ISSUE 002 January 1791 - A New Deal
Eventually, the fires dies down and life returns to normal ... sort of. The fact that every surviving ship had been ordered to sea as soon as a King’s Messenger was able to reach them helped, of course – nothing more conductive to regularity than a following wind and the prospect of a fight in the near future. And here comes the Sheik Yassouf pelting down the Sussex coastline, every bonnet and drabbler set under a northwesterly wind. Her captain sits in his great cabon, re-reading the orders he has received: “Whereas the fire must have been seen as far as Paris and the French will undoubtedly think our fleet destroyed, you are to proceed with utmost despatch to prevent their coming out in order to snatch up our merchantmen ... hereof neither you nor your ship’s company may fail, or answer to the contrary at your peril”. The captain shakes his head and begins to copy the orders into the ship’s logbook. Nor is he the only one busy with pen and ink – on the forecastle, Tyler Brook has taken the opportunity to start a letter to his parents, saying (among other things): “ ... the biggest fire ever. We were completely surrounded by flames on all sides!” Such cavalier treatment of the English language earns him a severe reprimand (for repetitive redundancy) and a demotion. Grumbling he pays a visit to the head, when he hears the lookout call: “Ship on the larboard beam – a Frenchie for sure!”. And a Frenchie she turns out to be ... the Citoyen Durton with more than a hundred kegs of powder aboard. Of course, the French don’t fight. Despite the fact that he is caught with his pants down (literally) Tyler is one of the first to board, which earns him a MiD and he is again promoted to master’s mate. His fellow shipmate and Royal Marine John Doe does even better – he gets a MiD too, but pockets 200 Guinea for collecting all the ship’s matchtubs and chucking them overboard, for fear of an accident, but his messmates intervene before he can throw water on the galley fires too. Instead, he throws the bucket at X004, who has joined the ship courtesy of the press gang.
Several leagues in the rear, the Droits de l’Homme labours mightily to keep up, but loses a foretopgallant spar in a squall. Private Jonah Albytros RM is the first man up the ratlines, but his captain doesn’t see anything unusual in his zeal and Jonah fails to get a reward. “Nomen est omen”, or so the Romans used to say.
Aboard the Belle Poule on the Ushant station, Andrew Goodman is the lookout and spots a smuggling vessel lurking behind a sandbank. He at once volunteers to capture her and sets out in the blue cutter with a handfiul of men. Unfortunately, he mistimes his jump aboard the cutter and has to watch treading water (he’s one of the few sailors who can swim) while John o’Groats (the most recent addition to the crew, courtesy of the press gang) lays the groundwork for his promotion to master’s mate. The other promotion goes to Wayne Kin-Madley, who was pressed a month ago and seems to have done well out of it.
Near Spithead, the Captain of the Berwickshire has just missed the tide due to the late arrival of her new 3rd Lieutenant, whose coach had lost a wheel. This new officer is none other than Fernando Feghoot, who seems to think that London holds no more attractions in its present state. Or is it the state of the Feghoot purse that prompts his actions? All the same, his baggage contains very little in the nature of clothing and victuals, but plenty of soap. And a Siamese cat. Soon after, rats are seen to jump overboard in vast numbers. Some make it to the Swiftsure’s anchor lines, and as they climb up the anchor cable Guy Sandolls and the other Midshipmen are there too. A pence per rat is the usual price, and these are well-nourished brutes.
Back in London, a Whitehall clerk sorts throught the day’s mail and shakes his head. Two prize agents drawing on their client’s account to buy and stable a horse, to the tune of 210 Guinea each; The clerk dutifully retrieves the file and makes the appropriate entry (PDA and FF). Another note informs him that TB has cancelled his membership in The Pit and asks for a refund. In addition, he tells the clerk that he negotiations for a substantial loan with the shylocks have broken down. The clerk just shakes his head one more time and turns to his spirit stove (against regs, I’m afraid, but a man’s entitled to a bit of hot tea with his elevenses).-- FIN --
Apparently none this month!
There were one or two letters, but the Admiralty in their wisdom didn’t spring for the hire of a mail cutter to fetch them from the ships going out. Thus no mail, sorry!
None this month!
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