ASMART FRIGATE was leaving Portsmouth harbour, watched by a small group of idlers collected at the Point. One of these, a well-dressed and elderly gentleman, had borrowed a telescope from a one-legged seaman who stood beside him and was watching the way in which sail was made. “What a splendid sight!” he exclaimed, finally, returning the telescope to its owner. “But a common spectacle, I suppose, in time of war.” He was told by the other bystanders that the port was busy enough. As they watched, the frigate heeled to the stiff breeze, foam at her stem and her pennant streaming to leeward. A fleeting gleam of wintry sunshine lit her canvas for a moment as she passed Block House Fort. In a few minutes she vanished from sight and the shivering spectators began to disperse. It was a cold February afternoon, to be followed by a colder and stormier night.
“What ship was that?” asked the elderly gentleman but the one-legged sailor had gone. His question was answered, instead, by a much younger man in civilian clothes whose eyes had followed the frigate until the last moment.
“She is the Thalia of 36 guns, commanded by Captain Manley, launched at Bursledon in 1782.”
“Whither bound?” asked the elderly gentleman as they turned away from the Point.
“For Jamaica, sir, as I understand.”
There was something about the younger man’s appearance and still more about his manner—clipped, decisive and exact—that attracted the old gentleman’s interest.
“You seem to be well-informed, sir, in naval matters.”
“I hold a commission, sir.”
“But without an appointment, perhaps?” Delancey’s grim expression was answer enough and the old gentleman tried to retrieve the situation by adding, quickly: “No offence, sir—not my intention to pry—forgive my bluntness—but I know something of the service from my nephew. Promotion is often difficult to achieve in your profession and especially for those without interest.” Delancey assented briefly and his elderly acquaintance looked at him more keenly. What he saw left him still curious. Of average height, dark-haired, with dark blue eyes and a rather melancholy expression, the young man was something, he guessed, between thirty and thirty-five years old. He was rather thin and rather shabbily dressed, his overcoat made of inferior cloth, his shoes well polished but badly worn, his cravat frayed and yellow in the hem. The older man, coming to a decision on impulse, decided to introduce himself.
“My name is Grindall, sir, wine merchant of Southampton. My nephew is to meet me presently for dinner at the Star and Garter. Would you do me the honour of joining us?” It seemed for a moment that the invitation was regarded as an insult and Mr Grindall went on quickly to forestall a touchy refusal.
“I’ll be frank with you, sir, and explain what I have in mind. My nephew has been offered a berth in a revenue cutter and the problem is whether he should accept it. The offer came through me—for the Collector of Customs at Southampton is an old friend of mine, known to me since boyhood. His kind offer is a very handsome one, very handsome indeed, but my fear is that Henry should miss the better opportunity of serving overseas. Your advice, if you will give it, may be of the greatest value and will leave me greatly in your debt. Come, sir, I’ll take no denial!” Whether seriously meant or not, this plea for guidance had the desired effect. The naval officer’s scruples over accepting charity were overcome by Mr Grindall’s tact.
“In that event, sir,” he replied, “I can only say that I am very much at your disposal and will accept your kind invitation with the greatest pleasure. My name is Delancey and my last service was in the cutter Royalist.” Mr Grindall soon ascertained, by indirect means, that his first guess had been correct. Delancey was an unemployed half-pay lieutenant with neither interest nor private means; left ashore for reasons which he did not choose to explain. He could only guess at the rest of the story; but it had been a cold winter for a man who might be hungry. Mr Grindall found other topics for conversation; the sad illness and death of the Thalia’s previous captain and the scandal over naval contracts at Plymouth. Did Delancey think that any good would come of the recent changes at the Admiralty? They chatted easily enough until the Inn was reached. Then they were able to thaw in front of the tap-room fire. With his overcoat removed, Delancey looked shabbier than ever, with threadbare elbows and cuffs. He warmed to his host’s kindness, however, and was glad to be indoors. It would snow, he predicted, before nightfall. There were four or five other gentlemen in the room and they all agreed that the weather was exceptionally bad for the time of year. It was February 13th, 1795, and the winter, they all felt, had gone on long enough. Mr Grindall ordered dinner for three and took some time over the wine-list. He had scarcely chosen the claret before he saw his nephew in the street and went to meet him. After a few minutes he returned, ushering Henry before him, and called out, “Here he is at last! Mr Delancey, allow me to introduce my nephew, Mr Midshipman Fowler. Henry, I want you to meet Mr Delancey, lieutenant until recently of the Royalist!” He looked, beaming, from one to the other.
