by David McDine
In return for their services, the press gangs – these fishers of men – enjoyed coveted privileges: wenching, boozing and messing ashore, with plenty of licensed assault and battery, and opportunities for extorting money in exchange for better-breeched citizens’ freedom – and occasionally even for sexual favours from the womenfolk of the riffraff.
Small wonder it attracted the worst, hard-drinking, womanising bullies.
Once in the bowels of a receiving ship even a bishop would have a problem disentangling himself from the navy’s embraces. Possession, as far as a service desperate for hands was concerned, was all of nine points of the law.
*
‘So let’s get this clear, shall us? The new orficer, Mister Anson ’ere, sez there’s t’be no floggin’ and no startin’ – right?’
There was a murmur of approval from the raggle-taggle crew of the Seagate Sea Fencibles.
‘Nah, you lot are so special we ain’t goin’ to touch you if yer fouls up, fergets to report an’ suchlike. What we’re goin’ t’do instead, is tear up yer sustificates. An’ no sustificate sayin’ you’re a Sea Fencible means yer won’t have no protection.’ Fagg pointed at a grizzled veteran in the front rank. ‘You, what’s-your-name, what does no sustificate mean?’
The veteran spluttered, ‘The press, bosun?’
Fagg paused theatrically. ‘That’s right, sailor. The press gang’ll come for yer, an’ I’ll tell you why. The nice gentlemen from His Matey’s impress service’ll come and fetch you to go orf to sea in one of ’is fine men-of-war ’cos we’ll tell ’em ’oo you are and where to find you. Point taken?’
The fencibles were, indeed, visibly impressed. A mumbled chorus of ‘Yus bosun’ confirmed that the point had struck home.
Anson had seen some ragamuffin crews before, especially at the start of a ship’s commission when a good half of the men were landsmen hauled in by the press gangs. But this scarecrow bunch took some beating.
There were a score of them, their weathered faces, calloused hands and rolling gait marked most of them as fishermen and small boat seamen of all types – no doubt most of them smugglers, occasional or otherwise.
They were all shapes and sizes, all ages from boys who looked as if they had only lately escaped their mothers’ apron strings to prematurely elderly men with little hair and few teeth between them, and dressed in everything from ragged work clothes to the undertaker’s smart funereal garb.
Taking station behind Anson, former surgeon’s mate Phineas Shrubb whispered to him: ‘As directed, I have examined all the would-be recruits and these are the ones who passed muster.’
The lieutenant winced. ‘If these are the best, what was wrong with those who failed?’
‘Oh, rickets, consumption, ruptures, lunacy – that sort of thing …’
‘Good grief!’
‘But you have accepted a cripple I should have been sure to fail?’
‘Tom Marsh? His spirit makes up for what he lacks in the foot department.’
Anson waited, standing rigid and silent in his smart new uniform, while Fagg, aided by Hoover at the back in the role of an ankle-biting sheepdog, verbally whipped the rabble into two muttering lines.
‘Silence fore and aft!’ Fagg roared, so fiercely that he won their immediate attention. ‘These here’s the rules. When I says form two lines, you forms two lines. And when I says silence, what do I mean?’
‘No talking?’ ventured one of the cheekier volunteers from the back row.
Fagg was beside the unfortunate in a split second screaming ‘Silence!’ into his ear and making all those around him flinch violently. ‘What’s your name sailor?’
The man hesitated, too nervous to speak until Fagg shouted ‘Answer!’
No longer cheeky, he managed to stutter: ‘F-Ford, master.’
‘I’m not your master. I’m the bosun of this here land-locked looney-bin. I worked long an’ ’ard to get this.’ He brandished his highly-polished Malacca cane. ‘That’s why I likes to be called bosun. What should you call me?’
‘B-bosun.’
‘That’s right, master effing Ford. Now we’ve got that straight and you’re all stood more or less in two wavy lines, the master-at-arms here’ll call you to attention.’
