[Lieutenant Oliver Anson 02] - Strike the Red Flag

by David McDine

  Travel and communications in the late 18th century were primitive by today’s high-speed standards. Journeys that now take a few hours could take days on horseback or by coach. And although the navy’s shutter telegraph signalling system could convey brief messages from Portsmouth and Chatham to the Admiralty in London and vice versa in minutes, at times of crisis like this it was sometimes necessary to send the full back-up paperwork. Indeed, would-be mutineers refused to accept assurances that literally came “though the air” rather than on paper.

  That is the premise for Lieutenant Oliver Anson’s exhausting journeys against the clock as the dramas of the mutinies were played out. Between London and Portsmouth he wisely chose the fastest and most reliable means of travel, the Royal Mail coaches which averaged speeds of up to ten miles an hour, some believing that anything above that might cause fainting or even death.

  Grateful thanks are due to Tracy-Leon Barham Esquire and Colonel Robert Murfin for their expert advice on the mail coaches and weaponry of the day, and to jazz trombonist Sean Maple for hints on producing a blast from the post horn.

  Although, like much of this story, the defection of HMS Euphemus from the mutinous fleet at the Nore is fictitious, it closely resembles actual events that led to the collapse of the mutiny. A few of the characters mentioned, including the flag officers at Spithead and the Nore – and of course the mutineer Richard Parker – existed, but their dealings with Anson are of course imagined.

  Lieutenant Anson sails again in The Normandy Privateer, the opening chapter of which follows here:

  The Normandy Privateer

  Chapter 1

  Sparks flew and the screech of tortured metal set teeth on edge. There was a brief respite as armourer’s mate Abel Grist raised the cutlass from his grinding wheel and tested the edge with his leathery thumb.

  Watching sailors and marines waited expectantly. But Grist shook his head. In his expert opinion, the blade was not yet sharp enough to disembowel a Frenchman. So he pressed the metal to the grindstone and worked the foot-pedal again.

  The on-lookers winced as another stream of sparks spewed forth.

  There was nothing like a boat action in the offing to encourage all involved to seek a keen edge to bayonets, cutlasses, half pikes and boarding axes. And the horny-handed armourer’s mate was happy to oblige them.

  But in a wooden-walled frigate, with a magazine full of powder, this was a job for the open deck. Not the best workspace with a strong westerly breeze ruffling Grist’s straggly greying hair.

  A few more turns and he took his hand from the wheel to brush away a wisp from his eyes and test the blade again.

  Finally satisfied, he handed the cutlass to a waiting seaman who accepted it gingerly and ran his own thumb down the blade.

  ‘You reckon ’tis sharp enough then, Abel?’

  Grist sneered gap-toothed at the doubter and growled: ‘Give it back ’ere.’

  Grabbing it, he held one of his own side whiskers – known in the service as buggers’ grips – across the blade and snipped it in two with a flick of his wrist.

  Then, smirking happily at this proof of his expertise, he handed the cutlass back and told his audience: ‘You could shave a dozy mouse with that and the little bleeder wouldn’t wake up!’

  *

  Attached to the squadron blockading the port of Le Havre, the frigate HMS Phryne had been firmly under the scrutiny of the admiral for some weeks. So, to avoid the danger of missing an order or summons, the captain had despatched a midshipman assumed guilty of being behind a series of annoying gunroom pranks into the rigging with a glass to keep an eye out for flag signals.

  After many an hour of boredom the youngster almost fell from his lofty perch when he spotted the frigate’s number being run up, summoning his captain on board the flagship.

  George Phillips, captain of Phryne, called for his coxswain and his steward hurried him into his best uniform as the barge was being lowered.

  A proud Welshman from Pembrokeshire with prematurely iron-grey hair, a florid complexion hinting at his enjoyment of good brandy, and the beginnings of a paunch due to lack of exercise rather than fine dining, he clambered a trifle clumsily down into the boat, nodding to the coxswain who growled: ‘Dip oars.’

