by David McDine
‘I suppose, sir, that their Lordships reckon what’s good enough for proper men-of-war’s men is good enough for the fencibles.’
‘But dammit, men-of-war’s men aren’t let off their ships to wander around the countryside. Our men will be seen – and by the King himself to boot. We must provide them with uniform.’
Anson had come to know that when Hoare said ‘we’ he meant ‘you’. ‘Are you sure there’s money available for that, sir? I’m constantly being reminded that we’re spending too many of the King’s shillings on the men’s pay as it is.’
Exasperated, Hoare neither knew nor cared. ‘Just get yourself to Chatham and buy up what’s needed. We’ll sort out how you get the money back in slower time.’
Anson was dubious. He well knew what slower time meant, and getting money out of the service after you had dipped your hand into your own pocket on its behalf was one of life’s trickier problems. However, the captain had a point: the men were going to have to be decently turned out – and Anson still had a fair amount of his Mediterranean prize money.
As Hoare left, an afterthought struck him and he spun around and delivered a final broadside. ‘Don’t fail to read your men the Articles of War, Riot Act and whatnot to be on their very best behaviour.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The captain wagged his finger. ‘Assume that they’ll get at some drink. These sort of fellows always do sniff the stuff out and knock it back like mother’s milk. It’ll be the devil’s own job to keep them relatively sober. A few tots and they’ll be showing off like jolly Jack Tar to the women and pretending to be naval heroes. But in reality they’re a parcel of harbour rats. Never forget that and keep a tight grip on ’em.’
Again Anson answered with false enthusiasm: ‘Of course, sir!’
*
The task of measuring the men fell to Boxer whose undertaking skills made him best qualified for the role.
Lists were drawn up, and Anson and the undertaker set off for Chatham, where the naval tailors would no doubt be able to supply suitable clothing, as they were increasingly becoming used to providing such items for the ships’ companies of fashion-conscious captains, or at least their launch crews.
They made their way into the scruffy, ill-built town and entered the long narrow high street. It was bustling, as befitted a town of some 10,000 souls. And this was not counting the thousands of marines and soldiers in the barracks, and the sailors whose ships were alongside or who were lodged in hulks living in conditions little better than the many French prisoners confined in other rat-infested, rotting, superannuated warships down the Medway.
At the north end of the high street was the large victualling yard with its cooperage, pickling house, bakery and a multitude of stores sufficient to provide the navy’s wooden walls with the necessaries for extended periods at sea.
As they made their way down the busy street, Anson noted that apart from the victualling yard the only other handsome buildings were the two breweries, and, from the large number of alehouses and intoxicated people around, it appeared that much of their brew ended up down local throats.
Even in broad daylight, prostitutes were attempting to ply their trade, many no doubt poor country girls lured by the rich pickings to be made from sailors returning from months if not years afloat, pockets full of back pay and lust in their loins.
It was a street that could have few rivals in catering for those who go down to the sea in ships, Anson mused. Within a few yards you could readily obtain a plug of tobacco, a shave, a tattoo or a dose of the pox.
They passed marine stores, bakers, butchers, fishmongers, tobacconists and several tailors before reaching the one who had serviced Anson satisfactorily in the past.
Inside, over a complimentary glass of rum, dark blue jackets, broad red-striped trousers, sea boots and straw hats were ordered at what Anson considered horrendous expense – even after Boxer had used his business acumen to drive down the price as far as possible against the wily tailor, who blamed wartime shortages for his high prices.
Nevertheless, he sensed this could be the first of similar orders for other Sea Fencible detachments all around the Kent coast, and the highest quality of workmanship with prompt delivery was promised.
On the way back, Boxer stated his opinion that it was going to be next to impossible to clean up the fencibles and get them to wear the new outfits in anything like a soldierly or seamanlike manner.
Anson could but agree.
36
Mounted on Ebony, Anson rode ahead, followed by the wagons carrying the tents and rations.
As the miles fell away, first one and then more of the marching fencibles hobbled back to plead with Fagg, who was sitting next to the second driver: ‘Can I ’ave a ride, bosun? Me feet’s killin’ me...’
