The Guernseyman Read online

Feeling very much alone in the world, Richard left his bundle in the brig, with the second mate’s permission, and went ashore that afternoon in the clothes he had worn during the voyage. With the seamen in so ugly a mood he felt safer in that rig, one in which he would escape notice. He passed the Old Dock, turned left into Paradise Street, came into Whitechapel and turned left again into Dale Street. There he began to ask questions of passers-by, his inquiries finally leading him to a house on the left which was clearly marked “Preston, Steere & Andros” and then, in smaller letters “Agents.” It was the right place but the building seemed deserted, with boards nailed over the ground-floor windows. Richard went on down towards Castle Street and presently found a respectable looking citizen to whom he could turn for information. “Preston, Steere & Andros?” he repeated.

  “There is only the one partner now, old Mr Andros, but he was one of those who proposed to lower the seamen’s rate of pay. I believe he has fled, boarding his windows up before they could be broken. A timorous man, old Mr Andros—he must be over eighty now—I heard tell that he was gone—he and his son, both—but whether to Warrington or Chester I couldn’t say. A tight-fisted man, by repute, but I never did business with him myself.”

  Richard thanked this informant and walked on towards the Exchange, feeling now thoroughly downcast. He was alone and friendless in a strange town, a boy who had seldom been out of Guernsey, without employment or lodging and with only a few shillings in his purse. He asked several other strangers if they knew where old Mr Andros had gone but he soon came to suspect that his great-uncle was in a relatively small way of business, not very generally known or liked. It was also obvious that the Liverpool merchants had other things to think about. Near the Exchange they were standing about in groups, talking quietly and exchanging anxious looks. If there were no immediate signs of disorder it was clear that further trouble was expected. From talk he overheard he concluded that all other ships in the port had been unrigged by the seamen and prevented from sailing. There was also some mention of enlisting and arming special constables, any reference to this plan being cut short when he was seen to be listening. He ran off in some confusion and made his way back to the Charlotte—all the home he had, his last tenuous link with Guernsey.

  That evening he had a further talk with Mr Crosbie, who gave him leave to sleep on board the brig for another two nights, after which she was going into dry dock.

  “I don’t like the look of things, son,” said Mr Crosbie. “I think the merchants will have to give in over the seamen’s pay. After all a bargain is a bargain. But they’ll try to get their own back by putting the ringleaders in prison. Then there’ll be real trouble and you had best keep out of it.”

  “I heard something ashore about the arming of special constables.”

  “I heard that story too and it sounds all too likely. Once the firing starts we don’t know how it will end. The one thing certain is that Liverpool is full of firearms, powder and shot. They export arms from here, brought by canal from Birmingham, much of the poorer stuff being for the slave trade. If firing begins this town is going to suffer.”

  All was quiet next day and it was said that the dispute was over. That evening, however, a crowd of sailors gathered outside the Exchange. Told to disperse, they refused and were fired on by the special constables. Richard heard the firing from a distance but kept clear of the town centre. He made further inquiries that day and eventually managed to track down Mr Gosfield, the clerk who had retired at the beginning of the month after working with Mr Andros for a quarter of a century. He lived in Bath Street, not far from the fort, a widower with a taste for gardening. He doubted very much whether Mr Andros would appoint another clerk, even supposing that he could be found and even assuming that commerce in Liverpool were to revive.

  “What about young Mr Andros?”

  “He’ll sell that business as soon as his father retires. He married a wife with money—one of the Blundell family. Now you must look at my hollyhocks … Did you ever see the likes? I don’t even water them …”

  Round Water Street and St Nicholas Church there were signs of anxious activity among the merchants and shopkeepers, with windows being boarded up and doors barricaded. Richard came back to the brig that evening, his last, and wondered where he was to sleep the following night. He had little money left and nowhere to go, his only consolation being that the weather was warm. He took note of the stables near the Salthouse Dock and went out of his way to make friends with a stable boy called Pete. After helping Pete feed the horses, he promised to help again next day. By then, he hoped, there might be a chance to sleep in the hay-loft and find an odd corner for his bundle of clothes. Pete was not a very responsive character but he yielded in the end to a bribe of twopence. By the following day, 30 August, Richard had his corner of the hay-loft but realised that his tenancy was insecure. There were stable men to whom Pete was ancillary and a foreman above them again. With the port closed down these were not much in evidence but a resumption of work on the quayside would bring them back in force.

