Battle Fleet (2007) (15 page)

In this atmosphere of national crisis I fear greatly that the press gangs will be descending mob-handed on the ports of England to muster every available tar to man our warships. You are bound to become a victim of their activities.

Perhaps you could think again about joining the Navy? We need good men like you. Our liberty is threatened! Do consider what I’m asking and let me know. Write to Grosvenor Square and I hope to see you shortly.

Your true friend

Robert

He hadn’t mentioned his father’s offer about training to become a midshipman. Was that still on the table? The
letter stirred up other feelings too. I still did not want to go back to the Navy, but I felt guilty about it now rather than defiant. My country was in peril.

The press gangs had been lying low since I returned to the sea. Now they were sure to be busy. Although I knew this to be certain, I had heard from other merchant seamen that they were concentrating their activities on the Navy ports of Plymouth and Portsmouth, and along the south coast.

So why didn’t I write back at once saying I would join up with him? I intended to, but three days hence I was to sail to Edinburgh with Thomas Findlay, a captain who was reputed to pay handsomely and treat his men well. I’d heard he was looking for a third mate for his ship and I wanted to impress him. And when I came back Bel had promised to meet me. I had not seen her for several weeks and had missed her keenly. I resolved to contact Robert when I returned. I would put off my decision until then.

The trip went well, aside from some delay on the return leg due to unfavourable headwinds. The Captain was as good as his reputation and when we returned to London he announced he would be sailing again shortly, this time to Whitby, and would take on crew at the Bridge House Inn, Bermondsey, on the afternoon of 15th July. His final words to me were, ‘You know your trade well,
Witchall. I could use a man like you as a regular part of my crew.’

This was promising. That 15th July morning I walked from London Bridge to Bermondsey, intending to get there in good time to have lunch before the Captain arrived. At the inn I fell into conversation with some other sailors I’d met on the Edinburgh trip. They grumbled about the press gangs getting closer to home – Chatham and Sheerness, even Woolwich. ‘I hear Findlay’s looking for a third mate,’ said one of my companions. ‘That makes you a ship’s officer. Press gangs can’t touch merchant officers.’ I listened with great interest.

The inn was filling up with sailors. Findlay’s reputation was obviously widely known. He arrived soon after one o’clock but his hopes of recruiting a crew were quickly dashed. Before he called us to order, five burly thugs appeared at the front entrance. Behind them, through the open door, I caught a glimpse of a red tunic. There were some marines with them too. We all knew instinctively that the press gang had arrived and there was a rush for the back door. They were waiting there too, five of them in their scruffy civilian rags, and another squad of marines, muskets at the ready, bayonets attached. We scattered like a shoal of minnows before the jaws of a pike, running every way, wherever a gap presented itself.

I narrowly avoided the grasp of one of them, but before I’d gone another step, another grabbed my scarf. It was a beautiful cream Indian cotton one, with an embroidered pattern along the edge. Bel had given it to me for my eighteenth birthday. It ripped in his grubby hand and then slipped off my neck. He grabbed my arm, and out of anger and desperation I aimed a punch at his head. He went down with a sulphurous oath and I saw my chance. A narrow alley behind a riverfront warehouse lay unguarded before me. Not daring to look round I sprinted with all the strength my legs could muster. I ran the whole length of that alley then stopped to walk out on to the high street at the end of it. I peered round to see if anyone was pursuing me. They were busy elsewhere.

I set off back to my lodgings along the southern embankment of the Thames, waiting for my breathing to steady. By the time I reached London Bridge I was beginning to feel tired and disappointed. How would I make contact with Captain Findlay again? Turning into Tooley Street, right there by the Prince William pub, I saw a mob of ten or so men dragging a couple of tars off. They could only be another press gang. Today the impressment service had descended on London in full force.

They were marching straight towards me. I wondered if I should just walk on and hope they would not realise
I was a sailor. But then I thought they might grab me anyway. Press gangs did not only take men who were obviously seamen. Being young and healthy was sometimes quite enough.

