In Dangerous Company: The Dorset Boy Book 4

by Christopher C Tubbs

  “What yer on about?” Tom snapped back annoyed. “What difference do a couple of years make? They be the most well-matched pair I ever saw.”

  “Yes, but he be from . . .” he looked at Tom and realised that whatever point he was trying to make was being missed by a country mile and gave up.

  “Oh, never mind,” he grumbled.

  Tom clapped him on the shoulder and laughed.

  “Let’s go and have a wet.”

  They didn’t stop at Cape Town but passed it on Marty’s birthday. He was twenty-two years old, married to the love of his life, had two wonderful children and was as rich as Croesus and getting richer. Things couldn’t get any better.

  Turning Northwest out into the South Atlantic they beat against a contrary wind until they picked up the South-easterly trade and ran with it up towards Brazil. Then North, up through the Caribbean, stopping at Trinidad to re-water and get fresh supplies, and on to the Carolina’s where they could pick up the Northwest trade and head for home.

  Liverpool was the target of their homecoming and they rode out several severe winter storms before they entered the Irish sea from the South and made their way up to the Mersey estuary. It was the second week in May, they had done the trip in three months.

  Liverpool was loud, smelly, busy and generally unpleasant. They rented a carriage at an inflated price and at the very first opportunity headed down to their home in Cheshire.

  In denial of his orders, Marty took a week to catch up on things domestic and the state of the estate. He was generally satisfied as Mountjoy had done an excellent job both in Cheshire and on the new lands in Dorset. Then, calculating he had pushed his goodwill with the Admiral to the limit, they headed down to their London house.

  Tom and the boys complained about the cold incessantly during the trip. They had become very accustomed to the warmth in India and even travelling inside a coach with extra blankets didn’t help that much. Marty knew how they felt but couldn’t resist having the odd jibe at their expense.

  Marty reported to the Admiralty on the tenth of May 1803 in a uniform that felt strange, and only had to wait an hour in the dreaded waiting room before being called to Admiral Lord Hood’s office. He was looked at curiously as the Indian sun had turned his complexion a nutty brown, which stood out against the pallid white skin of the locals.

  He entered the familiar office and saw his elderly mentor sitting at his desk. He looked no older than he had when he saw him before he left. If anything, he had put on a little weight.

  “Martin my boy! So good to see you again.” Hood greeted him warmly. “Just in time too as I expect peace to end any day now.”

  Mart sat in surprise at the news.

  Hood laughed.

  “Armand and Linette are in France and are sending back weekly reports. Your smugglers will be back to their regular business soon.”

  “And the S.O.F.?” Marty asked.

  “That is why you are here.” Hood stated with the emphasis on the ‘that’. “You are to take command of the Flotilla.”

  Marty felt a sudden nervousness; he had been off of a deck for too long.

  “We want it fully operational and expanded with a task force of marines for amphibious landings.”

  “Our targets?” Marty asked.

  “Anything in range of the coast wherever you can cause most aggravation, disruption or consternation down to the Spanish border.”

  “Poof! That’s a hell of an ask with all due respect Sir.”

  “And one you are more than capable of managing,” Hood laughed. “Your holiday is over. Oh, and by the way Arthur Wellesley is very impressed with your abilities. You have gained a valuable supporter there as that young man is destined for great things.”

  Mart smiled at the thought of reacquainting himself with the mercurial general.

  “Nelson also mentioned you as well. Thought you were a renegade but a ‘damn useful one’.”

  “Now I advise you get yourself back down to Deal. Campbell will be your number two and have command of The Snipe. If you need any more ships, then you had better steal them as the damn politicians are still in denial.”

  Marty stood and bowed.

  “Can I say I’ve missed you Sir?” he said with some affection. “India was fun, but you and Mr Wickham always add a bit more spice to life.”

  Hood laughed and waved him away. After he left, he sat and thought ‘Damn if the boy isn’t just like a son!’

  Marty visited the de Marchets’ with Caroline and the children. They hadn’t gone back to France during the peace except for one short visit to see what was left of their home. Disappointed and disgusted at the ruins of what remained they returned to England.

  “The revolution destroyed everything of beauty,” the Countess told Caroline sadly. “What they couldn’t steal they destroyed or befouled.”

  Their son, Antoine, had signed up as a midshipman and was currently serving on the seventy-four-gun, third rate, HMS Albion under Captain John Ferrier.

  Contessa Evelyn, their daughter and one-time childhood love of Marty, was married to her soldier boy, Arthur Simmonds, who was now a Captain in the Life Guards. They had a son of their own, Guillaume and had a house near Horse Guards. As soon as they received a message that Marty and Caroline were there, they came around to visit. Beth and Gui got on famously and happily played as the adults talked. Young James amused himself with Blaez until Caroline took the bone, they were trying to share, away from both of them.

  He arrived at the farm on the eighteenth of May, which was coincidentally the day that Britain declared war on Napoleon again for not leaving the low countries. The boys and Blaez immediately made themselves at home, taking up where they had left off.

