A Stormy Peace

by David McDine

  ‘Sharks?’ Parkin smiled at the thought. ‘Ah yes, now I come to think of it there are plenty of the human version, attracted by the smell of gold or profit rather than blood. My own cousins who now run the family bank are cases in point. I have to take great care in keeping their hands out of my pockets!’

  22

  Black Mac’s Threat

  In the event, Armstrong needed no persuading to visit Ludden Hall. He turned up next day, intent on updating Anson about the fate of the Sea Fencibles and was similarly astonished — and delighted — to find Elizabeth staying there.

  When Anson was eventually able to prise his friend away from her, they took a stroll in the garden intent on catching up with service news.

  ‘Well met, mon vieux! I gather you have only just returned yourself after a restorative sea cruise?’

  ‘Correct, via Chatham, my old ship Phryne and Portsmouth.’

  ‘So you know all about the peace?’

  ‘I heard it from the French navy themselves.’

  ‘Really? You must fill me in about that. But have you also heard of the fate of the fencibles?’

  ‘I have. On the way back from Portsmouth I called at our old stamping ground — the Admiralty — spent hardly any time at all in the dreaded waiting room only to be informed by Captain Wallace that the Sea Fencibles are to be scrapped forthwith—’

  ‘Along with a general run-down of the navy. Will the politicos never learn?’

  ‘Probably not. Much to everyone’s surprise Bonaparte will kick off again as soon as he’s ready, and then the navy will have to be resuscitated and we’ll be several steps behind the French. I despair.’

  ‘Well, mon vieux, I’ve come in person because I felt sure you would wish to go and thank your men for what they’ve done and so forth.’

  Anson nodded wryly. He chose not to mention the intelligence role Captain Wallis had discussed with him. ‘Thoughtful of you. I gather I’ve got until the end of the month to wind everything up.’

  ‘Yes, but before that I’m going to visit each of my detachments to collect nominal rolls and whatnot so that we can keep tabs on the men.’

  ‘That makes sense, so when we’re required to reform as I’m certain we will be at least we’ll be able to contact them quickly.’

  ‘Then there are guns to be laid up and goodness knows what else to sort out.’

  ‘I’ll go to the Seagate detachment with you. As you say, I need to thank the men and try to explain to them that they are valued despite the politicians throwing them on the scrapheap.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  *

  In the Weald of Kent, the once heavily-forested country between the North and South Downs, the line of pack animals made its way slowly through the village of Woodhurst.

  The smugglers had delivered their contraband and were on their way back to the Marsh, but there was a task to perform here.

  In most of the villages hereabouts the smugglers could expect whole-hearted cooperation or at least token support. The inhabitants were used to making themselves scarce when a pack train passed through and anyone who happened to be about would avert their eyes. That way, they could truthfully tell inquisitive revenue men that they had seen nothing, knew nothing.

  But Woodhurst was different. It was more of a God-fearing community than most and a number of the inhabitants had got together and vowed not to put up with being ordered about by the smugglers and forced to break the law.

  The last straw had been when one of the village elders had refused point-blank to allow his barn to be used for storing contraband until it could be moved on.

  It was a normal thing to be required to do. All the owner had to do was turn a blind eye, keep his mouth shut and be rewarded for his trouble. Who would refuse that?

  But William Philpot had. He was a lay preacher whose religious beliefs forbade him to involve himself in criminal activity of any sort. So he had refused the use of his horse and barn, threatening to report the next run to the revenue. And he had paid for his non-cooperation with a beating that left him with a battered face and a broken arm.

  Shocked by such treatment, others had withdrawn their tacit support of the smugglers and Billy MacIntyre, alias Billy Black, had been told to deliver the villagers an ultimatum. Either they agreed to cooperate, or else.

  He sent the pack-men on ahead. Now that they had got rid of their loads, they were safe in the unlikely event of being accosted by revenue men, so no longer needed the bat-men’s close protection.

  Gathering three of his bruisers, he sent for Woodhurst’s movers and shakers and when they were gathered in the pub delivered the ultimatum as instructed.