  As he was rowed across through a slight swell, Phillips pondered possible reasons for the summons. Some misdemeanour, missed instruction or perceived laggardly station-holding perhaps? Always possible causes for a dressing-down on blockade duty.

  But no, Vice Admiral Sir Ethelbert Leng was no nit-picker. More than likely this would mean orders for a brief detachment to carry out some task or other – normal use of a frigate – and Phryne was known for being the speediest in the squadron.

  Piped over the side and greeted with all the formality due to a post captain, Phillips was escorted straight to the admiral’s extensive quarters, aft on the upper deck.

  ‘Come in, my boy.’ Leng gripped his hand warmly and bade him sit. His captains were all ‘my boys’ to him although he was only a few years older than most of them.

  ‘You’ll take a glass of something?’ Phillips suspected he needed to keep a clear head for whatever was to come, but welcomed a brandy, telling himself that it would be prudent to sip rather than his usual gulp – and to decline refills if offered.

  Perhaps in part because of his diminutive stature and his years of being overlooked in favour of larger boys at school and later as a midshipman, the admiral had applied himself assiduously, climbed the ranks, led like his contemporary Nelson in a number of daring actions – although unlike him had managed to retain all his body parts – and now clearly enjoyed playing head boy at sea.

  Small wonder, the one-time schoolboy fag and dogsbody was now God to all in his world, saving only his superiors at the Admiralty. But out of earshot among his fellow officers throughout the navy, his rapid rise and still youthful looks had earned him the affectionate nickname of the Boy Wonder. If he knew of it he no doubt considered it a mite less embarrassing than Ethel, the inevitable nickname of his schooldays for a small weedy boy cruelly christened Ethelbert.

  Phillips stole a glance around the admiral’s apartment – luxurious and enormous compared to his own not insignificant quarters in the frigate, but then everything in his world appeared miniscule compared to a ship of the line. ‘Perhaps one day …’ he told himself.

  After a few pleasantries and enquiries as to the state of Phryne, the admiral got quickly down to brass tacks, as was his wont. He indicated a chart of the Normandy coast laid out on his desk and unclasped his hands to indicate a point that Phillips took to be somewhere to the north.

  ‘I have a task for you, my boy. You’re to be let out of school, as it were – off the hook, eh?’

  Phillips was relieved. He had been right – there was no misdemeanour to be chastised, but there was a chance to break the monotony of the present service.

  Leng took a swig of his brandy and motioned his steward to replenish his visitors’ already near empty glass. ‘None of us enjoy blockade duty, do we? But just occasionally I get a chance to give one of my frigate boys a few days off …’

  ‘Most grateful, sir. Should I make notes?’ The steward approached, rolling slightly with the swell, and somewhat reluctantly Phillips waved away the flat-bottomed decanter.

  The admiral appeared not to have noted the abstemious gesture and shook his head. ‘Notes? No need. You’ll have written orders. Now, draw up your chair and take a closer look at the chart.’ They both pulled up closer to the desk and Leng pointed out the small harbour of St Valery-en-Caux nestling in a break in the otherwise sheer Normandy cliffs to the north.

  ‘Caux means chalk, you know,’ he explained. ‘You only have to see the cliffs to know that there’s plenty of it in Normandy. In normal times this St Valery is merely a tin-pot fishing port and boatyard. But, of course, in wartime any usable harbour with repair facilities on the Channel coast has been pressed into military service and is deserving of our at
tention.’

  Phillips nodded. ‘I know the coast there, sir. So, may I ask if this St Valery is now of particular interest?’

  ‘It is indeed. As of this very morning I have reliable intelligence indicating that a most troublesome French privateer is lurking there.’

  Phillips was all attention. Armed vessels of that kind, owned and officered by private persons, were given commissions, known as letters of marque, from the French government to prey on British merchant shipping. And the Royal Navy regarded them as little better than licensed pirates.

