by David McDine
Then the satisfying thought struck him. ‘In any event, your brother’s return from the dead is a kind of resurrection, is it not?’
*
At breakfast next day, Mrs Anson announced: ‘We are inviting the cream of local society to dine at the rectory on Friday week – something of a welcome home for you, dear.’
Anson looked up from reading an account in the Kentish Gazette of a yeomanry exercise and pulled a face. ‘Sorry mother, I find I have arranged to visit my tailor in Chatham that very day.’
Mrs Anson huffed. ‘Nonsense! You have clearly just dreamed that up. I blame your unsociability on all the time you have spent with uncouth men in the navy. Of course you must be here. All three of the Brax girls will be coming and I cannot make up my mind which of them is most taken with you after seeing you at church on Sunday. And the Bumsteads have a very pretty daughter.’
It was no secret that the rector and his wife would like to marry off their sailor son, preferably to a wealthy heiress – and they already had a number of conveniently local possibles in mind.
Anson wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Stop matchmaking this instant mother, else I’ll most certainly find urgent business elsewhere.’
But she ploughed on: ‘You must get a new best uniform, and I imagine I’ll seat you between Charlotte and Jane …’ These were the two eldest Brax girls, both likely to bring substantial dowries to a marriage bed. Besides, she had privately reasoned, coarse and bovine though Squire Brax was, he had the advowson of this and several adjoining parishes giving him the power to appoint the rector, and as such he would best be kept on-side through a linked bloodline.
Anson grimaced again. Being caught between two broadsides was a dangerous business, but then, the invitation did promise light relief from the usual confined atmosphere at the rectory. And, he privately acknowledged, he had noticed how attractive the Brax girls were.
The Reverend Anson defined the planned event: ‘A celebration, yes. Well, perhaps more of a thanksgiving.’
The reaction of the Anson daughters was enthusiastic. ‘It will be divine father,’ gushed Anne. And Elizabeth was emphatic: ‘We shall simply have to have new dresses!’
But their re-born brother was not at all keen. ‘I enjoy a party as much as anyone. Howsoever, the last thing I require is to be the prize exhibit for a parcel of yokels to come and gape at.’
Mrs Anson tutted: ‘Sir Oswald and Lady Brax are not yokels. He’s lord of the manor and sits in Parliament. And Mr Bumstead’s an honourable – and he’s captain of the yeomanry.’
Her husband corrected her: ‘Colonel dear. He’s colonel of the yeomanry.’
‘Yes, well, he’s whatever they call the one in charge,’ she acknowledged.
Anson grunted and muttered: ‘A parcel of jumped-up yokels then.’
Elizabeth kicked him under the table and immediately winced in case she had struck a wounded limb.
Anne admonished him. ‘They are not yokels – they’re society!’
Having left at the age of 12 to join the navy as a midshipman he had spent so long away, with only rare home leave, that he barely knew those who passed locally for ‘society’.
Nor did he wish to be exposed to cross-examination about his experiences or asked for his learned opinion on how long the war was likely to last and suchlike matters.
His father persisted. ‘Your modesty is commendable Oliver, but you must understand that these, er, yokels you denigrate were a great comfort to your mother and I when you were reported dead. They were solicitous enough to attend your memorial service—’
‘And they do have some very pretty daughters,’ his mother offered.
Anson was not averse to meeting pretty daughters. ‘Fair enough. I can see I’m out-gunned and out-manoeuvred. If they had the decency to come to the service to see me off, we’ll do the decent thing. I’ll make my number with them and give ’em a drink or two.’
His capitulation was enthusiastically received, and after he had excused himself to go for another limp around the large well-kept rectory gardens, his family set about planning the great event.
His mother rang a silver bell for a maid.
‘Let’s make a list. Pen and paper please, Mary. You can clear away later. We have work to do!’
She smiled triumphantly at her husband and daughters. ‘So the Braxes and the Bumsteads must come. Now, who else has pretty daughters?’
Her husband muttered: ‘Only the quality mind. No pretty church mice, if you please.’
