The Guernseyman Read online

  On a freezing day in February 1776 the Romney was commissioned by young Captain George Davenport, a cousin, it was said, of Lord Tiverton. Looking elegant but very cold, he read his commission to what ship’s company there was and vanished again. His place was soon taken, however, by Lieutenant Garland. From the moment of his arrival as first lieutenant, discipline began to be enforced. With the appearance of Lieutenant Simon the effort began to collect a crew. There was no great shortage at this stage, only good men being accepted, and most of these came from the receiving ships. At Richard’s instigation the purser asked the first lieutenant whether anyone had been chosen as captain’s clerk. As none had been named, Richard was given the acting appointment—the purser being glad to lose someone who knew too much—and was well established when the captain finally took up his duties. There was a tense moment for Richard when the captain first examined him and inspected his handwriting. Apparently satisfied, the captain asked a final question which took Richard completely by surprise:

  “Are you related to Oliver de Lancey of the 17th Dragoons?”

  Richard knew of no relatives on his father’s side but quickly took his chance.

  “A distant cousin, sir.”

  His respectability thus established, Richard now became a member of the midshipmen’s mess. He had come a long way since the time of his visit to Liverpool Gaol.

  Members of the gunroom mess included master’s mates, midshipmen, the surgeon’s mate, the captain’s clerk, and some boys, one or two of them vaguely classed as “captain’s servant.” Ages ranged from thirty down to about thirteen, a common characteristic most of these young men shared being an allowance from their fathers, without which they could not have paid their mess bills. A volunteer first class was thus regarded as a floating medium between something and nothing, paid about a farthing an hour, sleeping or waking. The captain’s clerk, like the surgeon’s mate, was rather more generously paid and could just manage, if careful, without help from home. He was fortunate in another way for he actually had a cabin in the steerage; not one of the best, to be sure, but better than a hammock in the cockpit. He was fortunate again in being one of the “idlers” who kept no watch. As against that, he had not the remotest chance of reaching the higher ranks of the service. He was inferior, in that respect, to the youngest boy in the gunroom mess.

  Once the Romney was manned the previous confusion turned to apparent chaos, the decks being covered with spars, ropes, barrels, tar-buckets and paint-pots. Fitting out the ship for sea called for multifarious efforts and continual noise, hammering, banging, squeaking and shouting. Richard was lucky at least in two respects. In the first place he had been on board the ship long enough to have made himself familiar with it so that if not a real seaman he at least knew the ropes. In the second place he had work to do and was thus spared the novice’s feeling of being useless and in the way. Captain Davenport’s air of languid gentility was deceptive as Richard soon found, and concealed an impressive capacity for work. There was a daunting volume of correspondence with the Navy Board, with the dockyard, with the Ordnance Department, the Victualling Department, the receiving ships, the Admiralty and the flagship. Every letter of importance had to be sent in duplicate or triplicate, with copies for information and a final copy in a letter-book. Working quickly himself, he spared nobody else, afloat or ashore, and Richard least of all. As for the warrant officers, they were driven to despair by his passion for detail. Richard inevitably heard snatches of conversation not intended for his ears. “You are to remember, Mr Evans, that we may be in battle within three months from today. Our lives may depend upon what we do now.” But what could the captain mean? We were at war after a fashion but the rebels had practically no men-of-war. What serious fighting could there be? He would have liked to discuss the question with his messmates but he knew that this was something he had to avoid. The more he knew the less he could talk.

  While discreet in conversation, Richard felt able to express himself more freely in a letter to his parents. He told them that he was captain’s clerk in the Romney and ranked almost as midshipman. Rumour had it that they were bound for America. All were in good heart but sorry to be fighting their kinsfolk rather than their natural enemies, the French and the Spanish.

  Early in April the Romney sailed for Spithead where the fleet for America was collecting. When Captain Davenport ordered the anchor to be dropped the ships in sight seemed innumerable, most of them transports and some of them fitted for carrying horses. There were men-of-war in addition and it soon transpired that the Eagle, Captain Duncan, was to be the flagship and that Lord Howe was to be the admiral. All was activity as far as the eye could see, the sea alive with boats going back and forth and the sun gleaming on new paintwork and well-scrubbed decks. Richard was thrilled at the sight, which was new to him, and proud to think that he played some part in a great enterprise. He began again to regret his civilian role, to wish that he could some day wear a sword. But how could that be possible? The captain would expect some payment and he, as a volunteer, would need an allowance. There would be the problem of finding another captain’s clerk, and there was none on board who could do the work. There was no money, anyway, and he must forget the possibility. His mind went back to it, nevertheless, and the more so in that his work had dwindled somewhat after the ship sailed.

  He was on deck more now and could watch the midshipmen’s antics in the rigging. As he did so one day he noticed that one boy called Jim Ridley seemed to have more energy than the rest, still eager to race when the others had tired of the game and gone below. Still flushed from playing follow-my-leader, Jim ran up to Richard crying “Race you to the main-topmasthead and down! Come on, inkstains. I’ll give you to the maintop!”

