by Lynn Bryant
Popham was still smiling. “Of course. Of course. Thank you, Captain. I should be going. You’ve been most helpful and most enlightening. I know we’ve met before, but I would like to get to know you better when this is over. You’re not a political man, I’m guessing, I’ve not seen you much in town…”
Hugh suppressed a laugh. “I’m Manx, sir. From Mann. We don’t feature much in Parliament to tell you the truth and if I ever do it’ll be at home in Tynwald.”
“I see.” Popham looked baffled. “Tynwald, you say?”
“Our Parliament. I think it’s older than yours, sir. Let me escort you to your boat.”
Gambier’s fleet entered the Sound on the third of August after a polite exchange of gun salutes with the Kronborg fort at Elsinore. It was a narrow channel although Hugh, assessing the distance from the quarterdeck, suspected that a good captain could get his ship down the centre without risk of being hit from either side and he knew that in 1801 the British had done so. There was no attempt on this occasion to hinder the fleet which suggested that the Danes were wholly unsuspecting at this stage, that they were potentially about to be attacked.
Once in the Sound there was little to do but await news and further reinforcements. They arrived over the next week or more, another seven ships of the line under Rear-Admiral Essington and a collection of smaller boats. There was also a huge convoy of transport vessels carrying 18000 troops, several hundred at anchor off Elsinore waiting for the order to disembark. Hugh wondered, with faint amusement, how the army was coping with shipboard life with so little to do.
They were not the only ones struggling. Lieutenant Durrell prowled the decks like a caged animal, constantly asking for news and orders and driving Hugh insane with his lengthy speculation about what might be happening in diplomatic and government circles. It was clear that the younger man’s knowledge of these was considerably better than Hugh’s and if he had been able to speak in shorter sentences Hugh might have found Durrell’s insights into the workings of the diplomatic service quite interesting. He wondered what role the boy’s father had played in government under the first Earl of Chatham. He had gathered that Mr Durrell had died fairly recently and had also discovered that Lieutenant Durrell was the younger of two sons; the elder held some junior diplomatic post so Hugh suspected he might be following in his father’s footsteps. He wondered what had made Durrell choose the navy.
He was on the quarterdeck one morning surveying the fleet. He had been watching the ebb and flow of activity as small boats moved between ships or from ship to shore taking on supplies. One boat had attracted his attention. It had set off from a recent arrival, the fireship Prometheus and made its way first to a troop ship, the Horace. It was rowed by a crew of marines and there was only one passenger, a tall spare man who looked to be in his thirties with dark hair and a striking face. Through his glass Hugh could see him clearly. He was plainly dressed, wearing the traditional bicorn hat with a dark blue cloak. It was an interesting face and Hugh found himself following the boat’s progress.
He expected the man to go up to the Horace but he remained in the boat waiting while one of the marines ascended the ladder. Shortly afterwards a tall fair-haired officer appeared at the top of the ladder. He climbed down and stepped nimbly into the small craft with more agility than Hugh would have expected from an army man, saluted the older man who returned the salute, and then sat down opposite.
As the marines began to row towards the shore at Elsinore, Hugh saw Durrell approaching. He stopped to salute and Hugh waved him forward.
“I think some of the army officers have got bored, Mr Durrell. Know either of them? I’m hopeless with army uniforms, they all look the same to me.”
Durrell took the glass. “It is possible to tell the regiment from the colour of the facings which they wear…”
“I know, Mr Durrell,” Hugh said wearily. “Over there, the redcoat and the fella in the blue cloak.”
Durrell studied the boat for a moment. “I have no idea who the officer is, sir, the facings appear to be grey. Like you, I am not an expert on the identification of regimental facings. But I recognise the general. It is Major-General Sir Arthur Wellesley, the current Chief Secretary for Ireland. He is the younger brother of Lord Wellesley…”
Sensing a family tree approaching, Hugh cut him off. “I remember Captain Sir Home Popham mentioning that he was one of the commanders,” he said. “If he’s Chief Secretary for Ireland what the devil is he doing here?”
