Page 174 of The Armor of Light

Sailors were paid little, and frequently late too, and life at sea was brutal, with flogging an everyday punishment for minor offences. One-tenth of the navy now consisted of convicts taken from Irish prisons, but that was not enough. Rather than reform the navy and pay sailors properly, a government with taxpayers’ interests at heart simply forced men into the navy. In England, teams called press gangs kidnapped, or ‘impressed’, able-bodied men in coastal towns, took them aboard ships, and kept them tied up until they were miles from land. The system was hated, and often led to rioting.

Amos thanked Odger for the warning and went with Hamish to Mrs Astley’s lodging house, where Amos always stayed when he had to spend a night in Combe. It was a normal town house, but packedtight with beds, one or two in the smaller rooms and several in the larger. The hostess was a smiling Jamaican woman whose girth was a good advertisement for her cooking.

They were in time for dinner. Mrs Astley served a spicy fish stew, with fresh bread and ale to drink, for a shilling. At the communal table Amos sat next to a young man who recognized him. ‘You don’t know me, Mr Barrowfield, but I’m from Kingsbridge,’ he said. ‘My name’s Jim Pidgeon.’

Amos did not recall seeing him before. He said politely: ‘What brings you to Combe?’

‘I work on the barges. I know the river pretty well between Kingsbridge and Combe.’

Another lodger, a man with a withered right arm who was humorously called Lefty, was raging against the French between mouthfuls. ‘Godless, bloodthirsty, ignorant men, they have murdered the flower of the French nobility, and they want to murder ours too,’ he said, and slurped from his spoon.

Hamish took the bait. ‘We were at peace for fourteen months,’ he said. The Treaty of Amiens had been signed in March 1802, and affluent English shoppers and tourists had flocked back to their beloved Paris; but Britain had ended the truce in May last year.

‘The French attacked us again,’ said Lefty.

‘Funny you should say that,’ Hamish replied. ‘According to the newspapers, we declared war on the French, not the other way about.’

‘Because they invaded Switzerland,’ said Lefty.

‘No doubt they did, but is it a reason to send Englishmen to their deaths? For Switzerland? I only ask the question.’

‘I don’t care what you say, I hate the fucking French.’

A voice came from the kitchen: ‘No foul language, gentlemen – this is a respectable house.’

The belligerent Lefty submitted to her authority. ‘Sorry, Mrs Astley,’ he said.

Dinner was over soon after that. As the men were leaving the table, Mrs Astley came in and said: ‘Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen, but remember my rule: the door is locked at midnight, and no refunds.’

Amos and Hamish strolled around the town. Amos was not worried about the press gang. They did not take well-dressed middle-class gentlemen.

Combe was a lively place, as port towns usually were. Musicians and acrobats performed on the streets for pennies; hawkers sold ballads and souvenirs and magic potions; young women and men offered their bodies; pickpockets robbed sailors of their wages. Amos and Hamish were not tempted by the many brothels and gambling houses, but they did sample the ale in a few taverns, and ate oysters from a street stall.

When Amos announced that it was time to return to Mrs Astley’s place, Hamish begged for one more tankard, and Amos indulged him. They went to a tavern near the waterfront. Inside were a dozen or so men drinking beer, and a sprinkling of young women. Amos spotted Jim Pidgeon there, enjoying a friendly conversation with a girl in a red dress.

‘Nice place,’ said Hamish appreciatively.

‘No, it’s not,’ said Amos. ‘Look at that young fellow Jim from Kingsbridge. He’s very drunk.’

‘Lucky him.’

‘Why do you think that girl is being nice to him?’

‘I expect she likes him.’

‘He’s not handsome and he’s not rich – what does she see in him?’

‘There’s no accounting for women’s choices.’

Amos shook his head. ‘This is a crimping house.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘She’s put gin in his beer without him noticing. Any minute now she’ll take him into the back room, and he’ll think it’s his luckynight. But it’s not, because the press gang will be waiting. They’ll take him aboard a ship and lock him in the brig. Next time he sees daylight he’ll be a sailor in the Royal Navy.’

‘Poor bastard.’

‘And the girl will get a shilling for her help.’