by David McDine
Bell was delighted. ‘Oh, well done indeed, sir! Now all you need to do is practise as you go along and you’ll very soon sound as if you’ve been doing it all your life.’
‘So how will I know when we’re approaching a tollgate?’
The coachman tapped his nose with his whip. ‘Worry not, sir. I’ll let yer know in good time, right enough – and when we’re coming up to a change-over.’
‘And what do I do then?’
‘You give ’em a blast on the horn, too, so’s the ostlers can ready the hosses. We expect to do a change-over within minutes or we’ll get behind the clock, and we’ve already lost a lot of time here.’
Bell nodded. ‘That’s right, and while George ’ere is supervising the change-over, my job is to ’and the right mailbag to the local postmaster and collect the on-going mails from ’im. Oh, and I’ll ’ave to get you to see the time bill’s filled in – time we arrive, time we leave and whatnot. The postmasters know what to put.’
Amused, Anson raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and exhaled. ‘Good grief! There’s more to this guarding lark than meets the eye. On watch at sea all I have to do is make sure the ship doesn’t hit anything and that we don’t get taken by the French …’
He paused, noticing that the coachman was becoming somewhat agitated, and asked: ‘I take it we need to get under way, Mister Sturgeon?’
‘That’s right, sir, we’ve lost a lot of time messing about here and I’ll not be able to make it up without flogging the hosses to death. Every minute we lose means they’ll be fretting themselves all the way up the line – inn-keepers, horse teams, postmasters – all wondering what’s become of us.’
‘Right then! Let’s up-anchor and set sail.’ And Anson touched his hat to the postmaster and clambered for’ard to take station next to the driver.
He took charge of the weapons, re-loading the pistol Bell had fired. It was engraved with the maker’s name, “H W Mortimer, London, Gunmaker to His Majesty”, and the words “For His Majesty’s Mail Coaches” were inscribed round the end of the barrel. He admired the high quality of this and its twin, both perfectly balanced, with handsome walnut stocks, stout brass barrels and fittings.
He had placed the post horn – Nat Bell’s ‘yard of tin’ – beside his seat. He hesitated for a moment before picking it up and putting it to his lips. His first attempt resulted in a feeble, strangulated note, but then, remembering the briefing, he filled his lungs, quivered his upper lip and spat simultaneously to produce what could almost have passed muster for a proper coach guard’s blast.
A crack of Gorgeous George’s whip and the fresh team of horses pulled the coach off London-bound, the inn and the small crowd that had gathered to watch the drama soon disappearing into the darkness.
****
Swaying around on top of the coach, Anson imagined himself back afloat as a young midshipman clinging to the rigging in a rough sea. Steel springs or no steel springs, he felt every bump and rut in the road and rounding bends was a nightmare.
As they clattered into Guildford, Gorgeous George gestured to Anson to sound the horn.
He put it to his lips gingerly and attempted to blow it, but nothing came out. Moistening his lips, he tried again and this time a sound more like a squeak than a clarion call came forth and was lost on the wind. The coachman grimaced.
Anson shrugged, telling himself that next time he must remember to fill his lungs, quiver his upper lip and spit in unison.
Despite the lack of warning the horse-handlers were ready with the new team and the postmaster was waiting with his mailbags. As usual a small crowd of on-lookers had gathered, but there was no sign of a replacement guard.
The coachman jumped down and huddled in earnest discussion with the postmaster, no doubt, Anson supposed, telling him of the attempted robbery and explaining why a naval person was assisting the guard.
Anson noted that this was another Angel Inn and dearly wished they were already back at its namesake in London.
This hostelry was a handsome black-and-white-painted building facing on to the sloping High Street with an arched gateway above which large signs announced it as a posting house and livery stables.
He turned to ask Bell if he needed any help with the mail bags, but before he could do so the coach lurched back a foot or two, forcing him to grab his seat rail to avoid being thrown off.
