by Alaric Bond
Chapter Three
“Butler,” the master at arms repeated thoughtfully as he indicated the space where he must sign. “Thought I recognised the phyz – we was aboard Vanguard together, 'less I'm much mistaken.” The seaman, who was still slightly damp from his dip in the harbour, pulled a sour expression. Not much more than twenty four hours ago he had been on the books of a homebound transport, with no intention of ever serving in the Royal Navy again.
“An' I remember your face an' all, Mr Saunders.” he said, with a slight emphasis on the title. “Thought to have seen the last of it though, as you did mine, I've no doubt. Never did get on, did we?”
The master at arms retained his customary set countenance, although the memories were coming back and they were not all bad. “Well that's as maybe, but there's no cause to open old wounds. It seems we're to be shipmates again,” he said, checking the entry. “And might as well make the best of it.”
Butler handed back the pen and went to move away. He supposed the Navy had caught him: he had made his mark on the muster, and there was very little to be done other than accept matters. But meeting with a former shipmate, even one as miserable as this particular Jimmy Leggs had encouraged him to some extent, and he turned back to the master at arms with a more contrite expression.
“Look, I know we've had our differences, and none of this is down to you, as such, but I've just come back from a trip to New 'olland, and ain't seen my home nor nothing.”
“Is that right?” Saunders asked, his eyes ever cold.
“True as I'm standin' here,” Butler assured him. “Pressing tender caught us off Berry Head, stripped the barky of her crew, and left a bunch of useless ticket men in their place. We ain't even docked, an' all I've got to show for two years' work is a Navy promise.”
“That's sad,” the master at arms assured him, although few could have guessed his true feelings.
Butler eyed the warrant officer cagily. He held out very little hope of his story being accepted, but even this one final try was worth the effort. “Last time I saw me wife she were with child,” he continued. “It had been a straight passage out, so there weren't no mail waiting for us in Sydney, an' we never called back – the chit'll be walking b'now.”
“That's probably the case,” Saunders agreed sagely. “And likely with a brother or sister or two ta keep it company...”
Butler was now glaring with pure hatred.
“I'm not sayin' I don't feels for you,” Saunders said, his tone softening slightly as he noticed the man's change of expression. “But you won't find many aboard who ain't got some form of sorry tale to tell. With any nous you'd have volunteered whilst aboard the tender. Every pressed man gets the chance, and there'd have been clink to send your woman. As it is, you're pressed, so won't see a glimpse of coin for six months or more. And no one says you 'as to like it.”
* * *
Lieutenant Lewis glanced at the front door of the tavern with a mixture of apprehension and loathing, before ducking back behind the wall of straw once more. This was not his favourite duty; he had disliked being a member of a press gang when a regular hand and, after several years of advancement, found being forced to lead one no more pleasant. But now he had reached the dizzy heights of lieutenant, Lewis also understood the necessity.
Should Prometheus remain in her undermanned state she would not be able to sail: it could hardly be more simple. And the ramifications went deeper. For a captain to be revealed as unable to raise a crew would be a very public black mark against him, with the stigma being shared equally amongst the officers he commanded. Lewis, whose uniform was both new and unpaid for, would be lucky to find another seagoing berth. Half pay when not employed was a newly acquired luxury, but one that would not see him far, or free of his current level of debt.
So, unpleasant or not, the work had to be done and, if the information obtained from the old woman was correct, at least they should come away with a good number of able men. And there might be added consolation in the knowledge that he was also solving another problem. If there really was a gang of smugglers meeting tonight, he would not only be claiming valuable bodies for the Navy, but also eradicating a few of the parasites that currently sapped the lifeblood from his country.
As a sea officer, Lewis would hardly be affected by a reduction in what the public liked to call free traders, while most who benefited from his actions might probably never know, or recognise the fact. But the old woman would. They had not spoken for more than five minutes, but Lewis hoped her business would survive. And, being of a genial nature, the concept of two birds being killed by one stone appealed, even if he were only to benefit directly from one.
He and his men had been watching the place for over an hour from the privacy of the livery stable across the lane. From their point of view, it appeared a normal country inn; one of three in the village and, being less than three miles from the sea all were strongly biased in favour of the sailing man. It was even likely that the landlord came from similar stock; many, if not most, lower deck hands harboured a desire to open just such an establishment if their luck turned. And it was not so far fetched a dream; with prize money a constant possibility, it might take little more than a single afternoon's work to acquire the necessary funds. Maybe just a minor action, or the luck to be on hand when an enemy convoy was taken. Or simply snaring a single rich merchant when theirs was the only ship in sight.
The seaman's share of any prize would be notoriously small, when compared with that paid to commissioned and flag officers, but these were desperate times, and of late more than a few enemy vessels had been caught carrying cargoes of unheard value. Even a tiny portion of such a capture could turn a tidy sum. Such riches might come at less than a couple of hours' notice and, however slow or bad the official pay, knowledge of the possibility was all that kept many foremast Jacks from utter despair.
