A Stormy Peace

by David McDine

  ‘I am sure you will, sir. I’ve no doubt that in the Égalité case the money was hard won and I hate to see it pissed away in the back alleys. What’s more, now that peace is upon us there’ll be no chance whatsoever of further prize money until the French decide to re-open proceedings against us.’

  ‘I take it you don’t think the peace will last, sir?’

  ‘Sadly, I do not. This Napoleon fellow is merely catching his breath and happily taking back most of the overseas possessions we have won with blood and guts. I’ve no doubt whatsoever that he will return to the fray at a time of his choosing.’

  Anson shrugged. ‘I share your opinion, but meanwhile I fear that the government will put half the fleet in ordinary, get rid of all the volunteers and so forth.’

  Adkins sighed. ‘’Twas ever thus.’ But, brightening, he announced: ‘Now to more cheery prospects — the matter of the proceeds of the Égalité sale and the amount of the various shares. And we must not forget the head money, of course. There were a tidy few prisoners, I see, and at five pounds a head that too adds up to a goodly sum, to be shared according to the prize money equation.’

  Anson had forgotten the head money — and there had been around 40 prisoners.

  ‘I tell you, Lieutenant Anson, you’ve made a pretty penny by not killing all the Frenchmen. They’re worth far more alive than dead!’

  ‘Here are the figures.’ He slid a document across the table.

  Scanning it, Anson could only again exclaim: ‘Good grief!’

  *

  Back at the George, he confirmed his seat in next day’s morning mail coach and rested on his bed until it was time to refresh himself and set off for the Keppel’s Head, where he was to be the guest of Messrs Adkins, Woolsack and Adkins for dinner.

  At the old inn overlooking the Gun Wharf and much favoured by its mainly navy clientele, he met the three partners for a schooner of sherry in the bar before being ushered to their table.

  The pleasantries over, the senior Mister Adkins smilingly confessed: ‘Remiss of me, Lieutenant Anson, but it was your mention of HMS Phryne’s Mediterranean foray that put my son, Rupert here, on to it.’

  ‘To what, sir?’

  ‘Well, I was so busy telling you the good news about the sale of the Normandy privateer that I clean forgot an item of information we received recently from our contact in Gibraltar.’

  ‘Gibraltar?’ It had been more than two years since Anson had last been there, during the frigate’s highly successful prize-taking cruise.

  ‘You will be aware that Phryne’s prizes were sold there?’

  ‘Indeed, we were paid out and, sad to say, the money long since spent, as is the way with sailors.’

  Adkins senior beamed: ‘Allow me to inform you that you are incorrect there, Lieutenant Anson. All except one of the Mediterranean prizes were sold and the money distributed. However, there was some dispute over one of them — a large vessel taken off the North African coast, I understand.’

  Anson tried to recall it. ‘There was one that we took one off Algiers, loaded with leather and timber I believe. They led us quite a chase.’

  ‘Correct — leather, timber and some kind of ingots secreted under the aforementioned cargo. And there lies the reason for the delay in settling the matter. It apparently took a good while to establish ownership of the cargo which had itself been taken by the Frenchman from various coasters, and to ascertain the value of the metal.’

  ‘So he was a privateer, although he passed himself off as an innocent merchantman carrying a few guns for protection! Come to think of it, I did wonder about the large crew he had on board.’

  ‘At any rate, our Gibraltar partners inform us that the matter has at last been settled.’

  Anson shrugged. ‘Whatever, litigation doesn’t come cheap, so I assume any profit from the sale has long since disappeared into lawyers’ pocket. They are not my favourite breed.’

  Adkins senior laughed. ‘But there you are wrong, sir. The delay was caused not by lawyers racking up their fees, but by the length of time correspondence took to-ing and fro-ing, establishing that she was indeed a privateer, where the cargo had come from and so forth.’

  ‘So there’s something to come from it?’

