by David McDine
Having consulted Crowe, Anson gave instructions to hold station as best he could and peered below to see the hidden fencibles. ‘Is all well down here, boys?’
A chorus of ‘aye ayes’ was countered by Shallow. ‘Orlright, sir, but there ain’t a lot of air and it’s gonna get a might smelly down ’ere …’
‘Fair point. Take turns on deck, no more’n four at a time and keep low. If the Frogs suddenly appear we don’t want ’em to get the idea we’re anything other than a fat little merchantman begging to be taken as a prize. We’ll keep the hatch open and as soon as they’re sighted, disappear below and batten yourselves down for the chase.’
They muttered agreement.
‘If we can draw them back to Seagate, we’ve got a nice little surprise for ’em. You can appear like jacks-in-the-box and give ’em the fright of their lives!’
*
From the signal station, Armstrong had logged the arrival of the coaster and watched her as she tacked gently to and fro, holding station. He could imagine the tension on board and hoped it would not be too long before the Frenchmen appeared on the scene.
But daylight began to fade and there was still no sign of the privateer.
On board the Kentish Trader, now that the only light came from a watery moon, Anson allowed everyone on deck and, after a meal of cold beef, bread and cheese, his fencibles made themselves as comfortable as they could among the crates and barrels, smoking their clay pipes and yarning.
Handsome Smith, minus bonnet and wig but still wearing his borrowed frock and large false bosom, came in for more light-hearted banter, receiving several insincere proposals – only one of them for marriage.
Anson, propped against a barrel, smiled at the repartee. He was content that the bait was set and that all was ready for springing his trap. But he was only too well aware that the Frenchman might not follow his usual pattern, or that the system to give early warning of his approach would fail. Or the weather could change and thwart his plan.
Never one to worry about things he could not change, and lulled by the motion of the coaster and the soothing sound of the sea, he dozed and finally fell asleep.
*
Up in the signal station, Armstrong fretted. Even with a pale moon, spotting and signalling was virtually impossible.
Handing the midshipman his telescope, he instructed the boy to sweep the westward horizon and sing out if he spotted a sail.
‘And take care with that glass, you young cretin! Drop it again and I’ll string you up as a warning to other careless middies.’ Armstrong was acutely aware that he had signed personally for the 2ft- long instrument. It was fitted with achromatic lenses and had cost their Lordships two guineas, supplied under contract, according to the inscription on the brass-work, by Messrs P & J Dolland of St Paul’s Churchyard, London.
Ideally, he would have obtained one of their superior 3ft models, but that would have cost him six guineas out of his own pocket. Anson had one, he knew, but then not every officer had been so lucky with prize money.
Muttering to himself about the inequalities of life and what an idiot he had been to join the navy and allow himself to be marooned ashore in such a God-forsaken spot instead of pursuing a lucrative land-based career, he took a wineglass from the cupboard.
Highway robbery, the law, banking or some equally crooked yet handsomely remunerated profession might have suited, he reflected. Resigned once again to his fate, he downed a glass of good French wine, origin unclear but highly suspect, and partook of a frugal repast of cold meat and boiled potatoes.
He checked on the yawning youth, who had nothing to report, and stood him down for the night.
For a while, Armstrong swept the sea westward with the glass, but visibility was poor and he soon gave it up as a waste of time. Nevertheless, he called the duty signal rating, bade him take a two-hour stint with the telescope, and sat in his high-backed armchair, blanket over his legs – his sole comforts in his draughty eyrie.
Reaching for a week-old copy of the Sussex Weekly Advertiser, he settled down to read. But fatigue and the wine took effect and his head soon began to droop. Every now and then, he jerked back to life and continued to read in fits and starts until finally a gentle snoring emanated from the depths of the armchair. For once Commander Armstrong was not ‘watch-on, stop-on.’
*
It was not the sighting of a sail, but the sound of galloping hooves that alerted the duty seaman, whose eyes had become sore staring conscientiously out to sea through the glass.