There was a moment of tense silence, the conversation dying away. It was almost as if two mortal enemies were suddenly face to face. Then Delancey saved the situation by saying quietly: “There is no need for any introduction in this case, Mr Grindall. Mr Fowler and I are old shipmates. We served together in the Artemis.”
“How are you, sir?” asked Fowler and his uncle was quick to comment on the strange turn of events which had brought the two of them together again.
“If I had not chanced to fall into conversation with you, Mr Delancey, my nephew would most probably have missed seeing you. What a pity that would have been!” The kindly old man led the way into the dining room and placed his guests on either side of him near the end of the table. Young Fowler was awkward and silent at first and Delancey, conversing with his host, was able to study the youngster’s appearance. He was nearly two years older than he had been when he joined the Artemis as a volunteer in 1793. How old had he been then? Fifteen, perhaps. He would be seventeen now, perhaps nearly eighteen, unemployed most likely since the Artemis was stranded. His family had no interest so far as Delancey could remember and he rather supposed that the boy’s parents were dead, which would account for his uncle acting as guardian. Fowler was a young man now, less of a schoolboy and quite presentable.
“One does not like to speak ill of the dead,” Mr Grindall was saying, “but I have always thought that Captain Fletcher’s going down with his ship was a providential circumstance. Henry here has told me, Mr Delancey, of some of the things that poor madman said and did. It must have been a terrible situation for you and for the other officers. As I understand the matter, the Artemis was in the worst possible state of indiscipline, disorder and fear, a ship heading for disaster up to the point when she was actually lost. Strange are the ways of providence, Mr Delancey. But for the previous running aground both you and Henry might have been drowned. I am convinced that you were both saved by divine intervention, the result of prayer.”
Fowler was busy with his knife and fork but Delancey replied without batting an eyelid: “You are very right, sir, and several of my old shipmates would agree with you.” The youngster looked up from his plate and caught Delancey’s eye. A glance passed between them but the older man’s face was expressionless. There was a moment of silence and then Mr Grindall called for a toast to the King. After that act of loyalty, a toast followed to the navy and, proposed by Delancey, to the wine trade. Young Fowler’s toast was to a long war and quick promotion but about that his uncle thought differently.
“I drink to that for your sake, Henry. It is what every sea officer must want—you not least, Mr Delancey. But we in the wine trade have our own interests at stake. Remain at war with France and you cut off our nearest and best source of supply. French wine and brandy are all but unobtainable and even German wines will soon be costly in freight and insurance. Port wine we may still have and Madeira may be plentiful but our trade must otherwise dwindle. We had laid in stocks, to be sure, but look at the duties we had to pay!”
“Duties which some people choose to avoid,” said Delancey.
“Just so,” replied Mr Grindall, “but I am not one of them. I am known as an old-established wine shipper and an honest merchant. I may not have a large connection but my friends include the mayor of Southampton, the collector of customs, the sheriff and his deputy and a dozen justices of the peace. Others can engage in the free trade, as it is called, but I cannot. And this brings me to the question on which I wanted to ask your advice. I can offer my nephew here a berth in the Southampton revenue cutter but would he be wise to accept?”
“Tell me first what interest you have,” asked Delancey. “Do you have a relative who is an admiral or captain? Have you a vote as a Southampton burgess? What can you do to gain Mr Fowler his commission?”
“The truth is, Mr Delancey, that I can do nothing for Henry, as he has come to know by experience. When war began I had interest enough to place him on the quarterdeck. More than that I cannot do.”
