by David McDine
Frustrated, he grabbed a militiaman by the shoulder and shouted in his ear: ‘Find your orficer and gather your mates – we’ve got to stop this afore these crazy Frogs kill each other orf!’
*
Girault pulled the already-inflated pigskin flotation devices from the kitbags and handed them to the others. Bardet took his and tied it round his hairy chest. But the Corsican refused his with a shake of his head as if it were an insult to offer such a thing to someone like him who had learned to swim in the choppy waters off Ajaccio almost before he could walk.
Shrugging, Girault tied the Corsican’s float to his own and looped them under his arms. There had not been much opportunity for swimming in the back streets of Paris and he was grateful for any help he could get for what to him was going to be some ordeal.
As the noise above increased, the escapers heard running feet on the walkway above their heads and then the clip-clop of boots ascending the stairway leading to the top deck. The remaining sentinels had deserted their posts to help quell the disorder.
Checking that his companions were ready, Bardet listened again for any sign of the guards, but there was none and the noise from above was still raging.
Then, supported by the pigskins, he kicked away from the walkway towards a few pinpricks of light on the south bank of the river – the lights of the village of Gillingham.
The water was cold but as Bardet and his companions swam away from the hulk he could already see what he hoped was a pinpoint of light from a lantern being swung to and fro by someone on the river bank only fifty yards away. That was what he had paid for – a lantern that focused the light via a long spout with a bull’s-eye glass at the end to avoid throwing out a wide arc. It was a device well used by smugglers both sides of what to all Frenchman was La Manche – that stretch of water the Rosbifs arrogantly insisted on calling the English Channel.
The needle of light told Bardet that his contact ashore had heard the boxing match kerfuffle and was guiding them in.
Bardet hoped the man would extinguish the lantern the moment he spotted them. Otherwise there was a real danger that, despite the diversion, a member of the guard force aboard the hulk might remain alert enough to see the light. And if the alarm was raised, support would come from the other prison ships strung out in line of sight, for’ard and astern.
It would be unforgivable if their escape was thwarted after so much time and effort had been put into it.
Now, as the three neared the bank, the light suddenly went out. Their contact had spotted them at last.
Cornacchia was first to touch bottom. He stood unsteadily and cautiously made his way ashore through the thick Medway mud, dragging the raft with their clothing behind him.
10
A Copybook Exercise
Nestled in the back of a hay cart with his two fellow escapers, Citizen Bardet enjoyed going over in his mind how well his plan had come together.
Everything had gone exactly as planned: putting together their escape kit, the cutting of the roundel in the side of the hulk, the diversion at the boxing match, getting safely ashore – and the rendezvous with their Kentish contact.
A bribed militiaman with the guard force had acted as his go-between with smugglers who hung out in the pubs ashore and put him in touch with the escape network based down the coast around Whitstable. It was run by men who cared not for King and country, but nor did they help Frenchmen escape because of any revolutionary fervour. They were in it solely for the money.
It had been a copybook exercise and he grinned to himself as he speculated that even now their disappearance had probably not been noticed. Taking his place at the centre of the coming morning’s session of the ship’s committee would be an equally hirsute prisoner dressed in his discarded clothes – and suitably rewarded for agreeing to fool les Rosbifs.
The escapers had waded ashore chilled and smeared with filthy mud, looking like some fantastic creatures emerging from the primeval swamp.
Even from the riverbank they could hear a loud din from the hulk and Bardet had supposed that the diversion had by then turned into a genuine riot. Whatever, it kept the guard force – and the attention of their counterparts on the nearby hulks – busy long enough for him to complete his getaway.
Although at first they could not see him, their waiting contact had called softly to them and they followed his voice to where a large shape loomed out of the darkness.
Approached stealthily, they saw that it was a hay cart, drawn by a heavy horse. Again, just as planned.
‘Everyfink orlright, monsewers? You’re in safe hands now. It’s all bin arranged for you.’
Bardet faced their contact, a scar-faced unshaven man wearing a pointy hat and a heavy smock. ‘All went trés bien, but for this disgusting mud …’
He had not reckoned on getting so filthy and they would need to clean the worst off before putting on their escape clothes.
Girault and the Corsican were trying to scrape the mud off themselves with their hands, but the contact held up his hand.
‘Not a problem, gents. Get it orf with hay.’ And he handed Bardet a handful.
