The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

  Noad swung himself up in the saddle. ‘Likewise, Pett Valley Troop, East Kent Yeomanry. Better not be seen talking to you. If the cap’n sees me he’ll likely have a fit!’ He grinned, touched his helmet in salute, whirled his horse and trotted off.

  38

  Having left London at five o’clock in the morning, the royal family breakfasted with Lord Camden at his seat at Wilderness, near Sevenoaks, and continued on to Maidstone.

  By mid-morning, large crowds had thronged in from all around to see the King review so many volunteers in what was an event of national importance, designed to heighten morale at a time of threat.

  Such was the county’s pride and enthusiasm, that all roads were almost impassable, but the military ensured that the way was clear for the King and his entourage to enter the town, and to the cheers of the waiting crowds, the procession passed under the triumphal arch, now with the Royal Standard fluttering above, where Anson had encountered the inquisitive urchins the night before.

  Lining the route, were red-jacketed volunteers with bayonets fixed and sprigs of oak in their hats – a Kentish custom dating back to the time of the Norman conquest. Every Man of Kent and Kentish Man – the difference being which part of the county you were born in – knew the origin of it, that rather than fight a Kentish army with oak boughs on their shoulders and swords in their hands, the Normans allowed them to retain their ancient rights and liberties. ‘That’s why,’ questioners were always told, ‘we call William the Norman rather than the Conquerer, and why our county motto is Invicta – Unconquered.’

  Anson was patrolling his detachment’s tables looking out for signs of drunkenness and misbehaviour when to his astonishment he heard his name being called in a throaty female voice.

  It had to be Charlotte Brax, she of the heaving bosom, wandering hand and suggestive turn of phrase.

  Sure enough, there she was approaching like a first rate under full press of sail with her younger sisters flanking her like attendant frigates.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss, er, the Misses Brax,’ he greeted them with more confidence than he felt.

  Charlotte, wearing a high-waisted, low-necked dress that displayed her ripe figure to perfection, held out her hand to be kissed. He did so as gallantly as he could muster before the eyes of his men, many of whom ceased their chatter to stare at the newcomers with varying degrees of lust.

  ‘Your servant, ladies. But pray, what brings you here?’

  Jane Brax stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘We’re here to see the royal family – and the volunteers, of course. Father and mother had an invitation from the Lord Lieutenant to the dinner, and brother George is here somewhere with his troop—’

  Charlotte interrupted: ‘Nonsense Jane, admit to Mr Anson that we’re really here to recruit for our ball. We’re sizing up the officers! Just about every eligible bachelor in the county holds a commission in the yeomanry or the volunteers, so here’s a perfect chance to check that they’re sound of wind and limb – and invite the cream of ’em to our ball.’

  ‘I’m greatly relieved that you aren’t going to include naval officers in your vetting, Miss Brax—’

  She waved her hand at him. ‘You’ve already been vetted and found to be suitable ball fodder, sir – and please call me Charlotte and not Miss Brax. Every time you call one of us Miss Brax, all three of us leap to attention, don’t we little sisters?’

  Jane and Isobel shrugged, no doubt used to being browbeaten by her.

  Anson addressed Jane: ‘And having seen so many volunteers, do you still aspire to be in uniform Miss, er, Jane?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Anson. The next time you see me I will be in uniform!’

  ‘Really?’

  Charlotte interjected: ‘She’s referring to our ball. We are planning some interesting patriotic outfits to compete with all you peacock males in uniform.’

  Jane protested: ‘Mr Anson is hardly a peacock in his naval uniform.’

  And little Isobel offered: ‘More of a magpie with all that navy blue and white. But you are a very smart magpie – and your men look very smart, too, Mr Anson.’

  She smiled sweetly when he answered: ‘You are too kind, er, Isobel. I confess to you that without their new hats and jackets they would look very much like a bunch of pirates!’

  There was movement over in the area around the royal pavilion and Charlotte hurried her sisters away, turning to Anson as she went and saying archly: ‘We will see you at the ball. I’ll make sure you get a stiffy.’

