While the Gentlemen Go By

By Chris Tweedie

Goudhurst is a picturesque village in the southeast English county of Kent. A battle was fought there when the villagers stood up to an organised crime gang of its day – land smugglers.
The early 18th century saw a massive increase in the scale of smuggling. Until then, dealing in contraband was largely exporting wool – England’s most valuable commodity. It changed to a barter system where the wool was traded for highly taxed tea, coveted silks and lace and illegal French brandy - reaping vast profits and robbing the Government’s exchequer.
The trade was loved by many because it provided regular high earnings for struggling labourers and their families, and cheap (i.e. untaxed) luxuries for the middle classes. Local assistance came in various forms: providing information, giving warnings, lending animals to transport goods, hiding goods on properties – even harassing Customs’ officers.
But it was hated by many others. Traders who paid taxes were undercut. Loyalists were outraged by the smugglers’ support for the Jacobite cause and trading with the French whilst at war. Farmers could not find labourers to employ.
Smuggling gangs had brutal reputations – and none more so than the Hawkhurst Gang. To them, violence was a necessary tool to ensure business success. They were unafraid to use rioting and intimidation against anyone who obstructed their path, Customs officers and soldiers included.
It was made worse by the Government's progressive crackdowns - culminating in1745 when smuggling was made an offence that could proclaim a named person an outlaw and which carried the death penalty. The smugglers were on constant lookout to deter informers.
By 1747 the Hawkhurst Gang, had become so wanton that honest folk were abandoning their houses and moving their families away.
It was into this cauldron that William Sturt returned to his birthplace of Goudhurst. He had been honourably discharged from the army as a corporal and become so disturbed by the smugglers’ oppression he formed a militia.
Of course, the smugglers heard about the opposition and laid down a challenge: They would murder the inhabitants and burn the village to the ground. The villagers had fewer than 30 hours to set their defences before the smugglers said they would bear down on them.
Much of the truth about the Battle of Goudhurst has been embellished or muddied over the years of retelling. How many men were on each side? Where was the battle fought? How did the militia arm themselves?
Retired journalist Chris Tweedie has for more than four years sifted through the numerous accounts of the battle. While a work of historical fiction he has uncovered some surprising information.
While the Gentlemen Go By takes its name from a familiar line from Rudyard Kipling’s loved poem “Smugglers Song”.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Tweedie
• Release date: Dec 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803139012

Chris Tweedie

After our mother died I stayed in her house until the funeral. One of the tasks the family set me was to sort out the bookcase. I recognised the Lewis Carroll works I had known all my life, but next to them was a volume I had never seen before, its gold lettering on the tan spine: Sussex Smugglers – Chichester 1749 – Reprint.It was the seventh edition of the three trials over 18 months and confessions of members of the savage Hawkhurst Gang. A letter inside showed it had been gifted to our grandfather, a long-time Editor of the Folkestone Hythe and District Herald, who had a continuing interest in smuggling.One line intrigued me. It read: “The Battle of Goudhurst was the beginning of the end of the Gang.”As a former news reporter I know a good story when I see one - but what was the Battle of Goudhurst?Six years later - and a lot of internet, maps and book hunting - I’ve tried to pick my way through the many retellings of the tale, past the embellishments and inaccuracies and to give some sense of the human reasons for the confrontation.The title is taken from the last line of The Smugglers Song by Rudyard Kipling. I hope you enjoy reading While the Gentlemen Go By as much as I’ve been fascinated with writing it.It’s a ripping yarn.

Book preview

WHILE THE GENTLEMEN GO BY

By Chris Tweedie

The Gentleman’s Magazine, April 1747

Author’s note

Some of the currency, measures and weights used in this novel will be unfamiliar.

Currency:

Britain’s base currency is the pound (£). At this time it was divided into 20 shillings (s). Each shilling was made up of 12 pence (d). A penny was further divided into halves (ha’penny) and quarters (farthing). During the 18th century a range of foreign currency was also in circulation, including pieces of eight, ducats and dollars. The general lack of coins encouraged the use of trade tokens.

The average wage for a skilled farm labourer was two shillings a week. A tradesman would make a good living earning £30 a year.

