A Stormy Peace Read online

  In absorbing Tutt’s vast knowledge, Anson paid particular attention to the currents to be encountered entering ports both sides of the Channel. During this lull, the kindly pilot patiently answered his many questions and permitted him to copy navigational notes from his personal sailing bible, the product of many years roaming these waters.

  Anson copied selectively, recording the information in his pocket-sized leather-bound journal, concentrating on the French ports around the Pas de Calais and the Normandy coast.

  Most valuable, he reckoned, were the detailed sketches Tutt had made of the approaches to each of them, from Calais round to the Normandy seaports as far as Cherbourg, giving not only the geographical features, but also the currents, depths and so on. These excellent representations he copied to the best of his, ability, making a fair job of it thanks to the basic sketching training he had been given as a midshipman.

  It was time, he thought, well spent. If not of immediate use, such information would most surely be of value at some time in the future.

  Meanwhile, Phryne and the many other vessels stuck in the Downs continued to swing at anchor awaiting a change of wind to allow them to continue their westward journeys.

  *

  A day after Anson’s note was received at Ludden Hall, another letter arrived for Josiah Parkin.

  He took it to his study, called for cook to bring his morning coffee, settled into his favourite armchair and broke the seal. Somewhat surprised to see that it was from Oliver’s father, the Reverend Thomas Anson, rector of Hardres-with-Farthingham, he read:

  My dear sir

  I write craving your indulgence as a fellow-antiquarian and friend of my son Oliver, to ascertain his whereabouts and well-being following Admiral Nelson’s attack on Boulogne in which I understand he took part and was wounded.

  It grieves me to explain that just before the above action an unfortunate rift occurred between Oliver and our family over a private matter which, in the interests of all parties involved, it would not be proper for me to disclose in detail.

  I had hoped that by now there would have been some contact, but Oliver has not responded to my letters.

  May I therefore request your assistance by telling him that the question of a proposed marriage to a certain lady of his acquaintance no longer applies as she has since married another. The matter is therefore closed and I hope we can now forgive and forget.

  I seek your goodwill in persuading him to meet me at any time and place to suit him so that we can set about healing this breach. Please assure him that it is not my intention to include his mother or brother Augustine in any such meeting.

  I have a further, I hope not impertinent, favour to ask of you. Conscious of the friendship between you, your niece and my son, and the fact that he has always been close to his own sister Elizabeth, I wonder of you would consider inviting her to stay at Ludden Hall? You will fathom, as Oliver might say, that I believe if the two were together for a while well away from the rectory the seeds of reconciliation might be sowed. I hasten to add that Elizabeth had nothing whatsoever to do with the dispute and is devastated that he is apparently now lost to her, as, I might add, am I.

  I pray that you will kindly forgive this appeal and act upon it out of the affection I know we share in equal measure for Oliver.

  I will await you response in hope.

  Your obedient servant

  Thomas Anson DD

  *

  Strolling in the gardens, Parkin pondered long and hard how to respond. He knew that Oliver’s breach with his family had been serious, perhaps terminal, and there was an opportunity here to play peace-maker. But would his young friend thank him for it?

  The breach, he understood, was brought about by Oliver’s mother and priggish, self-seeking older brother Gussie attempting to push him into marriage with the scary Charlotte Brax, and the rector had no doubt been coerced into going along with them.

  But that was all water under the bridge now. The Brax girl had married someone else and Oliver was off the hook.

  So might a reconciliation now be possible? With his father, perhaps, but Parkin doubted that Oliver would ever feel able to bury the hatchet with his mother and brother — nor vice versa. However, he felt he could happily agree to the request for Elizabeth to spend some time at Ludden Hall.

  It was a matter he would dearly have loved to discuss with Cassandra, but with her not expected back for some time it was down to him.

  What would Oliver have wanted him to do?

  He made his way to the arbour beside his small lake and sat alone, thinking it through as he watched dragonflies darting about and damsel flies mating over the water lilies.

