by David McDine
The men chuckled and the grinning midshipman spoke up: ‘Aye aye, sir.’
Howard and Anson exchanged a glance. Both were wondering: could this be some ruse or could they really trust the French?
Halfway across to where the outline of the enemy frigate could now clearly be seen, a thought struck Anson. He caught Howard’s eye. ‘I sincerely hope the French don’t keep careful records of their escaped prisoners!’
Howard grinned. ‘I doubt it, but if this white flag business is a trick, we’ll no doubt both end up as guests of the French in Verdun or Biche.’
Anson smiled wanly. Both French prisons where captured naval officers were held had already achieved notoriety and were reckoned to be virtually escape-proof.
The frigate now loomed large out of the fog and a white flag could be seen. Phryne’s lookout who thought he’d glimpsed it had indeed got good eyesight.
Howard muttered to Anson: ‘That’s no proper flag. See how scruffy and stained it is.’
Anson shrugged. ‘A makeshift one, then. I don’t suppose even the French go around with pristine white flags, waiting for a chance to surrender.’
Frenchmen could now be discerned peering down at them from the deck. Some had climbed the rigging to get a better view, but none appeared to be armed. Nevertheless, it was an uncomfortable feeling for those in the boat and every man jack — including Howard and Anson — could not fail to be anything other than apprehensive.
As one, the rowers had eased off without needing to be told as they closed on the enemy ship. And now, at a nod from Howard, the coxswain ordered: ‘Cease rowing and hold station.’
With the oars in the water holding the boat in position it rocked gently in the swell.
Above them an officer leaned over the side and shouted through a speaking trumpet, ‘Quel bateau?’
Howard looked enquiringly at Anson.
‘Best tell them the name of the ship.’
Nodding, Howard cupped his hands and shouted: ‘His Majesty’s Ship Phryne. Je suis...’ he hesitated and Anson prompted him. ‘Lieutenant de vaisseau.’
Howard repeated: ‘Je suis lieutenant de vaisseau.’
The French officer called down: ‘Bien, approche, si’l vous plait.’
The coxswain ordered ‘Pull alongside and ship oars’, and as the jollyboat bumped against the frigate’s side ropes were thrown down and secured. A rope ladder followed and the French officer called down, in heavily-accented English: ‘Officer to come on board, if you please.’
Howard looked to Anson, who answered the unspoken question: ‘You might need my French, such as it is. I’ll come too.’
Clearly relieved, Howard muttered to Midshipman Finlay, ‘Hopefully it won’t come to this, but give us a while and if we don’t reappear head back to Phryne and tell the captain we’ve been tricked.’
The midshipman nodded, but Anson raised a rueful eyebrow. How long was ‘a while’, and did Howard really believe the jollyboat would be allowed to escape if this was some kind of trick?
Howard grabbed the swinging rope ladder and started to climb. Anson waited until he had negotiated half a dozen rungs and then followed suit.
Immediately in pain from the stitches in his right arm he pulled himself up awkwardly taking most of the strain on his left and wincing from the effort.
A shrill bosun’s call greeted Howard as he swung himself on the deck and he came to attention and raised his hat to the officer in charge of the side party.
Following on behind, puffing and blowing from the effort of the climb in his weakened condition, Anson followed suit and removed his hat, noting that the French officer was showing equal respect.
‘Welcome on board, messieurs, and please to follow me to the captain’s cabin.’
He led the way and as they crossed the deck Anson was surprised to see that there were no signs of hostility from anyone they passed. On the contrary, they were greeted everywhere with smiles.
He whispered to Howard, ‘This must surely mean peace.’
Nodding, the first lieutenant replied, ‘Nevertheless it’s weird to be treated as a welcome visitor by the Frogs!’
It was indeed the oddest feeling and Daniel entering the lion’s den sprang to Anson’s mind, although today there was no sense of threat.
Reaching the captain’s cabin, their escort waved the marine sentry aside and rapped at the door which was immediately opened by a steward.
