The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

  Sampson Marsh had no chance of reloading the gun without help in this choppy sea. So for the moment, he knew, his job was done and well done at that. He grabbed a half pike – gunner turned boarder.

  The three fishing boats apparently awaiting capture were ignored by the French. Capitaine Lapraik was busy sorting out the shambles on Égalité’s gun-deck, urging his surviving gunners to get a clear aim at the gunboat. At the same time, he was preparing to grapple with the coaster again and send more boarders across to secure the prize. Too busy to take account of surrendering fishermen, it was his biggest mistake.

  The second gunboat suddenly emerged from behind the fishing boats, oarsmen rowing furiously toward the larboard side of Égalité.

  As the Frenchmen began their second attempt to secure the coaster, Hoover’s boat clattered against their larboard side, and grappling irons were thrown aboard.

  The French captain looked around, confused. Too late, he realised something was terribly wrong as a dozen fencibles swarmed on board led by Hoover, musket aloft, shouting: ‘Follow me!’

  Capitaine Lapraik took in what was happening and screamed orders to the men who had been firing at the first gunboat to turn and fire on the boarders. But other crewmen had snatched up weapons and were closing with the fencibles, preventing their comrades from firing.

  For a few moments, a hand-to-hand battle raged and it seemed that the boarders would be thrown back into the sea. But now more fencibles led by Anson were preparing to swarm aboard from the coaster and the Frenchmen were about to be hard pressed on two fronts.

  All eyes were on the fight and no one noticed more grappling hooks being thrown over the rails. Fagg’s gunboat had arrived.

  The hooks held fast, and the gunboat graunched against the brig. Fagg leaned forward, jumped for the privateer and pulled himself over with the aid of one of the ropes. He stumbled and fell face down on the deck, but was pulled roughly to his feet by Marsh, who had followed close on his heels.

  A terrific din, shouting and clash of weapons came from the larboard side, but no-one confronted Anson, and more members of the Kentish Trader’s temporary crew, looking at their most piratical with cutlasses, pikes and tomahawks at the ready, joined him.

  He threw off his smock and sou’wester, drew his sword and held it high. ‘Together now, boys!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s show these Frogs what’s what!’ And waving his sword he yelled: ‘Charge!’

  Cheering wildly, they followed him into a headlong assault on the Frenchmen who, stepping over dead and wounded comrades, were still desperately holding the earlier boarders at bay.

  Capitaine Lapraik, alone on his quarterdeck, heard the yells and turned in horror to see this second wave assaulting his men from the rear. Worse, what he had thought were impotent fishing boats were now closing in, bristling with armed men – Coney, his impress men, and volunteers he had gathered from the Folkestone detachment.

  Impotent, Lapraik stared wild-eyed, wondering what to do. He failed to notice that Hoover had broken away from the melee until the marine appeared at his side, bayonet-topped musket pointing at his gut.

  There was nothing for it but to raise his hands in surrender.

  Anson had pushed his way towards them and, anxious to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, appealed to the Frenchman to call upon his men to lay down their arms.

  Capitaine Lapraik paused for a moment, then nodded. Cupping his hand to his mouth he shouted: ‘Garçons, nous sommes perdu. Déposez les armes!’

  And Anson called out to the fencibles: ‘Enough men! The ship is ours. No more bloodshed.’

  At first a few, and then more and more of the Frenchmen threw down their weapons and stood warily eyeing the fencibles who now surrounded them.

  ‘Pick up their weapons, men, and guard them well!’

  Anson approached the French captain, who bowed slightly and offered his sword, hilt-first. Taking it, Anson looked the man in the eye, acknowledging the gesture with a nod – glad that more lives would not be lost in a futile fight to the finish.

  He pointed the blade towards the deck, paused for a heartbeat or two and then slowly and carefully took it in his left hand and offered the hilt back to his adversary.

  The Frenchman appeared almost overcome, and gratefully took the sword and sheathed it. ‘Merci Monsieur, vous êtes très gentil.’

  ‘C’est rien.’ Anson shrugged. He was not interested in collecting trophies. It was enough that the privateer had been taken without further bloodshed.

  There was an awkward silence between victor and vanquished, broken by a shout from starboard. ‘On deck there! Has she struck?’