  While Richard helped with the buckets and hay he was aware of noises from the town, trampling and smashing and at one moment the sound of cheering. Seamen were breaking into the premises of Mr Parr, the gunsmith. By midday many of the rioters were armed with muskets and a body of them could be seen coming down to the quayside. Richard and Pete watched this movement, unable to guess its purpose. Then the truth dawned on them—the sailors were bringing cannon ashore! They landed two 12-pounders from the Derby, which was in the Old Dock, and may have intended to land some more It was not, however, as easy a task as all that, the gun barrels being slung from the main yard-arm and the gun-trucks manhandled over an improvised gangway. By now the seamen had convinced themselves that they were soldiers, some having assumed rank as captain or colonel and one, indeed, as general. The more drunken of them were holding an unsteady sort of parade with much saluting and shouting of orders. Once they had the two cannon reassembled there was nothing to prevent their pushing them into battle. But a vague idea of doing things in military style led them to conclude that their cannon should be horse-drawn and that they needed two cartloads of ammunition. A party of rioters headed, therefore, towards the stables from which Pete and Richard were watching the riot. These men were mostly sober but had only a vague idea of stable practice. Brushing Pete aside, who screamed his protests, they tried to harness the eight horses they had decided to take. A confused scene followed, with much cursing and neighing, the sailors increasingly frustrated and the horses at once annoyed and alarmed. Backed into a corner with Pete and armed with a pitchfork, Richard heard snatches of dialogue—“Dammit, Joe, I can’t rig this jib-sheet!”—“It’s upside down, mate, but what do I do with this down-haul?”—“Put that away, you fool—a cart-horse doesn’t need a saddle.”—“Hell—this blasted horse trod on me foot!”—“Lucky we aren’t in the cavalry.”—“Well, here’s one horse under a jury rig, all knotted and spliced. What next, sergeant?” Nearest Richard was a large grey horse which five seamen were trying to harness. One of them dropped a strap on the ground and bent over to pick it up. Seizing his opportunity the grey bit him in the buttocks, bringing the operation to a standstill. The wounded man limped away amidst laughter but the others stood back from the horse and scratched their heads. One of them, turning round, saw Richard and had an inspiration. “Come here, boy!” he shouted. “You rig this beast or I’ll cut your liver out!” All eight horses were then harnessed and led out to where the cannon stood on the quayside. The carts were then pushed out and loaded and the cannon hitched to each cart-tail. The rioters’ battery was ready to go into action.

  Richard now thought that his part in the campaign was over, and Pete’s only wish was to tell the foreman what had happened, but neither was to escape so easily. They were told to stay with the horses. As the “sergeant” said, “We must have someone who can tell the bow from the stern.” The result was that the boys were made to take their place in the
column of march, committed to a wild operation which could lead, as likely as not, to the gallows. Somewhere ahead in the column Richard could glimpse a flag and from the same direction came the beat of a drum. The word to march was passed down the ranks and the advance began, with Richard’s gun leading. The distance to be covered was small, being little more than half the length of Castle Street. At that point the head of the army came under fire from the Exchange, the special constables shooting from the windows. The advance halted and the word came back to bring up the artillery. There was wild and ineffective musketry practice on either side but the cannon were brought forward, Richard finding himself under fire for the first time. “Wheel to starboard!” he yelled, pulling the horses’ heads round.

  “What, running away?” shouted a bystander, but Richard persisted.