He flung open the signal station door shouting: ‘Sir, sir – a rider!’
Armstrong was immediately wide awake, and flung down the newspaper. ‘What is it, Lloyd?’
‘A horse approachin’, sir, from the west!’
‘Good man, load a musket just in case – and wake the others.’ Smugglers, or even escaping French prisoners, were not unknown in these parts and it was sensible to take such precautions at night.
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Lloyd’s warning shout had already woken his fellow seaman and Dragoon Hillman, but the sleepy midshipman needed a firm shake.
Outside, with his sword drawn and musket-wielding Lloyd at his side, Armstrong watched the rider approach and dismount, noting with relief the man’s blue jacket and Tarleton helmet with its distinctive woollen comb.
‘Dragoon Dillon. Welcome home! Do you have news?’
Dillon, who had been waiting at the Beachey Head signal station to bring back news of the privateer, drew himself to attention and saluted smartly despite the dark. ‘I do, sorr. There’s an urgent message for you from Beachy Head, sorr!’
‘Good man. What is it?’
‘Don’t know ’xactly, sorr. It’s written down, but they tell’t me they’d seen that Frog ship you’re after, a-headin’ this way, sorr.’
‘Excellent!’ Armstrong snatched the message and called to Lloyd: ‘Make sure Dillon gets some vittles.’
‘Thank you kindly, sorr, but I’ll see t’me horse first.’
‘Of course. Then get some rest, there’s a good fellow.’ He turned to Dillon’s fellow dragoon. ‘Better get saddled up, Hillman. You’ve a long ride ahead of you.’
This was the trouble at night, Armstrong thought. No chance of signalling and the only way to get a message away was by dragoon messenger. Good though these specially selected, well-mounted, light cavalrymen were, single horse-power was not much good when the utmost despatch was required.
Still, there were six hours to dawn – time enough for the rider to make it to the next station at Dungeness where the gist of the warning could be signalled eastward and a fresh dragoon could carry the full message on to Seagate.
Inside the station, Armstrong opened up the message from his opposite number at Beachey Head and read:
‘French privateer, a brig with patched mainsail, and of some 12 guns or more, believed to be Égalité, reported to have taken a small coaster off Chichester and sent it away with a prize crew. Privateer then headed east. If she maintains course and speed expect her off Hastings first light tomorrow.’
Armstrong scuttled back into the station, feverishly rummaged for pen and paper, and, after a moment’s thought, added a footnote to the message he had received from Beachy Head:
‘Am warning Kentish Trader and expect her to draw the Frenchman towards Seagate arriving mid afternoon.’
Then, he wrote a second message and signed, timed and dated both.
Outside, handing the messages to Dragoon Hillman, he ordered: ‘This one’s for the officer at Dungeness, asking him to make a short signal. The other is for him to send on by one of his dragoons to the Seagate Sea Fencible Detachment. Tell the officer it’s life or death. Don’t fail!’
Hillman saluted. ‘I’ll not fail, sir.’ And he mounted up, turned his horse expertly and trotted off towards Kent.
Armstrong watched him until cloud blotted out the moonlight, then turned and strode purposefully into the signal station.
Minutes later a ma
roon rocket whooshed from the roof and sped skywards, a red streak in the gloom. Having, he hoped, captured the attention of the look-out aboard the coaster, Armstrong ordered the firing of six musket shots – the pre-arranged signal to warn Lieutenant Anson of the earliest time Égalité was expected to arrive in the vicinity.
Dillon, although more used to handling his cavalry carbine, supervised the firing and reloading of the station’s two muskets with powder and wad only. ‘It’s noise we want, boys,’ he told the two seamen, ‘and we don’t want to hurt any passing seagulls, do we now?’
There was a pause after the sixth musket shot, and then an answering rocket flew up from the coaster. It was green. Armstrong punched the air triumphantly. ‘It’s worked, they’ve got the message!’
For once, even the moon-faced midshipman was smiling. ‘Go and open a couple of bottles of that good wine, my lad. Our task is over for the time being, and I reckon we all deserve a glass or two. Damned if we don’t!’