“In those circumstances Mr Fowler is better afloat than ashore. He can gain more experience and—who knows?—he may make some money. The sale of smuggled goods is profitable, I believe, to the captors. What is your own conclusion, Mr Fowler?”
“I am quite of your opinion, sir. I have little to lose by serving in a revenue cutter and small hope of promotion were I in the navy.”
It emerged in conversation over the dinner table that young Fowler was staying with some relatives in Portsmouth and had been trying for a berth in a frigate, so far without success. His uncle had come from Southampton to explain about the vacancy on board the Rapid revenue cutter. But that was not the only possibility as he now made clear.
“It so happens that there is another cutter in these waters, the Rose, based on Cowes. She was built for Mr William Agnew, collector in the Isle of Wight, who is presently in London. His deputy is Mr John Payne, whom I have never met. I am slightly acquainted, however, with Mr Ryder, who commands the Rose, a very good seaman and an honest man. I do not know that he has a vacancy but I have asked him, by letter, to join us here this afternoon. His advice, if he can come, should be of great value.”
Mr Grindall had a great deal to say about the excise duties and the ways in which the revenue could be defrauded. He was not disinterested, as he had to admit, for his own goods were in competition against contraband. How could he be expected to sell at the same price? Take, for example, the claret they were drinking. Free traders could offer the same wine at two-thirds the price, bought at the back door rather than over the counter. The revenue cutters did their best but no vigilance could prevent smuggling. The most anyone could do was to add to the smuggler’s expenses and so reduce the difference between prices as openly and privately charged. By the time they had reached the cheese Mr Grindall was wondering whether Mr Ryder would at least be able to join them over a glass of Madeira. Delancey remarked that it was snowing already which might have discouraged Mr Grindall’s other guest, more especially if he had far to go. Looking out, they could see the snow blown horizontally, with vehicles and foot passengers moving as blurred shapes in the void. “A good day to be within doors!” said Mr Grindall, passing the Madeira round for the second time and calling for the boy to stoke up the fire. “A health to the preventive service!” Even young Fowler had cheered up sufficiently to comment on his pleasure at visiting The Star and Garter. He would never have dared go there in uniform—it was the lieutenants’ place. “The Blue Posts is where I really belong!”
As young Fowler was speaking there was a confused noise from the street. A coach had driven up, the clatter of horses muffled by the snow, and raised voices could be heard, one of them calling repeatedly for a surgeon. Nothing much could be seen from the window but a waiter came in from the entrance hall and Mr Grindall asked him what had happened.
“There’s a gentleman been set upon by some footpads who left him badly hurt by the roadside. He was picked up, seemingly, by the coach from Chichester. He’d have died else in this weather, sir, that’s for sure.”
The waiter hurried out again with a bottle of brandy while Mr Grindall expressed his surprise:
“Footpads in the outskirts of Portsmouth! I never heard of such a thing.”
“Nor I, sir,” replied Delancey. “It sounds to me more like the result of a tavern brawl.”
“Go and inquire, Henry,” said Mr Grindall. “There is maybe some help we can offer.” His nephew hurried out and was gone for some minutes.
“One would as soon expect to hear a tale about highwaymen! There are a few still on the road, I suppose, but not in the approaches to a garrison town. That waiter must have been mistaken, you can depend on’t.”
“I’m entirely of your opinion, sir,” said Delancey, returning to the fireside, where young Fowler presently rejoined them.
“I have the true story now,” he said. “Four sailors recently paid off mistook this gentleman for the master-at-arms of the Royal Sovereign, who is one of the most unpopular men in the fleet.”
“I have heard that,” said Delancey, “and his captain is a martinet.”
“The gentleman was badly beaten before the men discovered their error and ran off. It was one of them who stopped the coach, however, and told the driver where the injured man lay. He’s lucky not to have frozen.”
“Where are they taking him?” asked Mr Grindall.
“The landlord has told them to bring him in.”