  “Come on!” he cried and swung the cart round. This brought the cannon into position with its muzzle towards the Exchange, its cart in the rear and the horses behind that again. The sailors cheered, cast off the lashing and loaded the gun. To their left the other gun was dragged into line with more difficulty, neither Pete nor anyone else realising that a 180-degree turn was needed to bring the gun into action. Then there was a hitch. There was no lighted match, no means of firing the cannon. Richard looked wildly round and saw that smoke was coming from a chimney on his right. “In there!” he shouted and a group of sailors charged Mr Warren’s front door and broke into his parlour. A minute later one of them came out with a live coal carried in the tongs. “Stand back!” thundered the self-appointed gunner. “I’m going to take aim!” He fussed over this for a minute while the man with the coal blew on it. There were a number of potential looters sheltering in doorways and one of them called out in derision, “Aim at the Goose!” He pointed to the heraldic cormorant carved on the pediment of the Exchange. Why the gunner should have heeded this advice must remain a mystery but he did so, telling his mates to elevate. They knocked out the quoin and stood back. “Fire!” shouted the gunner and the live coal was applied to the touch-hole. There was a noise like the crack of doom, followed at once by the crash of broken glass.

  Where that first shot went was anyone’s guess, but the effect of the blast was dramatic. In the confined space of that narrow street the shock was enough to destroy every window in sight and quite a few in the streets adjacent. The nearer front doors were blown in, the shutters unhinged, the roof slates loosened and some chimney-pots brought down. This surprising result was enough in itself to explain the eighteenth-century reluctance to use cannon in street-fighting. Even the rioters were a little surprised to see the results of that first cannon shot. The second followed, from the other gun, but the shock had negligible effect on buildings already windowless. As for the musketry, it caused relatively few casualties on either side. The rioters were unskilled, excited and under no sort of discipline. Their opponents were little better—clerks and labourers hired at ten shillings a day. When the rioters gave up their original plan of attack, they left the Exchange bullet-scarred but impregnable, and turned instead to the easier and more satisfying task of sacking the houses of their particular enemies—Mr Thomas Ratcliffe, Mr William James and Mr John Simmons. As they dispersed to do this, the crowd in Castle Street thinned out considerably and the firing died away. Richard asked the remaining sailors to help him lead the horses back to their stables. They agreed to do this, leaving the cannon deserted on the stricken field, and the withdrawal began. Turning to the right beside the Old Dock, however, Richard walked into a group of special constables who must have come round by the Goree Causeway. Pete made his escape, running round the head of the Dock into Hanover Street, but Richard’s struggles were in vain. He was held fast by two armed men and led with other prisoners towards Liverpool Tower, the old gaol on the riverside. He argued as he went:

  “I’m not one of the rioters,” Richard protested, “I was just saving the horses!”

  “Tell that to the court, my lad.”

  “But I’m a stranger here, just landed from Guernsey. I’m not even a sailor.”

  “Then why are you dressed like one?”

  “That’s no crime. I’m not a rioter!”

  At this point there was an interruption, a bystander calling out: “Pay no need to that blarney! He was the boy who helped turn the cannon. I saw him! Yes, and he told the gunner where to find a match.”

  Richard’s protests died away as he realised that what this witness said was very nearly the truth. He knew at the same instant that fifty other people might have seen him beside that cannon. He must have been mad! But what possessed him to help the rioters? He had no sympathy for their stupidities, he hated the sight of wanton destruction and yet, somehow, he had wanted to see that gun properly handled. He had given no thought to the question of where the shot would go, perhaps causing injury or death. He had at that moment discovered something new about himself; that he hated to see incompetence. If there was a gun to be fired—even by an enemy—he would still rather it were done properly. It was a moment of self-revelation, so interesting that he said not a word more until the gaol was reached. The outer door opened, he was led along a corridor, then to the left. A cell door was unlocked and he and two other men were thrust into a poorly-lit cell with some straw on the stone flags and a wooden bucket as its only article of furniture. The door slammed and the retreating footsteps were soon inaudible. His first great adventure in the world at large, his first visit to this great seaport, had ended with him in prison, not only charged or about to be charged with riotous behaviour but knowing with certainty that the charges could be proved. He was guilty and he knew it. It only remained for him to hear the sentence.

