“The New England men won’t be worth catching,” replied the morose Will. “They sail like greased lightning and fight like fury and are worthless at the end of it.”
The third man, who had been sick, contributed nothing to this conversation or any other. He belched once or twice but that was all. As for Richard, he shuddered at the thought of being in gaol for any length of time. As against that, he had to recognise that the risk of the gaol capsizing was comparatively remote. Which would he choose if offered the choice? Then he reflected that the decision, most probably, would not be his. Thinking thus, Richard slept once more for a while, only to be woken as the door of the cell was unlocked again. The turnkey had a lantern by the light of which he could see that another prisoner was being thrust in, a smallish man with long hair and a long-tailed coat, no seaman and no very convincing rioter. Richard had only a glimpse of the man before the door slammed, leaving him again in darkness.
Chapter 2
SCENE ON MERSEYSIDE
“WAKE UP!” The words came in a strangled scream. It was still pitch dark and Richard was being shaken by a fellow prisoner, evidently the last arrival. “Wake up for pete’s sake!” After a pause came the explanation: “I daren’t go to sleep in case I dream again.”
“You had a nightmare, sir?” asked Richard sleepily and without much real interest.
“It was terrible, terrible! I was about to be thrown into a pond teeming with crocodiles, their scales shining, their jaws open, their teeth … King George had ordered it and was there to see it done.”
“So you wake, sir, to something a little better.”
“But quite horrible enough.”
“You were arrested as a rioter?”
“Yes, but I played no part in the riot. I did not cause it, I’ll swear. I did nothing to encourage it. I had no part in it, none. I was there merely to report what took place.”
“You were there, you mean, on behalf of the press?”
“I am assistant editor of the Clarion Call.”
This statement was made impressively but Richard, who had never heard of that periodical—or any other published outside Guernsey—pursued a policy of caution.
“Then you will be released, sir, no doubt, when it is known who you are?”
“Don’t you believe it, boy. The Clarion Call is a radical weekly, its editorials hostile to the government, its mere existence deplored by all in authority. Paid witnesses will appear against me, no doubt of it. I shall be charged with treason. I may be sent to Botany Bay. I may have, for that matter, but a few short days to live.”
“But you won’t be thrown to the crocodiles.”
“The more’s the pity, as some folk would say. Hanging, they would agree, is too good for me. The truth is, young man, that I have been a thorn in their side for years.”
“Perhaps you might try to give less offence?”
“And betray the cause of the common people? Never while I live! But I suffer for the people’s sake, for I dare not sleep. I dare not face the crocodile’s teeth. So please be so good as to keep me awake. Talk to me about anything that comes into your head. Tell me what you think of Liverpool. Better still, tell me the story of your life. You are honest, young man, I feel sure of that. No government spy, you are loyal to the working folk among whom you live. You are no friend, surely, to the tyrants who rule this land? Tell me, first, where you were born and when. Tell me, finally, how you came to be in this prison.”
“Very well, sir. Mine is too dull a story, however, to keep you awake for long. It begins in October 1760, a few days after the late king died, when I was born in St Peter Port, Guernsey. I was christened Richard Andros and my surname is Delancey.”
“A French name?”
“French Huguenot, sir. I am the descendant of a noble family. Andros is my mother’s name, well known in Guernsey. My father is a corn chandler but in only a small way of business.”
“Brought up in poverty, you should be on my side against the government.”
“No, sir. I am a gentleman.”
“The son of a small tradesman?”