  When the time came to stroll back to the house for lunch, he had made up his mind. He would not agree to act as an intermediary, but would offer to tell Oliver on his return that his father wished to see him. Other than that he would stick to facts and avoid comment, and as he walked, he composed a response in his head.

  *

  After a couple of days the south-westerly slackened to be replaced by a light northerly breeze, a welcome occurrence that set the hotchpotch collection of vessels in the Downs all of a flutter.

  But with the northerly came fog, prompting Captain Phillips to summon the master. ‘What d’you make of it, Mister Tutt?’

  Tutt touched his hat. ‘I’ve seen this many a time before, sir. This is what you get when warm moist air coming up the Channel meets a cold nor’-easterly.’

  ‘And condensation equals fog, eh?’

  ‘Just so, sir. And, sir...’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Well, what with the fog and all and being in the midst of all these merchantmen with so many wanting to get under way after wasting a lot of time stuck here in the Downs, there’s likely to be a lot of what you might call, well, confusion—’

  ‘And every chance of colliding with one or more of ’em and red faces all round, eh?’

  Tutt nodded. The possibility of colliding with one of the undermanned merchantmen was a very real danger. ‘That’s about the size of it, sir. I recall that back in ’82 Nelson himself was here in the Downs preparing to sail in the old Albemarle with a convoy. A sudden violent squall blew in from the north and drove an East India store-ship into her, carrying away her bowsprit, foremast head and much of her sails and rigging.’

  ‘Hmmm...’ Phillips stroked his chin and announced. ‘So it would be a good seamanlike precaution to make a quick getaway.’

  ‘Indeed it would, sir.’

  ‘Very well Mister Tutt, let’s get under way quickly and cleanly.’

  He beckoned the first lieutenant and Anson over. ‘We’re going to sail immediately, gentlemen — before all these clod-hopping merchant wallahs clutter up the Channel.’

  Howard was of like mind. ‘Very wise, sir.’ And he called to the bosun, hovering nearby. ‘Look lively, Mister Taylor, and let’s have all hands on deck to up-anchor and make sail. Let’s show the traders how the proper navy does things!’

  The bosun grinned. He and his mates were charged with seeing ‘…that the men go quickly on deck when called, and that, when there, they perform their duty with alacrity and without noise or confusion.’ And he was highly skilled at doing just that, he and his hard-nut mates encouraging the men with calls, cries — and rattan cane or rope’s end when necessary, although in Phryne both the captain and first lieutenant viewed ‘starting’ as a last resort.

  Taylor put his bosun’s call to his lips and blew call all hands, backing it up by hollering: ‘Do you hear there? All hands! Lively now!’

  A stampede followed throughout the ship as his mates echoed the call and men raced to their stations, glad that the boredom of swinging at anchor was over.

  Tutt raised his hand to get the captain’s attention. ‘You’ll want to cruise off and on down to Portsmouth, sir? Should be plain sailing except for this blasted fog.’

  Off and on meant keeping close to shore and sailing off and on it, and it ma
de sense to Phillips. Sighting landmarks from time to time would at least confirm where they were.

  He wrinkled his eyes and peered seawards. ‘Quite, so be sure to have plenty of look-outs posted. Men with sharp eyesight and not afraid to sing out if they so much as glimpse another vessel or we run too close to shore. I don’t want to end my career being court-martialled for bumping into a Newcastle collier or running aground!’

  Tutt chuckled. ‘Never fear, sir. If anything comes anywhere near us, you’ll be the first to know.’

  *

  Anson went on deck to see Phryne weigh anchor but suddenly felt giddy and, head down, clutched a rail for support. He had clearly still not fully recovered from his wounds.

  ‘Are you alright, sir?’

  He looked up to see a marine eyeing him anxiously.

  ‘Thankee, yes, ’twas just a dizzy turn.’

  ‘Can I help you below, sir?’

  He nodded and the marine took his arm, causing him to wince. ‘Best take my left arm.’