  The remark produced stifled guffaws from the nearest tables, and Anson reddened, remembering how she had stroked his thigh at the rectory dinner party. In the navy a ‘stiffy’ was a stiff invitation card. Surely that was what she meant – or did she?

  Anson returned to the allotted tables to find a drunken Sea Fencible, sheep-dogged by Hoover and Fagg, making obscene gestures and shouting challenges to the nearby soldiery.

  A couple of redcoats, egged on by their comrades, were all for picking up the gauntlet. But before they could respond, the bosun tripped the drunkard and sat on him.

  ‘Who in hell is that and how did he get in that state so early?’ Anson demanded. Fagg yanked his prisoner’s head back by the hair. ‘It’s Longstaff, sir.’

  ‘Longstaff? The man’s a liability. Never yet seen him totally sober.’

  Hoover offered: ‘He’s what we in the marines call a topper-upper.’

  Anson snorted. ‘But where in God’s name does he get it?’

  ‘Them as needs it gen’rally finds it,’ Fagg observed sagely.

  ‘Well, just keep him out of sight. Tie his hands and stick him under the tarpaulin in the wagon, else he’ll shame us all.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘And bosun, you’d better gag him. The last thing I want is a chorus of sea shanties when he gets to the singing stage.’

  Fagg and Hoover pulled the now giggling man to his feet. ‘She shanties is it, your worship?’ he slurred. ‘She shanties ye want and she shanties ye’ll have …’ But before he could embark on the first, he was dragged protesting and giggling to one of the wagons, where Fagg expertly trussed him up and gagged him.

  Longstaff thrashed about as the tarpaulin was pulled over him, but soon lapsed into a drunken stupor as the first of Major Kite’s guns began barking out the royal salute.

  His Majesty had entered the park on his charger, attended by the Prince of Wales and the Dukes of Cumberland and Gloucester. The Queen’s carriage made straight for the royal pavilion where she and the Princesses alighted and, to honour the Kentish custom, fastened oak sprigs to their dresses.

  The King and his entourage, now joined by the generals and members of the nobility, passed the long ranks of volunteers drawn up in two lines and then the troops of cavalry drawn up at the rear.

  The ride past completed, the King retired to the royal pavilion and a lone signal cannon ordered the lines to form into their companies for the review proper to begin. There followed a series of manoeuvres, each signalled by a further cannon shot that set the volunteers marching, counter-marching, firing their muskets in sham fight and presenting arms for general salutes.

  It was a brave sight. Finally the King passed along the front line once more and the troops marched past His Majesty with bands playing. Sensibly, the Sea Fencibles, more used to rowing than marching, stood fast in the rear watching the colourful scene with interest. But they joined lustily in the three cheers for the King and stood fast for the final general salute.

  The review over, the volunteers sat down at the 90 or so long tables in front of the mansion and a sustained attack on the victuals, wine and beer commenced. What the cook had told Fagg proved no exaggeration. It was a truly sumptuous feast and the wine and beer sent spirits soaring sky high.

  Once the volunteers were sated, a wagon-load of food was sent to Maidstone to be distributed among the poor, sufficient for 600 families.

  Anson was checking that his men were behaving when he heard the jingle
of spurs and sensed a presence at his elbow. It was the yeomanry officer from the skirmish at the inn.

  Dismounted, his high plumed helmet made him appear taller than he was, and Anson again noted his florid cheeks and the beginnings of a paunch, only partly hidden by his tightly-buttoned brocaded jacket and scarlet waist sash.

  Hand on sabre hilt, he announced: ‘I am Cap’n Chitterling, d’you recall? And you’re the naval Johnny who cheated my troop out of takin’ supper at that inn yesterday, ain’t you?’

  ‘I think that on reflection you will agree that the Sea Fencibles were there first,’ Anson countered. ‘Sadly we were not properly introduced when we met outside the inn. Have you come to apologise?’

  The yeomanry officer’s naturally ruddy features turned puce. ‘How dare you! I came to demand an apology for your man’s deliberate attempt to fire on my men. If I do not receive an immediate apology I will report the matter to higher authority.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Anson shrugged. ‘You could start with my divisional captain – he’s over in the royal pavilion right now. Or you could complain to the Lord Lieutenant, or to the King himself for all I care. But I warn you, if you do go telling false tales you’ll be making an even bigger fool of yourself than you did at the inn. Take my advice, why don’t you, and go play with your troop of ploughboys.’