“My father is a gentleman by birth, learning some Latin and well able to keep accounts. He married into a family of great former wealth. Amias Andros was bailiff of Guernsey under Charles II, and his son, Sir Edmund, was governor of New York and Virginia. James Andros was colonel in the Militia and seigneur of Anneville. My mother’s relatives did not approve of my mother’s marriage and will scarcely speak to my father, not even when they buy their oats and hay from him. Sir Edmund was once major in Prince Rupert’s Dragoons and my mother wished to name me Rupert. My father would not have that and I was called after my mother’s uncle, Richard Andros, a shipowner here in Liverpool and the only one of her relatives to take notice of her. He is my godfather and I came here to see him. I had two elder brothers, Mathew and Michael, and have an elder sister called Rachel. We were brought up in an old house overlooking the harbour, and spent our time fishing and sailing, in the end, an old and crazy boat which Mathew had somehow come to own. We all learnt to read and write and father taught us arithmetic, geometry and book-keeping. Both my brothers went to sea, Mathew ending as third mate in a collier out of Sunderland. He was drowned when she went ashore off Yarmouth in a fog. Michael went to the East Indies and we have never heard of him since. I also meant to be a seaman and have learnt something of navigation from an old merchant skipper, but my mother, after Michael’s being seemingly lost, would have none of it. She wants me to find work in a shipowner’s counting-house and wrote about this to my great-uncle in Liverpool.”
“Did he promise you a place?”
“He did indeed and I have his letter in my pocket.”
“Will you be glad to work in your great-uncle’s office?”
“I don’t think so but there is reason, I suppose, in keeping a third son ashore after two others have been lost at sea. Had I the chance, I should go to sea. I had never thought of any other calling.”
“And is your uncle ready to employ you?”
“He has left town, sir, and his business seems to be at a standstill. So it may happen that I must go to sea after all. What else is there to do?”
“But it will not be easy to find a berth.”
“I know that, sir.”
“What brought you here, then?”
Richard explained the circumstances that had led to his arrest, adding the almost tearful conclusion that he meant no harm:
“But I’m guilty, sir,” he concluded, “of taking part in the riot. I was there and people saw me.”
“You should be proud of what you did and now, after being thrown into prison, you should be on the side of the people. You should be against the government. As a Guernseyman, you speak French?”
“Why, yes, sir.”
“So you and your neighbours should sympathise with the Frenchmen who brought about their monarchy’s downfall!”
“Folk in Guernsey have no liking, sir, for French atheists. Many Guernseymen are followers, you see, of Mr John Wesley.”
“Are you a Wesleyan, then?”
“Not me, sir, I’m a gentleman.”
“Even in prison?”
“I’m still a Delancey and still an Andros on my mother’s side.” A quiet and desultory conversation continued for another hour or so without disturbing the other prisoners. Richard spoke at length about his family and friends, about the likelihood of his sister marrying John Sedley, a coming man in Bristol, about his father’s recent illness and consistent lack of success in business and about his mother’s determination that one at least of her children should regain the position in society to which his gentle birth entitled him. Then he spoke of his own prospects. He was not a real seaman as yet, as he freely admitted, not being used to working aloft. He could hand, reef and steer, though, and even take an altitude. Surely there would be a berth for him and perhaps a career? There was no reply and Richard realised that his radical friend had fallen asleep, having long since
lost interest in what Richard was saying. This was hardly surprising, as Richard told himself, in that his life story was so far of no real interest to anyone. But the dull narrative had served one purpose at least, for the radical scribbler had seemingly dreamt no more about crocodiles. When first light penetrated the barred windows the journalist was revealed as a poor misshapen creature, almost a hunchback, shabbily dressed and with ink-stained shirtsleeves. While he and the others slept Richard thought deeply about his future, assuming hopefully that he would escape the gallows. Should he try again to find his great-uncle? Should he ask his great-uncle’s help in seeking employment with another shipowner? In trying to decide upon a plan, he pulled out his great-uncle’s letter and read it under the window. It was dated from Dale Street on 11 October 1774, and the most significant passage read: “It so befalls that the worthy Mr Gosfield, my oldest clerk, plans his retirement for the First of August next year, twenty-five years to the day since he first entered my employ. He will be succeeded by Mr Lock, whose place in turn will be filled by Mr Henderson. That last promotion will leave the junior position vacant and I shall be pleased to offer that to my great-nephew, not as a permanency nor with anything more than a modest remuneration but in the expectation that he will soon prove his worth and justify your hopes in him. You must suppose that I am myself these days a somewhat passive partner in the firm but my son, Edmund, is fully apprized of the arrangement I propose and will be kindly disposed towards his cousin.”
Richard could remember the conversation which followed the reading of this letter at table. His mother commented at once on her uncle’s benevolence:
“You see, Mr Delancey, that we are not wholly forgot by all our relatives. This is a kind response to my letter.”