  Below, he collapsed on his cot and quickly drifted off into a deep sleep.

  *

  Phillips paced the quarterdeck until he was confident that the hurly-burly of the anchorage was well behind them and they had given the treacherous Goodwin Sands a wide enough berth.

  Much as he would have preferred to remain on deck, the captain had long recognised that it was important to show trust in his subordinates. Left to their duties they would make the decisions, right or wrong, without deferring to him at every twist and turn.

  And so he left the quarterdeck to the first lieutenant, officer of the watch and the sailing master. Like Howard, Tutt not only had a wealth of experience but was renowned for fine judgment. And Allfree, who had the watch, was a sensible fellow. The ship could hardly be in better hands.

  Nevertheless, as he sat at his writing desk composing a letter to his wife back home in Pembrokeshire, he kept an ear out for any shout from above that would warn of another vessel looming up out of the thickening fog.

  12

  Josiah Parkin’s Response

  As was his custom, it being a Wednesday, the Reverend Thomas Anson, rector of Hardres-with-Farthingham and distant kinsman many times removed of the late, great, circumnavigator and reformer of the navy, Admiral Lord Anson, walked down his shingled driveway to await the arrival of the local carter.

  Hezekiah Champion could be relied upon to come by with the mail, newspapers and sundry items ordered from the Canterbury shops around 11 o’clock on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, rain or shine.

  Today, being a trifle early, the rector settled himself on the wooden bench seat beside the iron gates and while waiting turned the matter of his estranged son over in his mind.

  The falling out had been most unfortunate. It was not of the rector’s doing and he had come to realise that he had been foolish to allow himself to be brow-beaten into taking sides with his wife and elder son Gussie against his favourite. However, he had now taken the first step towards healing the breach and was anxiously awaiting a response from his fellow-antiquarian Josiah Parkin.

  At last Hezekiah’s cart rounded the bend and, seeing the rector sitting beside the gate, the carter called out. ‘Letter for you today as well as the papers, your reverence.’

  Restraining his impatience to send the garrulous old man on his way, the rector listened for a few minutes to the inevitable local gossip the carter had picked up along the way before excusing himself.

  Back in the rectory he told his butler-cum-steward George Beer that he did not wish to be disturbed and shut himself in his study on the pretext of writing his weekly sermon.

  Nervously he broke the seal on the packet the carter had delivered, smoothed it out and read:

  Dear Sir

  I respond to your enquiry regarding the whereabouts and wellbeing of your son Oliver.

  I am pleased to say that although he has not yet fully recovered from wounds sustained during Admiral Nelson’s late attack on Boulogne, he is on the mend. He has been ordered by his superiors to convalesce for a further six weeks, but, as you might expect, he has interpreted that instruction in his own way.

  Currently he is a guest on board his former ship, HMS Phryne, in a supernumerary capacity, enjoying some sea air en route to Portsmouth. His intention, I believe, is to disembark there and return to stay with my niece Cassandra and I at Ludden Hall.

  Regarding your request that I act as an intermediary and attempt to mend the unfortunate rift that has occurred between you, I am very much afraid that I must decline as I believe he will see any such intervention by me as unwelcome interference in his personal affairs. However, I will certainly mention to him on his return that you have written seeking reconciliation with him. Whether or not he chooses to respond is of course entirely a matter for him.

  As to your request that your daughter Elizabeth be invited to stay with my niece at Ludden for a while, Cassandra is away visiting her cousins at present but I am sure she will be delighted to acquiesce. She has heard a great deal about Elizabeth from Oliver, who is clearly particularly fond of the elder of his two sisters, and will be thrilled to make her acquaintance. Not least, I am sure she will brighten up the dull lives we country mice lead when your son is away. As soon as Cassandra returns, we will write again to make the necessary travel arrangements and suggest Elizabeth plans to stay for at least a month so that she is sure to be here when Oliver returns.

  I look forward to renewing my valued acquaintance with you at the next meeting of the county antiquarian society.

