Chapter 4-1
2016 Words
“She’s a Froggie, right enough.” A man with a lined face sat at the lookout with the telescope fully extended and focussed out to sea. “I know that by her lines.”
“A Frenchie? What the devil does she want here, Hargreaves?” Captain Blackwell asked.
Down in the taproom, Smith listened to their conversation as he scanned the newspaper and puffed smoke from his pipe.
“It’s a raiding party, sure as death,” Hargreaves said. “There’s a second ship to the west.”
“Well, rot me,” Blackwell said. “Where’s the Navy we pay so much in taxes for? How did the French get past the blockade and evade the frigates?” He shook his head. “No matter. Call out the men, Hargreaves.”
“Are we going to fight them?”
“You’re damned right we are,” Blackwell said. “I want every able-bodied man gathered on the green, with whatever weapons they can find.” When Blackwell ran down the stairs, shouting for his crew, Smith ascended to the lookout. He lifted the telescope and focussed on the two approaching vessels before returning to his position in the taproom. The old man in the corner watched Smith for a moment before stiffly rising to his feet.
“You’ll need me, Captain Blackwell,” he said.
“Sit down, you doddering old fool,” Blackwell snarled. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
Smith sensed the old man’s disappointment as Blackwell stood in the centre of the room.
“Muster every man jack at the village green,” Blackwell shouted. “Where’s Skinner? Where’s that lazy bugger?”
“He’s at home with his wife,” Hargreaves said.
“Kick his arse and send him to Marsham,” Blackwell ordered. Marsham was about twice the size of Kingsgate and lay three miles to the east. “Tell the army to come here fast. It’s only a militia regiment, but the French don’t know that.” He turned to Smith. “And you — Smith, isn’t it?”
“John Smith,” Smith agreed, nursing his tumbler of rum and wondering if this new development would hinder his plans for the day.
“I want you as well. You have a pistol, so you can shoot a Frenchman.”
Smith sipped at his tumbler. “You can go without me.” He did not look at Blackwell, although he assessed Kingsgate’s leading smuggler. Tall, with a strong face, Blackwell was undoubtedly a forceful man, with bright blue eyes and the look of a seaman.
Blackwell’s face coloured. “You yellow bastard! Won’t you fight for your country?”
Smith put his rum on the table. “I’ve had my share of fighting for King Geordie.”
“You’re a coward,” Blackwell said with contempt.
Smith smiled, still refusing to meet Blackwell’s gaze. “Maybe a coward, but not a fool.”
“I’ll see off the French,” Blackwell promised, “and then I’ll return for you, cully.”
“You do that,” Smith said, sitting still while nearly all the men and many of the women left the inn. Only the old man remained behind, looking wistfully at the door.
“You’re smiling, Mr Smith,” the landlady said, polishing a glass. “Are you not going to fight the French?”
“I’ve already fought them,” Smith finished his rum.
“Do you intend to sit there all day?”
“No.” Smith held out his glass for a refill. “Do you have a hiding place here?”
“A hiding place?” the landlady repeated, with a trace of anger in her voice.
“You won’t keep free trade goods in open view in case the Excise calls, and you’ll have somewhere to conceal seamen when the Press comes,” Smith explained his reasoning.
A look of contempt crossed the landlady’s face. “I didn’t expect that from you.” She poured out Smith’s rum. “I thought better of you when you freed the prisoners from the Chapel Prison.”
Smith ignored the insult. “How many men can your hidey-hole hold?”
“A dozen, if they cram in,” the landlady told him. “You’ll have plenty of room on your own when all the men are fighting.”
menSmith grunted. “You had better get it ready, landlady,” Smith said. “These ships aren’t French. They’re Royal Navy.”
“Royal Navy?” The landlady grasped the situation immediately. Her expression altered to alarm. “A press g**g? Are you sure?”
“It’s a hot press. Admiral Rodney is taking a fleet to the Caribbean, and he’ll need every man he can muster.” Smith swallowed his rum.
The landlady’s frown returned. “Are you not going to inform the men?”
Smith sighed. “I am, once Captain Blackwell has them all gathered together.” He stood up and grabbed his hat. “Get prepared for an invasion, Landlady.”
Most of the male population of Kingsgate village, and a high proportion of the females, was gathered on the village green, most holding a weapon, from a simple staff to a fowling piece or musket. Kingsgate’s green was triangular, with a small stream trickling into a pond at the lower end, beside the expected stocks. Blackwell stood in the centre, giving orders to defend the village.
“Men with firearms, I want you to stand in the harbour, ready to greet the French when they land. Men with cutlasses or staffs, you will charge forward only after the first volley.”
“How about the women?” One bold-eyed virago asked. “We can fight as well as any man!”
“Keep out of the way,” Blackwell said.
“Stand aside, Captain Blackwell,” Smith demanded. “I have something to say.”