  The Alouette was in great shape having been recently refit but The Lark was showing her age. James Campbell was the senior mid and was showing great maturity. Ryan Thompson also had an impressive record but lacked Campbell’s initiative and made a good number two.

  Many of the same men were there and Bill was still in charge of the Deal boys. Marty felt at home.

  He was just getting his feet back under the table when a new contingent of forty Marines arrived. His old friend Paul La Pierre, who had been the lieutenant of marines on The Falcon, was in command.

  “How on earth did you get this detail?” Marty asked. “Did you get caught with the Admiral’s daughter?”

  La Pierre laughed and explained that the Falcon had been a victim of the politician’s peace dividend and had been put into ordinary. He had been on the beach for almost a year when Admiral hood asked him to command the marines in a ‘special unit.’ He jumped at the chance. It wasn’t until he received his written orders that he found out that Marty was the commanding officer.

  “Oh, so the old fox knew we had worked together before then,” Marty laughed.

  Chapter 11. Reformation

  Marty and James sat together with Paul and discussed what they needed to deliver amphibious forces rapidly onto beaches in enemy territory. They weren’t going to start a war. They needed to get ashore move inland, destroy their target and get the hell out of there. They had sixty marines and some sailors who could be effective as a raiding force.

  In typical fashion they got all the core team together and discussed it in an open session.

  “Who has been the best at this in history?” asked John Smith surprising everyone.

  “Well the Romans, Normans and the Vikings,” replied Ryan Thompson who, it turned out, was a closet scholar.

  “An’ what sort of boats did they use?” John Smith persisted.

  “Well, the Vikings used long boats. Shallow draft boats that could be sailed or rowed as needed. They had a low enough freeboard that they could jump over the side and get ashore fast. They sailed those from Norway to England. The Romans used galleys.”

  “Well then, it’s simple, we needs some of them long boats,” John stated.

  “Where we goin’ to get them from then?” Tom asked.


  James Campbell had been looking thoughtful. “We make them,” he said

  “What?” said Marty.

  “We make them. Or rather we get our friends the shipwrights along this estuary to make them based on the design of a whaleboat.” James continued.

  “A whaleboat?” Marty asked unfamiliar with the design.

  “Same basic shape as a Viking longboat only smaller. You can carry ten men with light equipment in one, plus the rowers. They are very seaworthy and are double ended so you don’t have to turn them around on the beach.”

  “And how do we pay for them?” Ryan asked.

  “We don’t,” Marty grinned, “we get the French to.”

  Marty contacted Wickham and asked him if he knew of any banks the French held significant funds in, within ten miles of the coast. Wickham showed up at the farm two days later.

  “What are you up to Martin?” he asked, as he walked into Marty’s office.

  Marty looked at him in surprise and then twigged what triggered the question.

  “We need funds,” Marty replied.

  “And you are planning to rob a French bank to get them?”

  “Seemed like a working idea.” Marty said sitting back in his chair.

  “And what do you need these funds for?”

  “To build specialist landing boats so we can get the Marines on shore fast and off again even faster.” Marty explained what they had discussed and the conclusion they came to.

  “And you can’t use Navy boats to do this?” Wickham asked.

  “We could use whaleboats, they are seaworthy enough and are pretty much the design we had in mind but as far as I know there aren’t a lot of them laying around waiting to be requisitioned and, anyway, we want bigger versions than those available.”

  Wickham frowned as he thought it through.

  “I don’t want you tipping our hand so early in the war by robbing a bank,” Wickham concluded.

  “They would never know it was us,” Marty reassured him.

  “Maybe so.” Wickham replied unconvinced. “However, I can provide funding for these boats. How many do you need and how much will they cost.”

  “I need to get up to fifty men ashore at a time so five boats plus a spare. We will ‘acquire’ another sloop sized ship like the Alouette or, preferably, an ex-whaler. That would carry most of the Marines and at least four of the boats. The other will go on the Alouette. I will get a price from the local shipwrights.”

  “And the Lark?”

  “Too old now. She’s passed her prime and we will just use her for cross channel work.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Enter,” Marty called.

  James came in and looked quizzically at them both.

  “James will command the second ship and Ryan Thompson will be on The Alouette with me.” Marty stated.

  Understanding dawned in James’ eyes.

  Wickham stood and said.

  “I am going back to London after lunch. That du Demaine chap is still cooking here isn’t he? I want to know how much the boats are going to cost me as soon as possible.”

  After one of Roland’s excellent lunches, he put his coat on and picked up his hat.

  “You will be paying me back for this,” he said in parting.

  “What did that mean?” James asked Marty after they heard the front door close.

  “What the ‘paying him back’ comment?” Marty asked.

  James nodded.

  “He will either take the loan out of our next prize money or will want us to do a job off the record. That’s my guess. Now get yourself down to the shipwrights and get me a price for our oversized whalers.”

  Marty took Thompson along as his clerk and met with La Pierre to inspect the Marines. He now had sixty of them plus two sergeants and Lieutenant La Pierre.

  “We need to know what ‘special’ skills all these fine gentlemen have,” he said. “Would you mind if I asked them a few questions?”

  “Be my guest,” La Pierre said intrigued.