A nod from Fagg allowed the temporary cripple respite on one of the wagons. But to one he thought was swinging the lead he barked: ‘Eff orf an’ walk with the rest, yer idle bugger!’
Midway between the small market town of Ashford and their destination, the procession came upon a wayside inn. There were stables and nearby was a large barn. Anson reckoned it as good as they would get for the inevitable overnight stop.
He called to Tom Marsh, who was driving the first cart, and raised his arm to call a halt. The remaining few marching men fell out, collapsing theatrically on the green that fronted the inn. The carts, by now festooned with the sick and lame, pulled off the road and the drivers went in search of water for their charges.
Anson noted this with satisfaction. In this respect alone he subscribed to cavalry rules: first one’s horses, then one’s men – then oneself.
Fagg limped into the inn and emerged with the landlord – a scruffy, disagreeable-looking man. Anson gave him a stare. ‘Good day, landlord. Kindly provide mugs of ale for my men – no strong drink mind – and pray tell me what you can offer in the way of food.’
The inn-keeper pursed his lips and looked doubtful, but when Anson reassured him that he must keep a tally and would be paid in full he managed a crooked smile.
‘We got some pies in the larder and I daresay we can rustle up some boiled ’taters, eggs an’ bacon,’ he ventured. ‘The ’taters’ll take a while, mind. Will any o’ that do?’
‘All of the above will do nicely, and you can give me a price for the use of your barn overnight.’
Quick as a flash the landlord responded: ‘It’ll be a shillin’ a man, sir.’
‘I’ll pay sixpence a man for the food, and the use of all your, er, facilities. That’s my final offer. If you don’t like it, we’ll press on to the next hostelry.’
The man was not going to let this unexpected pay-day slip away and readily agreed. ‘Sixpence a man it is, your worship.’
Turning to Fagg, Anson ordered: ‘Dole out some midshipman’s nuts and water while we’re waiting. The boys must be famished.’ Fagg grinned at the naval slang for small ship’s biscuit and acknowledged the instruction with a touch of his cane to his japanned hat.
Anson followed the landlord into the inn and watched as the man set his wife and a crone who could be her mother to work on boiling potatoes and frying eggs and bacon while he cut triangles from four large pies.
The bar-room was scruffy and smelly, which did not augur well for the food, but they were committed now. Resigned to sticking with the bargain he had struck, he was settling down to study the review orders when he heard a commotion outside.
Through the small latticed window he could see horses ridden by helmeted, blue-coated figures milling about among his men. ‘Cavalry! Where the devil did they spring from?’
He hurried outside to find a scene of mayhem, like a hunt meet in a lunatic asylum. The fencibles were retreating before the horsemen to the wagons and a yeomanry officer, distinguishable from his troopers by the extravagance of his uniform, was waving his sabre threateningly and shouting at Fagg. ‘Bad luck, Jack Tar! Get your wretched bilge rats away from here. This is where we are going to
hole up for the night – and we are about the King’s business!’
Fagg stood firm, hands on hips. ‘So, sir, are we – and we wus here first!’
Enraged, the officer slashed the air a foot from Fagg’s face, shouting: ‘Get out now, or we’ll run you out!’ The other horsemen had reined their mounts in, watching developments. Some exchanged jeering comments, but most looked uneasy and were hanging back.
Anson walked forward deliberately and placed himself beside Fagg.
The red-faced officer demanded: ‘And who, sir, are you?’
‘I am Lieutenant Anson of the Royal Navy. These are my men, and be pleased to address me if you have anything to say.’
The officer circled his frisky horse and faced Anson. ‘I am taking over this inn for the night for my troop. We are on His Majesty’s business heading for the royal review and you must take your pirate crew or whatever they are elsewhere, sharp, d’you understand?’
From the corner of his eye, Anson could see Hoover beside one of the wagons, fiddling with his musket. Some of the fencibles were retrieving their half pikes.
Straightening his fore and aft hat, Anson stared at the yeomanry officer. ‘It is as my bosun has informed you. We are also on our way to the review and we have already taken this inn for the night. Now, sir, if you will return your weapon to its scabbard and leave us to enjoy our evening meal I shall be greatly obliged.’
