by David McDine
So little concern had the divisional captain shown towards the casualties, that he had marched right past them without a word or a backward look. He was keener by far to bask in the acclaim of the mayor and his hangers-on.
But Anson’s face concealed his growing contempt for his superior. Instead, he touched his hat dutifully and reported formally. ‘We’ve three men with significant wounds, sir, but Shrubb is reasonably confident they’ll make a full recovery. One has lost two fingers though. And there’s a dozen more with cuts and bruises. Nothing too serious.’
‘How about the French?’ the mayor enquired.
‘We need to double-check the numbers, sir, but there are certainly 13 dead, almost all killed when one of our gunboats fired its carronade into their gun-deck.’ He looked at Fagg. ‘How many wounded, would you say … a dozen?’
Fagg agreed. ‘Somefink like that, sir, and round abaht 30 prisoners.’
Hoare demanded: ‘Who’s guarding them? For heaven’s sake don’t give them an opportunity to escape!’
‘The wounded are being treated by two local doctors and the rest are quite reconciled to their fate, sir. Some of my most trusted men have a party of them at work bringing their dead comrades out of the ship. The rest are confined under guard awaiting the arrival of the troops you sent for from Shorncliffe to escort them to the hulks at Chatham.’
‘Where is their leader?’
‘Capitaine Lapraik is at liberty, having given his parole, and is helping the doctors tend his wounded men.’
‘At liberty? By whose leave?’
‘Mine, sir. Notwithstanding his current profession, he is a proper French naval officer, and, I believe, a man of honour. That is why I returned him his sword.’
Hoare reddened. ‘Honour be damned! The man’s nothing but a pirate. You may have picked it up, but he surrendered his sword to me as commander of the force that took his ship. Confine him immediately with the rest of his cut-throats. I’ll not have a man like him wandering loose in Seagate frightening children and old ladies!’
The mayor nodded approvingly, and Hoare addressed the growing crowd of townsmen. ‘Your worship, gentlemen, if you would care to accompany me down to the harbour, I invite you to inspect this captured privateer and the scum who crewed her.’
There was general assent, and the mayor seized the opportunity to become part of the day’s triumph and ingratiate himself with his fellow townsmen by inviting all to take a glass with him after they had looked over Égalité.
Hoare beamed enthusiastically. ‘Splendid, Mr Mayor, splendid! And you will have the pleasure of witnessing the handover of my prisoners to the military.’
Anson and Fagg slipped away and headed back to the Stade. He would have to explain to Capitaine Lapraik that, despite giving his parole, he would have to join his men under guard.
By the time Captain Hoare and his admiring and growing entourage arrived there, he had well and truly planted the seed that he fervently hoped would grow into a civic dinner in his honour, ideally highlighted by the award of a presentation sword subscribed for by the town’s business community.
News of the Battle of Seagate had spread widely and crowds had gathered around the harbour area, anxious for a glimpse of the victors – and the vanquished Frenchmen.
They were rewarded with plenty of spectacle, the bringing ashore of the dead Frenchmen, whose bodies were laid out in a row on the cobbles, the arrival of a detachment of the scarlet-jacketed Cinque Ports Volunteers to take charge of the prisoners, and all climaxed by the arrival of the supposed victor ludorum, accompanied by the mayor and leading members of the corporation.
Ignored by the crowds, Anson, the true victor, threaded his way through the gawpers to the pub where the French casualties were being treated. At all costs he determined to make sure Capitaine Lapraik was not humiliated further by the puffed up Hoare.
45
Wearily, Anson made his way back to the Rose Inn. He had barely slept or eaten properly for many hours and was close to exhaustion.
The landlord was all smiles. ‘You’ve been busy, so I hear, sir?’
‘You could say that. I’m certainly ready for my bed, Mr Griggs. Any chance of some food? A cold plate? Anything will do.’
Griggs grinned. ‘Already thought of, and as soon as thought of, fixed. You’ll find a plate of cold meat and bread in your room along with a nice bottle of red.’
‘Good man. Most thoughtful. I’ll bid you goodnight, then.’
As Anson turned for the stairs, Griggs called: ‘Oh, by the way, sir, you’re bed’s bin turned down and warmed for you. I daresay you’ll sleep like a bebby tonight!’
Slightly puzzled at such solicitude, Anson thanked him again and climbed the steep and narrow stairs, holding the wooden banister to prevent himself stumbling. He was more fatigued than he had been since his escape from France, or even his early days in the service when mast-headed by a Spartan first lieutenant for some long-forgotten misdemeanour had drained him of all energy.