  “Done!” said Richard, rather to his own surprise and sprang to the weather rigging.

  As he went up hand over hand he remembered that he must use the futtock shrouds, not the lubber’s hole, and wondered whether he could make it. He had been aloft before but only in London River, not with the masts swaying dizzily like this. With an effort of will he reached the maintop and, glancing down, saw that Jim had started. He threw himself at the topmast shrouds and began to climb, feeling short of breath but keen at least to finish the race. Touching the topmasthead he began the scramble down, passing Jim who was gaining fast on the way up, reached the maintop again, tackled the futtocks (this time without noticing them) and finally made the deck with a few seconds to spare. Gasping, he met the eyes of the first lieutenant who had evidently watched the race from the quarterdeck.

  “Well enough for an idler,” he said, “but who will write the letters after you’ve broken your neck?” This could have been a reproof but Richard thought that the tone was friendly.

  “Well done, Dick,” said his opponent. “Next time, we’ll start even!”

  A few days later Richard received a letter dated 15 April 1776 from his mother and expressing the opinion that he would be better as midshipman while a long war offered chance of promotion. The letter ended with better news from home:

  “You will be glad to know that your father’s business is prospering better this year, he being appointed to supply forage to the enlarged garrison, the officers chargers and artillery and transport. He is often poorly these days but cheer’d to be out of debt and more in repute among the townsfolk. How content we should be to place our son on the quarterdeck if we knew how to bring it about. Rachel is not yet married but will be so in June or July, she sends her love so does your father who is too busy to write but wd much like to see you before you go overseas but we all see that there is little chance of it. May God bless your voyage and keep you from danger at sea and in battle.

  With love from us all,

  Mother

  Postscript. I told Robert Le Huray once your schoolfellow that you were clerk in a man-of-war, he said to tell you that he wd like such a place if you shd heere of another, he being discontent with being clerk to Mr Falla.”

  Re-read
ing this, Richard realised that war would certainly bring business to a forage merchant—as, for example, to those doing business round Portsmouth who must be at their wits’ end to supply the transports. His father’s business had likewise improved, but a strengthening of the garrison in Guernsey would seem to suggest the likelihood of war with France (an idea that was new to him). Knowing that the purser had been over to visit several of the nearer transports, Richard asked him how they did for forage.

  “Well, young man, you can see what their difficulty is. It takes weeks to assemble a convoy like this, 44 transports when all are present, and those here first will have used up much of their supplies while still at anchor. When the admiral makes the signal to weigh anchor, these will signal that they are short of provisions and forage.”

  Richard could see no end to this process but Lord Howe was an old hand, knowing the answer to this and every other problem. When he made the signal on 12 May there were protesting flags hoisted all round. He ignored them all and fired another gun, resolved to use a fair wind while it lasted. Showing obvious reluctance the convoy sailed, with men-of-war like sheepdogs, their guns barking at the stragglers. The voyage down Channel began and it brought with it, for Richard, the surprise of his life. At dinner on the 13th one of the master’s mates, an “oldster” called Culling, remarked casually that the convoy was to anchor next day off St Peter Port. He had been told by the officer of the watch.

  “Whatever for?” asked Tomlinson, the senior midshipman.

  “It seems that the horse transports are short of forage.”

  “There might be a better reason,” said Jim.

  “Such as what?” inquired Culling.

  “Dick lives there!” Jim revealed.

  “What a very odd place to live …” drawled Midshipman Harcourt.

  “It was a Guernseyman,” said Richard, “who devised the uniform you hope to wear when you are commissioned.”

  “Oh rubbish. Guernseymen all wear that blue knitted garment which looks like a jersey but isn’t.”

  “I wonder,” said Richard, “whether the first lieutenant will let me go ashore?”

  “But of course,” replied Harcourt. “It’s lucky that he has nothing else to think about.”

  The squadron and convoy dropped anchor off St Peter Port on 14 May and Dick was among those allowed on shore. He fairly ran to the Pollet but found several others ahead of him. The demand was for forage and Mr Delancey had barely time to greet his son before plunging into what seemed the trading boom of a lifetime.

  “One at a time, please, gentlemen,” he cried and was soon lost in quantities and sums.

  Richard ran upstairs to see his mother and sister and was soon exchanging news and congratulations.

  “I’ve been thinking, Richard,” said his mother, “about your career in the navy. I don’t want to see you a purser. I want you to be an officer like so many of your relatives. You might end as a captain—maybe as an admiral. We’ll hope for peace, of course, but these misguided rebels are so ungrateful and stupid that a long war may be the result with opportunities for prize-money and promotion. When we heard that your ship was here we knew that it was by the disposition of providence. Your father will see Captain Davenport tomorrow.”

  Short as his absence had been, everyone was convinced that Richard had grown several inches and looked like the hero he was surely destined to be. When all had been said, Richard hurried back to the Romney’s boat. He was not allowed to go ashore again.

