[Lieutenant Oliver Anson 02] - Strike the Red Flag

by David McDine

  As an afterthought, he added: ‘You’ll find it a lot more peaceful ashore than on board. Now that the message you brought means that this dispute is all over bar the shouting, there’s much to be done to ready the fleet for sailing. We’ve drunk to Anson’s knee, so now we’ll drink to success in the war against our real enemy, the French!’

  As they sipped the wine, a further thought occurred to the flag officer. ‘By-the-way, are you any relation to the Anson?’

  Everyone knew of the late Admiral Lord Anson, the great circumnavigator and reformer of the navy, and almost everyone asked the same question.

  So for the umpteenth time in his naval career, Anson sighed and answered: ‘I’m afraid I’m only a very distant kin to the great man, my lord, several times removed.’

  ****

  His knee now neatly bandaged, Anson was rowed ashore and, as his baggage was already at the George, he opted to take a room there and feasted hungrily on a late breakfast of bacon and eggs.

  Up in his room, his head had scarcely hit the pillow before he was sound asleep, dreaming muddled dreams of rattling along in a mail coach pursued by hordes of bearded ruffians.

  Nevertheless he awoke much refreshed in the early afternoon and set off for a walk around the town, limping slightly because of his injured knee. His stroll took in the Gun Wharf, busy again now that the Channel Fleet was at last preparing to sail.

  It was from here, he knew, that the so-called First Fleet had sailed just a decade before with convicts bound for the new penal colony at Botany Bay, but he doubted that that experiment would ever amount to anything …

  Conveniently located halfway along the Channel coast, Portsmouth had witnessed the sailing of many other fleets, but to do battle, and with its complex of navy-related buildings both here and across the water in Gosport, this was the largest industrial beehive anywhere in the world. But there was a strange absence of worker bees this day.

  Sea officers were ten a penny in Portsmouth and little notice was taken of him. He noted that larger groups of seamen were joining those already gathered around the pubs and he gave them a wide berth as he made his way to one of the many tailors specialising in nautical apparel and purchased new stockings to replace the pair ruined when he was attacked.

  Back at the George a few hours later he was sitting at a table outside with a pot of ale and thinking in terms of an early supper when he spotted a familiar figure hurrying past and exclaimed: ‘Greybeard!’ startling a couple seated nearby.

  Instinctively, Anson jumped to his feet and limped after the man who had apparently not noticed him and was making his way down the High Street towards the waterfront near the Spur Redoubt where the Channel Fleet ships’ boats came and went.

  Keeping his distance, Anson watched as the man approached the coxswain of one of the boats and engaged him in conversation. After a minute or two the coxswain nodded and helped Greybeard aboard, steadying him when he stumbled, as if unused to boats, and seating him in the thwarts.

  Anson approached in time to hear the quiet order ‘Dip oars!’ and, puzzled, he watched as the boat was rowed off towards the fleet lying at anchor in Spithead.

  The man had not had the look nor the familiarity with boats of a right seaman. Nor would the average coxswain set off with a lone passenger unless he was an officer or someone on important business. Yet Greybeard had been accepted immediately and without question. It had been as if he, rather than the experienced coxswain, had called the shots.

  It was a mystery, but there was nothing Anson could do about it now.

  And as he made his way slowly back to the George, it was clear that confirmation of the royal pardon had now become widely known. There was much flag-waving and ships’ bands were playing patriotic naval songs, Heart of Oak, Rule Britannia, Britons Strike Home – and God Save the King.

  A fellow officer he met told him that Lord Howe had reappeared and ships’ crews were saluting him by manning the yards, waving their hats as he was rowed through the fleet.

  Already the streets were thronged with excited seamen and landsmen alike, and there was little doubt this was going to be a night of rejoicing and carousing.

  Not, thought Anson, the kind of celebrations that he would wish to join. No, for him it would be a quick supper and an early night.

  3

  Another Mission

  After two days of rest and good food, Anson’s knee was healing well.