  “Gentlemen, as you know this is a special unit that does things the rest of the Navy doesn’t. Now there are special skills we need so if any of you have experience in the following make yourselves known to Midshipman Thompson.”

  He looked at a piece of paper he had in his hand.

  “Poacher.” There was a laugh. He looked up when nobody moved and repeated. “Poacher.” Three men stepped forward and went to Thompson who took their names.

  “Pickpocket.”

  “Housebreaker.”

  “Cat burglar.”

  “What if I ‘as more than one?” a particularly shifty man asked.

  “Then you give your name each time.” More laughs and comments as men were teased.

  “Lockpick or smith.”

  “Forger.”

  “Roof man.”

  “Conman.”

  He continued listing every known felony. When he had finished there were just six men stood in the original ranks.

  “And what do you good men do that can be of use to me?”

  “I was training as a clock maker before I joined the Marines,” one said.

  “Blacksmith.” said another.

  “Always been a marine,” said another who’s face showed he enjoyed a fight.

  “Farrier.”

  “What’s the difference between that and a blacksmith?” asked Thompson

  “A farrier looks after horses’ feet and legs as well as makes shoes,” the Marine told him. “Blacksmiths do general ironwork.”

  “Aye but some of us can do real fine stuff,” the other marine boasted.

  “What about you two?” Marty asked the last pair.

  “I was a farm hand. Got a girl in to trouble and had to leave the village. I didn’t want ter marry her, but her father had other ideas.” Confessed one.

  “I was a clerk, but I was bored so joined the Marines for some excitement.”

  Marty looked at the ‘farm hand’ and noted he had fine hands. He beckoned him to one side and said quietly.

  “Those hands have never touched a plough or a pitchfork. What did you really do?”

  The man looked embarrassed and said, “I was an artist. I joined the marines to get material for some action paintings and got trapped by it. I just love the excitement. These buggers would never let me hear the end of it if I admitted that,” he confessed.

  “Well you can make a real contribution if you can make maps and draw coastlines.” Marty offered. “It’s something the rest of them cannot do, and I’m sure you will only get some good-natured teasing to start with until they see the value.”

  “Aye sir, that I can,” he agreed.

  Marty went to La Pierre who was looking over the list.

  “Well Paul what do we have then?” he asked.

  The lieutenant gave him an amused look.

  “What we have are the dregs of humanity. The rejects from every gaol from Ramsgate to Lincoln. I could start my own criminal empire.”

  Marty laughed

  “This is Hood’s idea of suitable material for the SOF, but it does give us an idea of how to structure our raids. Now there are these three,” he indicated the blacksmith, farrier and clockmaker. “I have an idea we could use them to make special equipment for our missions. What do you think of the idea of setting them up in a workshop?”

  “Hmm yes I can see that would be useful. Do you have something in mind to get them started?” Paul asked.

  “When I was in Paris, I needed a timer to detonate an explosive charge, and I had an inkling that you might be able to use the works from a clock to do it. I would like to throw that at them for starters.”

  “That should challenge them. I will get them started,” Paul replied thoughtfully.

  James came back with an estimate of the costs to make the whalers from the shipwrights and Marty wrote that up in a letter and sent it by hand.

  “Now all I need is to find a second ship.” Marty thought


  The Alouette sailed close to the wind south of Dunkirk. She flew the French flag and stayed clear of the British blockade. They had been told by their smuggler friends that the French whaling fleet, that was run by some fellow called Roch out of Dunkirk, had been seized by Napoleon. The ships were built on American lines, were very seaworthy and had davits for whale boats fitted on either side. They intended to acquire one of those ships to use in their depravations of the French coast.

  To do that, they intended to sail into Dunkirk at dusk and moor close to the impounded ships. Then undercover of dark send a cutting crew across, take over the chosen vessel and sail it out. Simple.

  The sailed into the funnel shaped inlet close on the heels of another French ship and could see the fort at the end clearly. A signal soared up above the ramparts, the daily recognition signal that was promptly answered by the other ship. James was watching for this and had the same signal bent on and travelling up the mast as fast as he could.

  A guard boat rowed towards them with what could only be a pilot in the bow. Marty groaned this was not going to plan!

  The Pilot boarded and Marty greeted him politely. He was directed to steer The Alouette down the channel towards the narrow end of the funnel.

  “Do we have to moor so far down?” he asked.

  “For protection yes. The Roast Beefs have been known to, as they say, cut out ships that moor away from the protection of the guns.”

  “But we are an armed privateer with a full crew. I think we will give the British bastards a bloody nose if they try that on us.”

  The pilot looked around at the crew. They had far more men than even a French country ship would carry, and they were notoriously overmanned.

  “Ha! Maybe you are right. There is a buoy over there. It is on the edge of the guns cover and I can get to my dinner all the faster,” he laughed.

  Marty swung them over to the buoy he had indicated. They were in luck so far as the ships they were targeting were all tied up next to each other a short way further in. They were most definitely under the protection of the guns.

  Once the pilot had left Marty viewed the tied-up Whalers with a glass. Annoyed he slammed it shut.