Turning away to signify he considered the exchange to be over, Anson felt a blow on his shoulder. The mounted officer had struck him with the flat of his sabre. He spun around, amazed at the man’s foolhardy action, but before he could react a musket shot sounded close by, sending the spooked horse skittering backwards and unseating its rider, who fell heavily, losing his helmet in the process – to the ironic cheers of the fencibles.
Hoover stepped forward, smoking musket in hand with bayonet fixed. ‘Oh my, oh my! Mighty sorry about that.’ And, looking down at the winded officer, he shrugged: ‘That must have been what they call a flash in the pan – an accidental discharge. First time that’s happened to me since I joined. Usually I only fire on purpose. And I suppose that when you tapped my officer on the shoulder with the flat of your blade, well, that was pretty much accidental, too?’
There was muttering among the foremost troopers, but those who had hung back throughout appeared to be embarrassed at the rumpus. Those who had been harassing the fencibles were clearly uncertain what to do, and it was left to a sergeant to dismount and help his officer, still gasping for air, to his feet. Hoover stooped to pick up the plumed helmet and handed it back.
Another trooper leaned from his saddle to grab the spooked horse and held it as the yeomanry sergeant assisted the officer to re-mount, clearly still dazed, puffing and blowing and rubbing his left arm that had taken the brunt of his fall.
The sergeant remounted, shouted to the troop to form up on the road, and encouraged the captain’s horse away from the inn with a smack on the rump. Now that many of the fencibles had armed themselves, discretion was the better part of valour and the sergeant clearly judged a strategic withdrawal advisable.
His officer, helmet askew and still shocked by his fall, was hard put to stay in the saddle. But, as he kicked his horse on, he turned and growled savagely at Anson: ‘Be aware – you haven’t heard the last of this!’
As the yeomanry troop formed up and trotted off up the road, Anson gave Hoover an enquiring look and spoke quietly so that the others could not hear. ‘I saw you loading your musket. That was no accidental discharge.’
Hoover grinned. ‘Reckoned a bit of a diversion was needed right then, sir. There was no ball – only powder and a wad. But it made a mighty fine bang!’
Anson nodded. ‘Give yourself a verbal warning – and then you and Fagg can see that the innkeeper gets some help in the galley. Some of our boys must know how to cook, and I’m starving.’
*
Next morning the detachment came to the Mote, a mile to the south-east of Maidstone, and the seat of the Right Honourable Charles Marsham, Earl of Romney, the Lord Lieutenant and His Majesty King George’s representative in and for the County of Kent.
The old mansion was a venerable rambling building in the lower part of the park, surrounded by trees and by all accounts awaiting its fate – to be demolished stone by stone. Its successor, a far more splendid structure, had already been erected according to the Earl’s aspirations with spacious, magnificently-fitted apartments, on a knoll commanding fine views for miles around.
The park itself was of extensive acreage with much fine timber, notably oak, and many of the trees were aged, giant specimens. A broad sheet of water had been created artificially in front of the new mansion and the lake could be crossed via a handsome bridge.
It was already busy, animated by several thousand gaily-uniformed volunteers and a great many horse-drawn vehicles. Anson went in search of the unfortunate officer and his staff charged with organising the review and found them sitting at tables near the old mansion, busily marking up seating plans and dealing with volleys of questions and requests from newly-arrived units.
A harassed, elderly major noted the arrival of the Sea Fencibles and told Anson, ‘You are the only navy men, although there are supposed to be some River Fencibles, but God knows where they may be.’
He handed over written instructions about overnight camping and where they were to be seated for the feasting.
Anson saluted and turned on his heel, but as he strode off the major, no doubt remembering the reputation of sons of the sea, called after him: ‘I trust your men have no strong liquor about them. We want no intemperance in sight of His Majesty!’
Once satisfied that his men were safely ensconced in the parkland, rigging the tents and canvas shelters attached to the wagons under the direction of Fagg and Hoover, Anson rode, stiffly, into Maidstone.