“I could not say, sir,” Durrell said stiffly. Hugh waited, knowing that he would be unable to resist. Eventually, Durrell said:
“Sir Arthur had a distinguished military career in India, sir, and I believe he has been wanting a return to military duties although he accepted the post in Ireland in the meantime because…”
He broke off and Hugh stared at him in surprise since he had never before known Durrell to leave a sentence unfinished. Then he understood.
“Because he’s as broke as most of the upper classes and needed the money? Is it a sinecure, Mr Durrell, the Irish post?”
“No, sir, it is not. In fact I believe that Sir Arthur offered to resign in order to take up this command but the government wanted him to remain in post. I have heard…”
“How on earth do you know all this, Mr Durrell, it’s like having the Morning Chronicle on my ship.”
Unexpectedly his first lieutenant grinned. It made him look considerably more human. “My brother writes very regularly, sir.”
“I know he does. Diplomat, isn’t he?”
“A very junior secretary to a diplomat, sir. But I spent much of my boyhood in London. My father held a variety of government posts under Mr Pitt. Also very junior, but I suppose you could say I was raised in government circles.”
“I see. Does that explain the excellent reference I received for you from the Earl of Chatham?”
“Yes, sir. My father was at the Admiralty for a while, during the Earl’s time there.”
“Is that why you chose the navy? I’d have thought you’d have gone into the same line as your father and brother.”
“I wanted something more active, sir. I could have chosen the army, I suppose, but it is very expensive and there is…we are not wealthy, sir. And my father knew people at the Admiralty who could speak for me.”
“Well certainly the Earl wrote a very good letter; it was one of the things that made me choose you. He must have thought highly of your father.”
“I suppose so, sir. My father was very loyal to him. In fact I overheard him say once to my mother that while the Earl had his faults, and an inability to get into the office before noon was one of them, he would personally rather work for him than for Mr Pitt.”
Hugh grinned. He had heard a good deal about the Earl of Chatham’s time as First Lord of the Admiralty and almost none of it had been good. He had been too young to be aware of it at the time; the Admiralty was a distant dream to a Manx lad happy to be promoted to petty officer but he had heard various officers dismiss the Earl as lazy and incompetent. Hugh had no idea if it was true but he sensed that there was an abiding sense of family loyalty in Lieutenant Durrell so he refrained and said instead:
“It was a good letter, he’d gone to some trouble. It didn’t sound as though it had been deputed to a secretary.”
“He probably wouldn’t do that, sir,” Durrell said in matter-of-fact tones. “He’d either write it himself or not at all. I was very grateful.”
Hugh was dredging his very limited knowledge of government and army matters, since this was proving to be one of the best conversations he had ever managed with Durrell.
“Do I have it wrong, or did the Earl have a military career at one stage?”
“He still has, sir, although he hasn’t served much overseas recently. He’s Commander of the Eastern District, I believe…”
“Captain Kelly, sir.”
Hugh turned to see Midshipman Martin coming towards him across the deck. “Letter just
arrived from the flagship, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Martin.”
Hugh took the letter and his first lieutenant saluted and moved away. Watching him go Hugh shook his head slightly. He was sorry the conversation had ended, and he reflected that whatever his other uses, Lieutenant Durrell promised to be an excellent source of useful information.
I
Chapter Ten
The fever took hold three days out of Bristol.
They had been taken along the coast, stopping several more vessels along the way, and by the time the schooner reached the impress tender which was at anchor in the Bristol Channel there was barely space for another man. Two seamen armed with muskets and clubs kept a close watch over their prisoners. They were sailing close in to the coast, on the lookout for fishing boats or small merchantmen and an enterprising man might have made an attempt to jump and swim to shore.