  The admiral tapped a document on his desk. ‘A royalist sympathiser, already known to us, came on board from a fishing boat at first light with a first-hand report claiming that this particular privateer has been putting to sea once or twice a month with a large crew to cruise off Hampshire, Sussex and Kent intent on seizing small unarmed coastal vessels—’

  ‘What type of vessel is it, sir?’

  ‘We don’t know exactly – our royalist friend is a landsman after all. But from what he tells us she’s two-masted, mounting up to a dozen guns and well manned.’

  ‘What we might call a gun brig, sir?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. If so, she’ll have a shallow draught and won’t be too stable in the open sea but’ll be fast and manoeuvrable enough to overtake and overwhelm easy prey around the Channel coast.’

  Phillips got the picture. Such a raider could fairly easily avoid British men-of-war and a shot from one of her guns across the deck of a coaster would invariably be enough to convince the skipper that immediate surrender was not only wise but inevitable.

  The familiar pattern in such cases would be that once the attackers had boarded, anyone who resisted would either be killed or thrown overboard. Those who cooperated would be allowed to make their way ashore by dinghy or makeshift raft.

  The fact that the brig was heavily manned meant that a prize crew could be put on board the captured coaster to sail it to one of the Normandy ports, leaving the privateer to continue the hunt. These predators were a menace, deeply damaging to British coastal commerce.

  All this was well known to those who had sailed the Channel in these post-revolution years. The admiral did not need to elucidate further.

  ‘Do we know the name of this privateer, sir?’

  ‘We do indeed. She rejoices in the suitably revolutionary name of Égalité, and in the past few weeks St Valery’s shipwrights, carpenters and riggers have been helping the crew make good some minor storm damage. According to our informer the victuallers are even now busy replenishing her and in a few days she’ll be ready for the next foray along the English coast’.

  ‘But you have other plans for her, sir?’

  The admiral smiled broadly. ‘Indeed I do! And that, my dear boy, is where you and Phryne come in … and I need hardly remind you that if you cut her out successfully there will be a favourable mention in the Gazette – and prize money.’

  This time Captain Phillips did not wave the decanter away.

  *

  Back on board Phryne, Phillips called for the master, first lieutenant and lieutenant of marines to outline the mission and formulate plans.

  Brandishing his written orders, he told them: ‘We’re to look into the harbour of St Valery-en-Caux and …’ He screwed up his eyes and recited: ‘... and taking all measures consistent with the safety of your, that is my, ship, destroy or cut out the privateer currently reported to be under repair there … etcetera, utmost despatch … etcetera, etcetera. You get the picture?’

  They got the picture – and throughout the day the frigate had headed north and then east along the Normandy coast towards Dieppe.

  The opportunity to escape the boring routine of blockade had come as a welcome relief. Every frigate captain – and all those who served under him – aspired to be well out from under the penetrating gaze of the flagship and to be given an opportunity to cruise independently, with a chance of winning glory and capturing prizes. Preferably both.

  This was a specific mission rather than a freelance hunting expedition. But, as the admiral had indicated, the possibility of reward was strong.

  Once away from the squadron, the captain’s sense of freedom was shared by everyone on board, from the quarterdeck to the lowliest newly-pressed landsman.

  And although only those the captain had summoned yet knew in any detail where they were bound or why, there was a buzz unknown in the confined atmosphere of blockade duty. For the few members of the ship’s company who had ever attended one, it was indeed like being let out of school early.

  *

  Night was falling as the ship passed the small fishing town of Étretat, framed by its strange door-like cliff formations – unmistakeable landmarks for mariners.

  There was little need for caution. Without her tell-tale white ensign, Phryne was instead falsely flying a French tricolour at the masthead – an acceptable ruse de guerre.

  It was hoped coast-watchers and gunners manning shore batteries would assume the 32-gun frigate to be French, as indeed she was. She had struck her colours two years earlier to a superior British force in the Mediterranean and been duly pressed into King George’s service.

  In inky darkness just before the end of the middle watch the prevailing westerlies brought Phryne close to her destination.

