The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

‘We’ll need to get to the bottom of that, but it’ll be a while before I take up my appointment and I don’t relish going in there blind.’

  ‘So mebbe I could kind of spy out the land, sir?’

  Anson liked the way the sergeant always seemed to be one thought ahead. It augured well.

  ‘Exactly, I’d like you to do just that. I’ll give you a letter quoting Admiralty authority to show in case you have any problems, although I doubt anyone will bother a sergeant of marines going about official business. You could put it around that you’re there to inspect the cannon. Put yourself up at one of the pubs and see if you can find out what’s happened to this Lieutenant Crispin, what sort of man the bosun is, and so on …’

  A sudden thought struck him. ‘Damn, I’ve just remembered the special task I mentioned I had for you – and it isn’t this reconnaissance mission …’

  ‘Sir?’ Hoover was puzzled.

  ‘No, damn it. I wanted you here in your smart new unform to, er, support me at a glorified bun-fight my mother’s laying on next week for the neighbourhood toffs to welcome me home.’

  ‘So, shall I delay going to Seagate?’

  Anson shook his head. ‘No, no. That’s by far the shark nearest the raft. No, Fagg should be discharged from the hospital by then – and you heard me tell him to get some kind of uniform – so he’ll have to stand in place of you. It’ll be fine, just so long as he buttons his lip.’

  They shared a knowing smile.

  Before leaving the following morning, Hoover asked: ‘By the by, sir, just to settle my mind so to speak, will you tell me what it was you wrote on the barrow with that bit of chalk when we borrowed that boat at St Omer?’

  ‘The bacôve?’

  ‘Yeah, by the river with the funny name.’

  ‘The Aa?’

  ‘That’s it, sir. It’s been puzzling me and Sam.’

  Anson thought for a moment. ‘Well, we weren’t thieves. We paid for the wheelbarrow, remember? And it was important to pay for the boat, so I wrote Pardonnez moi – forgive me. Trouvez votre bateau près de Gravelines. And I left a guinea wrapped in a piece torn from my shirt.’

  Hoover gave an understanding nod. ‘Good of you to do that, sir, when you didn’t need to – they being Frogs and us being at war with them and all.’

  Anson shrugged. ‘It was a matter of honour.’

  *

  Hezekiah reined in outside the Three Tuns, his usual pick-up point for parcels and passengers destined for the villages. For many a year his carrier service had operated from here, regular as clockwork, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, taking passengers to or from Canterbury and bringing back goods to order that were unavailable out of town.

  He brought back everything from bespoke clothing to pots and pans, crockery, cutlery, spices, books and, importantly, the latest newspapers of which The Times and the county’s own Kentish Gazette were by far the most sought-after.

  The passengers were usually country folk bringing their goods to market, others on periodic shopping expeditions, visiting relatives or on occasional business with the men of law, accounting or banking who plied their professions in the cathedral city.

  But today was different. Hezikiah had instructions to look out for a naval person and, sure enough, after a brief wait one such appeared from the public bar followed by a young lad carrying a kitbag almost as big as himself.

  Tilting his pointy hat back with his whip handle, the carrier appraised the said naval person. You could hardly miss him. The first thing to hit you was the newcomer’s tall, black-lacquered hat tilted jauntily to one side with the letters SSF picked out in white paint to the fore. Aft, the beginnings of a pigtail could be discerned by the observant, and Hezikiah was ever sharp-eyed.

  Beneath, the naval person wore a blue and white check shirt, blue neckerchief and red waistcoat topped with a dark blue cutaway jacket with a row of highly polished brass buttons down the front. His trousers were red and white-striped and the silver buckles on his shiny black shoes flashed as he walked – or rather hopped. And from a cord round his neck hung his unofficial badge of office, a silver bosun’s whistle.

  A Malacca cane under one arm and a crutch under the other completed his rigout, giving him more the look of a pirate chief than a navy petty officer, and Hezikiah could not help staring.

  ‘Are you name of Fagg?’

  ‘Who’s arsking?’

  ‘Hezikiah Dale, the carrier, at your service. But I was told to look out for a sailor and you look more like a hadmiral t’me …’

  ‘Not quite a hadmiral mate. Leastways, not just yet,’ said Fagg. ‘Mebbe it’s me ’at,’ and he pulled it off by the brim, instantly revealing himself to be a foot shorter than he had at first appeared. He tapped it with his cane. ‘Waterproof see? On account of how they give it coat arter coat of black varnish.’