Roseen knew little of the voyage. She was unconscious for most of the journey, stirring occasionally and then lapsing back into an uneasy dream world. She was aware vaguely of the Manxmen around her, giving her brackish water to drink and trying to talk to her. Afterwards she realised that they had done their best to shield her from the notice of the others and when finally, just before they arrived at the tender, she was aware of bodily needs they helped her up and went with her to the small cubby hole over the sea, standing close around her pretending to wait their turn.
Back in their cramped corner, Billy Kneale examined the lump on the back of her head in some concern.
“Christ he hit you hard,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Spiteful bastard. Look at the state of Illiam’s face.”
Roseen looked, appalled at the gashed cheek and livid bruising all down one side of Kissack’s face. “Are you all right, Illiam? I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing for you to be sorry about, lass…lad…you probably saved my life. I wish I could work out what to do about you. We need to tell somebody, but that officer is off somewhere and…”
“Don’t,” a voice said nearby and Roseen jumped. The three Manxmen turned as one, to stare at the speaker, a lanky private of marines who must have heard Kissack’s words as he climbed down the companionway. He moved towards the huddled group, keeping between them and the other pressed men.
“Don’t what?” Kissack said with an edge of belligerence in his voice and the marine grinned showing yellowed teeth.
“You Manxmen have no bloody sense, didn’t you get enough from Wilson the other day? You keep this up you’ll spend more time in irons or being flogged than on the decks. Keep it down, I’m not the bloody enemy, the French are. Don’t tell anybody that your pretty boy is really a girl. Not yet.”
Kissack lowered his voice. “What do you suggest, signing her up? She shouldn’t be here, she was unconscious…”
“I know, I was the one carried her below, I can tell a lass from a lad.”
“Well why the bloody hell didn’t you say…”
“Keep it down, boy. This is the impress service not the flagship and our officer isn’t much of a gentleman. Happened once before this, fool of a woman from Plymouth got herself aboard dressed like a boy to be with her man. Wilson found her out moving them to the tender and she didn’t go below with the others, she disappeared for days. Came down a week later in such a state, crying her eyes out. She reckoned the lieutenant started with her then passed her on to Wilson and a couple of the others who fancied a go. She was black and blue, poor woman and when she complained they said she’d been paid for it and who but a whore would be on a ship dressed like that. Dumped her ashore forty miles from home and took her man to sea. God knows what became of her.”
Roseen was shivering violently. “I’m nobody’s wife, I’m a gentleman’s daughter, I was just out for a sail. They can’t…”
“They won’t stop to ask questions, lass. There’s a few bastards like Wilson and Paget in every service, but not many. Keep quiet and keep hidden and once you get to whatever ship you’re going to, speak up then; the captain will listen to you and see you to safety. It won’t be long and I’ll help.”
Roseen looked at the man with real gratitude. “Thank you.”
“What happens next?” Kinvig asked.
“None of you been pressed before then? You’ve been lucky. There’s an impress tender anchored in the Bristol Channel. It’s a hellhole but you’ll only be there for a couple of days if you’re lucky, we’re almost full. After that you’d normally be assigned to a ship, but I’m told you lot are for the fleet that’s just sailed to Denmark so Paget’s crew will probably use the Flight to get you there - it’s an impress frigate. About a week in good weather and they’ll assign you to ships and hand you over. Good news is, they’ll want you lot alive so if I tell the Lieutenant that Wilson and Gordon hit you two harder than they ought, he’ll leave you alone to recover.”
“Why?” Roseen asked and the marine grinned.
“Manxmen,” he said simply. “Worth more money. Commanders in the impress service are half-pay officers. Lot of them retired or wounded; Paget got badly shot up at the Nile years back. They get a bonus for every pressed man. More for experienced seamen than for landsmen and a special bonus for Manxmen because they’re so bloody good; you lot live on the sea. Stubborn as pigs, mind.”
“It’s like slavery,” Roseen said bitterly.