Hoover marched smartly to the front and stamped to attention, ramrod straight.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sergeant Hoover of His Majesty’s Marines and you are a shambolic bunch of scallywags who’ll soon be smart Sea Fencibles or wish you’d died in the attempt.’
He marched along the front rank, glaring fiercely into startled faces, came to a halt with stamping feet and shouted, ‘Atten … shun!’
The two lines shuffled to various interpretations of attention and Anson stepped forward, acknowledging Hoover’s exaggeratedly smart salute with a sloping-handed touch of his bicorn hat.
His eyes swept down the ragged lines. First impressions might have been on the gloomy side of positive, because he could now see that there were a fair few useful-looking sun- and wind-burned salts among them. They included the blackmail victim Jacob Shallow, still smiling at his miraculous escape from the impress, the butcher Tom Oldfield and the cobbler Joe Hobbs.
‘I am Lieutenant Anson of the Royal Navy, and I have been appointed by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to command this detachment of Sea Fencibles.’
He paused for effect, then added: ‘Whatever happened here before today is history. This detachment will henceforth be run in proper navy fashion. I am pleased that some of the old hands are staying on – and I welcome the newcomers.’
His eyes again swept the lines.
‘You have volunteered to become Sea Fencibles and I commend your loyalty and obvious zeal to train with musket, pike and great guns to frustrate any attempt by our enemies the French to land on these shores.’
‘Amen,’ said Fagg.
Anson darted a wintry glance at him before continuing: ‘But I would be taken for a fool if I believed all of your motives were so high. There are prime seamen among you, fit for any man-of-war. The Royal Navy needs good seamen and the press will soon be out looking for loyal, keen men like you to serve afloat from the Channel blockade to the West Indies …’
At the mention of the press gang a visible shudder swept the ranks.
‘But of course, as Sea Fencibles you have a written protection against being pressed. If you bump into those gentlemen on a recruiting sweep and show them your piece of paper they’ll thank you and tell you to go about your business – all matey. You have that protection. But, as Bosun Fagg has told you, you will keep it only as long as you parade when you’re told, train hard, obey orders and become effective Sea Fencibles for the defence of this coast. Is that clear?’
Their mumbled assent was drowned by Sergeant Hoover’s barked: ‘Answer the naval officer, ‘aye aye, sir!’’
They aye ayed, and now that everyone knew where they stood, Anson outlined his training programme, when and where they were to report, and how they would be paid.
In the coming days more volunteers joined, attracted by the promised protection from the dreaded press gangs, and bringing the detachment more or less up to strength.
The newcomers’ mates and neighbours already enrolled told them it was not so bad for a shilling a day. MacIntyre and his cronies had been seen off. The new, game-legged bosun and the sergeant of marines were black bastards, but their bite was not as bad as their bark. As for the officer, he’d clearly seen a bit of action, but he treated them fair and he seemed straight as a die.
29
Training was soon under way, with the master-at-arms introducing the men to musket and pike handling, and Fagg – ably assisted by Sampson Marsh, the gun captain turned fishmonger – demonstrating gunnery drills.
But the most significant event was Anson’s visit to the Dover boatyard with a party of fencibles to take charge of two of the new gunboats ordered by Commodore Home Popham.
Clinker-built row galleys, e
ach had a slide for’ard extending back to the third thwart for mounting a 12-pounder carronade and, aft, were pairs of throle-pins to accommodate eight oars a side.
Anson looked them over with approval. They were well built and he was particularly impressed with the slide, pivoted at the fore end so that it could be elevated or depressed, and on rollers at the after end for training the gun to starboard or larboard. There was only one problem. The carronades themselves were missing.
‘There’s none to spare in Dover,’ he was told. ‘You’ll be getting them from Chatham Dockyard.’
‘And when will that be?’
The chief shipwright scratched his head. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, sir, but knowing the pace those dockyard mateys work at I shouldn’t expect anything to happen in a hurry. They haven’t got, let’s say, the financial incentive that we commercial yard men have.’
Unimpressed, Anson twitched his nose. ‘Hmm, we’ll see about that.’
