[Lieutenant Oliver Anson 02] - Strike the Red Flag

by David McDine

  The pair continued in easy conversation and the guard, happy to indulge an interested passenger – and promote the mail service – proudly showed Anson his official timepiece. He carried it in a leather pouch strapped to his chest, and explained that it was regulated in London to avoid the confusion that differences in local time caused. Only postmasters could unlock the case to wind or regulate it.

  The mail coach, horses and driver, he said, were provided by contractors. So, as the only post office employee aboard, his job was not only to guard and distribute the mail, but also to ensure that the coach’s arrival and departure times were recorded at all stages.

  Not least, he had to sound his horn to warn other road-users, toll-keepers, postmasters, inn-keepers and ostlers of their approach. He explained that although it was made of brass, he and his fellow guards always referred to it, he knew not why, as their ‘yard of tin.’

  Bell confided with a grin: ‘Some guards use a key bugle and reckon as they can play proper tunes on it, but if I tried that it’d be cruelty to the ears on account of ’ow I’m not what you might call ’xactly musical …’

  While they were talking a small crowd of sightseers had gathered to watch their departure, the mail coaches still being a relevantly new phenomenon.

  Finally the team of horses was harnessed up, luggage was loaded, and the other passengers embarked. Among them now, Anson noted to his distaste, was Greybeard.

  Last of all, the driver appeared from the bar-room wiping froth from his extravagant whiskers and swaggered over, pulling on his leather gauntlets.

  This was clearly a man fully aware of his own importance. He was dressed in a blue jacket with flashy brass buttons, striped waistcoat, white neck scarf, brown breeches, jockey-style leather boots, layered top coat and wore a broad-rimmed black hat.

  He carried his long whip like a badge of office and, like the guard’s, his leathery-tanned face told the story of many a journey on top of a coach in all weathers.

  As Anson made to embark, Bell muttered to him in a stage whisper: ‘That’s George Sturgeon, the one they call Gorgeous George. Fancies hisself a bit, but if ’e gets uppity I may ’ave to remind ’im he answers to me, not t’other way round!’

  The coachman nodded to Anson and the guard and, clearly playing to the gallery, made a great show of checking the wheels and harness.

  Bell, watching with amusement, winked at Anson and addressed the coachman: ‘She’s just come back from being checked over at Millbank, Georgie boy, so I ’spect all the wheels is present and correct.’

  Sturgeon ignored the slight and, satisfied that all was as it should be with the rig, climbed aboard.

  Anson took his place in the coach and Bell clambered up to his seat, consulted his timepiece to record their departure time, and announced: ‘Right. I make it spot on seven o’clock – time to go, Georgie.’

  The driver shouted: ‘Let ’em go!’ to the ostlers holding the horses and the coach moved forward with a fine fluid motion, thanks, Anson understood, to the great steel springs front and rear that he had noted earlier.

  And as they left on the dot Nat Bell sounded a long strident blast on his yard of tin.

  2

  An Attempted Robbery

  Clattering into Portsmouth just as the town was awakening, the mail coach attracted little attention. Those who were up and about at such an hour were used to this regular arrival, so reliable that you could set your clock by it.

  The mail coach would have been the object of far greater interest if the early morning traders and townspeople on their way to work had even an inkling of the papers one of its passengers carried.

  Inside, Lieutenant Anson woke from a fitful doze and stretched as well as he was able. Squashed next to the portly clergyman and trying to avoid entangling legs with the spindly businessman and the sinister-looking bearded cove seated opposite had not made for a comfortable journey.

  He had resisted all attempts by his fellow-passengers to engage him in conversation by feigning sleep, and from time to time actually dozing only to be jerked awake whenever the guard sounded his horn to warn tollgate keepers or postmasters of their approach.

  Since leaving London the evening before only the changing of horses every ten miles or so had brought relief. These brief halts and the occasional calls from the driver for the passengers to dismount and walk up inclines to spare the horses had enabled him to ease his stiff joints. But not once did he relax his grip on the satchel.

