by David McDine
She stared back at Anson for a minute, and then nodded and dropped the axe, raising her bloodied hands to her face and sobbing – oblivious to her near-naked state.
34
Anson got awkwardly to his feet, raised his wounded arm to stop the blood running away, and tried to reassure her. ‘You’re safe now. These swine are dead – and you have just saved my life.’
She dropped her hands and looked at him earnestly. ‘No, no, it’s you who’ve saved me from these beasts … and you’re wounded.’
He shrugged: ‘It’s nothing – just a deep scratch, I think. And your husband and his crew are safe. The rest of the Frogs have gone and my men are taking charge of the vessel.’
‘Thank God!’
Pointing to the bald would-be rapist he asked, almost shyly: ‘Tell me, did he, er …?’
Puzzled for a moment, she looked down suddenly aware of her near nakedness and pulled her tattered dress round her. The penny dropped. ‘Oh, I see – finish? No, he didn’t, thanks only to you.’
She hesitated, then added shyly: ‘The truth of it is, he didn’t have the chance to begin. My mother always told me to keep my knees tight together whenever I met a strange man …’
‘Very sound advice!’ Anson gave her a broad smile, and she grinned with relief. She was, he guessed, in her 30s, plain but, as he had seen, with a handsome figure, a keen intelligence and a lot of pluck.
‘Another few minutes and I couldn’t have held out. Thanks to you I can look my husband in the eye. If they’d finished, I would have been so ashamed …’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t even think it, my dear. You can be proud of fighting off these two.’
There was a clatter of someone coming down the ladder and Hoover appeared in the doorway behind him.
The marine took in the scene – his own officer wounded, a woman who to judge from her ripped dress had clearly been assaulted, and two dead Frenchmen – or rather one dead with head bashed in and the other with Anson’s sword still embedded in his chest frothily rasping out his last breaths.
‘Well done, sir! Are you badly hurt?’
‘I’ll live. Find something to cover this brave lady. I don’t want her husband or our boys to see her exposed like this.’
‘Did they—?’
‘They did not, but it wasn’t for want of trying.’
Hoover nodded and asked the woman if she had other clothes on board. She indicated a wooden chest under the bulkhead and he fished out another dress, almost identical to the one she had been wearing. ‘Will this do?’
She took it, turned her back and pulled the remains of her old dress over her head. Hoover turned away and began helping Anson out of his jacket, tenderly pulling his wounded arm from the bloodied sleeve.
More steps clattered on the ladder and Hoover called out: ‘Get back on deck and fetch the undertaker. No one else is to come below ’cept him, understood?’
There was a muffled ‘Aye, aye’ from above and Hoover turned back to Anson’s wounded arm.
The woman had pulled on her clean dress and knelt beside them with some of the material from her ripped one. Hoover gently rolled back Anson’s shirt sleeve and held the arm up as the woman bound the stab wound. She fashioned a rough sling out of another piece of her old dress and supported his arm with it.
Hoover was impressed. ‘You’ve done this sort o’ thing before, ma’am?’
She smiled. ‘You have to turn your hand to many a thing when your husband’s master of a vessel like this. I get to do all the cooking, sewing, washing and doctoring – and take my watch too, when any of the hands are sick.’
The ladder rattled again and Boxer, the undertaker, appeared in the doorway.
His eyes swept the scene of carnage. ‘Jesus wept! What’s been happening down here?’
Anson held a piece of the torn dress to his face to stem the blood from the Frenchman’s knife cut. ‘These two Frogs made the mistake of attacking this good lady and were so busy about it that they didn’t realise the rest had bolted. Wherever they are now I trust they’ve learned the error of their ways.’
The rasps from the skewered man had ceased, and he lay silent at last. Hoover gripped the sword hilt, put his boot against the corpse’s chest and pulled. The blade emerged slowly, badly bent from when the Frenchman had collapsed sideways.
The undertaker was impressed. ‘Some thrust, that must have been!’ He knelt beside the second corpse and examined the Frenchman’s squashed head with a practised eye. ‘And some blow that, too – smashed like an egg!’