  He was in his room contemplating how best to get himself and his baggage to Chatham, with the prospect of visiting his family home near Canterbury on the way, when a rap on the door heralded the arrival of the inn-keeper.

  ‘Ah, landlord, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Gennelman asking for you, sir.’

  ‘What kind of gentleman?’ Anson had visions of Greybeard reappearing to renew his attack.

  ‘Why, sir, ’tis a naval gennelman, ’bout the same rank as yourself, if I’m not mistaken.’

  Anson relaxed. Nevertheless, rather than having a stranger shown up to his room, he chose to see whoever it was in public.

  ‘Thankee, landlord. Please offer my visitor a seat somewhere discreet, set him up with a glass of your better wine and inform him I’ll be down shortly.’ No doubt the wine would be of French origin, brought over by smugglers, but few other than the Revenue were concerned about that – especially those who were partial to a glass or two.

  The landlord touched his forehead and went off to look after the visitor while Anson put on his jacket, pushed a comb through his hair and went downstairs.

  In the snug, much to his surprise, he found the snooty flag lieutenant who had tried to faze him aboard the flagship, sitting at a table sipping a glass of wine and looking, Anson thought, ever-so-slightly sheepish.

  ‘Flags!’ Anson exclaimed cordially. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? Not reduced to being a messenger boy running an errand, I trust?’

  Ashore, and out of the protective shadow of his master, the flag lieutenant had the air of a fish embarrassed at getting hooked, and clearly wished to make amends for their first meeting.

  He got straight to the point. ‘Look Anson, when you came on board the flagship the other day I may have been a little—’

  ‘Rude?’ Anson queried mischievously. ‘Perish the thought, Flags! I suppose the guard dog part of your role is to ensure that the admiral is not bothered with trivia?’

  Not registering the canine reference and obviously relieved at the diplomatic lifeline he had been thrown, the flag lieutenant was only too happy to agree. ‘Exactly! You wouldn’t believe how many officers come demanding an interview and bleating about this and that …’

  Anson joined his visitor at the table and the landlord poured him a glass. ‘Anyway, Flags, I doubt that you came here to apologise for barking at the admiral’s visitors. So perhaps you can explain why you have sought me out?’

  ‘Yes, well, now we’ve put that to rest, the admiral has sent me to enlist your aid again. The, er, problems with the men at Spithead seem to have been resolved now that they’ve been told they’ve been pardoned and granted pretty well all they asked for …’

  ‘I took a stroll this morning and although I had to pick my way through the comatose bodies of men who’d over-indulged while celebrating the King’s pardon I didn’t spot any red flags. So I take it that all’s well that ends well and the fleet can weigh anchor?’

  ‘Well, yes, but some so-called delegates from the Nore are here to find out what the score is and are whispering that a mutiny is about to begin there. I’d hang every damned one of them from the yardarm if I had my way, wretched agitators!’

  Mention of the Nore caught Anson’s attention. It was to that great anchorage in the estuaries of the Thames and Medway that he would soon be heading to rendezvous with the store-ship that was to take him to the Mediterranean to join his next ship.

  ‘Yes, I’d hang ’em or at least flog ’em,’ the flag lieutenant added vehemently, ‘but the admiral�
�s treading softly. He’s giving the Nore delegates copies of the Act of Parliament acceding to the mutineers’ demands – and of the pardon – and telling them to go back and convince their fellows that they are covered too.’

  ‘So there’s no occasion for the Nore fleet to mutiny?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Anson asked: ‘It’s obviously a matter of urgency to get the word there quickly if it’s to be nipped in the bud, so why not use the telegraph? The Admiralty can communicate with Chatham direct, can it not?’

  The flag lieutenant smiled superciliously. ‘That’s been done, of course. But we have just been warned that the Nore trouble-makers won’t accept an assurance via the telegraph. They claim something that comes through the air, as it were, rather than on paper can be denied later. Damned ignorant fools!’

  ‘So why doesn’t the Admiralty send them copies direct – just as they sent me here?’