There was a cry of alarm from the Misses Wilkinson within, and Nat Bell warned: ‘Best jump down, sir, and put the shoe – that chained block there – under a wheel, else we’ll roll ’alfway back to Portsmouth!’
Anson cursed himself. He should have thought of that. Or maybe it was the driver’s responsibility? But then, as a severe Scottish first lieutenant had drilled into him when he was a wet-behind-the-ears midshipman: ‘No use protesting that it’s not your part of ship, laddie. If it sinks it’ll all be your part of ship!’
He climbed down and jammed the shoe behind one of the wheels, although already the ostlers had steadied the rig and were harnessing the new team of horses.
‘No replacement guard?’ He asked the postmaster.
The postmaster shook his head. ‘I fear not, sir. There’s no-one here to take over. The new guard should have come on duty at Liphook, but I gather from the driver that the man was off sick.’
Bell shouted down: ‘Not to worry. I’ll stick it out all the way, as long as this orficer gives me a ’and.’
The postmaster was clearly doubtful. ‘The trouble is, sir, you’re not a proper guard and the regulations state—’
‘My understanding is that there is no regulation for a situation like this. Anyway, I’m merely assisting the regular guard, who is still on board. Now, let’s swap the bags, fill in this wretched time bill and we’ll get under way. We’re already running very late …’
The postmaster gave in, exchanged bags and checked the form, grudgingly admitting: ‘I’ll say this for you, sir, you’re a game one right enough. There’s not many as would take this lark on like you have.’
Anson flashed him a smile. ‘I’ve got my reasons. There’s something important I’ve got to deliver myself, and time and tide wait for no man!’
He climbed back up beside the coachman, put the horn to his top lip, spat and produced a half-decent note. The driver called out: ‘Let ’em go boys!’ and the coach pulled away up the sloping High Street.
****
A similar scene was enacted at Kingston. But there was still no replacement guard available, so Anson checked that Bell was still fit enough to continue and resigned himself to do the full distance.
****
It was to his great relief that they arrived back at the Angel Inn in Wych Street a little after seven o’clock in the morning. Despite everything, the coachman had managed to claw back some time. They were late, but not by much.
Like it or not, he had had to stick out the rest of the journey hanging on for dear life as the coach bucked, swayed and jolted its way towards London.
They had managed the change-over of mail bags at each stop well enough and there had been no further incidents. The local postmasters knew their business backwards and Anson had eventually managed to produce some low-key warning blasts on the yard of tin.
But by the time he disembarked he was chilled, stiff and fatigued beyond measure and left it to the ostlers to help the wounded guard and the passengers to dismount and unload the baggage.
They helped Bell to the bench where Anson had sat waiting for the down coach only a few days before, although to him that seemed like months ago.
The two ladies thanked him profusely for helping to bring them safely to town and the younger Miss Wilkinson planted a chaste kiss on his wind-reddened cheek, startling her maiden aunt with such forward behaviour.
Before scurrying off to his counting house Pettiworth tried to offer him a reward, but Anson, feeling slightly insulted, declined and suggested he might give it to the guard and driver instead, and the man was happy to oblige. This time
they accepted without demur.
Nat Bell was clearly flagging from loss of blood, shock and fatigue, so Anson left the Royal Mail official who had met them to sort things out and before parting he treated the guard, driver and himself to a breakfast of pigeon pie, grilled kidneys and bacon, toast and ale.
Calling for the reckoning, he waved aside their protests and paid with the handful of coaching inn tokens he had been given in change when buying his ticket, assuring them: ‘I’ll not be needing these where I’m going.’
After hiring a porter to carry his bags, Anson shook the guard’s hand, assuring him jokingly: ‘After spending half the night clinging like grim death to the top of the coach and near freezing my vitals off, I’d not swap the deck of a ship in the fiercest action against the Frogs for your job! And how you managed, being wounded and all, I can’t imagine. You’re a brave man.’
Bell managed a chuckle. ‘Whatever, we was lucky to ’ave you aboard, sir. There’s not many as would ’ave ’ad the guts to stick it all that way like you did and I couldn’t ’ave done it wivout you.’