There was a dim light under his bedroom door. Griggs had even thought to leave a lighted candle for him.
But when he opened the door, he realised the reason for the landlord’s knowing grin. The supper plate was on the bedside table, along with the promised wine. And by the light of the single flickering candle he could see that his bed was being warmed right enough, but not by a bedpan.
‘My sailor, home from the sea. I thought you would never come!’
It was Charlotte Brax, hair loose on the pillow, her bosom straining against a tight and diaphanous nightgown.
‘Good grief!’ Anson could not have been more surprised if he had found one of the sea lords in his bed. Charlotte pouted. ‘It would have been rather more flattering if you’d said ‘heavens’ instead of ‘grief’, dear boy.’
Anson spluttered. ‘You took me aback. How on earth did you …?’ But he knew the answer before he had completed the question. This formidable young lady would have no difficulty getting anywhere she wanted. ‘I suppose the landlord—?’
She smiled knowingly. ‘The landlord seems to have a soft spot for me. In fact I rather think he’d liked to have kept me company while I was waiting for you. Now, take off that scruffy uniform and join me in this nice warm bed.’ And she patted the mattress beside her, as if smoothing a place for a pet cat.
*
Next day, Captain Hoare penned his report, written on the basis that Anson would not have sight of it. No, it would go straight to the Admiralty and by the time it was Gazetted, as he fervently hoped, it would be as gospel.
In any event, Hoare had by now convinced himself that he and he alone had master-minded the whole operation and carried it out with great personal élan.
He had worked out what needed to be said, and, decanter of wine beside him to ease the effort of composition, he addressed his despatch in the customary style:
‘Divisional Captain To My Lord Commissioners
To inform your Lordships of the successful taking of a French privateer off the port of Seagate by gunboats of the Special Sea Fencible Detachment under my command. The privateer Égalité, of 12 guns, out of Normandy, has been a regular raider along the coasts of Kent and Sussex for some months past, boarding, taking or robbing and sinking a number of small craft and causing disruption to trade.
The operation, which I had been planning for some time in line with intelligence gathered by me from westward, was timed to coincide with the privateer’s predicted appearance in the area of our Channel ports. It was carried out by two of the new gunboats currently being trialled by the said detachment under my command, and it is respectfully suggested that its success was largely due to the manoeuvrability and armament of these craft and of the determination and high level of training of my Sea Fencible crews.
The privateer which was in the act of attempting to capture a …’
He scratched his head, searching for the right word. A small coaster did not sound sufficiently important. Then he found just
the word, underlined it and continued,
‘...merchantman was herself taken by surprise in a carefully planned operation, fired upon by my gunboats, boarded and taken after a stiff action following which the master of Égalité, styling himself Capitaine Lapraik, surrendered his sword to me.’
He paused to take a swig of claret and think through what else needed to be said. Casualties, hmm. Wouldn’t do to play them down. Those Whitehall warriors tend to judge an action by the amount of blood shed …
So he continued:
‘Fifteen of my men were wounded, some seriously. Of the French, some 30 were killed or wounded, and the remaining 35, including their captain, taken prisoner and handed over by me to a military detachment I summoned from Shorncliffe for escort to the Medway hulks.’
Slight poetic license perhaps, but he could hardly be accused of exaggerating the butcher’s bill. After all, the numbers could not be faulted if cuts and bruises were taken into account.
Now he would have to acknowledge some assistance from Anson, but no need to pile it on. Uppity young officers were best reminded of their place in the pecking order through the judicious use of faint praise, and Hoare was a past master at that. He took another sip of claret, dipped his nib and continued:
‘I have the honour to commend to your Lordships the steadiness and resolve of the S F and mention the support I received from Lieutenant Anson, of the Seagate Special Detachment, and Lieutenant Coney, of the Folkestone Impress Service, under my command.’
That, he thought, would do nicely. Anson would not like it. But then he would not see it until it appeared in that official Bible, the London Gazette. And by then …
An apt quotation came to him, and he amused himself by reciting aloud: ‘The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.’
Not, he thought, that Anson had much piety or wit, and he was unlikely to burst into tears!
Now, a spot of prize money would come in handy – and would make him extremely popular with the men. And head money too, for the prisoners, at the going rate of £5 a head. So Hoare moved his pen on, adding:
‘In view of the exceptional efforts made by the Sea Fencibles in ridding the coast of a hitherto extremely troublesome raider that had caused considerable losses to our merchant shipping, I respectfully request that your Lordships consider authorising the award of prize money and head money in this case.