Once the lucky man was so provided for and his premises secured, be it pot house, inn or tavern, he could say goodbye to the sea for ever. As a freeholder, he would be legally immune from the press, while his past experience must make the place a favourite amongst other salty types. Often these would be men equally lucky in funds, but with ambitions that extended only as far as several nights' complete oblivion. They would be pleased to empty their purse into the hands of a former shipmate, spending their hard earned coin in an orgy of wanton excess that covered every one of the primary deadly sins, with a few more thrown in for good measure.
Knowledge of what a beached seaman liked best could make a landlord comfortably off, and many were content to be so, even at the expense of their former colleagues. Once established and with staff installed, the business could just about run itself, and had the advantage of being totally legal. And, for those who wanted even more and did not mind a little risk, there were further ways in which additional wealth could be achieved.
Smuggling was the most logical. Many of the usual seaman's skills were required, as was the raw courage and outright temerity common amongst lower deck men. Substantial funds could be made with relatively little risk, the force of revenue officers and preventive men being so small in times of war that a determined runner was more likely to encounter shipwreck or foundering than seizure.
And from what Lewis' informant had passed on, this was one such instance. Being so near to a naval base, the tavern would have been regularly visited by the press, so any seaman found inside was likely to carry a protection. But now that it was growing dark, and most honest souls were on their way to bed, if not already inside, Lewis was reasonable certain of finding a rich haul of men ripe for impressment. And these would be bright, alert, fit young men, rather than the landsmen or fools that had made up much of the press gang's haul of late. For, by their nature, smugglers were not only acquainted with the sea, but enterprising enough to make a sizeable living from it.
Lewis was about to take a further look, but quickly dived back behind his cover as yet another visitor approached. This one was rid
ing a horse; the third to have come so, and he tensed once more in case the animal should be brought over to shelter in the yard. But it was a pleasant enough night, and the beast was left to steam companionably next to its fellows. In time of war, for an ordinary man to afford a mount was as clear an indication as any that his business was lucrative. Lewis drew comfort from the thought they would not be arresting paupers, but rich men of business who were probably deserving of such a fate. He motioned briefly to Clement, a boatswain's mate, who was the official look out, then settled himself down with the rest of the men to wait.
His watch told him there was less than a quarter of an hour to go until the time when all should have assembled. The other seamen were yarning quietly while Chivers, the midshipman, checked the priming of his pistol for the ninth time that evening.
“Will we be takin' them on to the Rondy, sir?” one of the men chanced. Lewis turned to see it was a seasoned hand, and one he had served with in several other ships before.
“No, Jenkins,” Lewis replied softly. “I don't intend keeping any on land for longer than we need.” The others drew near to hear as he continued, and Lewis supposed it as good a time as any for a final briefing.
“Remember we want seamen, not gentry. They may well be free traders, but we ain't gobblers or landsharks and look only for those who will be of use aboard ship.”
There was a murmur of understanding from those about him, and Lewis wondered if they knew of his other reasons for avoiding the ringleaders. Anyone smart enough to place themselves in a position of authority was likely to dodge an impressment order with ease. Some may even be lawyers or magistrates themselves: it was not unknown for men of all manner of business to indulge in such a lucrative venture. He had documentation that entitled him to seize able men; even taking free traders was perhaps stretching the point, although any overstepping of authority might also be excused. Men caught smuggling were frequently sent for five years' service with the Royal Navy on conviction. It was conceivable that Prometheus' commission would be shorter so, in effect, Lewis was doing them a favour. But a well set up individual, be he doctor, lawyer or even a tavern keeper, might not see it in quite the same light. And, given access to a court of law, they could bring charges against Lewis or the captain for false imprisonment.
No, it was better to go for the ordinary workers; the common hands who would be of more use, cause less trouble and probably be a good deal more skilled into the bargain. He would whisk them back to the ship, where any protest could be received in private and relative safety. There were two dockyard carts standing by, and the horses were reasonably fresh: with luck, all should be over within the hour, and they would be well on their way back to Prometheus.
“Two more walkers,” Clement whispered, and Lewis raised himself up to look once more. That would make eighteen, by his calculation. He had little room for more on the wagons; some of his men might have to run alongside as it was.
“Very well, form up, and check your equipment.”
They rose slowly, flexing stiff limbs, and some began to shake out their sand filled coshes with professional swagger, slapping them against horny hands and grinning to each other in anticipation. Lewis was far happier for his men to carry such weapons; to his mind they were infinitely preferable to the belaying pins favoured by many. Handled properly, the business should be orderly enough but if it came to a fight, seamen were inclined to use force without consideration. A heavy blow from a cosh might well cause unconsciousness, but the same stroke delivered with the solidity of what amounted to a heavy club could easily kill.
Each man was also equipped with a cutlass, while some carried pistols. These were unlikely to be used: even if drawn, it would amount to an admission of defeat or, at least, unforeseen resistance. Those seized usually went easily enough at first, and could be trussed up and removed relatively quickly. In time they might try to escape, and it was not unknown for friends to learn of their impressment, and attempt to free them. That meant the journey back would probably be the most dangerous part of the procedure. The three miles they had to travel gave ample time for accomplices to be raised and an attack organised. Then it may well come to cold steel or even firearms.