  Next day there was a final and frenzied scene with boats being laden with vegetables and flour bags, bales of hay and bundles of straw. Cows bellowed piteously as they were slung aboard transports, pigs squealed to heaven as they were pushed over the quay, to be followed into the boat by sacks of potatoes and barrels of wine. Amidst all this tumult a jollyboat came alongside the Romney with Mr Delancey in his best suit and cloak. Warned in advance, the officer of the watch welcomed him aboard and told Richard to show his father to the captain’s cabin. Critical as he had to feel, Richard admitted to himself that Mr Delancey was at least looking the part, being better dressed than Richard had ever seen him. He knocked at the door, announced his father’s arrival and promptly withdrew, keeping within earshot in case he should be wanted. The summons eventually came and he reported smartly, finding his father alone with the captain.

  “Well, young man, you will be glad to hear that your transfer from the civilian to the military branch of the service has been agreed but on condition that I am supplied with another clerk. Your father foresaw this condition—with remarkable insight, sir, if I may say so—and has another youngster ready to come on board. Provided he is acceptable I am prepared to give you a new rating of captain’s servant. You will have to learn another trade but the first lieutenant tells me that you are not without promise and that he has seen you aloft. Are you willing to be re-rated and at a lower rate of pay?”

  “Aye, aye, sir—and thank you, sir.”

  “Then fetch this other youngster, Mr Delancey, and we’ll have his dunnage aboard. We are to sail in two hours time and he with us unless he prove to be illiterate.” Robert Le Huray passed the test, however, and Richard finally said goodbye to his father at the entry port.

  “Many thanks, sir, I’ll try to justify your faith in me. My hope is that you are not ruined in the meanwhile.”

  “Provided the war goes on, Richard, your allowance will be paid. If today’s business were the average I could keep you in the Foot Guards! But we’d best aim lower and hope to see you a lieutenant, as befits a descendant of the Andros family.”

  “Or a de Lancey, sir. I told you of what Captain Davenport said.”

  “So you did, Richard, but I never heard of any such relative and won’t dare claim your cavalryman as a cousin. But I see the whole of America as an Andros estate, waiting for you to take possession of it as rightful owner. There is a parcel for you in the boat alongside. When you have it, I must say goodbye and go ashore.”

  After waving as long as the boat was in sight, Richard hurried below and unpacked the parcel. It contained a length of blue cloth, some shirts and stockings, a sextant, Norie’s Seamanship and a midshipman’s dirk. He was still inspecting these when there was a knock on the door. “I’m sorry, Richard,” said Robert Le Huray, “but I’m told that this is my cabin …” Richard said—untruthfully—that he didn’t mind at all.

  Richard began with a practical knowledge of boat-handling and some theoretical knowledge of navigation. To this he had added a knowledge of the ropes and of routine in a man-of-war. As from that point, his progress was slow. For one thing, he had begun too late, at sixteen instead of thirteen, and with no useful education to make up for the lost time. For another, he was less handy aloft than other boys of his age and had a tendency to feel sick and giddy. He was doggedly persevering in nautical astronomy but below average in his knots and splices. His best subject was gunnery but the Romney was a ship in which seamanship was regarded as more important—as indeed the most important thing in life. In the continual contest between the watches, evolutions timed by the stop-watch, he could only just hold his own. During the crossing of the Atlantic he daily regretted his change of status and loss of privacy but knew at the same time that he had burnt his boats. He must become a seaman or perish in the attempt. Aware of his limitations, his messmates were tolerant and often helpful. The junior lieutenants were more apt to single him out for ridicule and rebuke. So far as he was concerned, this was not, on the whole, a happy voyage.

  Chapter 4

  WARTIME NEW YORK

  RICHARD had boldly claimed cousinship with the New York family of his name but his connection with them was difficult, in fact, to establish. The history of the American de Lanceys was easy to trace, on the other hand, for they were all descended from Etienne or Stephen de Lancey, a Huguenot gentleman of Caen in Normandy, who had migrated to England in 1686, went on to New York, married Anne Van Cortlandt and died in 1741, being buried in Trinity Church. Step
hen had ten children in all, it seemed, three of them making a name for themselves. James was chief justice and at one time lieutenant-governor of New York. Peter, the squire of Westchester, married Elizabeth, daughter of Governor Cadwallader Colden, and came to own the Bowery Estate which he left to his eldest son, James. Oliver married Susannah, daughter of General Sir William Draper, and had several children including Stephen, a lawyer who married Cornelia, daughter of the Rev. H. Barclay of Trinity Church; Oliver, the cavalryman of whose existence Richard had been told; and Charlotte his younger sister. The wealth of the family was shared between the two cousins, James and Oliver. James’s property in New York stretched for over a mile of waterfront on the East River, extending inland to Bowery Lane and centred upon De Lancey Square, next to Mr Rutger’s property. Oliver was perhaps the richer of the two with a country house at Bloomingdale and important interests in New Jersey. The court or loyal or Church of England party in New York had been headed by the de Lanceys since the middle of the century, their family connections extending to the Drapers, Ludlows and Coldens, to Sir William Johnson, William Walton and John Watts. After the fall of New York theirs was, naturally, the party in power.