A voice beyond hailed them. ‘Do come in gentlemen, and when we’ve introduced ourselves, I hope you will join me in a toast to peace!’
The French captain rose from behind his desk and came to greet his visitors. Shaking hands with both warmly, he repeated: ‘Welcome, gentlemen, welcome!’ In near perfect English he explained: ‘I surmised you might not have heard that our nations are now at peace. That is why I ordered a white flag to be flown.’
Howard looked smug. ‘One of our look-outs spotted it, monsieur.’
But it crossed Anson’s mind that the French must have smoked their proximity well before Phryne’s look-out had glimpsed his ‘ghost ship’.
The Frenchman smiled. ‘I fear we had no proper white flag in our locker, so we had to improvise. What your man saw is merely a tablecloth stained with what I believe to be several spillages of wine and soup. In my experience, what with the motion of the ship and the absence of ladies, sea officers are not the daintiest eaters, n’est-ce pas?’
Smiling, Howard and Anson nodded in unison. Anybody who had witnessed midshipmen in particular wolfing down their food after a day of being run ragged by their seniors in the fresh sea air could but agree.
‘When you were heard beating to quarters it confirmed to me that you must not know that the peace had been signed and we are no longer at war. No doubt you sailed before the news came through?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘From Chatham, I believe. Your English newspapers are so informative and usually accurate where naval matters are concerned.’
Howard and Anson shared a knowing glance. Their concerns about the ‘inky-fingered’ profession’s carelessness with operational security were confirmed.
‘Ça ne fait rien. At least you now know we are at peace. Please seat yourselves and permit me to show you the confirmation I have received from Paris.’ He picked up a document from his desk. ‘Would you like me to translate, or do you have any French?’
Howard indicated Anson. ‘My, er, fellow officer here has some French, which is why he has come along.’
The French captain looked closely at Anson, ashen-faced and holding his injured arm across his chest.
‘Are you unwell, monsieur?’
Howard answered for him. ‘He was recently, er, wounded.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, monsieur, and apologise on behalf of my countrymen.’
‘No need. The wound was administered by one of our own.’
The captain gave a Gallic shrug. ‘You English! Such a warlike race, so when you are not fighting us you fight among yourselves, n’est-ce pas? An affair of honour, perhaps?’ And without waiting for an answer he handed the document to Anson who said, ‘I think I may have enough French to make out the gist of it, monsieur.’
‘Excellent. It is rare indeed to encounter an Englishman willing to try speaking our language. I have a copy for you to take away. However, I can tell you the main points are that all hostilities between us have ceased, Britain is to give up territories recently annexed including Malta and Egypt — and various others taken from Holland and Spain.’
Howard asked: ‘And in return?’
Another Gallic shrug. ‘We have agreed to recognise the neutrality of Holland, Switzerland and so on...’
Anson looked up from the document. ‘I see that we are also giving up our base at the Cape of Good Hope — and most of our possessions in the Caribbean.’
‘Bien sȗr, and the lifting of your blockades means that our trade can get back to normal. But while you are studying the details allow me t
o offer you some good French wine to celebrate. No doubt you have not been able to enjoy any for some years.’
‘Au contraire, monsieur, thanks to your turning a blind eye to the smugglers we have been well supplied throughout.’
‘Eh bien, there has been some sense prevailing despite the nonsense of war.’
Having scanned the document, Anson told Howard, ‘What the captain has told us is evidently perfectly true. Peace has broken out and we will need to re-draw our maps to take account of the changes to overseas possessions.’
Howard nodded and raised his glass to the Frenchman. ‘Peace is good news of course, although a sad blow to all our hopes of further promotion. For many on our side of the Channel at least it will mean being on the beach on half pay with zero chance of further employment, promotion or prize money.’
The captain laughed. ‘But I doubt it will be the same for us. I suspect this is merely a temporary peace which suits our political masters, eh? And while it exists our ships will be able to leave their harbours unmolested and there will be much sailing for our navy in order to assume control of our overseas possessions once more. Our First Consul has great ambitions, and there is much unfinished business.’