  It was Captain Hoare, rowed out in a borrowed boat by a few of the fencibles who, for whatever reason, had not been at the rendezvous when the alarm was raised and had missed the fight.

  He clambered aboard, sword in hand, and took in the scene. ‘Struck, has he?’ indicating the French captain.

  Anson nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all done and dusted.’

  Hoare grinned smugly, but his expression turned to one of astonishment when he noticed the French captain still had his sword. ‘Bloody hell, Anson!’ he roared. ‘The wretched man’s still got his sword! Whatever were you thinking?’

  He pointed his own blade at the Frenchman’s throat and shouted. ‘Your sword, monsieur, immediatement!’

  Capitaine Lapraik shot a dismayed look at Anson, who could only shrug and mouth ‘pardon,’ and, realising that he was now confronted by a senior officer, the Frenchman bowed to the inevitable, drew his sword, and handed it to the newcomer.

  44

  Back ashore, Captain Hoare quizzed Anson in detail about the operation and when he had heard all he sat back and folded his arms. ‘Hmm. All very risky, was it not?’

  ‘Surely war involves risk, sir?’

  ‘Of course, of course. But you took risks that, had things gone wrong, would have impacted on me.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow, sir—’

  Clearly irritated, Hoare rubbed his chin and frowned. ‘Follow is what you are supposed to do. Follow me, as your superior officer. Not go dashing off risking all on such a foolhardy venture without clearing it in detail with me.’

  It was Anson who was irritated now. ‘But I did inform you of my plan, sir, and I cannot agree that it was foolhardy. It worked, did it not?’

  ‘Do not presume to try my patience, Anson. You know damned well that your message informing me what of you were about would reach me after you had set off. You knew perfectly well that I could not call the whole thing off because you had already sailed. Covering your tracks after the event, why, it’s the oldest trick in the navy!’

  Anson said nothing. He had expected his superior to be somewhat miffed, but was nevertheless surprised that the total success of the operation had not mellowed him.

  The captain wagged a finger at him. ‘I, as captain of this division, must now report to their Lordships on what has occurred.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘You must realise that had it gone wrong, if you had lost men, or worse, lost the coaster or even these gunboats Home Popham sets such great store by – if any of this had transpired, it would be I, yes me, who would be grovelling to the Admiralty, apologising for your cock-up. It would be me who would be facing a court martial—’

  ‘Assuming I had been killed, sir—’

  Hoare shook his head violently. ‘No, no! It would be me who would have carried the can. Their Lordships would not have believed I had not agreed to the operation. And, even if they did believe that I did not know of it until after you had set off, they would have marked my card for failing to exert proper command and allowing my subordinates to do as they please. I would have been ruined Anson, ruined! I would have been drummed out or at very least have ended up permanently on the beach, losing my honour – everything.’

  Anson accepted the captain had something of a point. ‘But I, er we won, did we not, sir? So none of this worst-case stuff will actually apply …�
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  Hoare nodded slowly, emphasising his agreement, his pudgy frowning features dissolving into a sarcastic smile.

  ‘Exactly Anson, exactly. As you so generously point out, our operation, though undoubtedly risky, was in the event a complete success. If we had lost there is no doubt whatsoever that the blame would have been laid at my door. One loses some, and wins some.’ He raised his hands in an expansive, told-you-so, gesture.

  ‘So now, my dear Anson, many times removed kin of the Anson, it will not surprise you that I will take the credit for this little win. It will compensate somewhat for the loneliness of command that one has to endure, and for the sleepless night you gave me when you sailed off on your little adventure without deigning to obtain my blessing first.’

  Anson shrugged resignedly. He had not expected plaudits and laurel wreaths from this quarter.

  Hoare reassured him: ‘Of course you will receive an honourable mention – and your due share of the prize money I intend to wring from their Lordships from the sale of Égalité.’

  ‘Prize money? D’you really think …?’

  The captain had already guesstimated the value of the privateer. An eighth would go to the flag officer, and as, in effect, captain of the ship, Hoare himself would be due two-eighths, which should do more than top up his coffers.