He was not familiar with the area and knew little of it except that it lay across the River Medway. As a schoolboy he had learned that Wat Tyler had led the Kentish rebels from here, and it had been the scene of a bloody Civil War battle.
It was, he thought, much as Samuel Pepys had described it – ‘as pretty a town as he had ever seen,’ and by all accounts now supplying London with more commodities than any market town in England.
Riding towards the river, Anson came upon a small crowd gathered under a huge wooden structure, watching carpenters hammering and sawing with obvious urgency.
He dismounted and walked Ebony forward to watch the artisans putting the finishing touches to what he could now see was a massive triumphal arch, under which he had heard the King himself would pass on his way to review the Kent volunteers.
Atop was a crown which on the morrow would be surmounted by the Royal Standard. To the left and right were a lion and unicorn, flanking a representation of a domed building, a ship of war and Britannia. Hanging beneath, where the King would ride in triumph, was a large oval medallion bearing His Majesty’s idealised portrait, Roman emperor-style.
A handful of blue-jacketed Cinque Ports Volunteers were keeping at bay the locals who had come to gape and wonder at the great edifice that had grown from wooden frame to pseudo-classic proportions, dramatically changing the appearance of their familiar street within days.
The citizen soldiers were clearly enjoying their role as temporary guardians of His Majesty’s ceremonial arch. Men who were mere ploughmen, labourers, potboys and the like in real life, they stood taller, if gawky, with their muskets and unfamiliar uniforms.
Certainly the girls of the town showed more interest in them as soldiers than they had ever been shown in their normal roles as country bumpkins or backstreet lads.
Their good-natured sergeant – a big man with extravagant mutton-chop whiskers and an ample belly, attributable to his normal calling as a butcher – waved his pike at some urchins who had strayed too close and whose furtive air made it obvious that they were souvenir hunting.
‘Get back there, you young perishers! If �
��is Majesty rides through ’ere tomorrer and finds anyfink missing orf ’is ceremonial harch he’ll ’ave my guts fer garters. The fust one of yer that nicks anyfink gets this ’ere pike acrost his backside. And the second will get a good view of the royal party passing under it ’cos ’e’ll he hangin’ from the top by ’is ankles.’
Clearly impressed, the urchins hung back, and the sergeant acknowledged Anson with a hand to his tricorn.
‘Arternoon, sir!’ And to the urchins: ‘Now you’d better behave yerselves – the navy’s ’ere and this hadmiral’s proberly lookin’ fer powder monkeys to flog!’
‘Having trouble with the natives, sergeant?’ queried Anson, disregarding his sudden promotion.
‘They’d pinch the whole perishin’ harch if we didn’t keep a close watch on ’em, sir.’
Anson nodded. ‘A royal visit’s a big thing for Maidstone, no doubt.’
‘True enough, sir. And the parade an’ tomorrer’s review’ll be the biggest thing these ’ere whippersnappers will ever see, like as not.’
The urchins, sensing that they were not about to be beaten or strung up by their ankles by the army, nor pressed into the navy, turned their attention to Anson.
‘Are you really a hadmiral?’ asked the boldest.
‘Merely a lieutenant.’
‘Can you read?’ asked another ragamuffin.
‘More or less,’ Anson admitted.
‘Well, can you read us what it says up there? Only these pretend sodjers says they won’t tell us, but they can’t ’cos they can’t read neither.’
Anson looked up at the arch. It truly was an impressive, if somewhat tacky, edifice. The urchins waited expectantly.
He cleared his throat with a low cough. ‘Up there it says: Kent Volunteers – Loyal – Brave—’
‘These ’ere pretend sodgers ain’t brave. They ain’t done nuffink,’ protested the bold urchin.
‘Not yet, but they will if the French come,’ Anson assured him.
Before the ankle-biters could grill him further, hoof-beats clattered on cobbles, drawing the attention of the urchins and the growing crowd of by-standers to a troop of West Kent Yeomanry trotting down to make sure the royal party would have no problem negotiating the arch. Anson remounted Ebony and slipped away back to Mote Park.