‘You are most frank, sir,’ Howard commented. ‘So a respite only?’
‘That is my opinion. But nevertheless a welcome pause during which we can put aside blood-letting.’
Anson had kept a low profile, leaving the conversation to Howard and the French captain, but now he caught their attention.
‘Gentlemen, we may no longer be at war, but our people are not yet aware of that. To avoid the possibility of someone in Phryne accidentally starting it up again I believe we should return immediately and tell our captain the news.’
The Frenchman reacted with a resigned Gallic shrug. ‘Very well, but I am desolé that you cannot stay longer to enjoy our hospitality — as sailor to sailor, not opponents.’
Howard tossed back the remains of his wine. ‘Amen to that, but duty calls!’
‘Ah, duty, the curse of we officers, is it not? But please, take back a barrel of brandy for your captain with my compliments — and as we sail away, we can then drink a toast to peace and the brotherhood of the sea.’
‘You are too kind. Allow us to send back a barrel or two of Kentish ale in return.’
The Frenchman wrinkled his nose. ‘I am very much afraid that my men do not have a very high opinion of your beer, monsieur. We had occasion to take some barrels of it from a prize, but I am desolated to say the men told me they found it quite disgusting, so we fed it to the fishes.’
Howard protested weakly. ‘Perhaps it was past its drink-by date. I assure you that normally our beer and ale — from Kent at least — is of the finest and a new supply was delivered to us just before we sailed from Chatham. We have wonderful hop gardens, you see.’
‘Nevertheless...’
‘However, perhaps you would prefer a couple of fat Romney Marsh sheep, also brought on board only a few days ago. Your men will be able to enjoy some fine chops and mutton steaks, washed down with wine rather than our disgusting beer! I will send a boat back with the sheep the minute we arrive on board our ship.’
‘That would be most kind, monsieur.’ The French captain rose and Howard and Anson followed suit.
Showing them out, their host shook hands with both, telling them, ‘Next time we meet, gentlemen, I very much hope it is while strolling about the streets of Paris or London with attractive ladies on our arms, rather than through a telescope in opposing ships with our guns run out.’
Howard smilingly agreed and Anson added: ‘D’accord!’
The officer of the watch was waiting outside the captain’s cabin and led them back on deck.
They raised their hats in salute and as they climbed back down to the jollyboat, in Anson’s case very gingerly, a brandy barrel was rolled out and lowered after them. The Frenchman had not forgotten his gift.
Seated in the thwarts beside Anson, Howard nodded to Midshipman Finlay who ordered: ‘Shove off and row smartly lads, the Frogs are watching!’ and they headed back to Phryne.
As they pulled away Anson whispered to the first lieutenant: ‘The boys’ll be wondering what’s afoot.’
But on occasion Howard was a stickler for protocol and this was one such occasion. ‘I’m sure they’re all agog, but this item of news is for the captain’s ears first and I don’t want him to be the last to hear after every other man jack on board.’
*
Back on board Phryne, they reported to the captain, showed him the document and Anson took him through it.
Phillips was clearly underwhelmed. ‘So it’s true then? My God, I can’t believe how much our idiot politicians have given away. And now there’ll be all manner of problems with the men. They’ll be the very devil to keep in line once they hear it’s all over — or think it is.’
‘I’ll take extra precautions with the rum, sir.’
‘Quite right, Mister Howard. We all know what lengths Jolly Jack Tar will go to when he comes across an opportunity to celebrate. With luck we’ll get to Portsmouth in one piece but once there I fear half the men will disappear.’
‘Talking of the demon drink, sir, the French captain has sent you a barrel of brandy.’
‘Thoughtful of him.’ Phillips turned to his steward: ‘Cruikshank, tap it and decant enough for dinner with all the officers in my cabin tonight.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘But make sure the barrel isn’t left where one of your shipmates can tap the other end of it.’
As an afterthought, he asked: ‘Should we not return the compliment to the French?’