Anson shook his head. ‘Anyone would have done it. You’re sure you’ll be all right now?’
‘Don’t you worry about me, sir. I’m what they call a survivor, and the good old Royal Mail will take care of me. I’ll be back a-guarding in a day or two.’
And, as Anson raised his hat and turned to walk away, the guard called out to him: ‘We made a good team, didn’t we, cap’n?’
Anson was touched. He looked back, smiling. ‘Yes, Mister Bell, we most certainly did!’
5
Mutiny at the Nore
The onward journey to Rochester via stagecoach rather than the mail was altogether more straightforward, if considerably slower and more crowded.
Anson was feeling the strain of the past week’s events. It was hot and humid, his head was thumping, and in the confines of the stuffy coach he continually had to wipe perspiration from his brow.
But after the misadventures of the past few days, try as he might, he could not relax. He clutched the satchel to him as if it contained the crown jewels and hugged it all the tighter whenever a fellow passenger showed any interest in him.
How surprised would they have been, he wondered, if they had only known what it contained: the written confirmation of the royal pardon and the intelligence that he hoped would pre-empt mutiny at the Nore.
Despite his concerns, the journey was without incident and by late afternoon the coach was clattering across the bridge giving Anson fleeting views of the River Medway as it trundled into Rochester.
Disembarking at the Bull, he again hired a porter to carry his bags and made his way on foot to Chatham Dockyard.
On the way he passed many establishments that fed off the navy: chandleries, tailors, tobacconists, tattooists – and was importuned by a good many cruising whores already plying their trade, largely unsuccessfully it appeared, this early in the day.
Anson was feeling increasingly unwell, perspiring profusely and with a pounding head. By the time he got to the dockyard he was almost done in but summoned his last reserves of energy to seek passage to Sheerness. At the commissioner’s office he explained that he was carrying urgent papers for Vice Admiral Buckner and was directed to HMS Sprite, a cutter headed for Sheerness with dispatches.
The light, clinker-built, flush-decked vessel was clearly designed for speed. She had a running bowsprit and was capable of carrying much canvas fore and aft as well as square sails on her single mast that could be set when going downwind.
Mounting ten 18-pounder carronades, she was of a type familiar to Anson, having been developed in Kentish Channel ports and favoured by smugglers and privateers owing to their speed and manoeuvrability.
The boyish lieutenant in command, Daniel Holman, took one look at the exhausted Anson and led him to his own small cabin to rest. Although living at close quarters among his crew, Holman bore the unmistakeable look of a young man isolated by the loneliness of command and was clearly happy to give passage to a fellow officer with whom he could converse on equal terms.
Learning that Anson was lately in Portsmouth, he questioned him closely and was clearly relieved to hear of the peaceful outcome to the mutiny there.
Anson asked about the mood aboard ships of the North Sea Fleet anchored at the Nore.
‘There’s been a lot of tension with agitators going from ship to ship, petitions and whatever, but the last I heard there was no sign of red flags and it might be that when word of the Spithead outcome spreads that’ll calm things down here,’ Holman ventured.
‘And how are things here?’ Anson asked.
‘On board Sprite? There’s been plenty of muttering and rumours, and a few disaffected men have run so I’m down to thirty-five, but thank heavens most are pretty steady,’ Holman told him. ‘As to the current state of play with the fleet, no doubt we’ll find out soon enough when we get to Sheerness.’
The Great Nore anchorage at the confluence of the lower Thames estuary and the Medway was historically the main assembly point for ships from the Deptford, Woolwich and Chatham dockyards and for squadrons blockading the Dutch coast and safeguarding the Straits of Dover. It was largely protected from easterly winds by the sandbanks of the estuary and the difficulty of entering without expert pilotage was considered enough to deter any attack.
Right now there was no fleet, as such, at the Nore, Holman explained, just a large hotchpotch of ships there for provisioning, paying off, awaiting refits, or preparing to rendezvous with merchant convoys bound for the Baltic.