  Men who spent much of their waking hours moaning and muttering about their lot were cheerful enough now. And orders cascaded throughout the ship to prepare for a possible cutting-out raid heightened the level of excitement.

  So many seamen volunteered to man the boats that lots had to be drawn. Those who pulled marked wooden chips from a leathern bucket appeared cheerful, if a little thoughtful.

  Those whose tokens were blank affected huge disappointment in front of their shipmates, but some were privately relieved – a foray on a hostile, reputedly heavily-defended, shore was a daunting prospect. In any case, all would share the prize money whether or not they were chosen for the boat parties.

  Of the men selected, those who could, slept. But by midnight, start of the middle watch, all were wide awake and already preparing for action.

  The raiding parties were fed, blackened one another’s faces with some hilarity, and confided in their pigtail mates how their possessions were to be disbursed should they fail to return. And for once most had money they had not yet had a chance to waste on strong drink and weak women.

  Before joining the Le Havre blockade Phryne had done well for prize money on a cruise along the northern Mediterranean coast, taking several rich French merchantmen and sending them into Gibraltar with prize crews aboard.

  The second lieutenant, Oliver Anson, who was to command one of the boats on the raid, had himself taken in a coaster with a cargo of leather goods worth a good deal of money, and before sailing he had drawn 20 guineas of his entitlement in gold from the prize agent on the Rock.

  Now, as they sailed along the Normandy coast, he took an old, well-worn uniform jacket from his sea chest and busied himself unstitching some of the seams. The task completed, he secreted guinea and half guinea coins in the gaps in the lining and set about sewing them up again.

  It would not make sense to risk damaging his best white-lapelled blue coat, white waistcoat, breeches and stockings on a mission like this; the old jacket and a scruffy pair of trousers better suited to a tramp would suffice.

  Lieutenant McKenzie of the marines watched the needlework fascinated, remarking to Anson: ‘As a Scot I commend your prudence, but your money will be safe enough on board, y’know.’

  Anson grinned. ‘Good point. But where I go, it goes.’

  ‘So you are by way of thinking that if the raid goes wrong you’ll be able to pay your way home, eh?’

  Anson nodded: ‘Something like that.’

  *

  Captain Phillips had spent the earlier part of the night with the master, somewhat anxiously checking and re-checking the frigate’s position. Josiah Tutt, the affable, grizzled senior warrant off
icer whose job it was to supervise the vessel’s pilotage, was an old Channel hand and had already consulted his charts, books and pilot notes.

  ‘What do’you know of this St Valery, Mr Tutt?’

  ‘Well sir, it appears there’s tidal streams that run across the entrance at something like two-and-a-half knots on the flood and a little less on the ebb.’

  Phillips shrugged. ‘That shouldn’t trouble our boat crews too much?’

  Tutt checked his notes. ‘The tidal streams are somewhat complicated on the flood because there’s a counter-current, but part of the eddy runs into the harbour. So no, well-oared and heavily laden, our boats shouldn’t have a problem. Well, leastways, not with the currents.’

  ‘What about towing the privateer out?’

  ‘That’ll have to be on the ebb.’

  ‘And high tide is …?’

  The master consulted his tables. ‘Just after dawn, sir.’

  ‘Perfect. So if we get our timing right and all goes well, the boats will be able to land the men high up on the slipway and have a little help from the eddy when they row into the harbour?’

  ‘Exactly, sir – and it should help them getting out on the ebb.’

  Phillips was satisfied it could be done. ‘Capital. Now, master, just make sure the officers and coxswains know about this tidal stuff. Timing will be of the essence.’

  He had not needed to spell that out. If the boats were lowered away too early there would be too far to row before dawn. Too late, and they would miss high tide and most certainly be spotted by watchers ashore. And the cutting-out party could only rely on having an hour either side of high tide during which they could be certain there would be sufficient depth to tow the privateer out of the inner harbour.

  *

  As the middle watch ended at four o’clock the boat parties were called to the main gun-deck to be briefed on the mission.