by David McDine
Strike the Red Flag
David McDine
© David McDine 2018
David McDine has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.
This edition published by Endeavour Media Ltd in 2018.
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
Admiralty Orders
2
An Attempted Robbery
3
Another Mission
4
An Eventful Journey
5
Mutiny at the Nore
6
Ludden Hall
7
HMS Euphemus
8
Duty Calls
9
A Neutral Officer
10
Strike the Red Flag
11
Under Fire
12
Into Sheer Nasty
13
A Warm Welcome
14
Rattus Rattus
Historical Note
Prologue
Red flags fluttered at the mastheads of the Channel Fleet ships gathered at the Spithead anchorage.
Across the calm waters of the Solent the great naval base of Portsmouth lay impotent. Worse, the unrest had now spread to the ships at Plymouth where, two centuries before, Drake had reputedly insisted on finishing his game of bowls before helping to see off the mighty Spanish Armada.
It was all very different now. Officers were powerless and the seamen’s elected delegates called the tune.
To the downtrodden sailors whose pay had not been increased for a hundred years and who endured a poor diet, harsh punishments and lack of shore leave, this was a strike for better pay and conditions.
But, according to the rigid Articles of War, akin to holy writ on board His Majesty’s ships, it was mutiny.
And at a time when Britain was at war with Revolutionary France and threatened with invasion, it plunged the nation into grave peril.
1
Admiralty Orders
Placing his new bicorn hat on his head at a jaunty angle and clutching a large leather satchel under his arm, Lieutenant Oliver Anson negotiated the broad front steps of the Admiralty, and strode smartly across the cobbled courtyard where so many famous naval feet had trod before him.
Ringing in his ears were the gruff instructions he had been given by a stern-faced Scottish captain on behalf of their Lordships: ‘Get yourself to Portsmouth by the fastest possible means, and guard these papers with your life!’
He had been somewhat taken aback when asked if he was armed, and had stuttered: ‘Only with my sword, sir.’ But a sea officer’s sword was worn more as a symbol of status than a killing tool. So now, at the captain’s insistence, the large satchel contained not only the papers he was to deliver to the flag officer at Portsmouth, but also a cannon-barrelled pocket pistol by John Bailey of London, powder flask and balls.
Anson had loaded it carefully and familiarised himself with it before setting off. The handgun he was used to – the regulation navy issue sea service pistol he was first offered – was just over eighteen inches from butt to business end and would not fit in the satchel. He had tried it.
His visit to the hub of the Royal Navy should have been mere routine. He had gone there to confirm his appointment to a Mediterranean-based frigate and obtain the necessary authority to take passage out there in a store-ship.
The past few months in a third-rate ship of the line on blockade duty off Brest, with its rigid routine under close scrutiny of pernickety senior officers with time on their hands, had been the most boring he had spent in the service. So now he was eagerly looking forward to the relative freedom of frigate life.
Swapping the blockade goldfish bowl for that at his father’s Kentish rectory while on leave had not brought much respite either.
Being fussed over by his match-making mother and two fashion- and gossip-obsessed sisters did not appeal after the camaraderie of the wooden walls – nor did the minutiae of his father’s parish business.
Oliver Anson had never been much of what he called “a God-botherer” himself, although he was fully prepared to accept the existence of some supreme power that had created the universe. Looking up at star-filled night skies at sea had convinced him of that. But his early life as the son of a churchman had left him deeply cynical about church politics.
And since joining the navy his cynicism grew each time he set foot in the rectory – particularly if his self-seeking older clergyman brother Augustine was about.
Gussie, as Anson liked to call him because he knew how much his brother’s childhood nickname annoyed him now that he was a rising star in the Anglican firmament, spent more time climbing over others’ backs to further his career than he did on his knees praying.
And Gussie was much in evidence at present, revelling in his forthcoming appointment as a minor canon, in reality little more than a sinecure, at Canterbury Cathedral.
After the comradeship he so much enjoyed afloat, Anson had found Gussie’s preening and posturing too much to endure – hence using the need to sort out arrangements for his own new appointment as an excuse to escape the rectory’s confines.
If he had not already known the lowly place of a mere lieutenant in the pecking order he had soon become aware of it when he entered that holy of naval holies – the Admiralty building off Whitehall.
Business appeared to move at the speed of a becalmed ship – at least as far as a junior officer like him was concerned. And it took a bold officer indeed to attempt to hassle the stone-hearted porters who guarded the hierarchy as assiduously as if they were shielding the King himself.
The paperwork concerning Anson’s appointment and passage to the Mediterranean took what seemed aeons. And it was while kicking his heels in the infamous Admiralty waiting room, haunted in the main by depressed, unemployed, half-pay officers seeking ships, that he had been lurked by the dour captain.
He was hauled into the Scotsman’s office where a check revealed that Anson was not due to sail for a fortnight or more, whereupon he was bounced with this mysterious mission.