  ‘It’s not my admiral’s place to order their Lordships about. Anyway, as far as they’re concerned the authenticated copies of the actual documents have been passed to the Nore delegates who are here, and they expect them to take the written proof back to the Medway post haste.’

  ‘So, why are you here and how can I help?’

  ‘By delivering this.’ The flag lieutenant produced a sealed package from an inside pocket. ‘The wretched Nore delegates are currently carousing ashore, celebrating with a good many of our seamen who by rights should be on board preparing to sail. There’s no way they are going to set off for Sheerness until tomorrow at the earliest, and then the journey will take them a minimum of two days.’

  ‘So at best it will be several days before the written proof arrives in the ships at the Nore.’

  ‘That’s right, if they can be trusted to deliver the documents, that is, which I very much doubt.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they?’

  The flag lieutenant gave Anson a condescending look. ‘Because they have a vested interest in stirring up trouble, don’t y’see? We believe they want a mutiny. All the time they are swanning around laying the law down to their superiors, these agitators feel important – powerful. The minute things get back to normal again they will revert to being the lowlife they really are, mere dogsbodies, scrubbing decks and touching their forelocks to their betters.’

  Anson sighed. ‘Flags, has it ever occurred to you that one of the reasons for the mutiny is that the lower deck feel despised and worthless?’

  ‘You’d defend them?’

  Anson shook his head almost despairingly. ‘Defend them? No. But I’d like to think I understand their frustration.’

  The flag lieutenant was clearly unimpressed. ‘Take care. Sounds as if you’re close to joining them.’

  Irritated, Anson snapped: ‘I abhor mutiny, but before we condemn them we should look into our own hearts and ask ourselves if we could have done more to prevent this unrest.’

  Shrugging, the flag lieutenant countered: ‘I’m not here to talk about mollycoddling common seamen. Can we get back to the matter in hand? This …’ He held out the package of papers.

  Taking it, Anson asked: ‘Do I take it that this package contains more copies of the documents?’

  ‘It does, but they are, shall we say, of secondary importance – you could say they are, well, your cover story. The most important, crucial, message you will be carrying is a letter from my admiral to the flag officer at the Nore …’

  Anson asked, a mite testily: ‘And am I to know what it contains?’

  The flag lieutenant raised his hands in a couldn’t-care-less gesture. ‘I don’t see why not, as long as you undertake not to blab to anyone. It gives what details we have learned from trusted men who have talked with the delegates about the trouble planned at the Nore, lists of the trouble-makers and so on. Armed with this, Admiral Buckner should be able to nip it in the bud.’

  ‘So if I get there first—?’

  ‘You could help prevent mutiny breaking out there. That’s why this has to be delivered by hand of officer – and to the flag officer himself. And, well, you’ve now got something of a track record for this sort of thing.’

  Anson smiled. ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t got too zealous a flag lieutenant guarding him!’

  But the heavy irony was lost on his visitor, who continued: ‘Look, you’ve got to get yourself to Chatham to take passage out to the Med, have you not? So this simply entails setting off earlier, this very day in fact, and handing the letter and copies of the pardon documents over at the other end. Not a problem, I should think. The admiral said it’s up to you how you get there, but it must be by the fastest possible means.’

  That sounded familiar. Anson nodded and took the package. Already his mind was churning over the alternatives. A sea passage, perhaps, but what if there were adverse winds? And in any event, fall-out from the mutiny could complicate travel by sea right now.

  Hiring a horse and riding all the way might have worked for some, but not for a sea officer like him unused to the saddle. So it must be coach …

  As the flag lieutenant got up to leave, he confided: ‘Now I must get back to the flagship. We’re sailing on the tide, although God knows how, with hundreds of men carousing ashore and running riot around the countryside.’

  Then he remembered. ‘Look, Anson, my admiral told me to impress upon you that this may or may not be a fool’s errand, but he is insistent that we try it, is that clear?’

  Anson nodded. It was pretty clear to him who that fool would be if this mission was unsuccessful.

  The flag lieutenant paused at the door. ‘Oh, one more thing, the admiral said I was to tell you that you are to guard his letter with your life.’