‘Add to all those the prison hulks, guard ships, sheer hulks, store-ships and all the little minnows that serve them, and poor old Admiral Buckner has probably got the world’s most unglamorous and troublesome command!’
His words were prophetic. As they neared Sheerness and he and Anson climbed the rigging to look through a glass at the ships lying in the great anchorage to the north-west, they could clearly see that all was far from well. And it was plain that Holman was right about it being a troublesome command.
Red flags were flying from many of the mastheads and Anson realised immediately that the papers he was carrying had been overtaken by events.
It was too late. There was already mutiny at the Nore.
****
Ashore in Sheerness for the first time, Anson looked around him with distaste. This was known to the navy as “Sheer Nasty”, and, almost affectionately, as “the last place God made”.
It was a small, seedy, garrison town largely reclaimed from tidal mudflats, its guns meant to dominate the invasion route to London and Chatham.
But as a Man of Kent, Anson knew something of its history, particularly about when the Dutch had overwhelmed its fort last century, broken the chain across the Medway, destroyed or carried off some of the Royal Navy’s finest warships, and blockaded London. The diarist John Evelyn had called it “a dreadful spectacle as ever an Englishman saw, and a dishonour never to be wiped off.”
And now this, a mutiny heaping more disgrace on the service Anson loved.
Wearily, and feeling very unwell, he looked around the scruffy barracks and small dockyard, some of its workers’ families living in three old laundry-covered two-decker hulks on the mudflats, and eventually found a foreman who was able to tell him that the admiral had recently been rowed back from the flagship.
‘Not that you can really class her as a flagship,’ the man told him. ‘She’s being used as an emergency receiving ship and there’s hundreds of pressed men on board. More like a powder keg waitin’ to explode, if you ask me.’
Anson sought out the harassed admiral in the newly-built commissioner’s house, explained his mission and handed him the package he had nursed all the way from Portsmouth.
It was the second time in a week that he found himself in the presence of a flag officer – not a normal experience for a lowly lieutenant. But then these were not normal times.
Admiral Charles Buckner, Anson knew, was
a veteran of the Battle of the Saintes during the American Revolutionary War, a tall, gruff-speaking man in his sixties and if his hair had not been white before the recent troubles it certainly was now.
Scanning the documents, the admiral shrugged. ‘Not your fault, Anson, but sadly the King’s pardon and this intelligence is now useless. You’ve seen the red flags?’
‘I have, sir, but I felt obliged to fulfil my mission – and to offer my services here if needed. I’m to take passage from here in a store-ship to join the frigate Phryne in the Med, but no doubt with all this trouble that’s not going to happen in the foreseeable future. Heaven alone knows when I’ll be able to leave.’
The admiral sighed. ‘I’m very much afraid that’s the truth of it. Nothing is certain any more. Everything’s on hold.’
‘But the, er, mutineers have been told about the pardon?’
‘It was telegraphed and of course we conveyed the gist of it to them immediately. But without written proof the delegates and their so-called President Parker wouldn’t or didn’t want to believe that the Spithead concessions applied to all seamen. Damned cheek, not taking the word of a flag officer!’
‘Who is this man Parker, sir?’
‘He’s a former midshipman, would you believe, broken for insubordination and quite rightly chucked out of the service.’
‘So, how—?’
‘Apparently he was jailed for debt, but rejoined as a quota man. A bad bargain as ever there was …’
Anson was aware that some desperate debtors took a payment to join the navy to get themselves out of jail. But it could be seen as merely swapping the debtors’ prison for a floating one.
The admiral confided: ‘This latest unrest appears to be of a far more political nature than the Spithead affair. It’s not just about conditions of service.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘Yes, the damned fools are playing right into the hands of radical politicians and the French. They clearly wouldn’t have been satisfied with the same concessions the Portsmouth men have accepted, and quite rightly in my view the Admiralty is refusing to accede to any further requests. The result is that in short order all ships at the Nore except my flagship and one other have joined the mutiny.’