To be “lurked” in the navy meant being discovered apparently lurking without gainful employment and detailed for a job for which there were no volunteers. And this was exactly how Anson viewed this assignment. He would far sooner have stayed in town enjoying himself before sailing for the Med, but then duty was duty.
Beyond his educated guess that it must be something to do with the unrest reported among the ships lying at the Spithead anchorage, and the fact that he had been instructed to place the papers into the hands of the flag officer there and none other, he was completely in the dark about the task he had been set.
A friendly Admiralty clerk had advanced him sufficient money for the journey and advised him that a seat had been reserved on the night mail to Portsmouth.
The clerk had enquired: ‘Not travelled with the mail before, sir? Then you’re in for a treat. They go so fast you’ll be sitting down to breakfast in Pompey come morning!’
And so Anson made his way first to the Ship and Shovel, the hostelry favoured by naval men just off Whitehall where he had spent the night, to settle his bill and arrange for the sole porter on duty – a skinny, cadaverous fellow – to carry his baggage.
Then he led the way through the early-evening bustle of home-bound shoppers and workers to Wych Street near St Clement’s Church on the Strand, where he was to catch the Portsmouth coach.
Passers-by p
aying him any attention would have registered a tall, black-haired young man, who walked quickly but with the hint of a rolling gait resulting from many months on a constantly rocking ship maintaining station off the iron-bound coast of western Brittany.
Close observation would reveal that he also had a tendency to stoop. A decade of crashing his head on the low bulkheads of His Majesty’s warships had educated him the hard way.
There was a small scatter of powder-burns beside his right eye and he had the look of someone who had seen plenty of action. But although he tried not to show it he felt less than self-assured just now.
Crowded London streets were not Anson’s natural habitat and he felt acutely conscious of the obviously important cargo he was carrying and the need to hang on to it come what may.
Uniformed sea officers were not a common sight in the capital and at first every time a passer-by came close or appeared to show any interest in him he gripped the satchel even tighter. But then it occurred to him that by doing so he risked drawing further unwelcome attention to himself and tried to relax.
Wych Street lay off the Strand among a jungle of narrow alleys and passages, a maze of ramshackle old houses with projected eaves over small seedy shops selling books and prints, many of a pornographic nature judging from the cluttered window displays.
A few disreputable-looking types lurked in doorways, apparently sizing up the passers-by. Anson regretted not hiring a tougher-looking porter and it was to his considerable relief that he came upon the courtyard of the Angel Inn at the bottom of the street.
The old gabled three-storey, wooden-fronted inn was built round three sides of the cobbled courtyard with tiered galleries and a lattice-fronted attic passage above.
There was an overpowering aroma of horse and Anson noted the extensive stabling that was a necessary feature of coaching inns like this.
In response to his query an ostler lad, barely nine or ten years old, who was busily shovelling up manure, pointed to a notice announcing “Coach Office” above a door beside the tap room and Anson and his skeletal companion made for it.
Outside the coffee-cum-dining room a thin, bespectacled man of business and a portly clergyman sat chatting on a bench seat at a large wooden table with items of baggage beside them. Fellow passengers, he assumed.
Entering the office, he gave the clerk his name, handed over the money for the ticket the Admiralty had booked for him, and looked suspiciously at the copper coins he was given in change. Instead of the King’s head, they had the image of a mail coach and the slogan “Speed Regularity & Security” on one side, and a two-necked swan symbol with “Payable at the Mailcoach Office” on the other.
‘What’s this?’ he asked mischievously. ‘Minting your own coinage? Take care, the King’ll be after you …’
The ticket clerk laughed. ‘Bless me, you must’ve been a long time away at sea, sir, and haven’t heard about the shortage of small change. These days it’s legal to produce these here penny and ha’penny tokens to fill the gap.’
And, noting Anson’s doubting look, he assured him: ‘Fear not, sir. These tokens are from the Swan With Two Necks in Lad Lane, but most of the inns on the mail route will accept ’em.’
Anson shrugged. Whatever, they would be good souvenirs of his first mail coach journey and were certainly good advertisements for the service. Speed, regularity and security were just what he required to fulfil his mission.
‘Looks like tonight’s mail will be leavin’ on time, sir,’ the clerk assured him. ‘But you’re a mite early so you’d do well to get yourself a drink and something to eat while you can. They don’t stop for no five-course dinners on the road. Nor one-course dinners, come to that!’ he chuckled.
After paying off the cadaverous porter, Anson called for some ale and a meat pie, and, nodding to the two already seated there, removed his hat and took his place at the end of the table with the precious satchel on his lap.
A stocky, straggly-bearded man wearing a floppy felt hat, dark grey cloak and smoking a clay pipe appeared as if from nowhere and caught his eye. ‘Navy man, is it? Off to join the mutiny, are yer?’ The man smirked at his clever remark, but Anson, not amused, merely shrugged, and the newcomer went into the coach office.
While on this mission Anson had no intention of falling into conversation with unknown strangers, especially not this sinister-looking, grey-bearded cove. And he hoped the would-be comedian would not be a fellow-passenger.
