Chapter 4-2
1905 Words
One middle-aged, nervous woman left, followed by two others. The virago began to jeer.
“Don’t sneer,” Smith said. “It’s better for those women to be honest now than hesitate later and put the operation in jeopardy.”
“What do you want us to do?” The virago asked.
“Listen, and I’ll tell you,” Smith said.
The press g**g had arrived in six open boats: two longboats, two gigs, and two launches. With the tide at full ebb, the water in the harbour was too shallow to float the Royal Naval vessels, which sat in the Downs, a quarter of a mile offshore. Smith studied the ships, unconsciously admiring their lines and critically examining their condition.
“The tides at full ebb,” Smith said. “It will be four hours before these vessels can come closer ashore, and their boats are here.”
“Is that good?” The virago had appointed herself as the spokeswoman of the Petticoat Marines.
“It means that the ship’s captains cannot reinforce their men ashore.” Smith looked at his two companies of women. They looked eager to fight and as fit and strong as most men with whom he had worked, with the virago watching Smith with especial intentness. “Are you all ready?”
“We’re ready,” the virago said.
“Oh, Suzanne!” A middle-aged woman with grey hairs said. “From what I’ve heard, you’re always ready!”
Some of the other women gave a nervous, near-hysterical laugh as Suzanne smiled in response.
“Artillery, I want you behind the fishing fleet on the beach there. The tide is too low, and there will be no boats going out as long as the Navy’s there. Get your stones ready.”
The Artillery nodded and scurried away, lifting missiles as they moved.
“Marines, wait here, except you, Suzanne. We’ll check on the press.”
The convoy pushed slowly up the main street, with the press g**g escorting the scared, bewildered, and angry captives. Smith watched from the deep shadows, noting that every man either had his hands deep in his trouser pockets or held tightly onto his waistband. The press g**g had resorted to removing the captives’ belts and cutting their waistbands to prevent them from running away. No man could run when his trousers fell to his ankles. Leading from the front, the arrogant midshipman strutted from the village green towards the harbour.
“That’s enough, Suzanne. Let’s warn the others.”
Suzanne smiled and touched his arm as he withdrew to the beach. “Come on, Petticoat Marines!”
Smith measured the distance from the fishing fleet to the beached Royal Naval boats and began to walk purposely along the shore. Although he did not look behind him, he knew that the women were at his back, with their feet sliding and crunching on the loose shingle.
The Navy had left two boatmen to guard each of their boats, and every man looked up in surprise when the crowd of grim-faced women advanced toward them.
“What’s the to do?” A stocky man asked. “What do you women want? Here! Steer clear, won’t you?”
“No, we won’t,” Suzanne replied. “And you’re the to do!”
Smith moved from a walk to a run. “Come on, Marines!”
The stocky man barely had time to yell before Smith was on him, knocking him to the ground and leaving him for the women before moving to the next boat. The second seaman was more prepared, lifting a marline spike and swinging at Smith’s head.
“Would you, you bastard!” Smith ducked, jabbed straight fingers into the man’s throat, grabbed his tarred pigtail, and banged his head off the boat’s gunwale. He looked up, aware of a roar of noise as Suzanne led the women into a screaming charge at the other boats.
Although the seamen were rugged and redoubtable fighters, the outcome was never in doubt. The women were roused to fighting fury and determined to save their men. They fell on the seamen like a pack of hounds, grabbing at shirts and hair, flailing fists, and aiming shrewd kicks at groins and midriffs as the seamen retreated in bafflement.
“Don’t kill them!” Smith warned. “We want them subdued, not slaughtered!”
The uneven contest was over within three minutes, with the boat guards bleeding, bruised, and under the watchful eyes of a score of women. Half a dozen women bore the marks of battle, parading bruises or cuts like battle honours. With her skirt raised high, Suzanne sat astride a tall man, alternately slapping him and asking him what he meant by trying to steal her husband.
“Where are my volunteer men?” Smith asked. “I want a dozen men.” He nodded when Suzanne and most of the other women stepped forward.
“Change your clothes,” Smith ordered.
“We didn’t bring any man’s clothing,” A young woman said.
Smith indicated the captured seamen. “Take theirs. And hurry!”
“Turn your back,” the young woman demanded.
“This isn’t the time for foolish modesty,” Suzanne said, but Smith obeyed.
Women dressed as men were a novelty that could have amused Smith in different circumstances, but he could hear the approach of marching feet and knew he had little time to spare. Taking his place in the nearest longboat, he ordered the women to keep the captured seamen lying in the bottom of their boats.