  Chitterling reacted like the spoilt child he had been and spat out: ‘Damned cheek! You have impugned my honour and I’ve a damned good mind to call you out!’

  Anson was aware that the dafter, peacock amateur officers, who had seen no action other than the hunt, had a fondness for challenging others to duel in defence of their pretended honour, probably hoping that their adversaries would climb down. It was behaviour akin to that of playground bullies – and he had no wish to fight anyone other than the French.

  With a resigned expression, he said gently: ‘Look, if you are so keen to call me out, just do it. However, we are guests here of the Lord Lieutenant and in the presence of the royal family, so the timing is not brilliant.’

  Chitterling wrongly took this as a climb-down and, a little too readily and with obvious relief, retorted: ‘Very well, your apology is accepted.’ He was taken aback when Anson took a step towards him and spat menacingly. ‘If you do insist on continuing this foolishness there is a very great likelihood that I will kill you, as I have killed a good many Frenchmen.’

  And staring into Chitterling’s eyes, he asked venomously: ‘How many men have you killed? None, I suspect. I venture that you have killed nothing but unarmed game birds and foxes. But I will be armed, with sword, pistol or whatever you care to choose, and will be aiming to kill.’

  Chitterling reeled back a step at this onslaught, and stammered: ‘You don’t rattle me … b-but maybe you are right in that it might be deemed dishonourable to pursue this affair here.’

  Anson shrugged indifferently, and his adversary turned away muttering: ‘I’ve marked your card. We have unfinished business and I’ll deal with you when the time is right!’

  Choosing to pretend he thought Chitterling was referring to a lady’s dance card, he responded: ‘Excellent, I’ll save the first dance for you!’

  His retort provoked a last snort from Chitterling, who strode off, angry but deflated, pulling his mount towards the horse lines and glancing back venomously only to see that Anson was paying him no further attention but had resumed seeing that his fencibles were still on their best behaviour.

  *

  The King and his entourage had dined in the magnificent tented pavilions out of sight of the rank and file and civilian hoi polloi, and partook of coffee in Lord Romney’s mansion house before their carriages rumbled round the front of the building ready for departure.

  The Lord Lieutenant’s promised summons for Anson never came, and instead, inevitably, it was Captain Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare who had found his way into the royal pavilion to wallow in his sovereign’s congratulations for his men’s action against the privateer.

  Rank upon rank of volunteers were called to attention and gave a general salute as the royal party emerged from the house and Major Kite’s train of artillery commenced firing the salute as the carriages departed.

  The park seethed with activity again as the detachments of volunteers marched off to their camping areas to pack up and set off home, and it was with some relief that Anson and his Seagate men hit the road back to the coast.

  A message from His Majesty, cascaded to all units as they departed, thanked every participating volunteer for ‘a display of those virtues and manners which distinguishes the genuine character of Englishmen.’ Fagg, sitting in the first wagon with his feet dangling over the tailgate, heard it in mock amazement, muttering: ‘Good fing the King didn’t see Longstaff pissed as a coot then, innit!’

  39

  Leaving the bosun and master-at-arms to carry on with the training back at Seagate, Anson got Tom Marsh to take him home in the pony and trap for the weekend.

  Among the mail awaiting him was an invitation card to the Brax Hall ball – the ‘stiffy’ Charlotte had promised him. Scrawled on the back he read: ‘Kindly bring fellow officer.’

  There was precious little choice. The social-climbing Captain Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare was a definite no-no, and, as he had observed before, the reputation of the impress service meant that Lieutenant Coney would be about as welcome as a fox among hens.

  No problem. Anson had just the man in mind.

  *

  At his signal station at Fairlight, overlooking the sea on the heights east of Hastings, Amos Armstrong was pleasantly surprised when Fagg drew up in the pony and trap driven by Tom Marsh.