On hearing this Mr Grindall led the way to the front door, towards which the victim of coincidence was being assisted by a group of bystanders, some of them passengers from the coach itself. All were loud in their sympathy and comment.
“His leg is broke, Tom, that I’ll swear.”
“And a rib too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Best send for Mr Cartwright.”
“He’s out of town, I hear tell.”
“There’s Mr Winthrop, then.”
“Aye—someone go for Mr Winthrop!”
“Say it’s a case of a broken leg.”
“And a rib too, seemingly.”
The injured man was brought in and laid on an oak settle while the apothecary was sent for. The group of sympathisers stood back for a moment, parting enough for Mr Grindall to see who it was that had been hurt.
“Why, it’s Mr Ryder!” What else he had to say was drowned by a renewed babel of conversation.
Mr Grindall now insisted that Mr Ryder should be given a bedroom at the Inn. There could be no question of taking him to his home at Cowes. He felt partly responsible for the accident, he explained, as Mr Ryder was coming there at his invitation. The landlord proved sympathetic and the injured man was carefully taken upstairs. The move had hardly begun, however, when Delancey unexpectedly took his leave.
“I am sorry to desert you, sir, but I have some business to which I must attend. I thank you for your hospitality and hope that we may meet again. I am sure that Mr Ryder is in good hands.” With a few hurried words of farewell Delancey had gone, Mr Grindall wondering a little at his guest’s abrupt departure. “Strange that he left us so suddenly. There is little after all, that a half-pay lieutenant has to do!” But his further reflections were interrupted by the arrival of Mr Winthrop, the apothecary, a small man with a portentous manner. He finally gave it as his opinion that Ryder had broken a rib as well as his leg, would be off duty for several months and was lucky, indeed, to be alive at all.
On leaving the Star and Garter, Delancey hurried to the Sally Port and looked around for a boat. There was none there, the weather being so discouraging, and he went back to the Point. This time he was in luck. There was a man-of-war’s longboat alongside the jetty and an officer just about to embark. Lieutenant Bentley of the Venerable (74) was somewhat the worse for liquor, having dined ashore with the military, but he was in an amiable mood and accepted Delancey as a brother officer. The Venerable was at Spithead and he saw no reason why the longboat should not land Delancey at Ryde. Cowes was out of the question in an easterly wind—the boat would not return until next day—but Ryde was almost opposite where the Venerable was at anchor.
The boat pushed off into rough water and the coxswain steered into a darkness which was only relieved by the white foam on the wave tops. The snowstorm had passed but spray came over the bows at each plunge, slapping on the tarpaulin and forming a pool under the floorboards. The oarsmen pulled well, however, and Delancey duly landed at Ryde and, his luck still holding, he even found a farmer who could drive him to Cowes. Before ten that night he was knocking at the door of Mr John Payne’s house. An impatient voice from a first floor window asked him what he wanted.
“Mr Ryder has been badly hurt and will be off duty,” said Delancey briefly. “I am a naval officer and I have come to offer my services as temporary commander of the Rose.”
It took Mr Payne some minutes to pacify his wife, put on an overcoat over his nightshirt, light a candle and wake his manservant. There was eventually the sound of the chain being unfastened and the bolts being drawn. The door finally swung open to reveal the deputy collector of customs, pistol in hand, supported by an elderly servant armed with the poker. When finally reassured about his visitor’s respectability, Mr Payne showed Delancey into the study and told his man to make up the dying fire while he himself brought out a decanter and a couple of glasses. He heard the details of the affair without comment and sighed deeply before taking another sip of port. “You have had a rough passage, sir, and a cold journey,” he concluded. “Why could you not have left it until tomorrow?” “Because,” said Delancey, “the kind of man who leaves things until tomorrow would not be an ideal commander for the Rose.” Mr Payne smiled briefly, nodding to himself and there was a minute’s silence before he replied. “The Rose has had no ideal commander since she was built. William Ryder is not of the same calibre as the late commander, Francis Buckley.”
“Mr Buckley commanded the previous cutter of the same name?”