  ‘Look, yous. Yon man who would’na give a lend of his horse or hide the stuff threatened to go tellin’ tales to the revenue. Well, he’s gone an’ got ye’all into a spot of bother. All ye have t’do is look the other way when ye’re tellt and ye’ll get yer rewards. If ye dinna, then...’ And he drew his index finger across his throat.

  The village shoe-maker, a Baptist like the man who had been beaten for non-cooperation, looked around his fellow villagers and at their nods spoke for them all.

  ‘But what you’re trying to make us do is against the law.’

  MacIntyre guffawed and banged his bat down on the table, startling them all. ‘The law? We are the law frae here to Dungeness and ye’ll do what we tell yous!’

  The shoe-maker flinched but would not back down. ‘We cannot. It’s against our religious beliefs.’

  ‘That’s twaddle. God does’na gie a damn if ye join in a bit of free tradin’. Like as no he’s up there right noo, knockin’ back brandy the Archangel fuckin’ Gabriel’s smuggled fer him!’

  Visibly shocked at the smuggler’s blasphemy, the villagers muttered among themselves and one or two were clearly ready to make a stand.

  MacIntyre would dearly have loved to set about them now. There was little he enjoyed more than what he called ‘kicking the shite out o’ fuckin’ southern worms’, but he was short-handed now and had a mission to complete.

  So he banged the table once again and warned them: ‘I’ve no got the time to deal with yous now. So I’ll be kind an’ leave ye to think on it. We’ll be back here after the next run. If ye cooperate we’ll forget all aboot this fuss you’ve bin making and ye’ll get yer rewards.’

  The shoe-maker looked him in the eye. ‘And if we don’t?’

  MacIntyre grinned evilly. ‘If ye dinna cooperate, we’ll come back an’ slaughter the lot of yous and burn every house in the village to the ground!’

  There was a shocked silence and the villagers glanced nervously at one another.

  One protested: ‘But the law will protect us.’

  ‘Oh no it wilna! Like I tellt ye, we are the law round here, and if any one o’ yous tries t’call in the revenue men or the military we’ll know and we’ll put paid to him and every member of his family. Think on it!’

  23

  A Sporting Challenge

  As they made their way to Seagate, Armstrong confided: ‘By the by, when I was visiting my Dover detachment, I bumped into Colonel Bumstead of the yeomanry. Silly name, and the man’s a trifle stuck-up with it.’

  Anson remembered the name from the dinner party his mother threw when he escaped from France after the St Valery raid. He sniffed: ‘I could be wrong, but I thought riding the high horse was obligatory in the yeomanry.’

  ‘Anyway, the impudent fellow said he pitied me for losing my job now that the Sea Fencibles are being scrapped. Boasted that the yeomanry will be kept on to deal with the peasants if they get restive!’

  Anson registered disgust. It was just the sort of thing his bête noir Chitterling would say, too.

  ‘Came close to calling him out but managed to keep my cool and agreed that before we disband, we’ll have some sort of social event, a feast for the men with a sporting theme to mark the peace.’

  ‘Is that strictly necessary?’

  ‘Well, I’m committed t
o it now. The colonel and I agreed it can’t involve horses as that would favour his men and of course most of ours can’t ride. Nor can it be anything to do with boats as most of the yeomanry can’t row and would be sea-sick on a millpond.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it’s to be cricket.’

  Astonished, Anson could only splutter: ‘What!’

  Armstrong looked suitably embarrassed. ‘You know, the crack of willow on leather and all that, or is it leather on willow?’

  ‘But our boys are not sportsmen and I haven’t touched bat or ball since I was at school. With the greatest respect, sir, you’re a naval officer, so you should be aware that there’s not a lot of cricket played at sea. You’d keep losing balls overboard.’

  ‘When you call me “sir”, Anson, and I might remind you that’s not often, I am aware that it is a kind of verbal insolence and an implied reprimand for something I’ve said or done of which you disapprove.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that, but cricket, I ask you...?’

  ‘How difficult can it be? You just throw the ball at the enemy batsman and he tries to hit it.’

  ‘Bowl — you’re meant to bowl it.’ Anson demonstrated with an underarm gesture.