  Meanwhile I thought you might be interested to see the enclosed sketch I have made of some old stone foundations our gardener has uncovered in the grounds of Ludden Hall. From the odd coin and broken pot discovered over the years I had long suspected that there might be some Roman connection but further excavations will be necessary and now that peace rumoured I very much hope that Oliver will be interested enough to assist me.

  I am, sir, your obedient servant

  Josiah Parkin

  13

  The Captain’s Visit

  A welcome visitor down at Seagate was the jovial Captain Amos Armstrong, permanently cheerful now that he had been promoted and escaped the confines of the Sussex signal station he had endured for so long.

  As the new divisional captain overseeing all Kent Sea Fencible units from the North Foreland to Dungeness, he was making it his business to pay particular attention to the Seagate detachment in the absence on sick leave of his friend Lieutenant Anson.

  Sam Fagg, trying to make sense of columns of figures recording how many king’s shillings had been dished out to the Seagate fencibles for each day’s training they had put in over the past month, jumped to his feet and knuckled his forehead in salute as the captain entered.

  ‘Ah, Bosun Fagg! Caught in the act of massaging the figures, eh?’

  From Armstrong’s detested predecessor, the haughty, egotistical, social-climbing Captain Hoare, this would have raised hackles. But the new captain was known to be a proper officer with a sense of humour and an easy manner with his underlings.

  Unfazed, Fagg grinned. ‘Perish the thort, sir. I take as good care of these ’ere shillens like as if they wus me own children what I ain’t got, well, so fer as I know that is, on account of their muvvers not informin’ me, if you follow my drift.’

  Armstrong chuckled. ‘I’m not sure I do follow your drift, bosun, but I think I have fathomed your sentiments. Anyhow, I’m not here to check up on your book-keeping. Prefer to leave that to the sea-grocers and hammock-counters. No, in the absence of Lieutenant Anson I am here merely to cast a friendly eye over his domain and make sure morale is high, the boats haven’t sunk, boots fit and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Very well, sir. Well, our morals is up to scratch ’cept fer the odd bit of drunkenness, womanising and so-forth like what you’d expect, normal like. The boats is still afloat and boots is not on issue, so you could say that the ones what we ain’t got don’t fit
on account of our not ’avin’ any, well, not pusser’s boots anyway.’

  Armstrong, struggling slightly with the twisted logic, held up a hand. ‘That’s all to the good, bosun — all to the good. Therefore all I need do is get you to take me through the nominal roll, updating me on recruiting, the progress or otherwise of the men wounded during the Boulogne raid, what’s being done for the widows of those killed, etcetera, etcetera.’

  ‘Well, sir, recruitin’ is pretty good on account of the prize money what we’re expectin’ from capturin’ that there privateer and men wantin’ to join after the Boulogny business.’

  ‘The lure of prize money I can understand. It drives a good many in the service, especially admirals who get a large chunk of it even when they’re usually far away from the shot and blood. But what makes men clamour to join to fill the boots of those killed or maimed in action eludes me.’

  ‘Like I said, sir, the pusser don’t issue no boots.’

  ‘It was a figure of speech, bosun, merely a figure of speech. And you have expressed a double negative, by the by. If the purser doesn’t issue no boots, that means he must issue you with some boots.’

  Fagg shook his head. ‘Oh no, sir, beggin’ yer pardin. Like I said, he don’t issue no boots.’

  Armstrong sighed. ‘Never mind the boots. Kindly take me through the nominal roll.’

  They settled down to study the ledger recording the fencibles’ names, ages, addresses, marital status, number of children — where applicable — and civilian occupations and date of joining.

  First, Armstrong queried the fate of those whose names had been scored through and annotated: DD, naval shorthand for discharged dead.

  In each case Fagg explained simply: ‘Boulogny, sir.’

  Nelson’s disastrous Boulogne raid had indeed been a bloody affair. Altogether some 200 had been killed or wounded, including three local Sea Fencibles among the dead and half a dozen severely wounded, along with Anson himself.