I began to walk quickly in the other direction. Then I heard shouting. ‘Hey, you, Jack Tar!’ I turned – four of them were running towards me. I fled again, coming out at the top of Tooley Street, just before London Bridge. I could try to outrun them across the bridge, which was crowded with people, carriages and wagons, or I could hide beneath it.

I ran down the stone steps to the embankment and on to the tidal mud and shingle. Through the stone arches I could see what was clearly a pressing tender. Men were being ferried aboard from a rowing boat, and marines were waiting for them on the deck. I prayed no one would see me as I dashed beneath the bridge. Above I could hear the clatter of feet and hoped I would make the underside before one of the gang peered over and spotted me.

There among the sewage and weeds and driftwood at the base of the first stone arch was the remains of a hefty barrel – its rotten mouldy wood smashed in around its rusty hoops. I dashed across and pulled it over me, dislodging several pints of fetid mud and water, which soaked through my jacket and shirt before creeping slowly down the back of my trousers. The intact part of
the barrel was large enough to cover me if I pulled my legs up. I lay there peeping through a crack between the planks.

The underside of bridges are strange, eerie places. It had been a hot summer’s day but here it was clammy and cold, especially with the water seeping through my clothes. There was plenty of other rubble down here too – making my hiding place less obvious. The skeleton of a rotten rowing boat lay close to the water, along with bits of tattered canvas and rope, discarded clothing, and an old hat squashed flat among the pebbles.

Waiting in this almost-silence reminded me of the awful calm before going into action. My heart was beating hard and I noticed everything around me in vivid detail. It was a strangely still spot, here under the bridge, with all the clamour and bustle just above. The river made dancing reflections on the vaulting arch and I could hear the water lapping on the shingle.

I also heard a scurrying just below my line of sight. There, sitting boldly between my chest and the edge of the barrel, was a great fat rat. His whiskers tickled my skin where the shirt buttons strained against my chest. He looked up at me with curious black eyes.

I stroked his fur with a finger. He didn’t seem to mind. Rats, they were always the enemy on a ship, to be driven out with sulphur and battered to death. But this one seemed as tame as a house cat. Then I wondered if
he was crawling with fleas. I knew these creatures were infamous carriers of disease.

There was a sudden crunch of footsteps close by. It could only be thugs from the press gang. Come to look for me.

I hardy dared breathe. I could hear them talking, their voices echoing around under the bridge. ‘You sure he came dahn ’ere?’ said one, between great lungfuls of air. He sounded shattered.

‘No,’ said the other. ‘You sure he ran over the bridge?’

‘Worth lookin’ for tho’ ain’t ’e? Wouldn’t have run away unless he was sure we’d nab ’im.’

The footsteps came closer. ‘Tell you wot,’ said the one who was fighting for his breath. ‘If we catch the bastard, I’m gonna give him a good hidin’. Makin’ us run arfter ’im.’

I shrank a little smaller. I could hear them, poking around with their cutlasses. Surely the barrel was the first place they’d look.

‘Wot’s under ’ere, I wonder,’ said one. They wandered over to me. I could see the stockings of one of them right by the crack in the wood. They were playing now. Taunting me, or not taking themselves entirely seriously. ‘Come on out, come on out and get your bleedin’ head kicked in,’ said one in a sing-song voice as he banged his cutlass on the top of the barrel.

I chose this moment to give my rat a shove. He
bolted out and scuttled away. Both of them recoiled. ‘Euuurghh, it’s only a soddin’ rat,’ one of them said with disgust.

They wandered back up the stairway to the embankment.