  Of the other two prisoners who shared the cell, one was evidently drunk. After being sick on the floor, missing the bucket, he fell asleep on the straw. The other seaman was a morose fellow called Will with a grudge against society. Richard asked him timidly what sentence they might expect.

  “Sentence, mate! What would you do to men who had frightened the life out of you, brought your business to a halt, made you all look foolish, and drove you into granting what they asked at first? What would you do? Let them off? No, mate, you’d rig the noose at the yard-arm. And that, youngster, is what will be happening tomorrow.”

  “What, to be hanged just for—for—what we d-did?”

  “And why not, boy? When did sailors ever get justice, let alone mercy? I tell you, these merchants are scared and some of us will have to pay for it.”

  “But there were hundreds in the riot—thousands, maybe—they couldn’t hang us all, could they?”

  “They haven’t caught them all. Most will escape all right but you and I didn’t. We are laid by the heels. You and I, that other fellow and a few more. We are the unlucky ones and that’s for sure. Say your prayers, boy, while you can.”

  As evening came and the daylight faded a turnkey opened the door and pushed in three slices of bread and three mugs of water. He vanished again without saying a word but Richard could hear the other doors being opened and shut. Then the noise died away and he ate his bread and tasted the water. He lay down on the straw and tried to sleep but it was hours, seemingly, before sleep would come. After that he had nightmares, seeing himself already in the dock but unable to say a word in his own defence. He had the answer—more than that, he had an alibi—but the words would not come. “So,” said the judge, “you have nothing to say?” He was dumb and could only watch in horror while the judge put on his black cap…. He woke with a scream and was cursed by the morose man for waking him. He then slept some more and it was daylight. There was breakfast of bread and water and the long morning passed. At midday each prisoner had a plateful of some unmentionable and coldish stew. Then it was evening again but with the fading light came noises which heralded more company on the way. Doors opened and slammed, the sound coming nearer until their own door was opened in its turn. Another man was thrust into their cell, the door shut and other doors opened and closed in the distance, t
he sound dying away until all was silent.

  The newcomer, called Tom, was younger than Richard’s other two companions and much more talkative. “The fun’s all over now,” he moaned. “D’you know what? They brought in a whole regiment of dragoons—Lord Pembroke’s dragoons from Manchester. We had to run and we had to hide, some in attics and some in cellars. It weren’t no good, though, for people who saw us told the troopers. ‘This way, sergeant,’ they said, ‘and down them stairs.’ We hadn’t a chance, I tell you, and few there were what even made a fight of it.”

  “Where did you hide?” asked Richard.

  “Me? I hid in a cellar under some tarpaulin big as a hatch cover. That’ll do the trick, I said to myself, for nobody had seen me. A trooper looked in, too, and told the officers there was no one there. ‘You haven’t looked,’ said the ensign and he stuck his sword through the tarpaulin, missing me by about a foot. I didn’t wait for him to do it again but called out ‘I’m here, you lubber, and keep that tooth-pick away from me.’ They had me then, and I was a prisoner. So is every other seaman they clapped eyes on. Those dragoons didn’t miss much, I tell you, and here I am in the bilboes. It was fun while it lasted but the fun’s over now.”

  “What do you think will happen to us?” asked Richard.

  “Damned if I know. But I hear that press warrants have been issued and officers sent up from London. We may be given the choice between the navy and Lancaster Gaol.”

  “And I’d choose the gaol,” said Will. “I have had both and the navy’s the worse. Reefing the topsails in a freezing gale! Racing down the shrouds with a dozen at the gangway for the last man down! There’s no fun here but at least the gaol won’t sink.”

  “There’s the grog, though,” argued Tom. “And in wartime there’s the chance of prize-money. I knew a man who made six guineas once out of a French prize that didn’t even fire more than a broadside. His cruise ashore was something to talk about!”