  ‘Well, shame it ain’t raining then,’ observed Hezikiah. ‘So ’op aboard and let’s get this here voyage on the road.’

  Fagg obliged, flicked a coin to the porter lad and settled down to enjoy the journey to Hardres Minnis, instructing the carrier: ‘Now, so as us don’t get bored nor nuffink, p’haps you can tell me all about Mr Anson and his family so’s when I’m hobnobbing with them at the rect’ry I’ll know who’s who and what’s what.’

  And Hezikiah, who so often endured the tedium of the trip alone, was more than happy to oblige.

  *

  Fagg’s arrival at the rectory caused something of a stir, and Anson was roused from his post-lunch nap in the summerhouse with the news that there was ‘a navy gennelman’ asking for him.

  This, he thought, must be Fagg – hopefully smart in his new rig. He instructed the servant: ‘Kindly show him round.’ But he was quite unprepared for the startling apparition that manifested itself a few minutes later in the summerhouse doorway in the shape of Samuel Fagg, boatswain designate of the Seagate Sea Fencibles.

  Anson took in the tall japanned hat, the brass-buttoned blue jacket, red waistcoat, striped trousers and glinting shoe buckles with astonishment, gasping ‘Good grief!’

  The apparition raised his hat. ‘Beg pardin, sir?’

  Anson stuttered. ‘I said good, er, yes very good! I told you to find yourself a uniform and you’ve most certainly done that. Very, well, very …’ He put his hand over his mouth to smother his grin.

  ‘Smart is the word what I ’ope ye’re searchin’ for, sir,’ said Fagg, glancing down at his flashing buttons.

  ‘Smart indeed, bosun. You look, well, I cannot seem to find the words to express it …’

  Fagg knuckled his forehead. ‘Thank you very much, sir. Obliged to ye. Can’t help being a bit chuffed wiv it meself.’

  Anson could not trust himself to disguise his amused astonishment, so waved Fagg to a chair and told him of Hoover’s mission. ‘It’ll keep him away for some days so you can have his room and stay here until I take up my appointment. It’ll give that ankle of yours a bit more time to right itself.’

  Then he remembered the coming dinner party, pictured Fagg waiting on him in his magnificent new full fig, and, with some relish, explained the role he wanted his new bosun to play.

  19

  While Anson was being introduced to the company over sherry, the butler buttonholed Fagg. ‘Ever served at table before?’

  Minus only his japanned hat from his otherwise gaudy uniform, Fagg said unapologetically: ‘Only on board ship when it’s me turn to fetch me messmates their dinners.’

  The butler had no idea whatsoever what that entailed, but took it to mean waiting experience rather than the unruly scrum it usually was. ‘Good, then you’ll know to serve from the right and keep your thumb out of the soup. You’ll stand behind Master Oliver. I’ll tell you when to do what, and if in doubt look to me.’

  ‘Aye aye butler,’ Fagg responded, reminding this jumped-up landsman who was who.

  The guests, now fully mustered and plied with sherry, moved to the dining room which sparkled with the light of man
y candles glittering on the silver and glassware and flickering on family portraits – a mixture of undistinguished clergy and a few second-son military men, including the unfortunate Hannibal Anson.

  The rector was flanked by Squire Brax’s portly wife Elizabeth and Mrs Todd, a neighbouring clergyman’s plain but wealthy young widow, only recently out of mourning. At the other end of the long table, Mrs Anson had seated Colonel Redfearn, of the engineers, on her right and Squire Brax on her left.

  The other places were taken up by Lady Brax, Colonel Bumstead of the yeomanry, his horsey-looking wife and surprisingly pretty daughter Caroline, a chubby, unaccompanied magistrate called Smythe from Canterbury who was seated between the Anson daughters, and the archdeacon, whose his pinch-faced wife and angular daughter were next to Augustine Anson.

  Just as his mother had predicted, Anson was seated between the two eldest Brax girls, Charlotte and Jane. Their younger sister Isobel sat opposite, looking not at all ill at ease next to the colonel of engineers.

  In Anson’s honour, it was a meal with a nautical flavour.