“He did, sir, and with great success. Willis did almost as well with a smaller cutter, the Nancy. Between them they nearly brought smuggling in this vicinity to a standstill. Buckley was killed in action against a French privateer in 1793 and Ryder has recently become a Methodist. Since then the smugglers have flourished, sir; not around the Isle of Wight, to be sure, but elsewhere along the coast. Fortunes are being made from contraband and we have taken nothing for months past.”
“But why should the smugglers benefit from Ryder being a Methodist? I should have thought, sir, that he was the more to be relied upon as an opponent of the liquor traffic.”
“An opponent he certainly is but so much so that he gains no intelligence. Mr Buckley was often at the Rose and Crown—sometimes even at the Pig and Whistle. He met the known smugglers ashore and talked with them. He was sometimes present when they had drunk to excess. He knew a dozen informers, bad characters and go-betweens. His plans were based upon the gossip he heard. Since his conversion Ryder will not be seen in the haunts of sin. He even prevents his men from going to the alehouses which the smugglers frequent. As for the women of the town, he will never keep company with them, nor would he hear the end of it if he did. Things were different in Buckley’s time. He knew what he was about.”
“Well, sir,” said Delancey, “will you appoint me to the command for the period of Ryder’s absence? The smugglers will reckon that the coast is clear, the Rose in harbour and everything in their favour. That will give me the chance to surprise them.”
“But how will you set about it?”
“By going, as a stranger, to the Rose and Crown. No one in Cowes has ever seen me before. No one saw me enter your house tonight. I shall appear as one who is in the trade, an agent from England.”
“So far your plan is possible. . . . It seems, indeed, to offer some chance of success. Very well, sir, the appointment is yours. You will be sworn in as a deputed mariner before the Rose puts to sea. Make your inquiries in the meanwhile and delay our first official meeting until— shall we say?—Monday next. I shall instruct the mate, Mr Thomas Lane, to prepare the cutter for sea while letting it be known that she is not to sail in Mr Ryder’s absence.”
There was some further discussion about terms of employment, finally, “Thank you sir,” said Delancey. “I shall do my best to show that your confidence is not misplaced. May I ask your help before I go? Can you give me the name of a free trader of some note on the main-land—a man whose agent I might be?”
“That at least is easy. Your man would be John Early of Milton Abbas near Dorchester.”
“Thank you. Does he pass as a merchant?”
“No, sir. He is an attorney.”
“Can you give me the name of one of his men—the shipmaster who actually handles the cargo?”
“Yes—Jack Rattenbury of Lyme Regis. He used to own a lugger called The Friends, that is until she was taken by the Nancy.”
“And where can I spend the night before joining those who have landed by the morning ferry boat from Portsmouth?”
“In your place I should seek shelter on board the cutter Nancy alongside the Customs wharf. She is about to be broken up but her deck will still provide some shelter.”
“Good. One last favour, sir. I could find good use for a flask of brandy.”
“You shall have it and of the best quality, costing no less than nine shillings a gallon at the Customs House Sales.”
Mr Payne produced the flask and showed Delancey to the door. A few minutes later he was explaining to his wife what had happened to keep him from bed. “An odd sort of man, my dear, who had come to tell me about Mr Ryder being assaulted by some ruffians and seriously hurt: a sad business, it would seem, and likely to keep him ashore for some time. This will give the smugglers their best opportunity for years.”
“How do you know that this man is not a smuggler himself?”
“Well, come to think on’t, I don’t know but what he isn’t. He would gain nothing, though, by deceiving me about Mr Ryder’s injury for I shall hear about it, anyway, in the morning. I think he is an honest man, though. He offers to serve without pay so as not to deprive poor Ryder of his livelihood!”
