Chapter 24: Mister Midshipman Grey

April 1805

It was strange for Thomas to wake up in his cabin at the Academy and to dress in his new midshipman’s coat, wearing sea boots, and white trousers, but also his Birmingham-made midshipman’s dirk. With its two-foot-long, double-edged, straight blade and S-shaped quillons, it was more like a short sword, but missing the hand basket.

He certainly caught the attentions of the young scholars in the mess hall where he quickly sated hunger and thirst. On the way out, he met Robert, who, like the other graduates, remained at the Academy waiting for their orders.

“Good morning, Sir,” his friend saluted him with a grin.

“At ease, Mister Bryce!” Thomas responded with a grin.

“Good luck in your new posting!”

“Good luck with your orders!”

“Shall I see you at supper?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Thomas shrugged, but then it was time to leave already, and they shook hands.

He found the Dockyard headquarters easily enough and was admitted by the sentries. A dour looking civilian was manning the reception desk and asked his business.

“Midshipman Thomas Grey. I am to report for duty with Captain Fitzmoran.” It was customary to refer to a commander as ‘captain’ in conversation.

“Very well, Sir. The Captain’s not in yet. Please sit on yonder bench and wait, Sir!”

It felt strange to be addressed as ‘Sir’ by somebody so much older, but Thomas did as bidden. He only had to wait for less than a quarter hour until Fitzmoran came in through the front door, seeing Thomas immediately. He looked at his fob watch and nodded.

“I always come in at this time, and I don’t expect you to be waiting for me. Take some more time at breakfast, Mister Grey.”

“Very well, Sir. Thank you.”

“Come along then!”

Thomas did and followed Fitzmoran to the office Thomas already knew.

“Have a seat, Mister Grey and let me peruse those reports first!”

Thomas sat and let his superior study the written reports on his desk, letting his eyes wander around the room. It was rather well appointed but functional, with a large desk and several filing cabinets along the wall behind Fitzmoran. Finally, Fitzmoran looked up.

“Well, nothing important in those reports. However, I am investigating the purser of one of the receiving ships. There have been complaints from senior ratings, but also from commissioned officers about the man. It would seem that he is doling out short rations of poor quality. Have you heard the term purser’s pound?”

“Yes, Sir. It’s only 14 ounces. It’s use was abolished after the Spithead Mutiny¹.”

“Precisely. The complainants allege that Mister Clement in the Rippon hulk still uses the purser’s pound and also buys up condemned provisions at the Victualling Yard through a middle man. The Commissioner is already investigating. One of the complainants is a purser’s steward amongst the berthing sailors, so we take it seriously.”

“How can we investigate, Sir?”

“We did. We took statements from witnesses, some of the commissioned officers and warrant officers. We will move on the culprits tonight.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Do you feel up to making an arrest?”

“The Clement character, Sir? He is most certainly senior to me and outside the Royal Navy hierarchy.”

“That’s why you’ll arrest Clement’s steward. We recruited a petty officer who knows the man, and you are to follow him when he comes to the shore in the evening and arrest him without witnesses.”

“You don’t want Mister Clement to be warned off, Sir?”

“Correct. The Commander-in-Chief issued the warrant to apprehend the man, by the name of David Proctor, and you will execute it. You will be accompanied by a corporal and four privates of the Marines. We often use them, and they’ll know what to do if there is trouble.”

“Is there anything for me to prepare, Sir?” Thomas felt excitement. This was going to be a true adventure. “How can I follow him undetected, Sir?”

“You’ll be patrolling taverns with a five-man press gang, examining passes and looking for deserters. Proctor has a pass and will wear his Navy coat; he’ll feel safe. Ever run a press gang, Mister Grey?”

“No, Sir.”

“You will learn tonight. When you have the man, bring him to the brig. We’ll let him stew overnight.”

“Aye-aye, Sir,” Thomas responded, excited but also a little apprehensive.

He met boatswain’s mate Harry Andrews in the late afternoon. The man was now sailing in a watch ship and had been seconded to the Provost Marshall by his captain.

“So you know the Proctor character, Andrews?”

“Aye, Sir. I seen ‘is ugly mug more’n enough, the cheatin’ son of a...”

“No need for details, Andrews. Now, remember, you only point him out to us and stay out of his sight. He’s only a stooge Clement uses, and we want his master. So no shouting and cursing him, understood?”

“Aye, Sir. Proctor’s mean as a snake. You better watch yourself, Sir!”

