A Fine Boy For Killing

Jan Needle A FINE BOY FOR KILLING A Sea Officer William Bentley — 1

Copyright © Jan Needle 2015

Jan Needle has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

One

At about the time that Thomas Fox was pulling on his old dark coat and wondering if the morning mist would clear before he reached the marshiest parts of his road, William Bentley was taking his second glass of green tea with his uncle on board the frigate Welfare. They were only about eight miles apart – eight miles of land and water – and they were destined to meet later that day. Thomas, who was fifteen and the son of a small farmer, was excited. He was to take twelve sheep to the market at Portsmouth, on his own; a full day’s work. William, who was fourteen, was not excited; he was business-like, a little worried, faced with a difficult and responsible task.

‘You will find the cutter adequate,’ his uncle told him, sipping his glass of tea. ‘She can be manned by a small crew, but there is room enough on board of her if you manage anything. But William. Remember this much. You are not entitled to do this work. It is, let us say, not strictly within the bounds of legality. Let the men go unarmed. Dolby and Evans may carry pistols, but let them be out of sight.’

William Bentley smiled at his uncle. He felt very grateful, although nervous. He hoped he could bring the trick off.

‘I’ll do my best, uncle,’ he replied. ‘How many men do we need in all?’

Daniel Swift returned the smile grimly.

‘Officially, my boy, we are within ten men of our full complement. Officially. But what have we got? Riffraff, gutter scrapings. I tell you, William, if we do not find some seamen soon we will come to grief. We have far to go.’

William would have liked to have known how far, but he could not ask. Far it must certainly be, however, for the provisions and spare gear taken on board the Welfare in the last few days had been prodigious. In his long life at sea he had seen nothing to match it.

He smiled once more, to himself this time. He had been at sea, in fact, merely eleven months. But he had been on the Navy’s books since he was seven years old. His sea-time was excellent.

Uncle Daniel tinkled his fingernails against the glass. ‘Think you can do it, my boy?’ he asked. ‘Are you aware just how delicate a situation you find yourself in?’

‘Sir,’ said William. ‘Individual pressing is against the law. A captain who resorted to the personal press gang in these days would be villainous indeed. I would not dream of such a step were I a commanding officer, nor would I expect any in His Majesty’s Navy to ask it of his officers or young gentlemen.’

As he spoke, he stared through the square glass windows in the stem. The ship was swinging as the west-going tide along the Solent set in. Portsmouth, shrouded in mist, appeared to bob slowly into sight. Rising above the white carpet was the brownish shape of Portsdown Hill. It had been a warm, dry summer.

‘But let me take a good boat’s crew, uncle,’ he went on, ‘and who knows… It looks like a good day again. The pleasant weather, my sweet tongue, the thought of the bounty, of prize-money… We are not the press, however. I shall not forget it.’

He finished his tea as word was brought that the cutter was ready. His uncle waved him out with a muttered ‘Good luck’ – then called him back.

‘Mr Bentley,’ he said. ‘Good men we want, but bad will do. The people in this ship are villains and the sons of whores. But we can shape ’em. And William,’ he added.

‘Livestock too, my boy. We need more. We have far to go. You have the money?’

William nodded and went on deck. He sniffed the air. A keen westerly, with the bite of approaching winter in it. A soldier’s wind; to Portsmouth and back to St Helen’s Roads with never a tack. He ordered the boat lowered.

Thomas Fox whistled tunefully as he wandered through the mist towards Portsmouth. He was cold and the sheep were a nuisance, but he was happy. Soon the mist would clear completely, which would be a help. Two or three times he’d stepped off the track into the salty marsh, and his right foot was wet. The sheep behaved even more stupidly than usual in the mist, too. He’d led one by a string at first, hoping the others would follow. But now he walked behind them, swishing a stick, and occasionally barking savagely to great effect.

The eastern side of the island, where Thomas lived with his parents and two sisters, was not good land, tending to dampness and desertion. As he walked along the track to more civilised parts, listening to the moaning of the sheep and the mysterious gurglings of the marshland, he dreamed idly of what he would rather do. Portsmouth was the good place to be. It was noisy, and dirty, and full of wild sailormen and their even wilder women. Even Kingston, he thought, as his track joined a bigger path that eventually became the main road through Kingston and on to Portsmouth, even Kingston would be better than the marshy hamlet in the east. It had an air of liveliness, of bustle.

As the mist drifted away, the old bent spire of the Kingston church rose into view over the fields, and Thomas concentrated on keeping the sheep in a bunch on the wider road. The sun burst through, the mist rolled back like a carpet. Beyond the church the fortifications were becoming visible.

From the seaward, William Bentley stared just as hard at the city that seemed to bound towards the cutter. To the east of it the land lay like a board, still sullenly holding a thin layer of white. But Portsmouth had a different whiteness, the whiteness of the stone defences. Between the Square Tower and the Round Tower, outside the actual entrance to the harbour, was the entrance to the city that the man at the tiller was heading for. The Sallyport.

It was good sailing, but William felt a little guilty about enjoying it so much. He was a midshipman, not a pleasure-seeker. He had in his direct command two other mids – one of them at least thirty years his senior – and fourteen seamen. Possibly the only fourteen real seamen on the Welfare, he thought ruefully. He was off on a mission that could not be easy, would probably break the law in several places, and may well be totally unsuccessful.

Watching the short green seas that leapt almost broadside on to the cutter, and huddling deeper into his boat-cloak against the constant spray, William considered the problem of the people. They were indeed a vile and ruffian lot, pressed scrapings from the bottom of the barrel, two-legged creatures of such awful lowness that they might just as well have been the animals that his uncle called them. He looked at the quiet figures ranged along the windward side of the cutter. Sturdy, steady fellows in neat clothes and pigtails. Good men, good seamen, all. Then he looked at Dolby, the grey-haired mid. Two pistols were outlined beneath his boat-cloak. Without the threat of those, perhaps even these men would run.

Some captains, William knew, found no hardship getting up a complement. A few posters, perhaps a handbill, a little music and the beating of drums. A ship could be filled in days. Prime seamen would plead to join, would be turned away. Not his uncle. Captain Daniel Swift, veteran of several brilliant frigate actions, courageous to the last drop of his or any seaman’s blood, had a reputation; but not the kind that filled a ship with volunteers.

The cutter, swooping over the short green seas like a bird, approached the steep-to shingle beach and the black pier a trifle fast. William cleared his mind of sober thoughts and put it to the job in hand.

‘Luff her if you please, Dolby,’ he said crisply. ‘We’ll get the canvas off her and drop in under oars, stem first. We’ve dry work to do ashore, and dry we’ll be to start it.’