Distance:

The standard distance is the mile – equivalent to 1.6 kilometres (km).

Volume

An anker (or anchor) is an old Dutch and German measure used especially for spirits. It is equal to about eight imperial gallons (10 US), or 30 to 40 litres.

(A UK gallon measures 4.5 litres. It equals 1.2 US gallons).

Weight:

The standard weight is the pound (lb), equivalent to 453.5 grams. A hundredweight (cwt) in the 18th century was 100 lb. The ton was 2000 lbs (the short ton). A sack of wool weighed 364 lb.

**

Tuesday 21st April 1747

He sat in his shirtsleeves, propped against a lichen-speckled gravestone, eyes fixed on the flagpole poking through the roof of the turret on the medieval church’s belltower.

William Sturt sneezed. Bloody grass!

The tear ducts in his eyes watered as if they were being stabbed. His sinuses hauled at his brain. Mucus oozed into the fold of his nostrils. He sniffed, wiped it away with his sleeve, then erupted in a flurry of sneezes.

I hate bloody April.

Sturt dutifully sat among his assailants, the gently waving long-stemmed wispy grasses, his hay fevered eruptions intruding on the tranquillity of the graveyard’s monuments to the men, women and children who had lived in bygone centuries in this tiny southeast England village.

I don’t care about the noise. We’re goin to be under attack any minute now. I want all eyes to be on me. I’ll distract the enemy away from the men I’ve deployed in wait.

Every sense Sturt possessed was on alert: His eyes fixed on the turret poking from the corner of the belltower searching for signs of a movement – a flurry of cloth or a waving arm from the lookout. His ears sifting the rustling from the light breeze, the intermittent squabbling of chirping birds or the snuffle of a pig in a nearby barn – trying to discern the rhythmic thud of an approaching band of horsemen. His buttocks feeling the ground for vibrations of a posse of horses’ hooves. His skin scanning the air. There’ll be no rain today.

His mouth dry, he swallowed to generate saliva. Only his nose was distracted, alert only to the insistent pollens and grasses. He sneezed again. Bloody grass!

Every so often without looking, Sturt would reach sideways to stroke the polished wooden stock and cold metal barrel of the Brown Bess musket he’d propped within easy reach against the tombstone.

His fingers followed the same reassuring route. Grass. Knapsack. Shoulder bag with its extra cartridges, and back to the gun – stock, trigger guard, hammer, jaw screw, flint, frizzen, pan, barrel. All present and correct.

Next, he’d curl a thumb to his belt and flick open the lid to his pouch, rolling his fingers across the butterfly ends of the paper cylinders. One … two … three … four … five … six. Cartridges present.

Well, Bessie girl. We’re ready for em, eh? Just as we was always together when we served in the Regiment. We’ll show em. Get them Kingsmills, eh?

Things were better ordered then, he ruminated. In those days I’d have weeks to train me soldiers, having em to load, fire, and reload, quick-smart. Workin em hard, makin sure they’d obey orders in the heat of a battle and givin them the belief they and their comrades could hold formation or reset on the field.

None of this band of men today are soldiers. We’re Kentish working men - husbandmen, artisans, labourers – even gentlemen - grandly naming ourselves The Goudhurst Band of Militia.

But someone’s got to stand up against these bandits. Ain’t no-one else going to do that on our behalf.

Sturt put on his tricorn hat.

Just 17 of us from Goudhurst here and nearby. God, I hope it’ll be enough. The Siccocks gang say they’ll turn out a force of 100. Hell! That’s more’n all the able-bodied men in the whole parish, let alone this village! We’d be hard pressed to hold out against even half that number.

They’ve done well, though in the less than the day and a half them land smugglers gave us to prepare. They’ve all accepted my authority and obeyed my commands – even over the two gentlemen who’ve signed on. Will they bend in the battle? We’ll soon find out, one way or the other.

Still, we all know if we want to save Goudhurst, there’s nowhere to run. We’re dead men walkin. The lads know the Siccocks gang’ll hunt us down and keep comin after each of us if we lose and go on the run. Poor Wil Hodgkin gave all our names and told them everythin he knew on pain of that terrible bashing by the Siccocks gang.