  Anson muttered: ‘Now where have I heard that before?’

  ****

  Alone again, Anson called for the landlord. No-one knew the ins and outs of travel better than publicans, especially those whose premises were used by the London coaches.

  ‘Staging or taking a post-chaise across country would be slow and difficult, sir, there being no route you could call direct. No bounds how long it could take – several days at least.’

  Anson shook his head. No, that would not do.

  ‘You need to get there quicker, sir? Well, your best bet is to go back to London with the mail coach. There’s a seat available tonight, you’d be in London for breakfast and with any luck you could be in Chatham by sometime tomorrow afternoon.’

  It was sound advice and Anson took it.

  There was time for an early supper before the mail coach was due to leave, and, having arranged for a porter to bring his luggage down and settled his bill, he was ready to go when the call went out for passengers to embark.

  Outside, he nodded to the shaven-headed coachman and spun defensively at a tap on his shoulder. This time it was not Greybeard but the familiar face of the guard. ‘Mister Bell! I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you would have left here before now.’

  ‘That’s what should have happened, cap’n, sorry, sir. But as you know we don’t usually do the whole stint. That was what you might call out of the ordinary when you came down the other day. Remember, I was supposed to ’ave changed over at Liphook, but my oppo was sick, so I came all the way?’

  Anson nodded. ‘So like me you’ve been here since then?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. On account of that long stint I was due a couple of rest days so I spent ’em down ’ere with a, er, friend, out Southsea way. But all good things come to an end and what comes down must go back up, as they say, so now I’m on my way back up the line.’

  This was good news for Anson. He asked: ‘Will you do the full journey again?’

  ‘I ’ope not. It’s a bit much doing that sort of distance swaying about on top of the coach in all wevvers, dealing wiv the mail and all that. No, I’m due orf at Liphook again, if my mate’s fit or they can find a replacement, that is. If not, well—’

  ‘Anyway, I’m relieved that at least I’ll be starting the journey with someone I
trust.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, sir. It’s a pleasure to ’ave you on board again. I ’ope you delivered your package wivout further ado?’

  ‘I did indeed, thank you for asking. Let’s hope we don’t have Greybeard as a passenger this time—’

  ‘Oh no, sir! I’ve marked ’is card. If he comes across my gun-sights again I’ll have him. No, there’s only a counting ’ouse gent and two ladies sharing wiv you tonight, and wiv me riding blunderbuss we won’t have any trouble!’

  But Anson instinctively hugged the satchel containing the documents and his pistol tighter. Bell could be wrong.

  ****

  Before mounting, Anson saw his baggage on board and introduced himself to the financial gentleman, one Obadiah Pettiworth, and the two ladies, who turned out to be a pretty young thing, a Miss Wilkinson, chaperoned by her maiden aunt, confusingly also a Miss Wilkinson, travelling up to stay with the London branch of their family.

  The short, chubby Pettiworth, sporting a large purplish nose and extravagant side-whiskers of the kind that on board ship would be called buggers’ grips, confided in Anson and the ladies: ‘I don’t mind telling you that I’m relieved to have such a handy-looking man as guard – and to have you, sir, as a fellow-passenger. I’m quite sure a naval man knows how to handle himself in a crisis.’

  The maiden aunt looked concerned at the mention of a crisis and Anson chose to lighten the mood. ‘Crisis, sir? I’m confident that we won’t encounter one, unless one of the horses sheds a shoe or a wheel falls off!’ But as soon as the words were out of his mouth he could see that far from calming the aunt he had alarmed her even more.

  ‘Oh dear me, is that likely to happen?’ she asked, wide-eyed. ‘Is it usual to lose a wheel.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, aunt!’ her niece exclaimed. ‘I’m sure Mister Anson meant that merely as an example of the worst that could happen.’

  Anson returned her smile, thinking ‘what a sensible girl’ and confirmed: ‘Exactly, Miss, er, Wilkinson. And I can assure you ladies from personal experience that much worse happens at sea!’