“Maybe. But the navy needs men, miss. I can keep you safe here and on the tender. I won’t be on the Flight, no need for marines, but it’s bigger so easier to hide. The minute you hit the deck of whatever ship you’re assigned to, grab the nearest officer and tell him who you are. As for the rest of you, take my advice and sign up as a volunteer, you’ll get paid for it and better treatment. You’re here now, might as well make the most of it.”
“Thank you,” Roseen said. “Will you…may I know your name? When this is over, my father will want to know who protected his daughter.”
“Pascoe, miss. Marine Samuel Pascoe. Get yourself over there and pretend to sleep as much as you can.”
Roseen had followed his instructions. Going aboard the tender she had stumbled between the Manxmen, with Kneale ostentatiously helping her aboard and neither Paget nor Wilson gave her a second glance. Marine Pascoe was true to his word, ensuring that he brought food and drink to the Manx recruits himself and keeping an eye on Roseen, ready to step in if any of the other pressed men showed any curiosity. Her friends kept close and nobody showed any interest.
For Roseen, the days aboard the impress tender passed in a series of hellish impressions. The men were kept below, a rotting prison hulk which stank of damp and filth and overcrowded humanity. The privies or “seats of ease” as the men called them were at the two ends of the ship, a cubby hole with an open space over the sea. There were not enough of them so many men found a dark corner to relieve themselves and there was an overpowering smell of urine and excrement which mingled with unwashed bodies and the rotting wood of the old ship.
There was little food and what there was, Roseen could barely eat; mouldy bread, biscuit full of weevils and a thin fatty stew once a day. She forced herself to eat a little and drank the revolting ships grog to keep herself alive and almost cried when Marine Pascoe managed to get hold of some bread and cheese from shore once or twice for her. She had never been so filthy, so hungry or so exhausted in her life and she lay on the hard boards with her eyes closed and tried to let her mind wander to other times and other places.
Inevitably she thought constantly of her father and of Hugh. By now the remaining crew of Kissack’s boat would have told Josiah Crellin what had become of his daughter and she allowed herself to dream that he would manage to find her before she ever had to board the Flight. But realistically she knew it would take time before messages could be sent and the Manx pressed men located.
Hugh was with her in her restless dreams when she did manage to sleep, the sound of his voice and the warmth and strength of his hand when he reached for hers keeping her oddly calm. She could not imagi
ne his reaction to what had happened to her but she had a suspicion that regardless of how angry or disappointed he might have been in her, he would be furious at this and she found the thought comforting.
Some of the men were in chains, restraints being the penalty for escape attempts or fighting below decks. Their rattling kept her awake at night, although sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference between day and night in this gloomy hold.
Below decks on the Flight was little better although the frigate was cleaner and the men no longer chained. Roseen was afraid now, without the reassuring visits from Pascoe. He had helped supervise the loading and found the Manxmen a spot near one of the privies, whispering good luck before leaving. Roseen had no idea what had made him her champion but she was passionately grateful.
Aboard the frigate the mood lightened a little among the pressed men. There was more food and it was in better condition, the ship having a proper galley and a cook. Roseen continued to play the invalid although she wondered how long it would be before one of the crew questioned it. Kissack had recovered from his beating although the bruises still turned his skin yellow. She was kept safe by the indifference of the crew who kept apart from their prisoners apart from when necessary.
There were several old hands among the pressed men who had served before and repeated Pascoe’s advice about choosing to sign up as a volunteer. It seemed to Roseen, listening to the various conversations, that many of the men were resigned. In busy ports like Liverpool and Bristol the press gang was a daily risk. Every merchantman was liable to be stopped and some of its more experienced crew taken. On Mann she had heard stories since childhood of fights on the streets of Castletown and Peel Town between the impress service and the fiercely independent Manxmen who often joined the navy by choice but objected to legalised kidnapping.
One of the old hands, a weathered merchant seaman from Bristol, stopped by the group on his way back from the privy one afternoon and indicated Roseen.