Hoover commented unsympathetically: ‘If they didn’t like the rules they shouldn’t have joined. Pity we can’t give this pair back to their privateer mates as an example of what happens to Frogs who muck us about, but they’ve all skedaddled in a bit of a hurry.’
A voice called down the hatchway. ‘Mr Anson, sir, the master of this ’ere tub’s desperate t’know what’s ’appened to ’is missus.’
Anson signalled Hoover to help him to his feet and shouted back. ‘Tell him she’s fine and we’re coming on deck.’ He turned to the undertaker. ‘Here you go, this sort of thing’s right up your street, ain’t it? Be a good man and sort these Frogs out and get ’em buried. There won’t be any family mourners.’
The undertaker knuckled his forehead. ‘Aye aye, sir.’
Hoover helped Anson up the ladder, followed by the master’s wife clutching his bent sword.
They emerged into daylight to a ragged cheer from the fencibles on deck and those bobbing about in the gunboats now secured alongside.
The coaster’s master, still dripping from the ducking he and his crewmen had suffered at the hands of the prize crew, thanked Anson profusely and announced himself as William Gray, of the Kentish Trader.
He embraced his wife, asking repeatedly if she had been harmed. To spare her blushes, Anson told him, loud enough for all to hear: ‘She’s a brave lady and fought off a couple of Frogs ’til I caught them with their britches down. They learned the hard way not to tangle with an Englishwoman!’
Amid a chorus of congratulations, a voice was heard from below: ‘On deck there, prepare to haul away!’ and a rope came snaking up through the hatch.
The undertaker called again: ‘It’ll need a few of you. Here’s the first of the Frenchies coming up …’
Half a dozen of the men took hold of the rope and pulled the first of the bodies up to the top of the ladder, banging against the rungs as it came. The dead man’s britches were still round his ankles and the red welt across his buttocks provoked ribald chatter from the fencibles until Hoover silenced them with a barked: ‘Lady present, watch your language!’
Nevertheless, they put two and two together to make five when Mrs Gray handed Anson his bent sword. The story of how their officer whipped a Frenchman across his arse so hard that his sword bent would be doing the rounds of a dozen alehouses that night.
The second body was hauled up and the undertaker emerged from below carrying the dead men’s weapons. He supervised the wrapping of the corpses in bits of an old sailcloth, bound them with rope, and had them lowered one to each gunboat.
Anson, feeling a little weak from his exertions and loss of blood, advised the master to follow the gunboats back to the harbour until he was sure the privateer had cleared the coast, endured a parting embrace from Mrs Gray, and allowed Hoover to help him over the side.
*
At sea, command had to be exercised somewhat ruthlessly without debate – and rightly so. ‘The navy,’ as Captain Phillips of HMS Phryne had been fond of pointing out on every suitable occasion, ‘is not a democracy.’
With Anson, ashore, and with his two trusted subordinates, it was different. He had chosen to let them into his thinking whenever possible; and it was necessary now.
Once the boats were secured, the weapons put back under lock and key, and his face and arm had been patched up by surgeon’s mate Phineas Shrubb, Anson took Fagg and Hoover aside. They were joined by Sampson Marsh, still glowing from h
is success at the Bayle Battery.
‘God alone knows how, but you performed a miracle today, Mr Marsh. If you hadn’t punctured the Frenchman’s sail at the very moment you did, all would have been lost.’
Sampson Marsh touched his hat in salute. ‘It were pure luck, sir. Well, a bit of judgement and a lot o’ luck. The real miracle was breaking into the powder store. If that lock hadn’t given way straight off we wouldn’t have been able to fire at all!’
‘Locked? Good grief! Surely Hastings had left it open or entrusted you with the key?’ William Hastings was the town’s chief gunner who had held the post for many years and lived in a house within the battery that was served by its own well and separate powder store.
‘No sir. He’d let his men stand down while we were doing our day’s training and he was nowhere to be found when the Frenchman appeared. Gone off to visit a relative, some said.’