“We shall handle him if it becomes necessary.”

“‘e’s quick-like with ‘is knife, Sir.”

“We shall keep this in mind, Andrews. If all goes well, you’ll be looking at a reward from the Commissioner.”

“An’ I gets to bear witness, Sir?”

“I should imagine. Now, lets get on our way.”

They met with the five Royal marines, all dressed like seamen, and carrying clubs like a press gang, and moved to a quay whence they could watch the anchored Rippon hulk two cable-lengths from the shore. They had sat in the shadows for over an hour when Thomas saw a side boat leaving the hulk with about ten men in it. Guessing its course, Thomas moved the men along the quay, staying out of sight, until they could watch the boat as it made fast at one of the stone steps in the quay. Eight men climbed up, and two men steered the boat back to the hulk.

“It’s ‘im, Sir. Black hair, reefer jacket, blue kerchief!”

“You men see him?” Thomas asked around. Five nods answered that question. “Wilson, you follow him. We’ll stay twenty paces behind you. If he stops, walk past him without looking, understood?”

Thomas felt the excitement of a hunt now. With the man Wilson following their target, they kept to the side of the street, moving unobtrusively until Wilson signalled them and pointed at the entrance of a tavern. Obviously, Proctor had entered the place. They drew nearer and Wilson reported.

“Proctor went in, Sir, but th’others ‘ave gone elsewhere. He told them ‘e’d be with’em shortly.”

“Sure that his mates aren’t with him?”

“Yes, Sir. They was goin’ to the Sailor’s Heaven, it’s a...”

“Brothel? Well, that’ll keep them busy, now won’t it? All right, you men, let’s play press gang! Andrews, return to your ship! Not a word of this!”

“Aye, Sir, I’ll keep a still tongue.”

With three of the marines, Thomas entered the tavern from the front, whilst two others made for the back door. He looked around first, but then spotted their mark. By now, the patrons were staring at him.

“Recruiting party! Show your passes!”

Thomas started from the left side, away from Proctor and inspected passes and other identification. Two warrant officers, a carpenter and a master’s mate, he addressed politely, as was proper. Moving about the taproom, he closed in on Proctor without looking overtly at him. When he stood at his table, he looked at him openly.

“You are, sailor?”

“Purser’s steward Abe Proctor, Sir!” the man sneered, making the ‘sir’ sound like an insult.

Thomas nodded at the marine corporal who stepped forward and placed the tip of his club under Proctor’s chin. “You feelin’ uppity, Mate? Ye know, we don’t have much love for the likes of you thievin’ rascals.”

“Easy there,” Thomas cautioned. “Your pass, Proctor!”

Already a little cowed, Proctor handed his pass over. Thomas looked it over and he made himself smile nastily.

“Purser’s steward, eh? You should’ve learnt how to spell ‘purser’ when you forged this pass.” Looking away from the open-mouthed Proctor, Thomas addressed the corporal. “Take him along. He’s a deserter most likely!”

The protesting man was roughly pulled from his chair and bound whilst Thomas continued the charade of inspecting passes. Once finished, he nodded.

“The rest of you here, enjoy your drink and food!”

With that, they left the Tavern. Leaving, and for the benefit of the listeners, he issued another order.

“Let’s return to the Dockyard with the prisoner first. I don’t want to lose a deserter!”

They quickly moved along the street. The passers by watched them curiously, but nobody interfered, and they returned to the Dockyard and deposited their prisoner in the brig. Fitzmoran was waiting for them, and Thomas reported.

“Well done, Grey! Now, how is your acting talent?”

“Not overly developed, Sir.”

“Cannot be helped. You’ll be the second male lead. Here, look at my play!”

Thomas did and it made him smile. Fifteen minutes later, they stood in the small corridor leading to the prison cells.

“Did you apprehend the rascal, Mister Cooley?”

“Yes, Sir. It’s the man the Clement character named. Quite a mouthy fellow, if I may say so.”

Fitzmoran gave an evil laugh. “Not for long, Cooley, not for long. We got his purser, too. He claims he knows nothing. Says it has to be the Proctor character, and that he let him handle most of the tasks.”

“Do you believe him, Sir?”

“Not really, but he might get away with it, if he claims his steward did the stealing. Think of it, Mister Cooley: a well dressed purser gentleman pleading his innocence against a shifty-looking rascal. Whom will the jurors believe?”

“Damn it, Sir! Can’t we do anything?”

