Foreign Mud

by Andrew Wareham

  He wanted to know why and I told him honestly that I could accept the privateering life but could not have any part in slavery. He did not understand me, and I could not comprehend his point of view, so we were equally matched. He eventually agreed to make for Poole, there to set me ashore with my own money and the ship’s share of our takings. I would have all of the paper we had just picked up, buying out the men’s shares with some part of the gold I carried. It seemed to him that he would do well from the transaction, particularly as I would not be present to check the books with him in the Sugar Isles. I knew he would cheat me, but the ship was not what I wanted and if I saw anything from it in future years then I thought I would be gaining. My mistake!

  The ship’s head was set for Poole that evening, away from the direct line to the rich waters, delaying the crew’s harvest for at least three months.

  There was some muttering among the men but they had made some money already and were not too disturbed at waiting a while for more.

  Being in unfrequented waters it seems almost inevitable that the masthead called a sail a few hundred miles north of the Coast where nothing was ever expected.

  Eccles was almost gleeful at this bonus to the cruise.

  “Can’t be one of ours or a Jonathan, sir, because they all call at Madeira on their route to the Bight of Benin or south to round the Cape of Good Hope. That being so, they could not be hereabouts, almost due east of the Island. French or Spanish, for sure. Or a Dutchman maybe. Might be a Portugoose, but there ain’t too many in these waters and they would be calling in Madeira for sure. Fair prize, sir, I will lay long odds. All hands!”

  The men were waiting for the call and ran, yelling and whooping as they cast off the guns and the boarders collected and loaded their muskets and pistols.

  “Ship rigged, sir!”

  They greeted the lookout’s yell with a growl of jubilation – three masts and square sails meant a bigger prize.

  Mr Eccles called a tack that took us far out across the prize’s track and gave us the wind of her, or so he said.

  Two hours and we were closing hard.

  “Running up a flag, sir!”

  There was a silence after that then a tentative yell.

  “Swallow tailed red flag with a white cross, sir.”

  Eccles shrugged – he did not know. Nor did I, obviously.

  “Mr Perkins?”

  “Don’t know, sir. House flag of one of the big trading companies, sir? It ain’t one of ours that I know. Spanish, lay you long odds, Mr Jackson. They always have crosses on everything.”

  That would do for me – if the sailormen thought it was Spanish then let it be so.

  Eccles took the wheel and began to guide us down on the foreigner, yelling his orders to the seamen and changing the sails as was right.

  “One across her bows, Mr Perkins!”

  The eighteen pounder fired and the shot shaved her jibboom.

  She responded by firing four guns of a broadside at us – nothing more than six pounders at a guess and aimed too high.

  “Hit her quarterdeck, Mr Perkins!”

  He actually put a ball into her stern quarter but the shower of splinters was sufficiently effective. The prize fell off into the wind, her wheel unmanned. We laid across her, the boarders making their wild rush and spreading out on her deck in seconds, hacking down every foreign face they saw, they having fought back and making themselves fair game.

  She was ours in five minutes, a ship of a good eight hundred tons and heavily laden.

  Mr Eccles accompanied me to the master’s cabin, hoping we might discover a prisoner or two to interrogate but not too surprised to find none alive.

  “Middling thorough those Chinee of yours, sir.”

  “Not men to do half a job, for sure, Mr Eccles. What have we got now?”

  The cabin was large and prosperously appointed, as if the captain had a substantial share, might even be the owner. There was a large built-in desk with a fixed swivel chair behind it. The drawers were unlocked and contained all the papers one might expect. We could not read them, naturally enough.

  “That don’t look like French or Spanish, sir. Nor yet Portugoose. Don’t know what this might be, at all.”

  A few minutes and we came across a letter written on headed paper.

  “Anderson, the name. Esbjerg, looks like the name of a town… That’s in Denmark, sir!”

  “Whoops!”

  The supercargo came to us just then.