I stayed put until the tender had pulled away. Emerging dripping wet, covered with stinking mud, feeling like a homeless beggar, I made my way back to my lodgings. I filled my tin bath with water from the pump and scrubbed the dirt from my body and clothes. Then, like a flash of lightning, I remembered Robert’s letter. Was I too late? I threw on a fresh pair of clothes and ran as fast as my legs would carry me to Grosvenor Square. Please still be here, I kept saying to myself. Please don’t have left for another tour of duty.

There were two clear ways my life could go. Sam Witchall, pressed man, slave to the Navy and the whims of fate and bosun’s mates. Or Sam Witchall, midshipman, officer in training, companion to the Honourable Robert Neville. Why had it taken me until now to see that this was the choice that life was offering me?

I banged on the door of the Nevilles’ house in Grosvenor Square. A servant answered, a new fellow who did not know me.

‘I’ve come to see Master Neville,’ I announced.

We went through a little ceremony where he established who I was. ‘Is Robert here?’ I could barely contain my anxiety. ‘Has he returned to sea?’

The man looked at me as if I were being terribly impertinent. ‘I’m afraid, young man, I’m not at liberty to say.

‘One moment,’ he said, then closed the door. He
seemed to be gone for ever. If Robert had returned to his ship or the Nevilles were out of town, I would have to waste weeks trying to catch them. I would have to go back to sea to earn my keep, and maybe I would be pressed there?

Eventually, the servant returned. He had obviously been making enquiries and his manner was now more compliant. ‘Master Neville is away. But he will be back this evening. I shall tell him you called.’

I went north, past the bustle of Oxford Street and into the quiet of Marylebone. The further away I was from the port and the river, the better. I did not even seek out an inn or coffee house. I wanted to find a place where I could survey the comings and goings, and hide myself in good time if a suspicious-looking gang of toughs should appear on the street. I found a quiet little square and waited, watching the early evening shadows grow longer. All the while I wondered how to couch this conversation. Would they begrudge me for not leaping at the chance to join the Navy when Viscount Neville first made his offer last autumn? There were practical considerations too. If the offer was still open, neither my father or myself could afford to pay for my training, let alone my uniform. Again and again I cursed myself for not taking up the Nevilles’ offer earlier.

The local church clock struck seven and I walked back to Grosvenor Square. When I arrived, Robert had been
tipped off about my coming. ‘Don’t take off your coat,’ he said. ‘We’re dining at White’s, just Father and you and I.’

White’s was a short walk away. The club’s plushly decorated interior was quite a contrast to my own humble lodgings. I kept thinking about how I would phrase my request. ‘I want to join the Navy because I don’t want to be nabbed by the press gang,’ seemed a bit ungracious. So far, neither of them had mentioned the subject. But the Viscount made it easy for me.

After the first course of pigeon and crayfish he turned to me and said, ‘You have heard the news? Napoleon is stirring up trouble, and London fears an invasion. The press gangs will be out in force. I’d wager you’d be exactly the sort they’ll be looking for.’ Without waiting for a response, he continued, ‘I’m sure we’d all agree that the last thing anyone wants is for you to be pressed again, Sam.’

I nodded enthusiastically. He left the idea hanging in the air.

Our meat course arrived – succulent lamb chops. The red wine the Viscount had ordered was the most delicious I had ever tasted.

After we’d eaten and were sat full of food in an amiable haze, Robert said, ‘My father has a proposition for you.’

The Viscount smiled. It was an unsettling smile, rather
like that of a predatory fox I had once seen in a children’s storybook. ‘I do. You don’t have to answer me now, but think seriously about what I’m suggesting.’

Robert was smiling too and nodding his head. I knew they were going to ask me about joining the Navy.

‘I’d like to suggest, again, that we find you a berth as a midshipman in His Majesty’s Navy. Alongside Robert here. Now what d’you think of that?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied, a huge sense of relief sweeping over me. I answered carefully, feeling for the right words. I knew that the Viscount would be able to find me a suitable post with ease; it was everything else that worried me. ‘But my own income, it’s not nearly enough for such a post, and my father would never be able to meet the cost …’