  He smirked at the thought. ‘I’ve not yet come across a flag officer who would turn down the chance of an eighth of anything, so the admiral will most certainly support my claim. Your share should amount to a useful sum, Anson, although you’ll be sharing with Coney of course, and your harbour rats will get more than enough for a giant piss-up. So everyone will be happy.’

  It would certainly be a huge boost to the already sky-high morale of the men, Anson acknowledged. ‘Thank you, sir. If it comes, I’ve no doubt the money will be most welcome. Do you require my help with your report?’

  ‘I think not, Anson. I know enough of the affair, and, of course, it was I who accepted the French captain’s surrender.’

  ‘Dishonourably took his sword long after I had returned it when the Frenchman struck his colours to me,’ thought Anson. But he was not inclined to debate the matter further. Hoare would write whatever he wanted to write, and Anson could already guess that version would paint his superior as the true begetter of the action – and the victor. So what? All those who mattered were those who were there, and they knew the reality.

  ‘Then if you have no further need of me, I have wounded to see to and the French prisoners to hand over to the military.’

  ‘By all means look to your men, Anson, but leave the prisoners to me. I have sent to Shorncliffe for an escort and will hand them over personally.’

  Aye, and no doubt act the part of the conquering hero, thought Anson. But he held his peace, touched his hat and strode off along the Stade.

  *

  The wounded had been taken to a nearby pub, where the lightly injured were seated, being fussed over by their mates and a couple of wives.

  Three of the more seriously hurt were laid out on tables. Crouched over one was Phineas Shrubb, and, to Anson’s surprise, the apothecary’s daughter Sarah was with him, scissors in hand cutting away at the wounded man’s trousers.

  Shrubb looked up when Anson entered. ‘He’s taken a musket or pistol shot in the thigh – pistol most likely.’ He drew a gasp of pain from the man as he levered his leg up to peer underneath. ‘You’re a lucky man, brother. The ball went in, missed your bones and came out of this hole at the back. Very lucky. If it had splintered your bone I’d be reaching for a saw to take your leg off. As it is, we’ll clean you up and stitch you up. You’ll need to stay off it for a while and it’ll smart somewhat, but you’ll be almost as good as new.’

  He turned to Sarah. ‘Probe it to make sure no bits of those filthy trousers are stuck in the wound, douse it with spirits and sew him up.’

  She nodded and picked up a large pair of tweezers. The wounded man blanched and, catching Sarah’s concerned look, Anson stepped forward. ‘Hobbs, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. An’ I can tell you I don’t feel very lucky like the doc just said I were.’

  ‘You’d know all about it if Mr Shrubb was taking your leg off. You’ve just got to bear up for a little bit longer, Hobbs. They have to make sure the wound’s clean before it’s stitched.’

  Shrubb agreed. ‘There’s many a seaman’s lost a limb all because a bit of his clothing was carried into the wound by a ball.’

  Sarah sat beside the wounded man, tweezers at the ready.

  And Fagg told Hobbs, reassuringly: ‘This won’t ’alf make yer eyes water.’

  Hobbs grunted two words through gritted teeth of which only the ‘off’ was audible.

  ‘Good man!’ said Anson. ‘Just try to stay still while Miss Shrubb here fishes for anything that shouldn’t be there.’

  ‘Do me best, sir.’

  Phineas handed the wounded man a leather mouthpiece. ‘Here, bite on this, and you two … hold him down. The wounded man’s younger brother and one of his mates took hold of his hands and shoulders as he bit on the leather, and Sarah wiped his face gently with a damp cloth and began her probing.

  Shrubb turned to his next patient, who was clutching a blood-soaked cloth to his face. Pulling it carefully aside he revealed a long open slash wound from temple to jaw. ‘Very nice and clean. All you’ll need is a bit of needlework and you’ll be almost as handsome as ever.’

  Tom Hogben forced a painful smile and clutched the bloody cloth to his wound again.

  ‘My Sarah will sort you out soon as she’s finished digging for the rest of Joe Hobbs’ trousers. There’s no-one so quick and neat with a needle and thread.’

  Ned Heale had taken a cutlass blow to his right shoulder, and another blow had severed two fingers from his left hand, which had already been bandaged and was being held up by his mate to avoid further loss of blood.