His father, less impressed, asked how long it was since great-uncle Richard last wrote? It then appeared that his last letter was the one in which he agreed to stand godfather to his great-nephew, a letter written some fourteen years before. His mother pointed out that her uncle had been a very busy man, employing as many as three clerks and managing three or four vessels at the least. When consulted, young Richard himself expressed a preference for the sea but against this his mother was adamant, urging every reason but the real one. She pleaded that a clerkship in a shipowner’s counting-house must be thought a very eligible place. Nor need Richard think himself a landsman for he might have much occasion to be aboard ship and could even some day become agent in a foreign port. Talking with Rachel afterwards, Richard had said of his great-uncle that the old skin-flint had ignored his poor relatives for fourteen years and that now, when business was slack, he saw the chance to replace his junior clerk by an almost unpaid office boy. But the whole situation had changed since the letter was written. No agreement had been reached with the American colonies and England was evidently on the brink of war. He had done his best to see his godfather and had satisfied himself that a clerkship in some other shipping office would be difficult or impossible to obtain. Now he had the chance to go against his parents’ wishes without actually disobeying them. Try as he might, he could not do what he had been told to do.
When his journalist friend, whose name turned out to be Elisha Crabtree, woke up, Richard told him that he had more or less decided against an office career. It soon appeared that Mr Crabtree remembered not a word of all that Richard had told him. To him Richard was no more than the voice which kept him awake but which had finally lulled him to sleep. He showed his gratitude only in a final effort to make Richard a radical. A slightly acrimonious argument followed in which the grown man had no difficulty in besting a mere boy. He made no convert, however, and ended on an unfriendly note.
“I’ll tell you what it is, my young friend. You are penniless and in gaol, without a trade and without any prospects. Somehow, for all that, you have come to believe that you are a gentleman, that you deserve to have a fortune, a manor house, a carriage and servants. You have no thought for others who are as penniless as you are, as friendless and as unskilled. You have no sympathy for the common people, oppressed as we all are by the tyrants who rule this unhappy land. You are, I fear, of a breed not unknown among us, the men who feel cheated of some imagined fortune to which they were never entitled, the men with pretensions and little else. These are ruthless, dangerous men, ready for treason, stratagems and spoils—treason against the working multitude, I mean—men who live and may die by the sword.”
“Men like Francis Drake?” Richard suggested hopefully but the other prisoners, led by Tom, had come to the end of their patience. “Pipe down, you two!” they shouted. “Stop chattering and let us have some peace and quiet!” Quiet lasted until the midday meal arrived.
Later that day the cell door was thrown open and a grey-haired naval lieutenant walked in, accompanied by a turnkey. He looked without enthusiasm at the unshaven and dirty occupants of the cell. Then he pointed at Tom and said, “That one.” He hesitated for a moment and added, pointing at Richard, “Yes, the boy as well.” He walked out again and the turnkey said roughly, “Come on, you two. Rise and shine!” They obeyed, Tom with some reluctance, and found themselves in the custody of some armed seamen collected in the corridor. They were marched from cell to cell while the lieutenant chose a few more men, about ten in all. These were then collected in a courtyard where the lieutenant made a short speech to them, terse and very much to the point:
“Listen, men, you have been taken up as rioters and will presently be charged with that offence before the mayor and aldermen. All they can do is to commit you for trial at the next Assizes. While awaiting that trial you may be pressed into the navy, which may save you from hanging—which, by the way, is what you deserve. It is nothing to me whether you hang or not but it so happens that the cutter Seaflower is here in the river and can accept a few volunteers on passage to London. His Majesty has not yet put the navy on a war footing but we are having trouble, as you know, with some misguided folk in America. Some good seamen are wanted, but as volunteers, I repeat. This is a service to which any man must be proud to belong. Mr Huggins!” The lieutenant lost all interest in the proceedings at this moment and walked away, his place being taken by a burly petty officer, who proceeded to make what was evidently a set speech.