  “Laden with naval stores, sir. All sorts of Baltic produce, sir. Worth a good few thousand. No idea where she might be bound for, sir?”

  “We cannot read any of the papers, Mr Hales. We suspect she is a Dane.”

  “Oh dear! There’s a shame, sir. I expect her papers make her bound for the Mauritius, sir, with stores for the French navy there. Legitimate prize if sailing on contract to the French.”

  We knew there was at least one Danish trading factory on the Slave Coast and suspected she might be on a legitimate voyage there. There could be a good profit in refitting slavers that came in storm damaged.

  “Dare we take her to a prize court in England, Mr Eccles?”

  “Not bloody likely, sir! Antigua or Jamaica would likely condemn her. Being always short of naval stores there they wouldn’t ask too many questions. Add to that, it is always possible to offer a sweetener to the Governor, which you can’t do to an Admiralty court in England.”

  An hour and we had told off a prize crew and she was off on course for Antigua with our second mate in command while we headed for Poole.

  I had a premonition that Dane would come back to haunt me – shades of Hamlet!

  We made Poole in good time and I left Pearl River with no regrets. She anchored offshore, outside the harbour proper, and sent us ashore in a pair of boats. My barber and valet came with me, having no place aboard ship; they formed a train with Fred, quite impressive to the Dorset natives, I do not doubt. The three young females were another matter – I could not see them fitting into the English way of life. Mr Eccles was more than willing to assist me in that matter, ushered them into his own cabin with a lubricious grin. He promised faithfully that he would not sell them in Antigua. I suspect he put them on the block in the Virginias instead – always a good price for handsome females there, I was told. They would come to no great harm, I hoped – would be treated no worse than women were normally in China.

  We stood at wharfside, the four of us with our bags and trunks and half a dozen weighty chests of silver and a little of gold and a lot of paper and wondered what to do next, looking about for transport. Half a dozen sturdy lads thought they might help us, came sidling along, clubs in hand. Fred looked across and shook his head.

  “Don’t ‘ee bother theeselves, my ackers! Us killed more men nor you ‘ave ‘ad ‘ot dinners – a few more ain’t goin’ to make no difference to the likes of we.”

  I eased the pistols I was carrying beneath my long coat and then made a show of undoing the buttons. There was a tall fellow at the front, with a belly drooping over his belt; I grinned at him.

  “Close as this, likely I can give you another belly button, fat man. Want me to try?”

  He stared and did not like what he saw.

  “Sorry, Master.”

  “So you should be. Off you go now.”

  They turned with nothing more said, slunk off. I noted the name of the dockside boozer they slipped into – they might remember me and it was one to avoid.

  An official seeming gentleman showed himself, announced he was the harbourmaster.

  “Are you from a foreign ship, sir? Have you business here?”

  I had prepared my lies, was ready to silence any curious local.

  “Wine ship Leadbetter, from Madeira, sir, en route to London and dropping me off, being once upon a time a Poole man. I am in from Bombay. I am looking for a gentleman by the name of Jeremiah Marker who may well have set up in the chandlering line in Poole. Do you know of such?”
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br />   The magic words worked instantly. Bombay meant money to the ordinary man and the wine trade had power in the seagoing world.

  “I do, sir. You will find his chandlery not one hundred yards from where you stand.”

  He pointed to a large and prosperous store, one with fresh paint to its front.

  I thanked him and asked if I might hire a wagon or wheelbarrows perhaps to carry my possessions so far. He called a pair of porters with a handcart and watched with interest as they struggled to haul the chests along. I rose in his estimation – I was in possession of a degree of wealth.

  I strode across to the store and looked inside, spotted my man instantly. Jerry was unchanged from our early acquaintance, small and stooped, a little older but active and alert.

  “Jerry! Do I find you well?”

  He cocked his head to one side, smiled in recognition.

  “Giles Jackson as ever is! You have prospered, young man!”