Anson was truly horrified, but he couldn’t fault Hastings – nor Sampson Marsh, who could not be blamed for failing to ask for the key. No, he had acted with exemplary zeal as the situation unfolded and deserved praise.
Instead Anson cursed himself for not thinking to demand the powder store key while his fencibles were manning the battery, and for failing to arm the boats’ carronades. These were, in his mind, amateurish mistakes. Unless Marsh had broken the armoury lock, his gun teams could not have fired on the privateer. The coaster would certainly have been lost, and the lives of the gunboat crews could have been forfeit.
As it was, without powder or shot for the boats’ guns – and the muskets – his men had been rendered virtually helpless. It was solely Marsh’s initiative and a lucky shot carrying away part of the privateer’s canvas that had saved the day.
He looked at Marsh, Fagg and Hoover in turn. ‘My thanks to you three for what you did today.’
Fagg knuckled his forehead. ‘Weren’t nuffink, sir. It’s Sampson ’ere what deserves thanks.’
Hoover nodded. ‘I just wish we’d been kind of more ready – the men, ammunition and all.’
Anson agreed. ‘The men may not be properly trained as yet. Not trained well enough in their duties or how to handle their arms, but they’ve shown willing enough and our boat handling was not too bad.’
‘Amen to that, sir.’
‘Our arms drill? Well, that still leaves much to be desired, although your gunners deserve a drink Mister Marsh. Oh, and by the way, I meant to tell you before that you are now a petty officer and responsible for our gunnery.’
Marsh smiled happily and touched his hat again in salute. Anson instinctively knew he was a good choice. Nothing succeeds like success and, after that sail-splitting shot, the men would be convinced that their Sampson could do no wrong and he would have no problem keeping control.
Anson’s head was beginning to swim, and he swayed and put his unwounded hand to his temple. Shrubb, who had been lurking nearby, noticed and stepped forward to support him. ‘You must rest, sir. You have lost blood.’
Sampson Marsh called to the group of fencibles waiting to be dismissed. ‘Tell young Tom to fetch the pony and trap.’
‘Yes, you must rest’, Shrubb insisted.
The officer, supported now by both Shrubb and Hoover, said weakly: ‘Very well, very well. But mark this, our boys will be the toast of the town tonight – and rightly so. Instead of being laughed at, they’ll be treated like heroes. But we know that I was so busy pushing our dry training that I had no proper plan to cope with the enemy suddenly appearing on our doorstep. We just went at ’em when it was already almost too late and we were lucky not to have got a bloody nose. To have no ready access to powder and ammunition, well, I should court-martial myself. Atrocious!’
‘Atrocious it was, sir.’
The bosun’s ready agreement to his over-critical conclusion gave Anson a moment’s irritation. In truth, it had been far from a debacle. The fencibles had shown spirit and keenness to get to grips with the enemy. They had shown the French that they could not scoop up coastal craft on this stretch without opposition; and, by demonstrating their willingness to spill their own blood, the fencibles would no longer be a laughing stock.
Tonight, the local pubs would indeed be awash with tall stories as the fencibles went over and over the day’s action until it assumed the proportions of Aboukir Bay.
Tomorrow, training must be stepped up, intelligence sought and plans made.
He told Fagg: ‘Get as many of the men together as you can tomorrow forenoon. I have things to do and you two are to crack on with training – all hands with the great guns, muskets, pikes and cutlasses. And keep ’em at it.’
‘Beg pardin, sir, but we’re gettin’ through a lot of the King’s shillings.’
‘His Majesty and those of us who’ll be paying this new-fangled tax on income can afford it. If that Frenchman comes again we must be ready for him.’
Fagg knuckled his forehead. ‘Aye aye, sir. Press on with trainin’ it is.’
Tom Marsh appeared with the pony and trap and Anson was helped aboard.
Turning to Sampson Marsh, he smiled and said: ‘By the way—’
‘Sir?’
‘Let’s get a copy made of that damned powder store key!’
35
Over the next few days, Anson was confined to his room at the Rose, his only visitors Shrubb, who checked and dressed his wounds, and Hoover to take dictation in his elegant copperplate hand.
