* * * * * *
William Gibson, for reasons he could not explain, had decided to attend a public sermon by that well-known nonconformist divine, Dr. Lant Carpenter, concerning Unitarianism, even though his own views as regarding religion had been pretty firmly fixed since his youth. But, since the authorities were opposed to the growth in popularity of Unitarianism and Methodism, he decided he must be in favour of both, and could profit by learning more. He had a long walk home, after dark, to his lodgings, which was not at all unusual for him at any time of the year, and it was no hardship to enjoy the freshness of the night air after a warm day in which the head was assailed by the usual Bristol smells and sounds.
He was deep in thought, wondering if the Unitarians, like the Quakers, were inclined to champion the cause of abolition, when he suddenly found himself accosted by what he assumed to be a gang of footpads—a half-a-dozen big burly men, wearing the sailors’ attire of short jackets and wide-legged pants, some of them swinging formidable-looking cudgels with a practised air. He turned to run away, and found himself surrounded on all sides.
“Gentlemen,” he greeted them calmly, “to expend your labours on me would be, in the words of the Bard, much ado about nothing. You may have the few coins I possess, and then we both may go in peace, I trust, without any undue exertion on your part or suffering on mine.”
“Do we have the honour of addressing Mr. William Gibson, the noted abolitionist?” said one of the thugs, with an exaggerated bow.
“Who enquires?”
“Stay, brothers, let’s give him three guesses.” The circle of men tightened around him, and he was grabbed and then casually pushed, back and forth across the circle, as in a child’s game. It was humiliating but he could neither break free nor regain his balance.
“It’s the Hotwells Cotillion Society,” cried one. Another shove across the circle.
“It’s the League for Teaching Jumped-up Whoresons a Lesson,” followed by a shove.
“Still can’t guess, Mr. Gibson? It’s the North Bristol Press, of course. By special request, sent to apprehend one William Gibson, of no known occupation, and no income, and moreover, of known seditious tendencies, an enemy to our established religion, and a danger to the peace and good order of the City of Bristol, and therefore, the same William Gibson is hereby to be pressed into the service of His Majesty, King George the Third—”
“God bless him!” interjected a confederate of the speaker.
“And send him long to reign over us,” added another.
“Because better a lunatic than that fat pig, the Prince,” opined a third.
“– as I was saying, to wit, William Gibson is to be pressed into the service of His Majesty’s Navy forthwith, as provided by the laws of Great Britain, and the argument of this cudgel –”
A cudgel was expertly smashed into the back of Gibson’s right leg, just below his knee, and he fell helplessly to the pavement.
“One moment, good fellows—here is some error! I am not a sailor!” Gibson managed to gasp, before two beefy pairs of hands firmly seized him by both arms and yanked him to his feet again.
“You were sought out particularly, Mr. Gibson, on account of your tender solicitude for our dusky heathen brothers.”
Though taller than any of his captors, Gibson was fairly pinioned by two and surrounded by the other four and the entire gang was moving with practised efficiency down the street, hauling him along in their midst away from the main thoroughfare and down unlit alleys, elbowing aside the street prostitutes, and stepping on sleeping beggars, but no one they passed raised a cry of protest on his behalf.
Escape seemed entirely unlikely. He could shout for help, but who would come to his aid? Sailors and merchants often intervened to help their own friends and free them from the press gang, but the streets seemed peculiarly free of impecunious poets at that hour, nor were they, as a tribe, able to match the press gang in terms of strength.
Gibson could only hope that he could appeal to a magistrate before he was deposited on board one of the Navy’s ships and taken out to sea. He looked up at the narrow vault of the night sky through the looming buildings on either side and thought, I will write about this one day… only a scribbler would think about writing at such a time….
“Nothing to say, Mr. Gibson? I was told you could talk the legs off a pianoforte. Well, let’s have a song then, mates. Mr. Blunt, you’ll give us the pitch, please, and the time.”
“Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,” came a strong baritone voice from the darkness, soon joined by the others, as the group arrived at a courtyard unknown to Gibson.
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, as freemen not slaves,
—Gibson’s arms were released, and he staggered, trying to regain his balance—
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?
—a mighty kick to his groin sent him flying backward to land on the slimy pavement, followed by laughter as he doubled up in agony. But just as swiftly, a man seized each of his limbs—
Hearts of Oak are our ships,
Jolly Tars are our men –
As his head dangled upside down, and stars danced across his vision,