‘I do hope he meets someone he likes,’ mused Mrs Anson. ‘It’s high time he settled down and now he’s home for a while there’s absolutely no excuse for him to remain single.’
Having cornered her son, Mrs Anson reminded her husband that it was the custom nowadays for a liveried footman to be stationed behind each diner. ‘A trifle presumptuous perhaps, but rather charming.’
The Rector looked doubtful. ‘We’ve only Beer and Jeapes presentable enough, but I suppose we could ask Squire Brax to bring his two proper footmen and more if we need them. But the rest would be some of his keepers and tenants’ lads that he dresses up in the nearest-fitting livery.’
The Reverend Anson clenched his hands and pondered, frowning, chin resting on his thumbs – an unconscious but regular habit of his when deep in thought – until a happy idea struck him. His eyebrows soared and the frown disappeared. ‘Of course, Oliver must be able to call upon a Jolly Jack Tar. Dressed up in his best uniform, pigtail and all, why, it’d be the very thing to create a naval atmosphere!’
Mrs Anson raised a gloved hand. ‘Excellent! And rather than risk a bowl of soup down our backs, I’ll ask Augustine to bring some servants from the cathedral precincts …’
15
A few more days’ convalescing and Anson felt up to travelling to London. His father insisted on taking him to Canterbury, and it was a relief to join the mail coach there and be away from the cloying confines of the rectory and his mollycoddling family.
During a stop at the Bull in Rochester to exchange horses and allow passengers time to eat and stretch their legs, he walked into Chatham and called on his naval tailor who kept clients’ measurements on file and was able to fulfil orders without their physical presence.
Anson collected a new bicorn hat to replace the one lost on the mole at St Valery, and the new uniform he had ordered by post on arrival home.
It fitted, although somewhat loosely. The tailor, anxious not to accept blame for incorrect cutting, observed: ‘Better too large than too small. Most of my gentlemen put a few pounds on between uniforms, but you’ve lost more than a few since you called here last, Mr Anson. May I suggest a diet of beefsteaks and mutton for a few weeks? Then it’ll be a perfect fit.’
Bouncing around in the coach, Anson pondered the request his father had put to him on the drive into Canterbury for a smart sailor to act as a footman for the dinner party he had allowed himself to be nagged into.
A smart sailor to wait at table? These landsmen had no idea and would be horrified at the reality.
Anson imagined a piratical character in a tarred hat, stained pea jacket, patched trousers and greased sea boots, poking his oar into the dinner conversation, peering down the ladies’ cleavages, chewing and spitting ’baccy, and smiled at the thought.
A dandyish, rather effeminate man with a heart-shaped patch on his cheek sitting opposite caught the smile he supposed was for him and winked archly in return, to Anson’s greater amusement. He was not that kind of sailor. And to avoid being drawn into an unwanted conversation he leaned back, closed his eyes and feigned sleep.
Arriving at Charing Cross, he grabbed his bag before the dandy could importune him and marched the short distance to the Ship and Shovel, a hostelry frequented by navy men in the warren of lanes off Whitehall, just a brisk walk from the Admiralty, and took a room.
At supper, he fell in with a fellow naval officer, one Commander Amos Armstrong, some years his senior, who also had an appointment
at the Admiralty next day.
Armstrong poured an extra glass from his already half empty wine bottle and introduced himself as the unfortunate officer in command of a Sussex coast signal station.
‘A good number?’ asked Anson.
‘Damned if it is!’ Armstrong was vehement. ‘Trouble is, everyone assumes it’s a comfortable berth compared to a man-of-war. But I tell you, it’s a nightmare job.’
He gulped back a mouthful of wine. ‘When I first arrived I found the station in a ruinous state – a filthy and wretched place. Took me a month of Sundays to get it shipshape. I’ve a midshipman – a disagreeable moonfaced child I’ve had to leave in charge of the station, God forgive me! There are two lower deck simpletons laughingly described as signalmen, and two dragoons – one to be sent off with despatches when anything significant occurs.’