  I explained that I was in need of a pied-a-terre, did not know what I was to do for sure. He had a house of his own and a wife in it, could not put me up with my entourage but thought he could find me rooms for a while and would assist in settling me, would be delighted in fact.

  By the end of the day we had paid a three month lease of a town house and a cook had been hired, none of us at all competent with anything more than a frying pan.

  I left the three under Fred’s command and dined in company with Jerry and his wife of less than a year, a girl younger than me and very practical and showing with child and happy in her life, I suspected. I had forgotten English cooking – it came as a shock to me but I manfully dissected puddings and pies and made a meal.

  “What are you to do now, Giles?”

  “Settle in a small house with a few acres and then look to trading with the Orient, Jerry. I am under obligation to a gentleman of Bombay who has returned to England and is looking after some part of my savings for me – I can find his location from his correspondent in London, I doubt not. His name is Ainslie, a Scot, as is most often the case in India, and now retired to the Land in the south country for not fancying Scottish weather after his years in the heat.”

  “You have prospered, or so I must assume, Giles, if you are to buy your own acres…”

  I told the tale of Canton and Bombay and points between, sitting long with the pair. I did not mention actual sums but it was clear that I had put together a pile of my own.

  “You have an interest in a privateer, you say, Giles.”

  “Not of my choosing, Jerry. It was given me by a Chinese lord who conceived himself to be in my debt. A fine man but with ways that are not ours – to express myself mildly! The ship is off to the Sugar Islands and will send me an accounting at intervals. Long separated, no doubt, and the accounting dubious, but I do not wish to ply the seas, Jerry. I shall leave that to those who enjoy the life. I have it in mind to trade out of London, perhaps, sending cargoes out on John Company’s bottoms for the Canton trade specifically.”

  Jerry knew the trade, was aware that meant to send goods to an agent in Bombay or Madras or Calcutta, to sell there and buy opium for the China trade.

  “What will you send out, Giles?”

  “Cotton goods mostly, Jerry. Coloured prints which sell cheaper than Indian handmades and for which there is a huge demand. They may only sell for pennies a length but one can buy for farthings in England, so I am told. Then the normal loads of silk and porcelain to come back – not tea, leave that to the Company. Too much bulk in tea. I have the contacts and will find agents with no difficulty.”

  That had already been arranged, of course.

  Jerry recommended me to locate myself in London in the first instance, not try to split myself between lodgings in Town and a house and farms miles distant in the countryside.

  He had always been a good friend and I listened to his advice.

  “Hold your house in Poole for a year while you establish yourself in London, that would be best, Giles. As I remember, you have no family as such in England so you can be in no great hurry to settle down.”

  I sat to consider his words next day and thought them sensible.

  “Fred, we must go up to London, taking the bulk of our substance with us. You will wish to go out to your village, will you not, to see your family?”

  He thought that was a good idea – they might well be glad to see him after so many years away.

  I took him into town and we visited a local bank, amazing them by producing a hundred gold pagodas and demanding English coin in exchange by weight, with a percentage to them as a fee. The almost pure coins fascinated the banker and he came up with three hundred pounds in guineas and silver crowns.

  “Chinese, you would tell me, sir?”

  “Used in China and India both, sir, yet where they were originally made is a matter of conjecture. An ancient kingdom, I suspect – but gold is gold and has much to recommend it.”

  “It has, sir! I shall retain one as a keepsake, I think. The others must go to bullion, melted down as is proper.”

  I agreed that was the thing to do with them and made no mention of the remainder of coin and bar I was holding. I thought it likely I would get a better rate in London; for the while, Fred must have riches in his pocket to take home to his family. We found a carrier who served the villages behind Poole and out towards the West Country proper and Fred set off for Piddletrenthide next morning, to come back in a week.

  I patronised local clothiers and idled the days away, contracting with a coaster to sail round to London on Fred’s return.

  He rolled back on his day, a little heavier for all the beer he had drunk and with pennies in his pockets and a smile on his face.