  They had passed through Kingston, Guildford, Liphook, Petersfield, Horndean and Portsea, delivering and collecting mailbags at each brief stop, but in the dark he had not registered anything particular of the coaching inns.

  Even if he had, there had been scant chance of grabbing any refreshment along the way and his stomach was grumbling for food.

  His last doze meant that he had missed the spectacular dawn view from Portsdown Hill of the forest of masts in Portsmouth harbour and beyond, but he would be calling on the admiral soon enough. And the satchel was still safely clutched to his chest.

  At last the mail coach entered the town by the Landport Gate heralded by a blast of the post horn and drew to a halt outside the George Inn, a pistol-shot from the dockyard.

  The four by now somewhat bedraggled passengers dismounted with obvious relief, stretching aching limbs and he, the clergyman and man of business looked to their luggage.

  Anson noted that the driver Gorgeous George had been replaced somewhere down the line by a stocky red-haired fellow, but was surprised to see Bell unlocking the mail box.

  ‘I thought you were being relieved at Liphook?’

  ‘Should ’ave been, sir, but my oppo’s gorn sick and we’d ’ave ’ad to lose time waiting for a replacement, so I volunteered to come all the way so long as I could rest up down ’ere for a couple of days.’

  ‘A case of watch on, stop on, eh?’

  ‘That’s right, sir, just like you sailors in a storm I reckon.’

  Ostlers and porters had sallied forth to take charge of the horses and baggage while Bell handed over the Portsmouth mails to the local Royal Mail agent who had appeared on cue.

  Anson was in the process of engaging a porter for his luggage when suddenly he was shoved violently from behind and fell heavily, hitting his left knee on the cobbles and letting go of the precious satchel for the first time since he had taken charge of it at the Admiralty.

  Sprawling and winded, and with a sharp stinging pain in his knee, he looked up to see his bearded fellow-passenger, knife in hand, stoop to seize the satchel.

  Shouting: ‘No!’ he made a grab for it.

  His attacker wrenched it away from him, but as he turned to run off found himself staring down the business end of a blunderbuss pointed straight at him by the Royal Mail guard, Nathaniel Bell, late of the 56th Foot.

  ‘Come, come,’ cautioned Bell, ‘not about to make orf with the orficer’s bag, were you, Greybeard?’

  Anson launched himself at the thief and snatched the satchel back. Frustrated, the would-be robber snarled and shoved his way through the small crowd that had gathered to watch the arrival of the mails, waving his knife threateningly at anyone who got in his way.

  Bell had instinctively pulled the blunderbuss back to his chest and by the time he could lower it again the attacker had disappeared. In any event, Anson knew that discharging the scatter-shot weapon would have risked mowing half the gawpers down.

  The clergyman who had travelled down with him helped Anson to his feet, clucking over the officer’s torn and bloodied stocking where his knee had hit the cobbles. ‘Dear me, dear me,’ he wittered, ‘I fear that was no accident. That bearded man meant to rob you and I have to confess that I had my suspicions about him from the moment he first appeared at the Angel in London …’

  Anson nodded. The clergyman had not been the only one.

  ‘But as a Christian I told myself one should not think ill of a fellow until he proves otherwise – and I am afraid he just has—�
��

  ‘Quite right, reverend.’ Bell shouldered the blunderbuss and pushed his hat to the back of his head. ‘I’d marked that cove’s card from the start. No luggage, y’see? Always suspicious of a man what travels wivout luggage, I am. Ain’t natural.’

  He turned to the on-lookers and announced fiercely: ‘Anyways, no-one’s going to interfere with ’is Majesty’s mail and passengers on my watch and get away wiv it, so put that in your pipes and smoke it!’

  The spectators appeared suitably impressed and the guard nodded, muttering: ‘No, not on my watch. What a bleedin’ cheek!’

  He eyed the precious satchel. ‘There y’are, sir. Told you I’d keep me eye on that there bag for you, so no ’arm done, eh?’