Afloat, Anson assessed the situation with some satisfaction. The dragoon messenger’s early warning of the privateer’s appearance further west and the simple signals he and Armstrong arranged had clearly worked, proving as effective as if they had been close enough to speak.
There was plenty of time for his men to rest. A skeleton watch would suffice to hold their station and keep a look-out as best they could in the gloom.
Giving strict orders that he was to be given an immediate shake if anything occurred, he settled down himself. Tomorrow promised to be an eventful day.
43
On board Égalité, Capitaine Eugene Lapraik had ordered lookouts to sweep the horizon for sails. Two days earlier, they had fallen on an English coaster, ejected the crewmen and sent it with a prize crew with orders to head for the Normandy coast. If they dodged blockading English men-of-war successfully, he and all his men would be the richer.
This stretch of coast was his favourite hunting ground. There were rich pickings to be had from the busy coastal trade, especially whenever the wind blew strong from westward. When that happened, the English cruisers on station off Beachy Head would take shelter under Dungeness, leaving the field clear to privateers like him who could get among the struggling merchantmen and take their pick.
It was blowing now and, with a fast run eastward, Égalité would be somewhere off Hastings come first light, ready to swoop down on any unsuspecting merchantmen tacking slowly westward.
Failing that he would continue towards the Kent coast, confident that he could out-run most merchant craft heading for the shelter of the Downs. Either way he sniffed more prizes.
*
On board the Kentish Trader, a fencible lookout spotted a sail bearing west and gave the dozing officer a shake. ‘Sail, sir! Could be the Frogs!’
Awake in a jiffy, Anson reached for his glass. It was barely light, but there was no mistaking the two-masted vessel on the horizon. The large patch in her main topsail was a dead giveaway. And, as if confirmation was needed, another red maroon was fired from the Fairlight signal station, where Armstrong, too, was awake and alert, monitoring events through his own telescope.
On board the coaster, Josh Crowe supervised the raising of the kedge anchor and running up of the canvas, a simple enough task in a small vessel like this and with plenty of spare hands. ‘East, is it, sir?’ he asked.
‘East it is, Mr Crowe, and we’d best be quick about it if we’re to race the Frenchman to Seagate!’
*
Aboard the privateer, Capitaine Lapraik’s attention had been captured by the Fairlight maroon and through his glass he soon spotted the coaster that was hurriedly making sail only a mile or so away. He could clearly see the master, wearing a loose canvas smock and sou’wester.
This, he recognised, was almost certainly the small merchantman he had taken off Folkestone some time past but had been forced to abandon, with the loss of two of his men when the shore battery had found his range and put a shot through his mainsail.
Vowing to himself that his prey would not escape him again, he ordered the boy drummer to beat to quarters and the chase began, his best gunners crouching at the bow-chaser ready to put a ball across the coaster’s bows as soon as the gap was narrow enough.
*
When the dragoon messenger from Dungeness clattered into the Seagate Sea Fencible building, Fagg was well prepared and knew exactly what to do. He despatched Tom Marsh with his pony and trap to summon all members of the detachment who had not sailed with Anson, and then to seek out Lieutenant Coney of the impress.
Coney had undertaken to round up enough men to crew three fishing boats to act as cover for the gunboats as they rowed out to rendezvous with the Kentish Trader.
All went well, and it was not long before the small flotilla of fishing boats slipped out of Seagate harbour, followed by the two gunboats, one commanded by Fagg, the second by Hoover. This time they had powder and shot.
*
By the time Dungeness faded into her wake, the privateer was visibly gaining on her prey and Anson was concerned lest he might have to heave to and strike the flag flying from the coaster’s topmast before he was near enough to the reception party he had planned.
But he need not have worried. Josh Crowe knew every inch of this coast and this vessel. He needed no telling and squeezed every vestige of speed out of the Kentish Trader.