Howard nodded: ‘I’ve sent the boat back with two of the live sheep we brought on board at Deal. The French wisely declined my offer of English beer.’
*
Word of the peace went round the ship quicker than a rat up a mooring rope and the mood on board vacillated from relief now that the prospect of death or losing one or more body parts to enemy action had evaporated, to be replaced by unease at the likely interruption — and perhaps end — of their careers afloat. The latter was a prospect that cheered some and depressed others.
There were mixed feelings, too, as the officers and warrant officers gathered for dinner in the captain’s cabin that evening. Sampling the brandy after the dessert course and the loyal toast, Captain Phillips pushed back his chair and addressed his guests: ‘Gentlemen. I thank you all for what you have done for king and country and for me in particular aboard Phryne these past few years. I doubt you will receive more thanks from a grateful nation. However, I wish you all joy of the peace and may it bring you all you deserve.’
Glasses were raised and Howard added: ‘Amen to that!’
15
Portsmouth
Steering for the point between the belfry of Gosport Chapel and the south-most sentry box under the ramparts of Blockhouse battery, Phryne ran serenely past the marker buoys and entered Portsmouth Harbour.
Anson was sad to be leaving his old ship. The passage from Chatham had reminded him how much he missed being at sea rather than making occasional forays on it from his shore-based command. It had been a particular pleasure to mix once more with his brother officers on and off watch, especially off. The camaraderie born of shared experiences, both dramatic and mundane, was difficult if not impossible to recreate ashore, where men went off to their homes or billets when off duty. Afloat, the ship was home and shipmates were family.
But now, peace having broken out, the chance of further sea service was remote. It seemed likely to Anson that the navy and army would suffer the usual cuts imposed by short-sighted politicians at such times.
The volunteer movement including the Sea Fencibles would no doubt be the first to go, followed by the laying up of ships and the disbandment of army units.
So, instead of an active role, he faced remaining one of the many naval officers already ship-less, cast up on the beach on half pay — half l
ife.
It was a far from attractive prospect. Ashore, without a role, he feared he would be lost.
After having his stitches removed courtesy of Phryne’s loblolly boy and making his farewells, Anson was rowed ashore in the jollyboat to the Spur Redoubt where the Channel fleet ships’ boats came and went.
He felt at home here in ‘Pompey’, as the world’s biggest and most famous naval base was affectionately known to sailors everywhere. The familiar forest of masts and the hustle and bustle of the place, with bumboats and myriad other craft fussing around the anchored warships like ducklings around their mothers, were meat and drink to a sea officer like him.
Still not fully recovered from his wounds, he employed a couple of urchins to carry his dunnage and made his way through the dockyard heading for the George, the coaching inn just outside the gates where he had stayed for a few days during the mutiny several years before.
Then, there had been a threatening atmosphere as groups of mutinous seamen gathered awaiting the outcome of demands made by the delegates chosen to represent them. Their grievances about low and irregular pay, poor provisions, inadequate treatment of the sick and wounded, and the lack of shore leave to visit their families, were reckoned by most to be reasonable, and their bellyaching had changed to euphoria at the news that the Admiralty had granted pretty well everything they had asked for.
The mood today was muted. Peace was welcome but, in a town where so many relied on the navy and the dockyard, any scaling down of the fleet would certainly result in tightened belts. Naval personnel, dockyard mateys, publicans, chandlers, tobacconists, tailors, barbers, tattooists, even the inevitable cruising whores — all would feel the pinch.
At the George, Anson gave the urchins-cum-porters sixpence each — to their astonishment and delight — and sought out the landlord who greeted him warmly. ‘Mister Anson, isn’t it? Never forget a name like yours — you being kin to the great circumnavigator, eh?’
Anson did indeed share his surname with Admiral Lord Anson, who had won undying fame for braving horrendous hardships to circle the globe, capture a Spanish treasure galleon — and rise to become the reformer of the navy. But the kinship was distant, and the latter-day Anson was tired of explaining it. So he chose not to challenge mine host. At least the imagined close relationship with such a national hero would ensure him a good room.