  Anson, still winded, gasped in a lungful of air and exhaled with relief. ‘I owe you, Mister Bell. You can’t know how grateful I am not to have lost this. It would have been more than my life’s worth …’

  He shook Bell’s hand and reached for his purse, but the guard shook his head. ‘No, no, don’t need no reward, sir. I’m ’appy to ’ave been of service. The King pays us well enough, and I was just doing me job. A pity I couldn’t take that villain, though. He’d have swung for it, if the blunderbuss ’adn’t done for him, that is.’

  ****

  Anson stowed his baggage at the George and within the hour, his injured knee roughly bandaged, was limping down to the waterfront to board a boat for the flagship.

  In view of the attack on him he now reckoned it wise to stow the pocket pistol about his person, at close quarters should it be called upon.

  He had been in Portsmouth before but there was something quite different about it today. He noted knots of seamen hanging around outside the pubs, drinking and joshing, many already three sheets in the wind.

  There was an air of anarchy and Anson, used as he was to the rigid discipline and deference to rank of the navy in normal times, did not find it a comfortable state of affairs.

  As he passed, some of the more loutish and drunken sailors, identifying him as an officer, shouted insults and challenges to fight. But Anson ignored them.

  At least the boat’s crew ferrying him to the flagship were evidently loyal, well-drilled and sober.

  On board, he sought out the flag lieutenant, introduced himself and requested permission to hand the papers he was carrying to the admiral in person.

  “Flags”, as an admiral’s signals officer and glorified lackey was universally known, was a supercilious hook-nosed young man, scion of some aristocratic family, and full of the importance he felt his appointment gave him.

  Leaving Anson standing while he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in front of him like a praying mantis, he explained as if addressing a feeble-minded child: ‘The admiral’s a busy man, don’t y’know? We’ve got a fleet to manage, y’see? He hasn’t got time to see every messenger boy who turns up waving a bunch of papers, so I’ll take charge of ’em.’

  He reached out his hand but, stung at being described as a messenger boy, Anson held on firmly to the satchel and gave the flag lieutenant a withering look.

  ‘I was instructed by their lordships to hand the papers I am carrying to the admiral himself, not to any other lesser being, and that is what I will do. Kindly announce me.’

  His bluff called, the flag lieutenant sniffed, rose slowly, knocked discreetly on the door of the great cabin and went in, emerging after a few moments and beckoning Anson to enter.

  The Right Honourable Alexander Lord Bridport, Knight of the Bath, Admiral of the White and Vice Admiral of England, was of friendlier stock, despite his exalted station in life, and waved his visitor to a chair.

  Anson noted his large nose, high forehead and snowy hair, and thought he detected a twinkle in the great man’s eyes, as if he was aware that his snooty flag lieutenant had been outflanked.

  ‘Lieutenant Anson? I gather you have been told to deliver the papers you are carrying to me in person?’

  ‘That’s correct, my lord. I have just arrived on the overnight mail, direct from the Admiralty,’ Anson confirmed, opening the satchel and handing the beribboned documents over.

  ‘Forgive me,’ the admiral untied the ribbon, smoothed out the papers and began to read, acknowledging what Anson thought must be key points with nods of his head.

  After a while the admiral looked up and for the first time noticed Anson’s bloodied bandage. ‘An accident?’

  ‘Something of the sort, my lord. As I was disembarking from the mail coach little over an hour ago I was attacked by a fellow-passenger who tried to steal the satchel.’

  The admiral was clearly shocked. ‘Steal it? Good Lord! And you are of course aware of the nature of these documents?’

  ‘No sir, I don’t know what they are, but I realised they must be important because I was told to guard them with my life.’

  ‘But fortunately all you had to do was lay down your knee for King and country, eh? Well, I can tell you that what you were carrying are the Admiralty orders confirming the King’s pardon for the mutineers, signed by His Majesty himself just a couple of days ago.’

  Anson was impressed. ‘Is that so, sir?’

  ‘Indeed. The gist of them had already been telegraphed, of course, but now we have chapter and verse. This tells us that the pardon extends, I quote: “… to all such seamen and marines on board any ships of the fleet who may have been guilty of any act of mutiny, or disobedience of orders, or neglect of duty, or who have returned, or shall, upon notification of such of His Majesty’s proclamation, return to the regular and ordinary discharge of their duty …”.’