  The soup appeared and, noting that his mother had taken her first sip, he took a mouthful. Spoon poised, Charlotte Brax asked Anson,: ‘What’s the fish soup like?’

  Anson raised an eyebrow. ‘Fishy.’

  She giggled, drawing a disapproving glance from her mother, but dismissed it with a toss of her head. She was exceptionally pretty, well-covered, verging on the voluptuous, done up to the nines, and spoilt, Anson concluded.

  He noted that Jane, slimmer although not half as pretty, was nevertheless attractive in her way, perhaps largely due to the way she deported herself – with poise and apparent charm. Being the centre of attention between the two could be more fun than he had imagined.

  Soup dishes disappeared without mishap and on came the next course. Fagg nudged Anson and nodded at the plate he had placed in front of him, hissing loud enough for those nearest to hear and pause in mid-chew: ‘I’d take care to clean orf that green stuff with yer knife if I wus ye, sir. It’s covered in snail shit.’

  This set Charlotte off giggling again, and Jane put her hand to her mouth to stifle a grin. Anson near choked and spluttered: ‘It’s, er, caviar,’ and, sensing all eyes on him, added, ‘Yes caviar, how nice!’ And turning to his mother with an embarrassed, apologetic shrug he managed to add: ‘How clever to acquire some, mother. Haven’t seen any since the Baltic,’ adding diplomatically, ‘Clearly my bosun has never seen caviar there or anywhere else.’

  This provoked a nervous laugh from the nearest diners, and one or two surreptitiously cleared their salad leaves of the precious eggs – just in case.

  His mother looked relieved at her son’s compliment, and protested: ‘We can thank Lady Brax for this treat. One of her servants rode over with it this morning.’

  Anson prayed he was alone in hearing Fagg’s muttered: ‘Pick it orf the cabbages, did she?’

  Mrs Anson hastened to complete mending the fence by turning to Lady Brax and gushing: ‘We are so very grateful. Caviar is such a rare treat. It’s such a luxury in these trying times.’

  Her ladyship had not registered Fagg’s snail shit remark and took the compliment at face value. ‘It comes in jars, of course, imported from Scandinavia packed in ice blocks. My grocer rushes a few jars to the hall as soon as it arrives in port. It keeps for a while in our ice house.’

  Squire Brax grumbled. ‘An acquired taste if you ask me. Damned salty stuff, but it’s just about edible with a good wine.’ He turned to the rector. ‘War don’t trouble your cellar, eh, parson? Use the same firm of suppliers as we at the hall, I’ll be bound!’

  Various meat dishes followed and Anson struggled gamely on, watched closely by Charlotte and Jane for signs of flagging. Looking round at the way his fellow-diners were tucking in, it was small wonder that most, including Charlotte, were carrying what was known afloat as ‘a bit of cargo’.

  Her mother was certainly provisioned for a long voyage, as a seaman might say of a paunchy landsman.

  Mrs Anson caught her son’s eye. ‘Is the meal satisfactory, dear?’

  ‘Very much so, mother – a rare treat for someone more used to salt beef, salt pork and dried peas.’

  Charlotte Brax insisted on hearing more about life afloat. ‘You men are so lucky. You go off to war and have all the fun while we poor girls have to hang around leading boring lives at home waiting for the heroes to return if we are ever to find a husband.’

  Anson glanced her way and was immediately conscious of the expanse of pink flesh cleaving dramatically as it disappeared into her gown. ‘Er, so, do you aspire to a martial life, Miss Brax?’

  She noticed his interest, fixed him with an amused half smile, and replied archly: ‘A marital life might suit me better, sir.’

  Anson spluttered. ‘Some women do go to sea, but it’s not an ideal life for ladies.’

  Charlotte gave him a knowing look. ‘So I’ve heard Mr Anson, so I’ve heard.’

  He realised he had left a chink in his armour and hurriedly explained. ‘What I mean is, that warrant officers like the gunner sometimes have their wives on board – with permission of course. They perform useful tasks, help look after the sick and wounded and so on …’

  ‘How noble! If you had a wife, Mr Anson, would you have her on board?’

  He was still contemplating how to answer without digging himself in deeper when Jane Brax came to his rescue.

  ‘I would definitely opt for a martial life, were it possible, Mr Anson.’