The officer had set himself the task of putting wheels in motion to gather intelligence concerning the privateer.
He dictated, for the divisional captain’s signature, a letter to the officers commanding Sea Fencible divisions and detachments from Chichester in West Sussex through to the North Foreland on the Isle of Thanet:
‘As Officer Commanding His Ma’ty’s Sea Fencible Division at Folkestone I have the honour to request any intelligence you may have of a French privateer, a brig of some dozen guns believed to have been interfering with coastal traffic off Kent and Sussex these several months. The said privateer most recently attacked a trading vessel off Folkestone last week and was brought to action by a shore battery and this Detachment’s gunboats but escaped with minor damage. The privateer has what appears to be a new suit of white sails, except that its mainsail is now likely to carry a large oval patch of a different shade. It is believed the enemy vessel carries a complement upwards of some 60 or 70. You are hereby requested to report any intelligence regarding recent and current appearances of the said privateer to Lieutenant Anson of the Seagate Sea Fencible Detachment with the utmost despatch.
Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare
Captain, Royal Navy.’
Within days of despatch of the letter, sightings were reported of what could well have been the mystery privateer snatching small coasters off Lydd a week since and off Hastings a day later. Although that fitted the date of the Folkestone raid perfectly, it added little to the sum total of knowledge. And after that there was silence, perhaps, Anson concluded, because the Frenchman had returned to Normandy with prizes and would not be back for weeks or even months.
*
Patched up and feeling fighting fit again, Anson returned to duty in time to welcome a surprise visitor to the Seagate detachment. It was the gallant divisional captain himself, Captain Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare, as he was fond of introducing himself even to those he had met before.
Nominally in command of the Sea Fencible division, it was well known that in reality he was merely a figurehead who nevertheless enjoyed the kudos and position in society the appointment gave him.
‘The big-wigs have decided to include some jolly Jack Tars in the royal review of the Kentish Volunteers,’ he announced, and Anson sensed what was to come.
It would have been next to impossible not to have heard of the review. Thousands of volunteers – yeomanry, infantry, artillery and all – were due to parade at the Lord Lieutenant’s residence at Mote Park, Maidstone, for the King himself to review.
Captain Ho
are confided: ‘Our fellows’ little action against the privateer has appeared in the news sheets, y’know. Attracted a fair bit of attention – and so you’re going to go.’
Anson sighed inwardly. So he was expected to drop everything to provide a mere token presence.
His protestations that training would be severely interrupted, that his men had no uniforms, and that it would cost many King’s shillings to pay them for what would inevitably be a prolonged outing – all fell on deaf ears.
‘Nonsense, Anson. Be proud, walk tall! Here’s a splendid chance for the navy to score points off some of the bumpkin soldiery. They’ve not seen action. We have. I’ll even go myself.’
Anson’s eyebrows twitched. Hoare had been ashore and nowhere near the action.
No doubt the chance to mingle with royalty was too much for a man like him to resist, and Anson muttered ‘Thought you would’ under his breath. But, noting the captain’s questioning look, he added loudly: ‘Jolly good, sir – I say jolly good!’
A sudden worrying point struck Captain Hoare. ‘Uniform! You mentioned uniform?’
‘I’ll wear my best of course, sir.’
‘No, no, no. The men must have uniform. We cannot have them in sailcloth and rags like a bunch of mendicant beggars.’
Anson shrugged. ‘However, I’m afraid that’s all most of them have got by way of clothing, sir. A few will have Sunday best, but—’
The captain was growing agitated. ‘Think man, think! All the soldiery will be done up to the nines – red jackets, tricorns and all. The yeomanry will be dolled up like dogs’ dinners – all gold and silver braid and whatnot.’
‘And you think my, I mean our, men will appear rather scruffy by comparison—?’
Hoare was by now almost apoplectic. ‘My Godfathers! This is serious! They must be in some kind of uniform and scrubbed up looking at least half decent. Trust the Admiralty to think of setting up the Sea Fencibles without providing uniforms to distinguish them from all the other harbour rats. It’s disgraceful!’