He had chosen Hobbs and Oldfield as coxswains, and they steered, somewhat cack-handed to begin with, out of the boatyard. On their way to Seagate, he set them to getting the crews, each made up of eight oarsmen who were more used to rowing solo, trained up to stroke together and at speed. Working the carronades would have to come later when they could be prised out of the dockyard.
*
Called to the Seagate slipway by an excited off-duty fencible to see the arrival of the boats, Fagg was deeply unimpressed. ‘You couldn’t make it up! Gunboats wivout guns is just boats. If the Frogs invade we’ll ’ave to throw pebbles at ’em!’
Anson reassured him: ‘No doubt we’ll get them long before any Frenchman ventures over here.’
‘Sometime never, if them dockyard mateys ’ave anyfink to do wiv it. Don’t fergit I’m from Chatham, sir, so I know ’ow slow they can go. And, let alone the boats, we’re still short of four guns for the battery …’
The officer sensed that Fagg’s warning of dockyard delays was the truth of it. ‘Quite right, bosun. We must equip ourselves with our entitlement if we’re to be effective, so we’ll send Boxer to the dockyard. If anyone can sort them out, it’s him.’
*
When the undertaker returned two days later he reported that the Ordnance Wharf’s quaintly-titled ‘clerk of the cheque; had confirmed that the detachment was indeed entitled to four more great guns for its battery and a carronade for each of the gunboats. ‘I tried my best, sir, but—’
‘Don’t tell me, I can guess,’ said Anson. ‘We rate behind every ship in the service, rated or unrated.’
Boxer smiled ruefully. ‘That’s the long and short of it, sir. The dockyard mateys said we’d just have to wait our turn.’
‘That could be a very long wait and the French could be here before our turn comes around, so we’ll just have to jump the queue.’
*
News that Black Mac had left the detachment for the impress service had at first been greeted enthusiastically, but as they began to get used to the idea there was some unease among the fencibles.
Sampson Marsh and George Boxer sought out Sam Fagg and explained the men’s fears. ‘He’s out of the fencibles sure enough and that’s a relief to all, but now he’s with the press gang he could still cause a lot of problems. What if he targets our boys, pink chit or no pink chit?’
Fagg agreed. ‘He’s got to disappear. Lieutenant Anson can’t make that happen, but we can.’
They met that evening in the privacy of Jacob Shallow’s store to devise a fitting fate for MacIntyre. Marsh and Boxer had persuaded Fagg that no one deserved a crack at his former blackmailer more than the greengrocer.
And they agreed that the Scotsman’s well-known appetite for strong liquor and easy women was to provide the opportunity to get rid of him, the sooner the better.
****
As the former bosun set off from his lodgings for his night’s carousing, he failed to notice that he was being followed. Shallow knew the town inside out and shadowed him to the True Briton down on Harbour Street.
With the quarry safely inside and no doubt quaffing his first tot of the evening, Shallow made his way back up the old winding High Street and headed for the British Lion.
There, Boxer, Sampson Marsh and Fagg had gathered to await the summons. They had cudgels hidden under their clothing and sipping ale with them was Fagg’s new lady friend, Annie.
They looked up as Shallow entered and Sampson asked: ‘What’s afoot?’
‘He’s drinkin’ in the True Briton.’
‘Alone?’
‘He were when I seen him not ten minutes since. The locals give him a wide berth, what with him being in with the impress an’ all.’
Sampson rose. ‘Right mates, time to set a trap for a rat.’
They finished their ale and set off for the Stade. On the way Sampson asked Annie. ‘You sure this MacIntyre don’t know you?’
Annie grinned. ‘Don’t drink in the Lion, does he? An’ I never have nuffink to do with them press gang scum. I know I ain’t no nun, but that’d give a girl a bad name, that would.’
‘But you’ll do this, will you?’
‘I heard what he did to your mate here, an’ I’ll do what it takes to get him his comeuppance.’
‘Good girl. All we want is for you to get him outside and down the alley.’
