, but you must ’ave some powerful strong muscles from all that there sawin’, so jest sit behind someone as can row and do ’xactly what ’e does. Same goes fer anyone else who’s a bit rusty on the oars, like. Understood?’

  ‘Aye aye, bosun!’

  Satisfied that things were well under way, Anson left the coxswains in charge of the boat crews and he and Fagg walked up the old High Street to the Bayle battery, which commanded the western approaches to the harbour.

  There he found the exasperated Sampson Marsh putting two gun crews through their paces. The regular gunners had been stood down for the day and the Seagate men were there to familiarise themselves with the Folkestone battery in case there was ever a need to help out there.

  They had been at it for little more than an hour, yet already their attention was wandering. It was dry training – always a problem because the fencibles could not be made to take it seriously without a loud bang at the end of each evolution.

  With the officer present, Sampson Marsh adopted a sharper, gun-deck tone. ‘How many times ’ave I got to tell you? Sponge out, load cartridge, ram home, wads in, ram home, load with shot, ram, powder, run out, point your gun, stand clear, slow match, fire! Not dilly-dally, shilly-shally, fidget and faff about, you dozy donkeys!’

  The crews exchanged grins. What did they care about good-natured chivvying from Sampson when they were already well on their way to earning their King’s shilling for the day’s duty?

  The number two gun captain, a burly boatman happy not to be spending the day scraping uncertain pennies rowing errands around the harbour, risked stating the blindingly obvious. ‘It’s ’ard to play-act Sampson. Us’d larn much quicker if us could fire these ’ere guns for real.’

  Fagg could not resist poking his oar in. ‘You’ll be doing’ it for real soon enough. But ’til then it’s Sampson Marsh’s job to make sure you knows the drill so’s when you does it for real you won’t blow yourselves up, miss the enemy and waste the King’s powder and shot, not to mention the shillin’ a day he pays you out o’ the goodness of his ’eart.’

  Marsh waved them back to the business in hand and called: ‘Let’s try it again, number one gun against number two. Check slow match, sponge, load cartridge, ram, load ball, load wad, ram, run out, point, ready … and fire! Go!’

  The crews lumbered into dumb show action yet again, and Fagg could not resist interfering once more, muttering ‘’Scuse me Sampson’ and roaring: ‘Get moving’ number one gun. Ye’re practisin’ fer a battle, not a friggin’ funeral! Number two, sponge aht, sponge aht – put yer back into it Walker. Ye’re pussy-footin’ abaht like a fairy with a wand ticklin’ a tart’s bottom. If yer don’t swab prop’ly ye’ll likely blow yer bleedin’ arm orf wiv the next charge the minute yer shoves it in!’

  ‘Aye aye, bosun.’ Walker went through the motion of swabbing out again.

  ‘Wet it fust, ye daft ha’p’orth!’ And as Walker knocked over the leather bucket with the sheep-wool swab in his haste to comply, Fagg’s frustration was complete. ‘Gawd ’elp us when them Frenchies come!’

  Anson smiled inwardly. Fagg was a natural at jollying men into action with good-natured expletives and insults passed down from generation to generation of petty officers. And Sampson Marsh was clearly a great acquisition, respected by all as a real man-of-war veteran who had captained great guns in action. If he couldn’t teach them the rudiments of gunnery, no one could.

  ‘Well done, and please carry on Mister Marsh. They’re coming along fine.’

  Sampson raised his hat an inch in salute. ‘Aye aye, sir. Thank you.’ And the trainee gunners grinned at one another, basking in the unexpected praise and determined to do even better.

  Leaving them to it, Anson beckoned to Fagg to walk with him to th
e heights that commanded a view of the old town and harbour – and the French coast itself on a clear day. Not today though. A sea mist had rolled in so that visibility was down to a couple of hundred yards at most.

  Fagg was not as impressed as the officer by what he had seen of the gunnery practise and was expecting similar chaos with the small arms drills. ‘Supposed t’be what they calls proficient with the musket, pike and cutlass, but I doubt if any of ’em will know the arse end of one from the other.’

  Anson smiled. ‘They’re raw, but Hoover and I will lick ’em into shape, never fear. You’d best get back to the boats and make sure Oldfield and Hobbs have got everything under control.’

  Fagg tapped his japanned hat with his cane and limped off back towards the harbour, leaving Anson to help Sergeant Hoover instil the mysteries of musket and cutlass drill in his group of fencibles.

  Just as it was with the great guns, it was hard to get the score of men detailed off to learn how to handle the complexities of the sea service musket to get it right without actually firing their weapons.

  Live firing close to the town would not be possible without alarming, and perhaps massacring, the inhabitants.

  Hoover had arranged for live firing on the shingle of nearby Hythe ranges, where cannon and musket balls could fly sea-wards and the locals were used to constant big bangs and the crackle of small arms fire.

  But first, the fencibles must be able to handle the weapons safely and absorb the firing drills until they became second nature – instinctive.

  Anson split the group, and while Hoover continued with musket and pike drill with a dozen of them, he demonstrated cutlass techniques to the rest.

  There was no standard drill. But Anson wanted them to practise using the strokes and cuts he had shown them earlier, worked out from experience and experiment and illustrated on a chart propped up on an easel.

  Officers used to swordsmanship tended to urge their men to strike with the point, not the edge of the blade. But Anson was well aware of the reality that the cutlass was no fancy weapon for fencing masters to prance around with, but a crude maiming and killing tool.