“Not really. We’d need that Proctor fellow to come clean, but we’d need some good evidence, too. I doubt Proctor can tell us anything.”

“Yes, Sir, but it’s a damn shame!”

“Nothing we can do. At least we’ll get to hang one of them.”

The last lines of dialogue were delivered whilst moving away from the cells, and then they were out of the corridor.

“You’ll make a passable actor, Grey! Let him stew for the night and go home. Tomorrow morning, we’ll squeeze him dry!”

A few minutes later, Thomas was on his way back to the Academy. Entering the building, he was challenged by the night watch as was proper, but they recognised him and let him climb the stairs to his cabin.

Tuesday morning saw him at headquarters early, if a little tired. The Cerberus at the entrance knew him now and let him enter. He went down to the brig and inquired about their prisoner. He was told that the man had repeatedly asked for a ‘Mister Cooley’, getting louder and louder until being told to shut up or be gagged. Thomas nodded. It looked as if Fitzmoran’s ruse was working.

Up on the second storey, he found his superior in his office and reported. Fitzmoran gave a smug smile.

“Sir, is that how you got Mister Oxfoam’s murderer to confess?”

“One of his helpers, rather. We told him that the Marks character was putting the blame on him and he sang like a nightingale. We’ll do the same thing here. Let me do all the talking and just listen and learn.”

“You are the master, Sir,” Thomas replied with a smile.

“You better believe it, too!”

David Proctor was not much of a villain as villains go. He was just a minion who was fed the scraps from Clement’s richly laid table, and he was now scared out of his small mind. That was furthered when he was led into a room where no fewer than four well dressed men were already assembled. There were Commander Fitzmoran and Thomas, now augmented by a Mister Barton, of the Victualling Yard, and a Mister Watts, of the paymaster’s office. Neither of them introduced themselves to Proctor. Fitzmoran started.

“Oh, dear, whom have we here? David Proctor. Let me see, entered the Navy in ‘95, coming from a collier brig, able seaman in 1800, discharged in ‘02. You enlisted in the Rippon in late ‘02, already as a purser’s steward. How’d you get that rating?”

“I ... I knowed Mister Clement from before, in the old Humber, Sir. I met him in a tavern, and he had a memory of me bein’ trussworthy. He says I could be his steward and safe from the press, Sir. I hadn’t found work and I figgered I’d eat well an’ not work much in the Rippon.”

“I see. With Mister Clement trusting you, you also started to cheat crew and boarders using fake weights, didn’t you?”

“No, Sir! Honest! Mister Clement, he gave me the old purser’s pound weight for doling out meats and cheese and such. I also have a quart measure that’s short a cup.”

“You expect us to believe that a warrant officer of the Victualling Service instigated theft?” Fitzmoran asked contemptuously.

“Honest, Sir! I get a small cut, that’s all.” He thought hard, and then his eyes opened wide. “I know, Sir. I know his fence!”

“His fence?”

“Yes! For every seven meat casks we empty, one gets picked up by a boat from the shore, to make the numbers fit, says Mister Clement. We told the hands it was returned spoilt to the Yard, an’ I was to ride in the boat and get the pay from Harry Holmes.”

“Who is this Harry Holmes then?”

“He’s the landlord in the Rum Cask, Sir. I seen him there getting a pint now and then. I have to pick fresh barrels for him, and he pays me, always thirty-two shillings, and I get two of them when I give them to Mister Clement. Honest!”

“How do we know that it’s not you making that deal, Proctor?”

“Honest, Sir, not I! I couldn’t do it, seeing how Harry is Mister Clement’s brother-in-law.”

“How often did you deliver those casks?” Mister Barton asked sharply, and Proctor cowered.

“Ev’ry three, four weeks, Sir, when we have a good load of boarders, sometimes less than three weeks.”

Barton nodded and reverted to being silent. Proctor was then led back to his cell, and Fitzmoran looked at the other men. “Your thoughts, Gentlemen?”

Barton nodded. “It sounded right, Commander. Given over 300 mouths to feed on average, a quarter pound of meat a day as per regulations, they’ll use up seven casks and more in a month. We should find evidence wherever this Holmes character stores his food.”

“You mean the casks?”

“Yes, we burn in some numbers. We should identify them as ours.”

“Thirty shillings a month times 12, that’s eighteen pounds sterling for Clement in a year, from the meat casks only,” Mister Watts stated. “If he cheats on cheese, peas, ale and rum, too, he’s making a tidy sum, fifty pounds easily.”