  He turned to her, mightily relieved at the opportunity to steer the conversation out of dangerous waters. ‘Really, Miss Brax?’

  Anson’s concentration received a sudden jolt. Something brushed against his thigh and for a moment he thought one of his father’s gundogs had sneaked into the room and hidden under the table. But then he felt a light stroking. It was a hand, approaching from starboard: Charlotte! While her left hand continued its exploration she reached for her wine glass with her right, countering his look of alarm with an amused pouting smile. Clearly, she was ambidextrous.

  Flustered, he looked round hastily to reassure himself that no-one else had noticed and reached down to capture her hand and push it away. It fluttered like a small captive bird in his ship-toughened paw, and as he let it go she gave his fingertips a slow, gentle squeeze.

  ‘Do you agree, Mr Anson?’

  Startled, he turned back to Jane. ‘Sorry Miss Brax … er, I believe one of the, er, dogs has crept into the room and was nuzzling me under the table.’ Charlotte suppressed an explosive snort as Anson added weakly: ‘I’m afraid I missed what you said.’

  Jane appeared not to have noticed her sister’s mischief-making and repeated: ‘I asked if you agreed that women should be allowed to form their own yeomanry, acting as nurses, message carriers and so on.’

  Anson played for time by reaching for his wine glass and taking a long sip.

  ‘It’s absurd and unfair that boys always have the fun and adventure,’ Jane insisted. ‘We can ride, so why cannot we be volunteers, yeo-women or whatever?’

  The youngest Brax sister, Isobel, was following the conversation intently from the other side of the table. ‘At least we should be able to dress in regimentals to show support. I’ve heard of Scottish ladies dressing up in red coats with military cuffs and epaulettes. And some girls are wearing velvet dresses of rifle green—’

  Jane interjected, ‘And I’ve read in the Morning Post that the women of Neath have petitioned the prime minister to be allowed to form their own home defence regiment. Since our frontline county is most likely to be invaded, do you not agree that the Maids of Kent and Kentish Maids should do the same?’

  Before he could think of a suitable response, Charlotte butted in. ‘Yes, and of course we should be allowed to fight, too.’ She looked him straight in the eye and added, ‘I’m sure I could kill a man … given time.’

  Anson coughed nervously, turned to Jane and spluttered: ‘There is s
-something in what you suggest, Miss Brax. Yes, I think non-combatant roles such as nursing, carrying messages and so on might become acceptable for the, er … fair sex, eventually.’

  From starboard, Charlotte murmured softly: ‘Balls …’

  There was an audible titter from Fagg behind his chair as, taken aback, Anson spun to face her, spluttering: ‘Er, I’m sorry Miss Brax, I didn’t quite catch your drift.’

  Charlotte, with a look of total innocence, asked: ‘I was querying if you like balls Mr Anson. You know, music and dancing?’

  ‘Ah yes, balls,’ he gasped, much relieved. ‘I can’t say that I’m an expert on … er balls, Miss Brax. We don’t have much call for them at sea, except cannon balls and musket balls of course, ha ha,’ he laughed nervously. ‘But I daresay they are quite the social thing ashore, there being ladies available as partners and all.’

  She smirked: ‘Quite so. Then you would accept an invitation should one be held hereabouts?’

  ‘Well, er, in principle I daresay a ball would be a jolly thing to attend.’

  She leaned forward, her bosom straining against her gown, and addressed her sister triumphantly. ‘There you are Jane, he would love to attend a ball. We must get to work on mother and father immediately. It’s an age since we had one at the hall, and now we have the perfect opportunity. The countryside is alive with army officers, volunteers, yeomanry and such.’ And, turning to Anson, she asked: ‘Will you bring some of your unattached fellow officers?’

  ‘I don’t have … er, that is I will, er … have to give some thought to that.’

  But before he could dig himself into a deeper hole, his mother tapped a glass with a spoon and invited the ladies to withdraw and leave the gentlemen to their port.

  As he stood to pull back the sisters’ chairs, Anson turned surreptitiously to Fagg, raised his eyebrows and mouthed: ‘Phew!’

  20

  Mindful of Anson’s concern about stumbling blindly into Seagate, Hoover had booked himself a room at the British Lion near the gun battery on the Bayle in Folkestone.