Absently, Sturt’s fingers began their rounds again. Hands now back to his lap. Touching his shirt collar. Fidgeting. Flexing. He studied the flagpole rising from the pinnacle of the hatted turret.

We’re in the hands of a Man of God up there: the Reverend Isaac Vicar Finch, Vicar of St Mary the Virgin, Goudhurst. He’s busying himself as our lookout.

Sturt cracked a smile. What a change’s come over the weedy little runt, I’ll be blowed! I thought he’d be the first one to head out of here at the first sign of trouble. Sent his wife away, as he should, but now he’s standing tall with us in the village.

The boys’d copped a sight this mornin when the Reverend stomped across the field wearin his frock coat, holdin the hand bell from the school and carryin a seafaring captain’s telescope under his arm. Who knows where he’d got that from?

I hadn’t expected how pushy he made himself. ‘It’s my church. My belltower,’ he said in his posh voice. ‘I will allow no-one else to inhabit my tower. I insist that I, and I alone, will be the lookout.’

It was comical. You could see it from the smirks on the militiamen’s faces. But with so little time to go I didn’t need a quarrel with a churchman.

He stared at a slight movement.

He’s been a good find. Him bein up there frees up a man for the guns down here - bein as how poor Hodgkin is after that bashing. Made a right mess of him, the Siccocks did. Poor sod. It was a shame ‘cos Wil showed he’s pretty handy with a musket.

Occasionally Sturt would catch the glint of the sun on the telescope as it swung towards the descending sun. He pictured Finch squinting down the eyepiece, fiddling with the barrel, focusing and swinging it around to scan the rolling oak-forested countryside.

I hope he knows how to use that thing. We need to know as soon as possible how many enemy we’re facing – and whether they’re coming from the east or the sou’ west. I only hope he don’t show the flags for both of em! If the smugglers split ranks and come at us from both directions that’ll put the test to us – good and proper! Whichever warning he gives we’ll have no more’n 10 minutes to stand ready.

Ah-tishoo!

That Vicar up there’s a thoughtful bugger. After I told him I weren’t goin to use the church as a fortress, he said best to make the thick stone walls and sturdy oak doors the shield for the frail, the doddery and them out of the poor house we couldn’t evacuate. He didn’t think it was funny though, when I said it’d be the best place for em to say their last prayers if things go wrong.

Sturt frowned. Come to that, I don’t remember sayin farewell to Mum. She must’ve left, but I can’t say I saw her go.

Sturt heard a nearby clock strike the three-quarter hour. He looked past the flagstaff at the azure sky and puffy white clouds slowly drifting by. Lovely day. Hardly any wind.

Tom Kingsmill said he and his pack of ratbag ruffians’ll destroy this village. Everything – men, women, children, animals, buildings … our livelihoods. The whole bloody lot!

The message poor Hodgkin brought said they’d be coming from the east along the Glastenbury road from Hawkhurst. Said they’d be here today, Tuesday the 21st of April at five o’clock. Nearly that now.

As a soldier I’d say they’re fuckin stupid tellin us all that, ‘cos it takes away his element of surprise.

Mind you, what he said he’d do might just be a ruse. Might be he’ll keep us hanging around to rattle our nerves and attack at another time. Might be he and his band’ll come today, but from another direction.

I’ve known the prick for a long time, and if he’s like he was at school I’d say Tom’s cocky enough to do what he says. From what I gather, his gang’re drunk with the power of their guns and muscle. They know people round here are scared and terrified of em and’ll bank on that to bludgeon us.

His fingers wandered, checking his equipment. They’ll be here be very soon.

Tom’s nothin more’n a bully. Him and his pudden-head brother George think they can crush us. We’re the target today, and if he succeeds he’ll make sure all the other villages round this High Weald district hear about his handiwork. So if other people’re thinking about standing up to them, this’ll remind them how it’ll finish up.

Whether I live or die is in God’s hands. All I want before I go is to get them Kingsmill brothers back for what they did to Mum.