The gap was closing but Anson reasoned, correctly, that the captain of Égalité would be reluctant to sink the prize he must be confident of capturing after giving chase for a few more miles.
On they sailed, and as they neared Seagate, Anson was relieved beyond measure to see a cluster of fishing boats lying off the port. It was then that the crack of the Frenchman’s bow-chaser and the whoosh of a ball ahead decided the immediate issue. He shouted to the fencibles hiding below: ‘This is it, men. Stand by, but wait ’til they’ve boarded us.’
He turned to Crowe. ‘Strike the flag, but we’ll sail on to get as close as we can to those fishing boats.’ Crowe nodded, the flag came fluttering down, but the sails remained taut.
More valuable yards were gained before the privateer’s bow-chaser barked again and another ball splashed by. Anson shouted: ‘Haul down, but lubberly – we need every yard we can make.’
The sails came down slowly and slovenly. The Kentish Trader gradually lost way and Égalité approached, backed her foretopsail, drifted closer, and bumped alongside. Grappling hooks were flung across and half a dozen armed Frenchmen leapt aboard.
From apparent docile acceptance of capture, in an instant the demeanour of the coaster’s fencible crewmen changed dramatically. They produced pistols from their smocks, and Anson shouted to the men waiting below: ‘Now, boys!’
The hidden fencibles erupted on deck, relieved to be free from confinement, and raring to have a go at the Frenchmen.
It took only minutes for them to overwhelm and disarm the small boarding party and cut the grappling hook ropes, freeing the Kentish Trader to yaw away from the privateer. As this was happening, and as if on cue, the first fencible gunboat appeared from behind the fishing boats.
It was Fagg, in the number one boat with Sampson Marsh at the carronade, who was first to manoeuvre into a position to get in a shot. Shouting to the rowers to hold her steady, he struggled to line up the gun.
But this was easier said than done. Despite the flattened oars acting as a brake, the swell and the breeze buffeted the boat this way and that. And, on board Égalité, some of the Frenchmen had woken up to the danger and a few armed with muskets were running to the side, kneeling and taking aim.
A crack, and the first musket ball whined overhead. Sampson silently thanked his maker. It was just as difficult for the Frenchmen to aim true in this sea as it was for the gunboat crews.
The number one boat was hit by a wave and turned sideways on to the privateer, provoking Fagg to shout: ‘Stop fannying abaht and keep this effing canoe steady! Ain’t you lot never rowed a’ effin’ boat afore?’
Whether by luck or judgement, somehow the rowers did what was demanded of them, and for a few seconds Égalité’s prow swung into Marsh’s view, in line with the gun.
It was enough. He shouted: ‘Fire!’ and the carronade erupted with a terrific shock that flung it back on its slide.
The recoil sent Sampson and the nearest oarsman sprawling, and for a moment he was unsighted and confused, the blood from the splinter slash pouring from his cheek.
But a ragged cheer from Fagg and the unaffected rowers nearest the stern told him what he so desperately wanted to know. The ball had struck the privateer to the starboard side of her bowsprit, leaving a gaping hole and sending a swarm of splinters on their deadly path, delivering mayhem and death. The biter bit.
Sampson knew only too well what devastation a carronade ball like that could cause when fired from such close range. It would have sent timber splinters flying like daggers, felling men as if they were mere skittles in an alley.
For the minute, the crew of Fagg’s gunboat were as if frozen, stunned by the detonation, but the French marksmen were not and a ragged volley of musket balls screeched in, lower now, and one or two struck the woodwork.
Fagg woke to the danger. ‘Heads down an’ row like ’ell!’ The gunboat had already swung away from the privateer, and, as the oars bit again, he pulled the tiller over and headed for the coaster where fencibles could be seen restraining the captured Frenchmen.
If Fagg’s boat could get behind the bait, they would be comparatively safe. The privateer captain would not risk firing at her when half a dozen of his own men were prisoners on deck. And, if they could get alongside, the number one gunboat crew would be well placed to use the coaster as a bridge to attack Égalité herself.