  ‘Yes, I meant bowl. And all the batsman has to do is hit the wretched thing out of sight and run back and forth, scoring runs every time he crosses his oppo. Simple!’

  ‘And you really have committed us to this match?’

  ‘Well, not necessarily your boys. I can get a team up from all my detachments. I’ve already got two volunteers from Folkestone and three more from Dover.’

  ‘With you as captain?’

  ‘Obviously. Rank has its privileges.’

  ‘So you’ll want half a dozen from Seagate?’

  ‘Excellent, Anson! Good of you to offer. Expected nothing less of you.’

  *

  The detachment building was full of expectant fencibles, the old hands eager to learn how much they would get in prize money.

  They were all there: Sampson Marsh with his nephew Tom, and other long-serving men including Bishop, Shallow, Oldfield, Hobbs and Boxer, the undertaker and expert number-cruncher, with whom Armstrong was closeted for a while, before the bosun called for order.

  Anson told them: ‘It’s good news and bad, men. Most of you are in for a fair bit of prize money but the downside is that all Sea Fencible units around the coast are being stood down on account of the peace.’

  They had already known that was coming, but the prize money sweetened the bitter pill.

  Not wanting to witter on, Anson searched for something they would remember. The blood and guts of the Normandy privateer affair and the Boulogne raid came to mind. ‘I’ve been proud to serve with you all. When we started out, we were, well, somewhat—’

  Fagg couldn’t resist piping up: ‘Shambolic!’

  Smiling amid the ensuing laughter, Anson added: ‘Thank you bosun for your help in finding the right word. Yes, we were shambolic, but with good training and good old British guts you have come through two major scraps with the enemy with flying colours.’

  Armstrong, seated beside him, nodded enthusiastically: ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘And we have truly become a band of brothers, like Henry the Fifth’s men at Agincourt I told you about on the way to Boulogne. Thank you all and as the agent warned me: don’t piss all that prize money away!’

  It was Sampson Marsh who stepped forward to speak on behalf of the men. ‘We’re right proud to have served with you, sir, and the bosun and master at arms, too. And I know the boys would agree, if the trumpet blows again we’ll all be back quick as a flash.’

  Amid muttered agreement from the fencibles, Armstrong rose and the bosun called for order.

  ‘I’d like to echo everything Mister Anson has said, men, and I have two things to add. My personal thanks to you all and if you’ll see Mister Boxer afterwards, he’ll give each man jack of you a final payment of a guinea on behalf of a grateful nation!’

  The officers left to cheers and, outside, Anson looked his superior in the eye. ‘A grateful nation? Since when? That money’s coming out of your own purse, isn’t it?’

  Armstrong shrugged. ‘It’s no more than the nation should have done. It’ll be a while before they get their prize money. Anyway, I can afford it, mon vieux. If nothing else it’ll ensure that we won’t have any trouble enticing them back when the time comes!’

  *

  There was much jollification in the Seagate pubs that night as the fencibles celebrated their windfall, and the bosun was somewhat bleary himself when he met the annoyingly bright-eyed and smartly-turned-out master at arms the morning after.

  Fagg moaned: ‘It’s alright for the likes of you, Tom, what don’t ’ardly drink. I got slapped on the back and stood tots all bleedin’ night and this mornin’ I’ve got a poundin’ ’ead and a mouf like a dog what’s ate somefink rotten.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed.’ The marine smiled the superior smile of the sober. ‘Anyhow, you’d best get what’s left of your brain around the problem Captain Armstrong set us.’

  Fagg put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘Oh Gawd, that cricket lark what ’e was on abaht.’ He fumbled for a pencil. ‘Well, I can’t play on account of not bein’ able to run wiv me game leg. But you’re a fit bloke, Tom, so I’ll put you on the list.’

  But the American protested. ‘Oh no you won’t! I’ve learned a lot about the English and their strange ways but cricket is something else. Never got my head around it. In the States we played a game a bit like your English rounders.’

  ‘Rounders? That’s a game for girls!’

  ‘Well, I guess there’s a similarity. You hit the ball and run from base to base. I reckon we should call it baseball. That wouldn’t sound girlish. Anyhow, ain’t no use explaining the rules of cricket to me. It’d be the same as trying to get me to understand Pythagoras’ theorem.’

