[Lieutenant Oliver Anson 02] - Strike the Red Flag

by David McDine

  Stumbling about in the flickering lantern light they joshed and ribbed one another to break the tension and hide jittery nerves until bosun Taylor’s bark silenced them: ‘Cap’n present!’

  Phillips made his way to one of the 18-pounders, put a foot on the gun carriage and leaned back against the barrel. A lantern swinging nearby lit his face intermittently as he readied himself for the exhortation expected of him.

  Every man’s eyes were on him and only the slaps of the waves and creaks and squeaks of the ship’s timbers broke the silence.

  ‘Well, boys …’ He looked slowly around the expectant faces. They were his boys at a moment like this, men on more formal occasions, and lubbers when they got it wrong or when the loneliness of command soured him. ‘Yes, my brave boys, at last we’ve a chance to strike a blow for old England!’

  He paused to allow them a ragged cheer and smiled good-naturedly on hearing an unmistakeably fellow-Welshman at the back ask: ‘And Wales too, eh sir?’

  ‘Most certainly for Wales, boy. And Scotland and Ireland too!’ He knew the Paddies and Scots, who hated being lumped in with the English, would like that.

  The buzz of laughter was cut short by the bosun tapping his rattan cane on the cannon and the captain’s upheld hand. ‘Now this is serious, boys. There’s a privateer lurking in the harbour of a place called St Valery—’

  ‘Saint ’oo?’ queried a voice from the gloom.

  Bosun Taylor banged his cane fiercely and shrilled: ‘Hold yer tongue when the cap’n’s speaking!’

  Phillips smiled benevolently. He knew how to work his audience. ‘For the benefit of that man who’s obviously spent too much time working the guns and has addled his hearing, the port is Saint Valery …’

  His riposte provoked nervous laughter and he paused for effect.

  ‘Yes lads, it’s a place called St Valery-en-Caux. That’s where we’re bound. This poxy privateer’s been causing mayhem on our coast, capturing unarmed merchantmen and feeding their crews to the fishes. Now he’s holed up and we’ve a chance to give these cowardly Frogs some of their own medicine.’

  He looked round at the sea of expectant faces picked out intermittently by the swinging lantern. ‘So, we’re going to cut this privateer out. Are you up for it, lads?’

  A chorus of muted cheers and ‘aye ayes’ greeted his call to arms.

  And there were more cheers, and louder, when he added: ‘If we pull this off there’ll be prize money, boys – and likely there’ll be lots of it!’

  In his case there most certainly would be plenty – thanks to the Admiralty’s patently unfair system of doling out the proceeds from the sale of a captured enemy vessel. It would be divided into eighths and then shared out according to rank rather than risk.

  Sceptics could well have queried the fairness of a scale dictating that in a case such as this the admiral commanding the fleet would receive an eighth although hundreds of miles away from the shot, smoke, blood and guts. The captain’s share was to be two eighths, although in this instance he would be remaining on board the Phryne. And a lucky captain could make thousands.

  Fair enough that the next ranking officers would share an eighth and the two levels further down the food chain would also each split an eighth.

  Less acceptable, in some lower deck eyes, was that the lowliest seaman or marine risking his life on a dicey raid would receive a mere fraction of the rest of the ship’s company share of two eighths. Divided so many times over, it was often barely enough for a good run ashore.

  But if there were any such sceptics aboard they wisely held their peace in public, saving their muttering for their hammocks.

  Phillips was not one for long speeches. ‘Now, listen up to the first lieutenant who’ll tell you what you’re to do, boys. I’d like to be with you, but someone’s got to mind the shop while you’re enjoying your run ashore …’ He paused to let the nervous laughter subside and added: ‘I know you’ll do your duty.’

  Every member of the cutting-out party knew the captain meant what he said. He had proved himself to them often enough.

  They nodded and muttered their assent and Phillips strode away, back to his charts.

  *

  For Lieutenant John Howard the raid was a golden opportunity, and his eagerness to crack on was infectious.

  In allowing him to lead the expedition, the captain of the Phryne was doing his first lieutenant a supreme favour. Success could mean an honourable mention in the Gazette and almost instant promotion, not to mention a decent share of the prize money the privateer would fetch once safely alongside in Portsmouth or Chatham.

  Certainly failure could mean death, maiming, or kicking his heels as a prisoner of the French until he could be exchanged. But the rare opportunity for advancement outweighed the risks and any naval officer worth his salt would have been eager to lead the raid. Howard, scion of a noble family, was no exception.

  Supported by McKenzie of the marines, Lieutenant Anson and young Midshipmen Lampard and Foxe, he briefed the boat parties on what lay ahead.

  The three boats would be launched two hours before dawn, and, with extra boarding crews and marines aboard, would be towed nearer the objective. An hour before first light the boats would cast off, slip round the slight headland to the west of St Valery and row hard for the mole – a long, high, man-made stone jetty jutting out into the Channel and sheltering the small natural harbour.

  The plan was for the boats to land Howard, McKenzie with his marines and a dozen of the seamen on the slipway at the opening of the inlet used by St Valery’s fishermen. The raiders were to deal with any sentries and make their way swiftly down the mole.

  Once in the inner harbour, where the privateer was believed to be lurking, it would be down to the marines to take in the name of King George and enable the seamen with them to get on board and prepare for sailing.

  Anson and the two midshipmen were to stay with Phryne’s boats which, after dropping the raiding party on the mole, were to row like hell straight for the privateer, hopefully arriving immediately after she had been taken, and tow her out before the French woke up to what was happening.