Sturt reached again for his Brown Bess and stopped as he felt the familiar clay object he’d tucked in his knapsack.

Oh how I long to light me pipe! Take a long draw deep into me chest. Hold the smoke in me cheeks. Empty me lungs puffing it out. Tobacco calms me nerves.

I’ve banned it for the men. It’ll give their positions away. The gang’ll smell it and’ll work out where they are before they see em. Can’t make an exception for meself, even though I’m makin meself the object of the Siccocks’ attention. But I could do with a puff.

Sturt took his hand away from the temptation and returned to his thoughts. Still, we’ve got a fair few advantages. The Kingsmill brothers’ bragging and blustering is one.

We’ve stopped up lanes and alleyways to keep em to the paths where we can see em. We’ve fed em information about how poorly armed we are. They won’t be expecting much firepower. And we’ve got their on-the-spot spy under lock and key, so he can’t tell em where I’ve set my defences or send signals during the affray.

In their favour, though, I’d been relying on dragoons to guard the bottom end of the village. This morning the Siccocks had em dispatched out of town. Now we militia’ll have to guard both ends of the High Street alone.

Sturt stood up and stretched. Better go and check on the lads. He picked up his musket leaving his other kit and marched along the footpath through the burial ground with its lines of hip-high stone headstones and decaying wooden crosses arranged in family togetherness.

He was hurrying, knowing he was out of sight of the turret. Vicar’ll ring his bell, so I’ll at least hear the warning they’re almost here.

He approached the corner looking approvingly at the overturned carts, barn doors and canvas blocking off the drives into Weavers Cottages and Lime House and the barns behind. They’re high and wide enough to stop a horse jumping them and a man hidin behind can’t be seen. Perfect.

Detachment One, are you ready? he shouted.

Aye, General, came the reply. A man appeared in the path and waved cheerily.

That’s one of the three Standen boys. Sturt waved. Oh, there’s Henry Leigh, the bounty hunter from Cranbrook. Those Standen boys’ve shown a lot of interest in what he has to say.

They’re learning there might be money to be made out of this skirmish. Half a dozen of the smugglers who’re likely comin‘ll be outlaws with hundreds of pounds of gov’ment rewards on their heads – dead or alive. Very tasty. That’d set you up for life!

The reward’s what’s brought Leigh in to bolster our side. I’ve fought alongside mercenaries many times in my years. I never run into a problem with their discipline. Who cares anyway? I need men on my side who’re up for a fight, no matter why.

Me? I don’t care about money. I’m only doin this to get me own back against those fuckin Kingsmills after what they did to Mum.

He swivelled on his heels and strode briskly back along Church Row.

Ah, but even without the rewards these militiamen are aroused. They’ve got pluck. ‘We’ve had enough,’ they said. ‘We ain’t goin to take any more. We’re makin a stand,’ they said.

Sturt reached the blockade halfway along the churchyard.. That’s good. That’ll force anyone using Church Row into the cemetery and the path to the north door.

He climbed up the barrier to survey the enormous yew tree in the corner of the cemetery in front of the Cloth Hall tavern. He caught a glimpse of John Sprange the landlord prowling, checking the shutters on the windows and doors.

He saw two men in the upper windows. That’s Detachment Two. Oh goddam it! I can’t remember who else I posted there! Used to be I knew every man in our regimental company of 100. Right now I can’t remember those who’re standing with me today until I look em in the eye.

Protecting the corner and front door was a pair of six-foot-high sturdy oak tun barrels. A man behind raised an arm. Sturt waved back then hurried to the north door, rounded the belltower and stood regarding the rear of the two Lambert butcher’s shops.

Sturt could just make out the bulky figure of his friend the shop owner standing in a doorway. Only right that Gervas makes a stand in his own family shops.

Sturt whistled. Lambert waved. Sturt threaded through the headstones back to his kit … and his nasal foe. He stood, turning his musket in his hands, examining the firing mechanism, then propped it and checked again the contents of his knapsack and cartridge sack.

Aah…tishoo! Bloody grass!

Sturt sat down, back against the memorial and fixed his eyes again on the turret.