“If all are ready, we shall begin.” Lewis spoke softly, well aware that it was not customary to phrase an order in such a way, although press gang work was somewhat apart from the usual shipboard discipline. In the next few minutes every man would be looking after the other but, unlike a regular action, they must exercise control. There was no enemy here; instead it was hoped that whoever they seized would someday become a friend.
They walked silently out of the yard and across the darkened street. Without a direct order, Jenkins, Todd and Harrison broke off and made to secure the rear, while Sanderson and Jeffrey stayed behind with the carts, and stood ready in the lee of the stables. All had carried out similar raids on previous occasions and most actually enjoyed the exercise. But every one of them was also well practised and, as Lewis strode forward boldly and rapped on the heavy wooden door, he was quietly confident. There was the customary silence from within, then a small crack appeared and a cautious eye peeped out.
It took no more than one kick from a well aimed boot to throw the door back in the man's face. Lewis stood to one side, allowing his men to stream past, then followed, almost casually, in their wake. Inside it was the usual scene: upturned tables, a rush of bodies, the tinkle of broken glass and, all too often some woman drawing attention to herself by screaming, crying or defending a favoured man: occasionally all three. Lewis watched with the eyes of one who had seen it all before. He was unable to approve or condemn; his job was simply to make sure everything reached its logical conclusion, and with as little trouble as possible.
* * *
Captain Banks read the message one more time while waiting for Caulfield to join him in the great cabin. It was a nonsense, of course; their deployment had already been changed once, which explained why Sarah was so many miles away in Southsea when Prometheus lay at anchor in Tor Bay. And now this – it was late in the evening, and he was not in the mood for such tomfoolery. The thump of a musket butt drew his attention from the paper as his sentry announced the first lieutenant's arrival.
“It's not the Channel Fleet,” Banks said, by way of greeting, handing the order to Caulfield who was in shirtsleeves and appeared as if he may already have been abed. The first lieutenant looked uneasily at his captain as he took it.
“Came by a messenger from the port admiral not five minutes past,” Banks said incredulously. “And after we were told it would definitely not be the Med.”
When Prometheus was released from the dockyard, barely three weeks ago, she had indeed been destined to join the Mediterranean Fleet. Sarah had taken a house close to Portsmouth, to be on hand during the rare occasions when the ship might return to England, and all aboard were looking forward to spending the next year or so on the magical inland sea. Then, with almost unseemly haste, Prometheus had been switched to service with the Channel Fleet. It had not been a popular move, and the knowledge that the entire commission would probably be spent on blockade duty, either polishing the enemy coast with the inshore squadron, or sailing aimlessly back and forth as part of the main force, had not been appreciated by officers or crew. They had made for their new home within two days, limping along the south coast, desperately undermanned, to finally set their hooks in the mud off Tor Bay, the base for what were colloquially known as the Channel Gropers. And now – now it seemed the original plan was to stand, and once more Prometheus was Mediterranean bound.
“Under Admiral Nelson,” Caulfield commented, with a modicum of respect as he handed the paper back.
“Indeed,” Banks agreed. “It will be an honour I am certain, and he will doubtless do every bit as good a job as my Lord Cornwallis. But why the change?” he questioned. “We have already lost time and continuity in switching berths, and are drastically undermanned in consequence. Yet now the Admiralty wish us to
sail almost forthwith!”
“We are more than seventy short,” Caulfield replied automatically. “And all should be trained hands, were we to have the choice.”
“Benson should be back on the morrow,” Banks remarked. “And Lewis is out at present – with luck he may bring back a smuggler or two.”
“But that will not make up the deficiency,” Caulfield replied softly.
“Well, there is nothing for it: I shall have to petition the Admiralty. They cannot expect me to recruit efficiently if my ship is constantly switched and no time allowed for the process. Why, it says here we must be ready to join an India convoy from Thursday – that gives us less than two days, when we were expecting ten. Most of the repairs needed will hardly be completed by then and that is not accounting for our lack of hands.”
Caulfield said nothing. He was probably more acutely aware of the problems than his captain; as executive officer, the fabric and manning of the ship was directly under his control. Positions for first lieutenants were by no means plentiful and, if he failed to present a workable command, he would not find another, and neither could he expect to make that all important step to Commander. However, the fact that he was potentially worse off than his captain hardly eased the situation, and he doubted he had ever seen Banks quite so angry.
“But of course, I cannot,” the senior man sighed after a moment. “They would merely laugh, and say the fault to be mine, then ask if the ship were above my mark.”
“We may run into a homebound convoy,” Caulfield suggested. “Or even be able to recruit at Gib. There are always those released from the hospital, and they often hold men from foundered vessels, to say nothing of exchanged prisoners.”
“There shall be precious few of the latter this deep into the war,” Banks replied glumly, although Caulfield's remark had consoled him to some extent. The tiny outpost to the mouth of the Mediterranean was certainly a potential source of hands, and both men had pleasant memories of the place.