  The bosun lowered himself gingerly groundwards and knuckled his temple in salute to the officer who had emerged to investigate the visitors announced by his moonfaced midshipman.

  ‘Commander Armstrong, sir?’

  Brushing cobwebs from the sleeve of his third best uniform jacket, the officer commanding Fairlight Semaphore Station confirmed: ‘You have found him, but who, pray, are you?’

  ‘Fagg’s the name, sir, Mister Anson’s bosun from the Sea Fencibles at Seagate.’

  Armstrong, noting Fagg’s game leg and Tom Marsh’s crutches, was wondering just how effective Anson’s Sea Fencible detachment could be, should push come to shove, if all were as handicapped as these two. But he was pleased at what promised to be a welcome break in his boring station routine. ‘You bring a message?’

  ‘I do, sir, but not writ down.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘It’s in me ’ead, sir, memorised like.’

  ‘Good man, then come inside and sup a mug of ale while you tell me. You’ve had a long journey.’ He bade the moonfaced youngster to see to it that Tom Marsh and his pony were fed, watered and rested, and, closely followed by Fagg, ducked low inside the station doorway to avoid more trailing cobwebs.

  Ale was produced and they sat at the table where the remains of a meal still waited to be cleared.

  Fagg gulped down several mouthfuls of ale, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and launched into his message. Armstrong smiled happily as he heard the plan. He was to put on his best rig and return to Seagate in the trap, leaving Fagg in temporary charge of the station.

  ‘But is there no word as to what it’s all about?’

  ‘I was to tell you it hinvolves ladies, hentertainment and suchlike, an’ that ye’ll be away for two or three days. After that the pony and trap brings yer back and orf I goes back to Seagate.’

  Armstrong smiled broadly. Out of the blue had come the kind of invitation he would have given his eye teeth for – just the thing to escape the boredom of life at the signal station, even if for only a few days.

  Without further debate, he hastened to make himself look presentable.

  While he washed, shaved, found a clean shirt and climbed into his best uniform, he briefed Fagg on the less than onerous duties he was likely to have to perform. Once dressed, he showed him the workings of the station and entrusted
the semaphore signal-book into his care. The midshipman, the two seamen and dragoon messengers were instructed to take their orders from the bosun on pain of having punishment more painful than death inflicted upon them.

  Then, fore and aft hat set at a jaunty angle to match his mood, he climbed aboard the trap, calling on Tom Marsh to set a course eastwards for Seagate – and what, for a man deprived of lively company, promised to be an enjoyable adventure.

  *

  Liveried footmen flanked the ornamental cast-iron entrance gates to Brax Hall. The gates were hinged to tall brick pillars topped by stone pineapples, and the lime tree avenue was illuminated by flickering flames from scores of torches stuck in the ground at regular intervals.

  Tom Marsh’s pony and trap crunched up the gravel driveway and joined a queue of carriages dropping off guests at the wide front steps where more servants wearing the green, silver-buttoned Brax livery ushered them through the open door between impressive ionic columns.

  Anson and Armstrong climbed down, and inside were announced by Roach, the butler, and greeted by a line-up led by Sir Oswald and Lady Brax. Close by, stood their sons William, in extravagant yeomanry cornet’s uniform, and the younger George – together introduced by their father as ‘the heir and the spare’. And beside them were the three daughters, each wearing a richly-braided military-style jacket – one red, one blue and one rifle green. They clustered round their naval guests.

  ‘Aha, ladies!’ Anson named his companion and exclaimed as light-heartedly as he could manage: ‘Now I can see what you meant about being in uniform when we next met! If I may venture to say, you are extremely smart …’

  Charlotte, whose bosom appeared to be making every effort to escape its jacketed confines, riposted: ‘I trust you will volunteer to join our regiment, Mr Anson, or will I be forced to press you?’

  The thought of being pressed by her jolted him. Consciously or not, she seemed to have the knack of discomforting him each time she opened her mouth. As Anson pondered his stammered response of ‘I er, er...’ it was the youngest sister, Isobel, who came to his rescue. ‘Much as Jane and I would like us to be, we are of course not really a regiment, Mr Anson.’