  “Saw they, so I did. Didn’t see Brother Bob for the squire ‘aving ‘im ‘anged, like what we reckoned, sir, the week us first sailed together. Me Ma was there, and the Old Man, and sister Polly, though she were in her own place with ‘er man and three little ‘uns of ‘er own. Brother Jarge be growed up and a man now and made ‘is mind up – such as ‘e got, not bein’ the brightest of lads – to come into Poole and find a ship ‘isself and make ‘is own money. Give the Old Man a few quid and ‘e went and bought the pub off old Jacky what was still landlord and gettin’ past it and they was movin’ in there when I left. I let Polly ‘ave the rest of what I got for bein’ the one with summat between ‘er ears and likely to use the money right. Buy a field or two, so she will, and work the land clever like, sellin’ fresh into Poole each week.”

  Hard labour, he had condemned his sister to, in my mind, but she would do well for her family and they would prosper. I know that he found more for her over the years, selling off his share of the spoils we had taken on our first voyage and from later windfalls. She is now a yeoman farmer more than a market gardener, with her own children inheriting the bulk of the work. Wouldn’t be surprised to see her eldest boy setting up as a squire, in fact – more likely his son, thinking on it, two generations away from the labourer he would get away with it.

  Not too hard to become a gentleman in England – a bit of luck, a lot of money and all of a sudden your blood turns blue!

  I was lucky that way – there was family in my background and it was none too hard to step back into my place in Society. Would have been, that is, if I could have bothered. My son thought it was a good idea, though ‘thought’ might be an overstatement for what goes on in his head.

  Not to worry!

  We boarded a little coastal lugger and set off up Channel bound for London town, a simple run as the wind was well in the west, as it generally is in those waters. The sole hazard on that voyage was the Navy; we were stopped three times by ships hungry for men.

  The crew of the coaster were protected by the nature of their work – they could not be touched and nor could passengers. Three times I had to inform snotty little boys that I was not a seaman, that I was a merchant on passage from India, having called in at Poole with a draft of monies for an agent there.

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bsp; Remarkably ignorant these midshipmen! They did not understand how money could be drafted. One of them laughed at me when I explained the nature of the Bill of Exchange and asked if I thought he was stupid. He was irritated when I answered in the affirmative.

  It required the intervention of a lieutenant to sort that out – the older man had voyaged to India and knew some little of the trade there. He explained that the Navy had expanded rapidly due to the war and was scraping the barrel for midshipmen; small ships especially had some very low brutes in their gunroom.

  That really was the first indication that there was a war – it had shown no affects at all in Poole. There were no soldiers to be seen in the streets and there was no shortage of men in those early years. Twenty years later, the conflict still dragging on, things were different, a little, but even then an unobservant sort of chap might have seen nothing out of the ordinary. Wars for the British took place overseas, were fought on other men’s ground. That might be why we were so keen on having them.

  I remember speaking to a Historian who told me that in the previous five centuries Britain had been at war with France for more years than it had been at peace. From what I have seen of the Frogs, that is a perfectly understandable train of events. A vile nation – I saw first-hand all that they did in Spain and that I cannot forgive or forget.

  To business! We sailed into the Thames Estuary and for the first time in years, I marvelled. The river was not huge and it was cram-packed with sail. I think it may have been busier than the Pearl at Canton. There was everything from skiffs carrying a ton of parsnips up to two thousand ton merchantmen under a full suit of sail, all busily making their way upriver and down and crossing each other gleefully, yelling insults the while.

  The amazing thing was that nothing sank while I watched though I saw one bump as a Thames barge shaved the bows of a Baltic timber carrier.

  The captain of the lugger laughed.

  “They old Baltic tubs got deck cargo twenty foot high, master, what catches the wind like another mainsail. Can’t steer they small, nohow! They goes where they must and bugger other traffic!”

  I was told later that Thames barges claimed right of way over all other vessels in the Estuary, irrespective of course, tide and wind.