“You?” Blackwell did not move as Smith stepped beside him.
“These ships are not French,” Smith raised his voice. “They’re Royal Navy, probably going to land a press gang.”
“They’re French,” Blackwell said. “They wear the lilies!”
“Royal Navy,” Smith repeated, “and you have all the men gathered in one place for them to scoop up.”
While Blackwell’s crew stood by him, other villagers began to drift away from the green.
“I don’t mind fighting the French,” one scrawny man said, busily polishing thick spectacles. “But I’m not going into the Navy!” He moved away. “Come on, Oby,” he tugged at the sleeve of a man of mighty muscles.
“You’re losing your little army, Captain Blackwell,” Smith pointed out as more men followed the bespectacled man’s example.
“Stand with me!” Blackwell shouted. “We have to fight the French!”
Smith stepped back. “I’ll leave you, Captain Blackwell.” He withdrew, knowing that he could do no more. The cautious and intelligent would leave, while the most loyal of Blackwell’s crew would stand by him.
The virago watched Smith walk away. “What if it is the French?” she demanded.
“It’s not,” Smith told her. “Depend on it; these vessels are Royal Navy under a false flag. They know the men of Kent will gather to fight the French, and they’ll snatch everybody they can.”
I’ve been part of Royal Naval press gangs, my lady. I know how they operate.
I’ve been part of Royal Naval press gangs, my lady. I know how they operate.“What’s happening, then?” the landlady asked as Smith returned to the inn. About twenty women had gathered there, some seeking information and others simply nervous.
“I spread the news,” Smith said. “Some of the men will go into hiding, but Captain Blackwell is adamant the ships are French.”
“What will happen?” One woman asked. “My husband is with the captain.”
“The press will take everybody,” Smith said. “With or without Protections. If Rodney is heading to the West Indies, they’ll be gone for months, perhaps years, and any complaints about taking protected men will be long forgotten by the time they return.” He paused for a moment. “If they return. The death rate beyond the Line is appalling, with ague and Yellow Jack.”
“Oh, God!” More than one of the women looked shocked.
“What will you do, Mr Smith?” the landlady demanded. “You seemed to be a resourceful man when you rescued the men from the Chapel Prison. Do you have something in mind?”
“I may have,” Smith said. “I’ll need some help, though. Are any of you ladies willing to stand by me? It might be dangerous.”
“Will it get our men back?” the first woman asked.
“It may,” Smith said. “I cannot make a promise.”
“I’m with you,” the woman said, and others either nodded or just stepped forward.
“Come with me,” Smith said, with his plan only half-formed. “Let’s have a look at the press.”
More women joined Smith’s band as they marched through Kingsgate, so he had more than thirty before he reached the beach. The Royal Naval ships had anchored well outside the harbour and sent the Press g**g in six boats, three from each vessel. By the time Smith and the women reached the village green, the press had pounced on the villagers. As a ship’s master, Blackwell was exempt, but the Navy had captured most of the others, knocking the fight from them with marline spikes, and was busily engaged in gathering them in a sullen, dejected group.
“Come, cheer up, my boys!” a smart midshipman crowed as an elderly lieutenant gave harsh orders. “You will fight for old England! For king, country, and religion! Damn the French, and damn the Pope!”
“Cocky little bastard, aren’t you?” Smith said, counting the escort. “One snotty, one bitter, worn-out lieutenant, one experienced petty officer to keep them right, and ten smiling seamen. That’s not the impress service, ladies; that’s the ship’s captain trying to increase his crew.”
The women fidgeted. “What are we going to do about it?” a middle-aged woman demanded. “I have a foolish husband and two young sons in that crowd.”
Smith nodded. “Do as I say, and we have a fighting chance. We’re fortunate they’re only men from an ordinary ship’s company and not the official Impress Service. They won’t know all the tricks.”
Smith divided the women into two unequal groups. “You women,” he said to one group. “You’re now the Petticoat Artillery. I want you to gather stones. As many as you can. Hold them in your apron, or lift the front of your skirt and hold them there.”
“You’ll see my legs!” one woman said.
Smith glared at her. “I don’t care a damn about your legs or any other part of you!”
The second group of women looked impatient. “What do you want us to do?” the bold eyed virago asked.
Smith’s smile was devoid of humour. “You are the Petticoat Marines, and we are going to steal boats,” he glanced at the darkening sky. “And then I’m going to change you into men.”
The virago glanced down at herself. “I’ll need to grow something,” she said and laughed.
“Are you prepared to fight for your husband?” Smith ignored her suggestion.
The virago nodded. “He’s not much but better than nothing.” She tossed back her blonde hair.
Other women agreed, some more enthusiastically than others.
“If you can’t or won’t fight,” Smith said, “then return home now before it’s too late.”
- Writer