  It would have been impossible to have spent the last few days in London and to have visited the Admiralty without hearing of the mutiny. The capital had been awash with the latest rumours of the unrest. It was common knowledge, too, that the seamen had presented a list of grievances about low and irregular pay, poor provisions and treatment of the sick and wounded, and the lack of shore leave to visit their families.

  But Anson was also aware that most of the demands had been met more or less immediately.

  The admiral sighed. ‘Basically the men got what they wanted, including a pay rise and a pardon for all mutineers, pretty well straight away—’

  ‘So, may I enquire, sir, er, my lord, some of the ships are still flying red flags, so what possessed them to continue their unrest?’

  ‘Would you believe it was what they saw as the Admiralty’s failure to meet their call for better rations that provoked them! They demanded that flour should not be issued in port but that was not granted. They wanted freshly-baked bread instead, you see, cheeky beggars! That’s what happens when you give an inch to the lower deck—’

  ‘So, they carried on with it?’

  ‘A bunch of hothead agitators on board London stirred the men up. Damned traitors! Some marines opened fire on the trouble-makers, five seamen were killed and the whole thing kicked off again. So Lord Howe was pulled out of retirement to negotiate.’

  Anson knew that the victor of the naval battle against the French three years earlier and known by its date, the Glorious First of June, was loved and trusted by the seamen. They knew him, affectionately, as Black Dick.

  ‘You served under him, I believe, my lord?’

  The admiral smiled, evidently pleased that this young lieutenant was aware of his own heroic part in that great fleet action.

  ‘I did indeed, my boy, and it’s him I have to thank for my advancement, and my, er, elevation.’ Anson knew the admiral was not only referring to his promotion but to his peerage.

  ‘And his negotiations with the delegates have been successful?’

  ‘Indeed they have, thank heavens. The message you have brought confirms that their Lordships have upheld Lord Howe’s pledge that there will be no recrimination, but what he called “a total oblivion” of all offences perpetrated during these disturbances.’

  ‘So all is forgiven, my lord?’

  ‘In a word, yes. As I said, we had the
news by telegraph, but some of the hotheads refused to believe it until they see it in writing, not that I imagine many of ’em can read—’

  ‘And so these documents—?’

  ‘They spell out the confirmatory answers that will bring the so-called mutiny to a speedy end with no further blood-letting. So once the word has spread and the men return to their ships the Channel Fleet can get to sea at last. Worth a wet, eh?’

  Anson was not going to argue. A drink would go down well after the ordeal of the past twelve hours or so.

  The admiral rang a small bell on his desk. A steward appeared instantly and at a signal poured two glasses of wine from a flat-bottomed ship’s decanter.

  When the man had left the admiral confided: ‘If these papers you’ve brought had failed to arrive, or fallen into the wrong hands and been disposed of by the malcontents, the trouble would have undoubtedly gone on and more than likely come to a bloody conclusion.’

  ‘So, could it have been one of the agitators who tried to steal them from me?’

  The admiral looked skywards. ‘Who knows? But there are plenty of trouble-makers about, without as well as within the fleet. There are plenty of would-be revolutionaries scurrying around in the shadows hell-bent on keeping the mutiny going. It could be that your attacker had followed you deliberately, maybe from the moment you stepped outside the Admiralty itself …’

  Thinking back, Anson could not dismiss the possibility.

  ‘So, my boy, never mind Jenkins’ ear, let’s drink to Anson’s knee!’ Anson smiled at the reference to the war of 1739 caused by Spanish coastguards allegedly hacking off a British merchant captain’s ear, and took a sip of wine.

  Lord Bridport quizzed Anson about his next commission, and, apparently only now noticing how weary the young officer looked, said: ‘You must be tired and hungry after your journey. Get my surgeon to take a look at that knee and then get yourself ashore and take a room at the Keppel’s Head or the George and rest up for a couple of days. You tell me you’re not due at Chatham for a fortnight, so there’s no rush.’