I’ve been through these waits before. I was there in the ranks to brace me file of men as they were steeling themselves, getting fired up to hurl themselves against the enemy. Always there are last minute doubts.

This time I’ve this new responsibility - overall command. And I don’t mind it at all! This is my battle. My strategy.

I egged the village on. I know I did. But it suited both me and them. We needed each other. Me for revenge. Them for finding a bit of backbone – and having someone with a bit of military nous - to stand up to the smugglers.

His eyes followed a bumble bee as it investigated a wildflower peeping through the grasses.

The army thinks if you don’t buy your rank you know nothing. You’re just cannon fodder.

But I’ve been a corporal for a long time, drilling, disciplining and leading me men. Over the years I’ve known lots of men pressed or recruited, killed and discarded. Each’s been different, and I’ve had to find lots of ways of dealing with each of their characters.

It all comes down to the day you’re sent chargin at a defence and all you’ve got is a prayer, a one-shot musket and a bayonet on the end of the barrel. You ain’t got no thoughts in that situation.

This time we ain’t charging anywhere. We defend or die. I’m comfortable with that

This defence can stand against an enemy with more men than we have. The Siccocks’ve called this fight.. Even if they outnumber us, if they fall into my trap, we’ve got em. Bring it on!

Absentmindedly he reached and drew a stem of cocksfoot out of its living green straw. He nibbled on the soft fleshy tip and, when he reached the sinews of its stalk, settled back to watching, waiting, ruminating.

A blackbird hopped around its territory. Sturt mulled his strategy over and over again. Have we done everythin we could’ve done? Is there somethin I’ve missed? Is it too late to fill a gap somewhere? He shrugged. Aye, it is. What will be will be.

Aah…tishoo! Bloody grass!

He studied the tower. Harkened to the sounds of the country. Felt the ground. Checked his musket, knapsack and cartridge bag.

His neck became stiff, he stood, stretched, turned and lowered his gaze to the waist-high gravestone he’d been leaning his kit against and read: ‘Here lyeth buried the body of Aaron Stabb of this Parish, Clothier. Died the XVII Day of February 1636. Beinge of the Age LXVI years and upward.’ Lucky old bugger. Died before he had to choose his side in the Civil War.

Sturt glanced up again. A movement caught his eye.

Hullo. Vicar’s stirring. He’s seen somethin.

The Sentence

Justice of the Peace George Mainwaring sat at his kitchen table eyeing the shivering bedraggled, scratching and bruised young man standing at the other end.

What do we have here, Mr Elliott? he asked the Customs Officer.

The apprehended man, sir, is William Sturt of Goudhurst. We arrested him at about midnight last night, the 22nd of November 1739, leading three horses, each carrying two packs of wool ...

We?

Meself and six foot soldiers. They’re represented here by their Regimental Sergeant. The sergeant standing by the window stiffened his back, removed his tricorn hat with both hands and bowed.

At ease, sergeant, thank you, said Mainwaring. The soldier parted his legs quietly, tucked the hat under his arm, picked up a leather satchel from a chair and took in the proceedings.

The Justice turned again to Elliott. Was he alone?

No sir. But all the others got away.

Others?

So far as I could tell, this man was the last of a convoy and had fallen behind. He was leading three packhorses tied together. That’s why I decided to make a move on him.

Tell me where you were, Mr Elliott, and what happened.

Elliott adjusted his stance. I’d received information that this wool was being shipped to avoid paying taxes in the government market, the Staple. My informants told me that it was to be transported from Hawkhurst or thereabouts to a wherry waiting in the Rother river near Bodiam. From thence it was to be sailed to the coast at Rye, there to be transferred to a cutter and cross the Channel to France.

From Hawkhurst, you say? interrupted the Justice.

Or thereabouts.

Was the wool stolen?

That I can’t say, sir. I have no knowledge. What I can say is that the sacks on the animals Sturt was leading did not bear the mark of a Staple Merchant.

Mainwaring took off his nose spectacles. And how, Mr Elliott, did you apprehend this man?

"We set our watch at a clearing in the woods off London Road near The Curlew. A line of 10 or a dozen packhorses moved through. At this time of night, to me this