‘Not an easy berth then?’
Armstrong frowned and shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. I have the strictest orders to be on the lookout by day and by night, the French coast being so close that you can damned near see it without a glass on a clear day …’
‘So you’d be among the first to spot invasion barges,’ Anson observed.
‘That’s if my eyes haven’t given up the ghost by then. The utmost vigilance is demanded. Whenever the wind blows strong from westward, merchantmen take shelter under Dungeness, and the French privateers are sure to come over and attempt to pick off one or more of them before our men-of-war can regain their station off Beachy Head and scare them off.’
He picked up the wine bottle, held it up to check the level and signalled the landlord for another.
‘Same agin, sir?’
Armstrong nodded. ‘Same again indeed, mine host. Your wine tastes well enough but there ain’t much in your bottles and it’s damned expensive stuff to boot.’
Being so close to the Admiralty, the landlord was used to naval officers’ banter and countered good-naturedly: ‘If you navy men’d stop blockading the Frogs we could get it cheaper. And I can assure you gennelmen that the bottles come ready corked, so if there ain’t enough in ’em that’s down to the Frenchies.’
‘Good point well brought out,’ Armstrong conceded and topped up both glasses with the remains of the first bottle, observing to Anson: ‘Remarkable, ain’t it? Even your London landlords openly admit they’re selling smuggled drink. So much for our blockades …’
‘Do you have to keep a look out for smugglers, too?’
‘Ironic, ain’t it? We have to be on watch constantly in case of smugglers being on the coast, and for prisoners-of-war making their escape. If we spot anything queer like that, we’re supposed to signal a warning to the next station up the line and send a dragoon off to report to the nearest military.’
‘So there’s no such thing as being off watch?’
Armstrong shook his head. ‘There’s no relaxation from duty except in a thick fog, which will sometimes last for ten days at a time. Bliss!’
‘What can you do at such times?’
‘Nothing but walk the cliffs and seashore, as long as I watch my footing. But such times are rare. I tell you, mon vieux, anyone who says a signal station’s an easy berth fit for old worn-out officers could not be more wrong. Mind you, I soon will be worn-out if I’m forced to stay there much longer.’
Most recently accustomed as he was to the rigours of life afloat, Anson was sceptical.
Noting his questioning look, Armstrong assured him: ‘Yes, I know all about sea service and how hard that can be. But without fear of contradiction, I can safely say I’ve suffered more from anxiety at my signal station than ever I did on board a man-of-war. When your watch is over at sea you can catch some rest—’
‘True,’ Anson had to agree.
‘But at a signal station you’re watch-on, stop-on, and woe betide you if you fail to spot an enemy sail or are sluggish at relaying a signal. It’s like having a testicle permanently in the mangle – the same effect as catching a finger in it, but a damned sight more painful!’
Anson queried: ‘But surely not everyone finds it so, er, uncomfortable, and not all who want the post are accepted. I’ve heard it said that a one-eyed officer unfit for active service applied to Admiralty for a signal station appointment but was refused.’
‘That’s correct, their Lordships told him that for such a post he would need two eyes …’
Armstrong poured another glass. ‘Aye, and damned good eyes at that! Not only d’you need good eyes, but strong nerves are a must. In the sou’west gales I’ve been astonished that the signal house roof hasn’t blown away, we’re in such an elevated situation.
‘I well remember one dreadful gale blowing our chimney down on to the roof, the fire blew out of the stoves and the glass out of the window frames.’
Anson raised his eyebrows.
‘What I’m telling you is gospel. You couldn’t stand upright in it. It was a night as black as Erebus and rained so hard that it swept everything away, including our garden, leaving nothing but the bare rock behind. I’d sooner face a storm in the Bay of Biscay any time.’
‘So you’re here to seek a different appointment?’
‘Me, among many. I’d take any sea-going post offered. Even command of a hulk would be preferable!’
Anson nodded sympathetically and made a mental note that if on the morrow he was offered a signal station appointment he would decline it smartly.