“Tie them up and gag them,” Smith ordered urgently. “God knows there are plenty lengths of rope. And if any of them struggle, whack them on the head.”
When the dozen male-dressed women took their places in the boats, Smith nodded to the remainder. “You people join your friends behind the fishing boats, and hurry! The press g**g is nearly here!”
With the seamen tied hand and foot in the bottom of their boats, and the women trying their best to look masculine, Smith stood at the prow of the first longboat. He heard the roar of sound from the protesting prisoners and watched as the press g**g approached, escorting a good proportion of Kingsgate’s male population.
The jaunty midshipman marched in front, with the grey-haired lieutenant at his side and a score of seamen guarding their captives. Smith waited until the mob was clear of the village and shouted.
“Now! Artillery! Now!”
The first group of women rose from behind the fishing boats and unleashed a volley of stones at the press g**g.
“Watch the villagers!” Smith warned as the women hurled their missiles with more enthusiasm than accuracy, and the stones thumped down on prisoners and press g**g alike.
“Get these men onto the boats,” the lieutenant took immediate action, as Smith expected from the Navy. “Mr Watt! Chase these women away, damn them!”
Smith waved his hand, encouraging the press to rush their captives forward. “Come on! Hurry!”
Smith’s Petticoat Artillery threw another volley of stones and ran forward, making as much noise as possible, as Smith had demanded.
“You men!” Smith shouted to his disguised women. “Get these volunteers on board! Handsomely now!”
The wiry petty officer pushed the first of the pressed men towards Smith. “Take this ugly bugger!”
Smith caught the man and winked. “Get in the boat!” He ordered.
“Who the devil?” the man asked until Suzanne grabbed him by the collar.
“Get in the boat, Joe!”
Joe was not quick in the uptake. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving you, you useless bugger!” Suzanne slapped him across the head. “Get in the b****y boat before the Navy realises what’s happening!”
As the first group of women charged the press and the beach became the scene of a free-for-all, Smith and the disguised women encouraged the pressed men onto the boats. “Get in!” Smith ordered, with the women urging their men.
“That’s a woman!” the wiry petty officer belatedly realised that all was not well. “What’s going on here?”
“You’re right,” Smith agreed. “It is a woman.” He hit the petty officer with a belaying pin, knocking him to the shingle. He raised his voice to an Atlantic bellow. “Get these men on board! Handsomely now!”
The fight on the beach was going badly for the women, with the press g**g, men selected for their toughness, pushing them back.
“Push off!” Smith ordered. “Let the men take the oars and dump the sailors over the side.”
“Where are you going?” Suzanne asked as Smith stepped away from the boats.
“To help the artillery,” Smith told her. “Head for Spike Cove, then run the men back to Kingsgate and get into the Dancing Horse. The landlady will hide you.”
As the women hauled the still-bound seamen out of the boats and dropped them, less than gently, onto the beach, Smith strode towards the battle of the beach. “The boats are leaving!” he yelled. “The boats are leaving!”
The lieutenant glanced over his shoulder, and a look of fury crossed his face. “Get back here, you damned fools! We’re still ashore!” He strode towards the boats, with some of his men following. Taking heart, the Petticoat Artillery charged again, temporarily pushing back the press g**g.
Smith stepped back as Midshipman Watt ran into the sea, shaking his fist, and other seamen cut free the boat guards. Leaving the Navy to sort itself out, Smith ran towards his artillery.
“Break off!” he shouted. “Get back to the village!”
One by one, the women began to withdraw, with the fitter helping the casualties and all bearing some mark of combat. Smith put his arm around one limping woman and half-carried, half-dragged her back towards the village.
“Well done,” Smith said, yet he wondered if it had all been worthwhile. He had made his name known but had also directly opposed Captain Blackwell, and he was not yet prepared for a confrontation.
* * *
The landlady looked up when Smith pushed open the door and deposited his burden on a bench. “A brandy for this hero,” he ordered. “She needs it.”
“On the house,” the landlady said, watching him through musing eyes. “I heard what happened.” She indicated the perspiring, bleeding, vociferous women who filled her taproom.
“The men should be here shortly,” Smith said.
“Their accommodation is waiting,” the landlady said, “although I doubt the press will return for some time.” She allowed herself a smile. “You gave them a sound drubbing, Mr Smith.”
“It was necessary, landlady,” Smith said.
The landlady gestured for him to come closer. “My name is Mrs Martin,” she told him. “Ruth to a selected few.”
“Thank you, Mrs Martin,” Smith held out his hand.
“Ruth,” the landlady said, and Smith knew he had made a significant stride forward.
- Writer