  ‘Indeed. The prize was apparently in good nick and was sold at Gibraltar, as was the entire cargo which proved to be of considerable value — and, again, since she was adjudged to be a privateer there’s head money to take into account. Altogether a tidy sum for the flag officer at Gibraltar and the rest going to HMS Phryne, according to the usual scale, of course.’

  Pleasantly surprised, Anson enquired hesitantly, ‘So I will receive...?’

  ‘After our, dare I say, modest, fees, a not inconsiderable sum.’ He handed over an envelope but, not wishing to appear too grasping, Anson put in his pocket to savour later.

  Already he was reckoning that these prize windfalls would surely cover what he felt he owed his father, freeing himself of obligations to his family.

  His morale boosted, he downed his glass and a cruising waiter refilled it. This was indeed a time for celebration.

  After a hearty dinner and a good deal of wine followed by several glasses of port, Anson finally took his leave of Adkins, Woolsack and Adkins, and made his way unsteadily back to the George.

  Although it was still fairly early, he retired to his room, feeling the effects of the drink and still not having fully recovered from the debilitating wounds he had suffered on the Boulogne raid — and at the hands of that maniac MacIntyre.

  But he could not get to sleep for a long time, his mind going over and over the news he had received about the prize money.

  It could not have been a better outcome. Now, miraculously, he had the wherewithal not only to pay back his father but enough to tide him over for a while at least. And with the prospect of half pay threatening, that would be much needed.

  Drifting off to sleep, he imagined himself to be back at Ludden Hall already and strolling in the gardens with Cassandra. It was a delightful prospect.

  18

  A Ruthless Bastard

  Sent for by the leader, MacIntyre did not know what to expect. Could it just be about another run? Or might another of the smugglers have seen him kill that nosey pack-man beside the lighthouse and shopped him?

  But when he reported to the churchyard, he knew all was well. There was no way the head man would have met him alone if he was suspected of anything.

  ‘Ye sent for me, boss?’ he asked, deferentially.

  ‘You did well the other night, Billy boy. Showed you were willing to get stuck in — and I’ve no doubt you’d be handy with the bat if it came to a punch-up with the revenue.’

  ‘Thanks, boss. Told ye I was keen to get into the smuggling game.’

  ‘There’s just one thing...’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘You’ve heard that one of the pack-men was found dead near the lighthouse?’

  ‘I did hear the whisper that some revenue snitch had got his comeuppance, but I did-na know the bloke.’

  ‘The thing is, Billy boy, that one of the other lads reckons he saw you loitering near the lighthouse where Jim Shallow was found.’

  ‘Me? No, whoever said that’s got it wrang. Ye saw me yersel’, doon by the watter. Ye telt me off fer helpin’ unload when I should’ve bin guardin’.’

  ‘That’s right, I did. Look, if the man was an informer, I don’t care who did for him. He would have deserved all he got...’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But just in case you didn’t already know, I’m the law round here. I’m the one who decides what happens to traitors.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  ‘Anyway, there’s one thing I’m quite sure about. I reckon you’re a ruthless bastard, quite capable of giving the chop to anyone who crosses you without a second thought.’

  MacIntyre made to protest, but the leader cut him short. ‘It was a compliment, you daft bugger. I need ruthless bastards to help me c
ontrol the whole business. It’s not just about arranging the runs and getting the stuff ashore. I have to manage the distribution and payments right down to the end users without giving any cheeky sods the opportunity to rip me off.’

  ‘And, like you said, I’m a ruthless bastard?’

  ‘Look, Billy boy, the fellah who takes charge of the pack train and bat-men once the stuff’s ashore has gone sick and I doubt I’ll get him back any time soon.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I want you to take over from him on the next run. You’ll be in charge of those protecting the beach and then look after the pack train and get the stuff safely to the dropping-off points.’

  ‘How would I know where they are?’

  ‘You’ll be told — and you’ll be well rewarded when the job’s done. Are you up for it?’

  MacIntyre smiled and nodded. One run and he had already been promoted.

  The leader reached out to shake his gnarled paw. ‘Oh, just one thing to remember, Billy boy. If the revenue or anyone else tries to interfere don’t hesitate to give them the same treatment as Jim Shallow!’