I am Sir, your obedient servant
Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare
Captain Royal Navy.’
*
Her scent lingered on, but she was gone by the time Anson regained the land of the living. He splashed his face at the washstand and as he shaved he thought back over the encounters with Égalité – and with Charlotte.
Clearing up the aftermath of the battle with the privateer would be irksome but straightforward, and Boxer would be a great help with the inevitable paperwork, although no doubt the divisional captain would already have been hard at work polishing his own image at Anson’s expense in the official report.
He could safely leave the physical tidying up to Fagg and Hoover, although he would make a point of visiting the wounded himself. That was a matter of duty.
And he must get a message to Armstrong at Fairlight to let him know that their plan had resulted in a highly successful outcome.
After such a victory over the French, and last night’s cavorting with Charlotte Brax, he knew any man should be feeling elated. But he did not.
The contests with the Normandy privateer had given him a purpose and her capture would inevitably leave a void.
And somehow he knew that by succumbing to lust once again, he had painted himself into a tight corner.
So it was that, as he went down to breakfast under the knowing eye of the smirking publican, he felt not only a sense of anti-climax but a twinge of shame and apprehension, too.
Brooding over his eggs and bacon, his attention was grabbed by the noisy arrival of Fagg, annoyingly cheery and loud.
The bosun knuckled his forehead. ‘Beg pardin for interruptin’ brekfust, sir, and a good mornin’ to you and all that, but there’s a hurgent message what’s come for you from Commodore Poporf, or whatever he calls hisself, by way of a dragoon. It ain’t writ down, so I’ve ’ad to remember it. Wants you to drop everythin’ and get yerself up to Chatham soonest. Says he’s got a himportant mission for you and time is of the hessence!’
Anson waved him to a chair, and signalled the landlord to bring the bosun a plate of bacon and eggs. What, he wondered, could Commodore Home Popham want with him – and at Chatham?
This was not normal chain of command stuff, otherwise the message would surely have come through the divisional captain. So could it be something to do with the special role he was promised when appointed to the Sea Fencibles?
There was only one way to find out, and he called for the ostler to ready his horse.
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Historical Note
Had HMS Phryne existed, the raid on the Normandy coast in an attempt to cut out a troublesome privateer could well have happened, maybe with a similar outcome. Anyone visiting St Valery-en-Caux today can see that, with its mole and sheltered inner harbour, it would have indeed been a tough nut to crack.
An Auberge du Marin does exist, although well away from the location it is given in Sea Fencible. It is a good place to stay, with excellent cuisine and cellar. The inn has perfectly good loos – and today’s patron certainly does not use the front wall as a urinal!
Lieutenant Anson, his fellow-escapers and most of those they encounter, are, of course, entirely fictional, although based to some degree on characters the author has come across in all three services over the years. Weapons, uniforms and conditions of service may have changed dramatically since the Napoleonic era, but the cheerful, courageous, indomitable spirit and sense of humour of the British serviceman lives on.
The Sea Fencibles did exist. They were a naval militia – a kind of Dad’s Navy – during the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars. They were the brainchild of the peculiarly named Commodore, later Rear Admiral, Sir Home Riggs Popham, a controversial, scientifically-minded officer known to some in the service as ‘a damned cunning fellow’.
The fishermen, boatmen – and no doubt smugglers – who served as Sea Fencibles were commanded by regular naval officers and given a protection against being pressed for the Royal Navy. They were paid a shilling a day for training with the great guns, muskets and pikes to protect Britain’s coastline from invasion.
Although the threatened invasion never came, they were involved in a number of actions, mainly against French privateers, but assessments as to their worth and effectiveness varied considerably. They were disbanded at the Peace of Amiens, but reinstated when war broke out again in 1803, and served on until 1810, by which time all likelihood of invasion had long passed.
Hardres Minnis, Farthingham and their inhabitants are a fiction, but if they did exist you would find them among Kent’s ancient manorial commons, most now enclosed, in that remote triangle of the North Downs, between Canterbury, Folkestone and Ashford.
Most of the other characters are fictitious, but Phineas Shrubb is based on a real person who was indeed a Kentish apothecary, glover, Baptist preacher and later surgeon’s mate in a warship, and he did advertise his cures as described.
Similarly, Seagate is a figment of the imagination. It is near Folkestone, but is not Seabrook nor Sandgate, although it is located somewhere to the west, close to Dungeness Bay, where the Spanish Armada had planned to land troops, and Napoleon might have done had it not been for the Royal Navy.