Taking his pocket knife to the over-large pie, he ate enough to satisfy his modest appetite and fed the remains to a scavenging mongrel that had appeared as if by magic the minute the pot boy banged the plate down on the table.
For a while he sipped his ale and then leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, daydreaming but retaining a firm grip on the satchel.
The sound of hooves clashing on cobbles heralded the arrival of the mail coach and he snapped back from his doze, fully alert.
The smart maroon and black rig, with distinctive post office red wheel spokes and the royal coat of arms and “Royal Mail” painted on the doors, was pulled by a single horse rather than the team of four he expected.
As it came to a halt the amiable-looking, ruddy-faced guard climbed down from his seat at the back and Anson got up and walked over to him.
Somewhat puzzled, he enquired: ‘Only one horse?’
The guard guffawed. ‘Oh no, sir. At the end of the line the coach goes orf to Millbank with just the one ’orse for checking over, cleanin’, oilin’ and suchlike. Now we’ll hitch up the full team, load passengers and baggage, take on our new driver, collect the bags of mail from the General Post Office in Lombard Street, and then we’ll hit the road. It’s all go for us guards!’
Anson was impressed. He knew a well-run ship when he saw one.
Noting the officer’s magpie uniform, the guard tipped his hat in salute and asked: ‘I’m only with you until my oppo takes over at Liphook, but I take it you’ll be bound for Portsmouth, cap’n?’
Anson nodded. ‘That I am. I fear that, like yours, this outfit’s a dead give-away. I must correct you, however, as I’m a mere lieutenant, ten a penny in the navy. But thank you anyway for your confidence in my future prospects …’
The guard grinned. ‘Don’t mention it cap’n.’
His own smart uniform of scarlet coat set off with blue lapels and gold braid, and black top hat with gold band and a cockade, was indeed distinctive. Anson noted the man’s broad shoulders, athletic look and smiley face, weathered no doubt by many a long journey atop the coach.
‘It’s always good to ’ave a sea orficer, or army come to that, on board, sir. Nothing like another uniform to put off any ne’er-do-wells that think they can filch ’is Majesty’s mail orf one poor broken-down old guard.’
Anson could not believe that even a hardened criminal would regard this man an easy touch. He looked far from broken-down but handy and alert, and carried a blunderbuss and a pair of pistols – formidable armament intended to warn any would-be attacker not to mess with the mail.
‘Happy to back you up if the need arises,’ he said, ‘but I hope we’re in for an uneventful trip, and a fast passage.’
‘Mebbe there’s something faster at sea, but there’s nuffink on Gawd’s earth that can carry you quicker than the mail rig on a ’alf-decent road, sir. Why, we do seven or eight miles an ’our, not just in spurts, like, but over a distance. We can do ten on a good downhill stretch. Much faster and they reckon the passengers would faint, or die even!’
‘So you’re quicker than the stage coach men?’
‘A lot faster, sir, and unlike them we stop for nuffink ’cept postal business.’
Anson nodded. ‘Unless, of course, so-called gentlemen of the road attempt to hold us up, in which event I’ve no doubt you’ll earn your keep.’
‘That I will, sir!’
Anson was impressed by this man and reflected that he would have been a valuable asset in any ship’s company, not like some of
the trouble-makers that had been causing such unrest at Spithead.
There was something about the guard that the officer thought he recognised. ‘Would I be correct to guess that you have served His Majesty in a different uniform?’ he asked.
The guard smiled. ‘That I ’ave, sir, as a sergeant in the good old 56th Foot at the siege of Gibraltar and suchlike.’
‘Which one?’
‘There’s been plenty right enough,’ the guard admitted, smiling. ‘I was there at the end of what they call the Great Siege in ’83 when the Spaniards tried to winkle us out of the Rock.’
‘Are all the mail guards old soldiers?’
‘Mostly, sir. The Royal Mail chooses to use old sweats like me as guards on account of our being ’andy with weapons and not afeared to use ’em. The name’s Nat Bell by-the-by.’
Anson shook his hand and decided he could confide in this man. Glancing round to make sure no-one else could hear he explained who he was, that he was also armed and carrying important Admiralty papers that must not fall into the wrong hands.
‘I’ll note that, sir, and keep a special eye out, like. Between us we’d be more’n a match for an army of rogues! Any road, most ne’er-do-wells know better than to try and stick up a mail coach. Like I said, we stop for nuffink but Royal Mail business. No, it’s during the change-overs that we need to watch out for the light-fingered gents, and that’s why us guards are ordered to keep the mail-box under lock and key on pain of death.’
Anson had always been of an inquisitive nature, an attribute that had stood him in good stead when he first joined the navy as a wet-behind-the-ears midshipman.
There had been so many parts of ship, so much complicated rigging and settings of sails, and so many customs and words peculiar to the service to absorb that despite his constant questioning he had feared he would never learn it all.
So he had formed a habit of using any and every opportunity to pick up new information that might or might not be useful later. And to Anson, as a fish out of water when it came to travel ashore, this was just such an occasion.