His companion warned him off accepting any post with the Sea Fencibles. ‘It’s a poisoned chalice, only one step better than the impress.’
Anson had heard of the Sea Fencibles. The name came from defencible, and they were a part-time force of fishermen and boatmen commanded by naval officers for local coastal defence, especially against invasion.
Armstrong warned: ‘The men are totally unreliable, no doubt smugglers to a man, and they only join to get a protection from being pressed into the proper navy. They’re a scruffy, drunken lot, impossible to discipline and train – and sure to melt away at the first sign of danger. When their Lordships offer someone a Sea Fencible appointment he can be sure his career is over. It’s the end of the line. There’s no honour in it, no hope of prize money – and no one’s ever going to obtain promotion commanding a bunch of scallywags like that.’
It was sobering stuff, and Anson told himself that on the morrow he would take neither job and accept nothing but a sea-going appointment.
The wine level sank steadily as they talked of other things: Nelson’s defeat of the French at Aboukir; and of old ships and mutual acquaintances.
The French foray into Egypt and the loss of their fleet had clearly lessened the invasion threat, but Armstong drew attention to a framed engraving, hung on the wall by the patriotic landlord, showing French soldiers and a priest preparing to embark for England. The wording on their flag read: ‘Vengeance et le Bon Bier et Bon Beouf de Angleterre’.
Anson was amused at the verses under the cartoon:
‘With lanthern jaws, and croaking gut,
See how the halfstarv’d Frenchmen strut,
And call us English Dogs!
But soon we’ll teach these bragging Foes,
That Beef & Beer give heavier blows,
Than Soup & Roasted Frogs.
The Priests inflam’d with riotous hopes,
Prepare their Axes, Wheels and Ropes,
To bend the Stiff-nek’d sinner.
But should they sink in coming over,
Old Nick may fish ’twixt France and Dover,
And catch a glorious Dinner.’
It was good morale-raising stuff that his father would enjoy, and Anson resolved to repair to Robinson’s the publishers in Paternoster Row to seek out a copy after his interview at the Admiralty on the morrow.
The remains of a third bottle of red vanished over the cheese, and Armstrong pressed two large brandies on him before Anson insisted on calling a halt to the convivial evening.
Weaving slightly, he made his way to bed and to sleep
disturbed by dreams of struggling to hold down the roof of a wind-battered, cliff-top signal hut as starving Frenchmen led by axe-wielding priests streamed ashore.
16
He looked in vain for Armstrong at breakfast and, despite a dull throb behind his eyes, managed a hearty plate of bacon and eggs before setting off to learn his future.
It was but a short walk from the Ship and Shovel to the Admiralty in Whitehall.
For minnows like him, the centre of the navy’s worldwide web was always spoken of with some awe and it was with trepidation that Anson crossed the cobbled courtyard.
He was conscious that he was following in the footsteps of the great and good of the navy – and that here his immediate and, indeed, long-term future would be decided.
Heading for the main door framed by four imposing pillars, he hesitated for a moment debating whether or not to remove his hat, decided he should do so, and entered the hallowed building.
Inside the large, square, high-ceilinged entrance hall, with arched corridors to left and right, his eyes were drawn first to the large, fire-less fireplace and to an impressive six-sided candelabra hanging from the centre of the ceiling, a three-anchor badge above each face and topped with a crown.
Below were three curious, heavily-padded, black leather armchairs, built with wide hoods. One was occupied by a be-whiskered porter, sheltering from the draughts from the regularly opening doors.
Anson was amused to see that the man’s feet were ensconced in a drawer which slid out from under the chair, and his head was shielded by the seat hood.
Knowing of the tyrannical reputation of the Admiralty’s messengers and porters, feared by anyone below flag rank, it was hardly surprising that they were indulged with custom-built seats to protect them from the elements.
A second man, clearly the porter of the watch, hovered expectantly. Hat now stowed under his left arm, Anson cleared his throat nervously and announced his name and business.
The haughty porter looked him up and down, sniffed, and directed him to the second door on the left which led into a small waiting room.