Annie sniffed. ‘Make sure you take him quick. I don’t want his filthy hands all over me.’
Sampson patted her on the back. ‘It’ll be quick, never fear.’
And Fagg promised her: ‘Don’t fret. We’ll ’ave ’im down afore ’e can touch you, love.’
They had reached the bottom of the High Street and Sampson motioned to Annie to walk on alone.
He and the others split up and made for the alley beside the True Briton.
When she reached the pub, Annie faltered for a moment and then pushed open the door and walked boldly in, looking around the smoke-filled taproom until she spotted her target, sitting alone on a bar stool, elbows on the counter and a tot in his right fist. It was time to spring the trap.
*
News of the MacIntyre’s move to the impress had long since reached the True Briton and by common consent the local tipplers had left an obvious cordon sanitaire around him.
In a coastal town, it was not wise to be seen drinking in close company with such a man lest the word got around and you were rumoured to be fingering your neighbours for the press gang for a few Judas pints of ale. In such cases guilt was assumed and the vengeance of those who daily walked in fear of being pressed could be swift and vicious.
A fisherman spotted passing the time of day with MacIntyre a year since had been given such a kicking by his former mates that he had upped sticks overnight and fled to Yarmouth, where he now lived under an alias – in constant fear of meeting up with a Folkestone boat and being forced to run again.
Annie knew nothing of cordons – sanitaire or otherwise – and felt safe in the knowledge that she would be seen as heroine rather than tell-tale after what was about to happen to the detested bully.
For a moment, she stood in the doorway until her vision adjusted to the smoke-filled, candle-lit bar-room.
Then she set a course for the stool next to MacIntyre, hitched up her skirts to reveal several inches of ankle, and plonked herself down. She pulled her already low-cut blouse down a little further and called to the landlord for a shot of gin.
MacIntyre, used to being given a wide berth, looked up, somewhat surprised, and immediately took the bait. ‘Have’na seen you here afore, sweetheart.’
‘Never bin in this den afore, have I?’
‘If ye had I’m certain sure I’d recognise a pretty wee thing like yous …’
Annie shrugged the compliment off and took a swig of her gin. ‘Just up from Rye visiting me sick aunt, ain’t I?’
The locals gawped at the encounter. Some were already marking her card for getting familiar with the hated MacIntyre. He, however, had brightened considerably – his in
terest fully aroused by this dolly showing enough of her chest to make it clear she was open to overtures.
‘Another tot, sweetheart?’
‘Me muvver told me never to drink with strange men,’ she countered.
The Scotsman responded with his gravestone-toothed grin. ‘In that case I’ll interjuce mesel’. MacIntyre’s the name. Billy MacIntyre – at your service. Landlord, look lively an’ gie us two mair tots over here!’
Annie forced a smile. ‘Navy man is it?’
MacIntyre was happy to admit to that.
‘So what’re y’doin’ ashore, Billy MacIntyre?’
He hesitated. She must be one of the few people in town who didn’t know him as the former bully boy of the fencibles and now of the much-feared press gang.
‘Recruitin’ – that’s what I’m on.’
She tossed back her tot. Looking to recruit me, are yer?’
MacIntyre grinned lasciviously and reached out to squeeze her knee. ‘Mebbe I will. I like a willin’ recruit.’
*
Outside, the ambush team lurked in the shadows.
Marsh nudged Shallow. ‘You’re sure the boys are ready with the boat?’
‘Told yer they were. I checked, didn’t I?’
The undertaker asked: ‘How long afore they have to sail?’
It was a good question. Unless they caught the tide they would have to hide their man ashore until the following night.
Fagg guessed: ‘Reckon we’ve got about an hour, no longer.’
‘What’s keeping that girl?’ Sampson muttered.
As if on cue, the door of the True Briton swung open and MacIntyre emerged in a shaft of smoky light, Annie on his arm. She faked a stumble down the single step and the Scotsman pulled her to him. ‘Steady there, sweetheart. Ye’re a bit too keen. Wait ’til we’re in the alley afore ye get down on yer back!’