  *

  As yet, Bosun Fagg had not been given a firm date for disbanding the Seagate Sea Fencible detachment.

  He grumbled to the master at arms. ‘They ain’t told me nuffink, ’cept rest on me arms reversed, Tom.’

  Hoover shrugged. ‘Well, I guess we’re still getting paid — and so are the boys.’

  Fagg touched his nose conspiratorially, as was his wont. ‘Too blurry right, Tom. Until the hammock-counters catches up wiv me I’m gonna dish aht these ’ere king’s shillens like it was Christmas. That’ll teach them buggers at the Hadmirality to disband this ’ere unit what we’ve recruited an’ trained like they was our own children, like what we ’aven’t got. Leastways, none what the muvvers ’ave told me abaht, so far anyways.’

  The American had heard Fagg going on about the children he probably hadn’t got many a time and had weightier matters on his mind. ‘Binning the men will be hard, Sam. They’re a pretty good bunch and we need to see them alright agin the time when we’ll want ’em back.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve said the same fing to Captain Armstrong and ’e said ’e’ll fix some sort of party for ’em.’

  ‘Good, but what’ll we do about the gunboats, cannons, muskets and all?’

  Fagg touched his nose again. ‘I’ll tell ye ’ow it ’appens, Tom. The Hadmirality’ll leave it to the last minute, tell us to return ’em all to Chatham and just as we get ’em there the effin’ Frogs’ll kick orf again and we’ll ’ave to start from bleedin’ scratch wiv no boats, guns or men!’

  He grimaced in disgust. ‘Bleedin’ government! Don’t know their arses from their elbows. But what’ll we do, Tom? I don’t know nuffink ’cept the navy — and you don’t know nuffink ’cept the marines. To be ’onest wiv ye, I ain’t really known much else ’cept the navy and war. I can’t get me ’ead round this peace lark.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Hoover admitted. ‘As a kid all I knew was the independence war back in the States, with my father going off and getting killed and all. And when my mother brought me and my sisters over here to England, well, apart from a spell when she tried to make me into a tailor, I’ve known nothing but the marines. It’s my life now.’

  ‘And now we’re both up the bleedin’ creek wivout an effin’ paddle!’

  The American shrugged. ‘Mister Anson’s due back any time soon and maybe we’ll get some news from him about the prize money we’re due. I’m banking on that.’

  *

  Billy MacIntyre, alias Billy Black, was, he told himself, ‘as happy as a pig in shite.’

  His new-found comparative wealth from the smuggling game had set him up with a rented cottage half a mile from the Crooked Billet and a floozy he’d met there.

  She, too, had been to the school of hard knocks, but was only just past her best bed by year and prepared to keep house for him and put up with his nocturnal fumbling so long as he kept the wolf from the door and the booze flowing. And in any event. many a night he left her drinking steadily in the pub while he was out with the smugglers.

  MacIntyre filled his days with boozing, currying favour with his fellow-smugglers and learning all he could about the free trading game.

  And they were only too willing to boast of past exploits and reveal all the ramifications of the trade.

  They told him that a mysterious person known as an investor would put up the money to buy for goods in France. This was given by the gang-master to the skipper of a smuggling vessel who would make the run.

  MacIntyre learned about the methods of concealment for contraband when bringing it straight ashore was dicey. At such times the smugglers attached barrels of spirits to sinker stones and retrieved them later using a variation of grappling hook known as a rock creeper. And he learned about the spout lanterns and flashers — barrel-less pistols — used as direction and warning aids.

  Ashore, he was told, a large number of people, from pauper to parson were only too willing to co-operate with the smugglers for a back-hander, usually in the form of illicit booze or tobacco rather than cash.

  Why, pretty well all the churchmen, many of whom doubled up as magistrates, were in receipt of smuggled wine or brandy and turned a blind eye to ‘free trading’ and there were few officials or inhabitants of the inland villages on the contraband routes who were not susceptible to bribes — or threats.