  ‘Pythagerarse? Never ’eard of him. So ’oo’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome then? And what’s his theoro-majig?’

  ‘He was a Greek mathematician and I think his theorem was something to do with right-angled triangles, but I never quite got my head around that either.’

  ‘Annuver bleedin’ foreigner. Any’ow, triangles is a waste of rations — no use whatso-hevver. I got this far in life wivout ever catchin’ sight of one!’

  ‘You were a top-man, weren’t you? Ain’t some of your sails triangular — the ones with three corners instead of four?’

  Fagg pondered for a moment. ‘Gor, blimey, ’ooever said you learn somefink every day got it abaht right! Who’d of thought, some Greek bloke called Pythagerarse invented sails!’

  Hoover raised his hands in mock surrender. It was way too late to set Sam Fagg off on the path to knowledge, so he changed tack.

  ‘Anyhow, I won’t be playing cricket any day soon. The Baptists are agin it.’

  ‘Yeah, I know you was brung up a Baptist but yer ’ain’t ’xactly done much time on yer knees since I’ve known yer. I’m a Christian meself, but I don’t lose any sleep over it. Them religions is against all kinds of fun, like drinkin’, ’aving it orf wiv tarts an’ all that. Nah, I don’t s’pose Gawd cares if you play cricket or not. Anyway, like Mister Anson says, the Almighty’s got enuff on ’is plate already wivout the likes of us botherin’ ’im all the time.’

  ‘Well, Phin’s against cricket so I won’t play.’

  ‘Yeah, but ’e’s a preacher, ain’t ’e? And ’e ’as to pretend to be agin anyfink what’s fun!’ Fagg thought for a moment. ‘Ah, ’ang abaht. It’s just come to me. If Phin Shrubb ’as to pretend to be agin cricket, then ’is daughter ’as to go along wiv it!

  ‘That’s right. Sarah wouldn’t want me to play.’

  ‘So now we knows! I reckon ye’re abaht to pop the question an’ ye’re scared of rockin’ the boat in case her father finks you’re a sinner what’s not fit to marry ’is darlin’ daughter.’

  Hoover reddened, but held his tongue.
r />   ‘There y’are! I knew I was right! So when are yer goin’ to ask ’er?’

  ‘It ain’t as simple as that, Sam. First I have to ask for her father’s permission to propose to her.’

  ‘Well, that won’t be no problem. Phin finks the sun shines out of your whatnot.’

  ‘Mebbe, but I can’t offer her much as a sergeant. And now that it looks as if the fencibles are finished — I can’t expect her to follow me here, there and everywhere if I stay in the marines, even supposin’ they keep me on. So I’ll have to find some other way of making a living. And it’ll have to be something her father approves of.’

  ‘Strewth! What’d that be? You ain’t goin’ to turn devil-dodger or apothy-what’s’it? From killin’ to curin’, eh?’

  ‘Me, preacher or apothecary? I don’t think so! No, but I need to find something Phineas and Sarah feel kind of comfortable with...’

  ‘’Ow abaht Pope or Harchbishop of Canterbury?’

  *

  Back at Ludden Hall the dinner conversation centred on the forthcoming match and Armstrong told the company: ‘I’ve made it clear to Colonel Bumstead that I insist we play by agreed rules.’

  Anson asked, apparently innocently, ‘Rules? Are there any?’

  ‘Of course there are rules. They are essential if chaos is to be avoided.’

  ‘I seem to recall that down at Hardres Minnis they simply play it as they always have.’

  ‘You may have local rules, yes, but the next village will have variations. Don’t you see that by having agreed overall rules you can avoid confusion and accusations of cheating?’

  ‘So, what are these overall rules?’

  ‘Well, you have two stumps at each end and one bail. The batsman is given out if the bail is knocked off, but not if the ball passes between the stumps.’

  Parkin commented: ‘That’s what happens round here, mostly.’

  ‘Then there’s underarm bowling only and four balls to an over. All runs must be run and you can be run out if the fielders place the ball in the block hole on the batting crease.’