“Now’s your chance, men, to volunteer for the king’s service where merit is always rewarded and where the active get promotion. Do well and you may be an officer in a year or two, maybe with a handle to your name. Don’t skulk ashore, men, or work in a collier, doing nothing for yourself and being kicked around by others. Go on board a man-of-war and become a proper seaman, make prize-money, sing and dance, drink grog and have all the girls in love with you. This is your chance and there mayn’t be another. Who’ll volunteer? Don’t all speak at once but let’s see who’ll be first.”
Driven by an impulse he could not explain and for which he was soon to curse himself, Richard stepped forward and spoke like a man:
“I’ll join.”
Chapter 3
CAPTAIN’S CLERK
THE RECEIVING SHIP Rainbow, built as long ago as 1747, was moored off Woolwich, not far from where she had originally been built. As the men came through her main entry they were first examined by the surgeon, who rejected the lame, the halt and the blind. Those found acceptable were then confronted by the master-at-arms who asked each in turn his name, his age and his trade. Seated at a table behind him, Mr Farley, the purser’s clerk, entered these bare facts in a ledger. Some of the names given were probably assumed but nobody cared about that. The name entered, whether true or false, would be the man’s name until he might be discharged. The ages given were also approximate and seldom provoked any discussion unless patently false. Most of the men being entered at this stage of the war were seamen but many tried to qualify their entry under this heading, giving a description of the work they had previously done. One had been in the sailmaker’s crew, another had been coxswain, a third claimed—amidst some laughter—to have been captain of the head. A lieutenant sta
nding in the background made a swift decision in each doubtful case and the volunteers were mostly entered as able or ordinary seamen or, in one instance, as volunteer second class. When Richard’s turn came he described himself as “clerk” aged seventeen and was entered as a landsman.
“Do you want any help?” he asked Mr Farley, who looked surprised. “I’ll let you know if I do,” he replied shortly, looking up from his book and then turning to make the next entry: Tom Yates, recent inmate of Liverpool town gaol, who ranked as able seaman.
Later that evening Farley sent for Richard and told him that he would be given a chance to demonstrate his usefulness. There was a great deal of work to do, entering, paying and kitting out the men as they entered and Richard found himself writing and copying for dear life. He thought at first that he had been a fool to join the navy at all. He wondered, at the same time, whether he had not made a false move in offering to help with the paperwork. He had wanted originally to go to sea and here he was turning aside from the line of duty which would have made him a seaman. He knew well enough why he had done it. Will, his dour cell mate, had talked of a captain who would flog the last man down from the rigging. If that were he his only plan, he had decided, would be to throw himself overboard. But he might be picked up, even then…. No, a clerk’s position would save him from the worst and he could change later, perhaps, to a more active role. Whether he could be shipped as clerk was another matter, depending upon Mr Farley. Aiming to please that immediate superior, he came near to making himself indispensable, which would have kept him in the Rainbow for ever. He was lucky in one respect, however, that he had been able to recover his bundle from the Salthouse Dock stables, where the taciturn Pete had actually looked after it. He was thus enabled to look the part, having still a spare suit which he could offer to Farley as a gift. He did this only after he had found a successor, a worthy clerk from Aberdeen who was avoiding the possible consequences of bigamy. The result was, eventually, a recommendation to the purser of the Romney of 50 guns, a fourth-rate ship built in 1762; an old example of what was becoming an obsolete class. She was being fitted for sea but was not yet in commission, the work on board being divided between the purser, the gunner, the boatswain and the carpenter. Although still entered as “landsman” Richard was, in fact, the purser’s clerk, with plenty to do in correspondence and in the checking and listing of stores. The purser was a middle-aged man called Weaver whose home was in Woolwich and who was using every opportunity to improve and furnish it at the expense of the Navy Board. Men from the carpenter’s crew were always being sent off on mysterious errands with boatloads of timber, cordage, and paint. Richard was necessarily privy to these transactions and was given small sums to ensure his silence. During the course of that winter he accumulated quite a useful sum of money and came to the conclusion that everyone on board had been doing much the same. He finally provided himself with clothes modelled on those worn by the purser: blue serge coat and hat of vaguely naval pattern with white breeches and waistcoat. He might not as yet be much of a man-of-war’s man but a Woolwich tailor did something to make him at least look the part.
The Guernseyman Page 3