  Shrubb carefully pulled off Heale’s coat, which fortunately for him had blunted the blow somewhat. He revealed a bloody welt and what promised to develop into impressive bruising.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ Shrubb decided. ‘We’ll bandage that and strap you up. You should be good as new in a couple of weeks.’

  Fagg queried: ‘Gonna be a bit tricky for ’im to eat and such with both his arms in slings, ain’t it Phineas?’

  ‘True enough,’ Shrubb agreed, telling Heale: ‘You’ll know who your real friends are in a day or two. Pity we can’t sew your fingers back on for you, but I doubt that’d ever be possible in our lifetime, even supposing we could find ’em.’

  Anson asked: ‘Are you married Heale?’

  ‘Dear me no, sir, but me muvver’s a widder an’ she’ll look arter me.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ confirmed his mate. ‘I’ve sent fer her and she’ll be ’ere presently I ’spect.’

  Indicating Heale’s hand, Anson sympathised. ‘Very sorry that you’ve lost two of your fingers. Damned shame that. But we’ll make sure you are looked after until you’re fit enough to work again.’

  Heale was philosophic. ‘Could ’ave bin wuss, sir. Could ’ave bin me Saturday night finger. Now that would’ve bin ockered!’

  Anson smiled, and he looked across at Sarah, now busily stitching Hobbs’ leg, to see that her face, too, bore the merest ghost of a smile. For a strictly brought-up Baptist girl, she clearly knew more than most about the ways of the world.

  Confident that the wounded were in good hands, Anson signalled Fagg to follow him and they left the pub and headed for the Bayle.

  On the way, he told the bosun: ‘We’ve been incredibly lucky. Only three men anything like badly hurt and all three likely to make a good recovery, and Sampson Marsh’s cut’s not too bad at all. The rest, well, scratches, bruises and bumps – that’s it.’

  Fagg agreed. ‘If we ’adn’t caught them Froggies by surprise like, and if more of ’em ’ad loaded their muskets and whatnot it could’ve bin annuver story altogether.’

  As they
made their way up the steep and winding High Street, shopkeepers and their customers stopped what they were doing to turn and stare. Everyone in the town now knew who these men were. Every inhabitant must have heard gunfire, and already the word was spreading about what would no doubt soon become known as the Battle of Seagate.

  An aproned baker came to the doorway of his shop and called out: ‘Beaten the Frogs ’ave you, gents?’

  Anson touched his hat. ‘Aye, you might say your Sea Fencibles have given them a bit of a drubbing.’

  ‘Good on you, sir. Tryin’ to invade was they?’

  ‘Not quite. Just a bit of piracy.’

  And Fagg threw in: ‘We give ’em a bloody nose orlright. That lot won’t bovver us no more.’

  By the time they reached the fencible building, they were being followed by a small crowd of well-wishing information-seekers who were becoming increasingly difficult to fob off.

  Outside the battery, a familiar figure was in conversation with the mayor and assorted portly town worthies. Anson groaned: ‘I feared as much. Captain Hoare is already reporting his great victory …’

  Fagg made to comment but was stopped with a glare from Anson. It was the duty of a petty officer to acquire selective deafness whenever his superior said something insubordinate about one of his superiors.

  Hoare was showing the mayor a sword. It did not require a genius to work out that this must be the one Anson had returned to the French captain, only for Hoare to snatch it back, together with his honour.

  As Anson and Fagg approached, Hoare was holding forth. ‘The very blade gentlemen, the very blade, no doubt encrusted with the blood of innocent English seafarers – the very blade that damned rascally Frenchman surrendered to me not an hour since!’

  ‘Well done, sir, well done indeed!’ the mayor exclaimed to assorted ‘hear, hears’ and ‘well saids’ from his fellow townsmen.

  ‘Merely doing my duty, gentlemen. Pleased to have made this stretch of coast a little safer. One less piratical Frenchmen to interfere with trade, eh?’

  Hoare spotted Anson approaching but appeared in no way fazed. With apparent generosity he told the assembled townsmen: ‘Lieutenant Anson, here, played his part too gentlemen. As did all your Seagate men serving with my Sea Fencibles. Spilt a drop or two of blood, did some. But no permanent damage done, eh Anson?’