  This extensive network of willing and unwilling collaborators meant that the whereabouts of riding officers ashore — and of the revenue cutters afloat — was almost always known to the smugglers, allowing them to plan accordingly.

  At each run Black Mac haunted the shore, ostensibly bossing the bat-men who guarded the beach and escorted the pack train inland. But all the time he was watching, listening and learning, intending one day to take over the whole operation himself.

  However, for the time being he needed to ingratiate himself with the hierarchy and win their trust.

  19

  Homeward Bound

  Anson breakfasted early, settled his bill and went outside to join the small crowd of gawpers in front of the George, awaiting the mail coach.

  He was hoping that the guard might prove to be that resourceful ex-soldier Nat Bell with whom he had made the same journey three years earlier when carrying vital official papers at the time of the naval mutinies.

  But no such luck. The guard today was a humourless bewhiskered fellow full of his own importance and clearly not one to indulge in chit-chat with the passengers.

  Questioned by Anson about the whereabouts of the redoubtable Bell he answered, blankly: ‘No idea, mate. I ain’t privy to the rosters — only get told when I’m on and orf.’

  Anson shrugged and determined that he would forego tipping this man. It would have been a fine coincidence if Nat, whose place he had taken when the guard was wounded in an attempted robbery the last time he did the Portsmouth to London run, had chanced to be on duty today.

  Not one to be thwarted, he decided to ask after him along the route, and if there was no joy, he would enquire on arrival in London at the General Post Office in Lombard Street. He was in no great hurry this time and it would be good to reminisce about that eventful journey and make sure that Nat was in good fettle.

  It soon became clear that he had missed Bell by a day or so. At Liphook the guard coming on duty told him: ‘Saw Nat at Kingston last Wednesday, or was it Guildford on Thursday? Anyhow, he said he was taking a day or two orf on account of a terrible cold he’s caught. These here coaches are the very devil for catching yer death of cold.’

  Anson knew all about that from his one-off experience as a guard. He had ended up with a fever, but the outcome was fortunate in that it led to his convalescence at Ludden Hall with Josiah Parkin — and Cassandra.

  At last the mail coach clattered through the London streets and he disembarked, aching and fatigued, at the Angel Inn in Wych Street just off the Strand.

  He enqu
ired at the coach office for directions to Lombard Street, left his bag there and made his way to the financial district where he joined the throng outside the General Post Office.

  Fruit-sellers were mingling with clerks from the banks, insurance offices and other businesses, together with servants bringing mail from their masters and mistresses for delivery. Not least, Anson noted a good many idlers presumably there merely to gawp at the nightly comings and goings of the mail coaches.

  Entering the square four-storey building via the imposing main door flanked by pillars supporting a balcony above, he was taken aback at the sight of an army of uniformed officials standing at desks sorting piles of packets to be put into the appropriate mail bags destined for towns throughout the country.

  Joining a queue at one of the counters fronting the sorting desks he waited his turn and then asked if he could be told the whereabouts of the guard Nathanial Bell.

  The counter clerk looked him up and down with a supercilious stare and snapped, ‘Not policy t’give out information about employees. Next!’

  But Anson was not to be browbeaten. ‘Look, this is not an idle query. I simply need to know where the guard Nathanial Bell can be found or when he is next on duty.’

  The clerk looked down his nose. ‘Told you, it’s not policy to tell. You might be a debt collector or some legal wallah trying to serve a summons. Next!’

  Anson felt his anger rising. ‘Do I look like a debt collector? I’m wearing the king’s uniform, for goodness’ sake. I’m a naval officer merely trying to meet up with a man who saved me from being robbed!’

  ‘Can’t be helped. It’s not policy.’

  ‘Then fetch me your superior,’ Anson ordered coldly. ‘I’ll not leave this spot until you do.’

  Those queuing behind him were growing restless and someone called out: ‘Get a move on admiral — some of us ain’t got all day!’

  The clerk said, loudly so that those in line could hear: ‘Move along, now. You’re holding up the rest.’