While Mr Payne went to bed, Delancey was walking down to the harbour. Snow had stopped falling earlier in the night but the wind was still cold and the going unpleasant. He had much to think about and he realized, as he walked, how little he knew about the smuggling business. He had known something about the smugglers around Guernsey but suspected that the Guernseymen were not in the same line of business as the men of Hampshire and Dorset. Their task had usually been to bring the goods from France to Guernsey—a trade which was not even illegal until war began and it meant trading with the enemy. Between Guernsey and England was a different business. He remembered hearing that some Dorset free traders—”moonlighters” were they called?—no, “moonrakers” (whatever that meant)—used big and well-armed craft and traded to Roscoff. They were laden with spirits and tobacco, their cargoes being taken inland and distributed from some suitable town—hence Mr Early having his home near Dorchester. He would be a landowner, most likely, as well as an attorney, a friend of the gentry and perhaps himself a justice of the peace. To succeed against a man like that would mean persuading someone to turn King’s evidence. That would be possible only for an officer with a thorough knowledge of the smuggling art, just such a knowledge as the late Mr Buckley had possessed. Delancey cursed himself for his ignorance, realising that he must have forgotten half the facts he had been told. One thing he knew and had remembered was that the smugglers were among the best seamen in the country. They were used to bad weather and dark nights. So, presumably, were the men who served in the revenue cutters, but about them he knew next to nothing. They were exempt from impressment, as he had explained to many a press-gang, but that was almost all he knew about them. They tended, he thought, to wear red flannel shirts and blue trousers. . . .
It was still bitterly cold but the clouds had gone and he would see, by starlight, the streets of the town through which he was making his way to the riverside. There were few lights to be seen but there were distant sounds of revelry from some sailors’ tavern, presumably the Pig and Whistle. He walked on briskly and was able, presently, to identify the Customs House. He racked his brains to remember the facts he knew about smuggling. There was no traffic now in tea, he thought, the stuff being unobtainable in time of war save from the East India Company itself. There was nothing to be done with silks either, the duties having been lowered. Smuggling was confined, he thought, to spirits and tobacco, the spirits being often as much as forty per cent over proof. He vaguely remembered having heard stories about the ferocious Hawkhurst Gang which had flourished long ago. Present smugglers avoided fighting, he had been told, because of the militia being everywhere in wartime. They used cunning instead of force these days, sinking their cargo when pursued and coming back for it when the revenue men had gone. There was another trick reported, something to do with the kegs being slung under the lugger’s keel. Revenue men had to be clever since most of their earnings came from commission on what they seized. How long would it take him to learn the trade? Still pondering on this, he identified the Customs House Wharf with, alongside, an unrigged cutter, evidently the Nancy. All was quiet along the wharf and there was a gangplank in position. On tiptoe now and without making a sound, Delancey went aboard the cutter.
Slowly and quietly he made his way aft, coming at last to the companionway. He stood there listening, for a minute or two and then went below. He wondered that the hatchway should be open but remembered that the cutter was to be broken up. There would be nothing aboard worth stealing, not so much as a rope yarn or a scrap of old canvas to lie on. He paused at the foot of the ladder for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. Looking up through the hatchway he could see the starlight overhead. Looking aft he expected to see a glimmer of light through a stern window but all was dark. Perhaps there was no stern window in a cutter of this tonnage, far smaller than the craft regularly built for the Customs Board, but there should have been a scuttle aft even then, or at least a deadlight let into the deck. It was not much of a place to sleep in but no worse than some others he had known. He wondered whether there would be rats: or would they have gone ashore when they heard that the vessel was to be broken up? Cautiously he began to make his way aft. His shoe struck against a small ringbolt underfoot and at that instant his arms were suddenly pinned to his side by a powerful grip. “Keep quiet, mate,” said a rough voice. “Say one word and I’ll slit your windpipe.” The threat was backed up by the coldness of the steel and Delancey wisely did as he was told. There were two men there, he realized, one who had seized him from behind, the other (with the knife) in front of him. While the point was still at his throat his wrists were jerked behind him and tied with a length of rope. Only then was the knife put away so that his captor could use flint and steel. A lantern was lit and raised so that the light fell on Delancey’s face.
“Who is it, Dan?” said the voice from behind him.
“Damned if I know,” said the other. “I think as how our best plan will be to cut his throat.”