The Frenchman began wiping the mud off and his companions followed suit.
Finally satisfied that they could get no more off without soap and water, they donned their escape clothes – countrymen’s apparel, a mixture of tattered old jackets, trousers, leggings, battered round hats and holey shoes.
The only items Bardet had retained from his old life on the hulk were his sea boots that he had worn since he first became an officer. They were past their best now, but, as he was fond of saying, they were as comfortable to slip on as a plump and willing woman.
He gave his companions the once-over and concluded that at least in semi-darkness they could pass for poor Kentish labourers – as long as they didn’t open their mouths.
Their contact indicated that it was time to get under way and they climbed up on the wagon and buried themselves among the hay.
‘All set? Then we’ll be orf, gents. We’ll be holin’ up in a barn by the marshes when it starts gettin’ light and the ’oss needs a rest. You won’t be disturbed there and the next man down the line will come there and fix you up with summat to eat. He’s in on it all so nuffink to worry about. Then it’ll be on to a boat.’
As he prodded the horse forward he turned: ‘If by chance I get stopped along the way I’ll say I picked you up out of the goodness of me ’eart while you wus walking and found you wus loyal Guernsey men on yer way to Whitstable to catch your ship.’
Bardet nodded. ‘That’s correct, we’re Guernsey men, bien sȗr. And these two don’t speak the English.’
‘Good, now if I wus you I’d ’ave a nap while y’may.’
Exhausted by their night’s labours, the escapers were happy to oblige.
Bardet dozed off with a smile on his face. They had made good their escape and, as planned, were now well and truly in the system.
11
An Unwelcome Caller
Sam Fagg, bosun of the Seagate Sea Fencible detachment, was sitting back with his feet on the table, long clay pipe in hand, contemplating whether or not to go for a wet at the nearby Mermaid.
He was startled out of his reverie when the door banged open and a plump, pink-faced naval officer with extravagant side whiskers known in the service as “buggers’s grips” entered unannounced – Captain Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare.
Fagg groaned inwardly. The divisional captain was one of his least favourite people.
*
Hoare’s behaviour after the taking of the Normandy privateer had disgusted those who had taken part in the real action. They had seen him for what he was: a lazy, pompous glory-stealer who cared nothing for those serving under him and was solely interested in advancing himself and climbing the social ladder.
The man’s early naval career had been pretty much of a doddle, as befitted an almost aristocrat with a silver tongue and a ready pen devoted to ensuring his persona
l success.
This idle streak in his makeup had soon been detected by the captain of the frigate HMS Seraphim, when Hoare was appointed as his first lieutenant.
The captain had disliked his pretentious attitude and tendency to neglect his duties to the point that he had decided to get rid of him at the earliest opportunity.
But then by chance Seraphim had encountered a French fifth rate and in the resulting skirmish in the Bay of Biscay a cannon ball had neatly removed the captain’s head.
With command thrust so suddenly upon him, the terrified Hoare had wisely broken off the engagement and fled, his gunners managing to get off a couple of balls from the stern-chasers as he manoeuvred out of danger.
His report on the incident was a masterful example of his literary talent. He was able to claim, truthfully, that despite their patent inequality, he had damaged the Frenchman and avenged his unfortunate headless captain. And the way in which he used false modesty and apparent understatement to describe the event made him appear to be the reluctant hero of the hour.
Promotion to post captain was immediate but, unfortunately for Hoare, Seraphim went almost straight off into refit and the only appointment available was what he himself described as ‘divisional captain for a clutch of south coast Sea Fencible detachments and signal stations, commanding half a dozen lieutenants, assorted human flotsam and jetsam of the Channel ports, and temporary owner of the scruffy huts that serve as their bases.’
However, he had consoled himself that at least he would not be called upon to risk life and limb – unless the French invaded, of course. But in the meantime he could leave all the work to his lieutenants and devote his own more valuable time to embellishing his social life and keeping him, and his minor fame as the almost aristocratic, self-proclaimed hammer of the French, in the eyes and ears of the county’s movers and shakers.
Civic dinners and his busy round of social events were beginning to take their toll on the gallant captain’s waistline and this very morning he had reminded himself to complain to his tailor about his shrinking uniform. Clearly the wretched needle-pusher had used inferior cloth or had scrimped on the amount he had used of it.
*
Despite his game leg – a legacy of the raid on St Valery-en-Caux when he, Lieutenant Anson and the marine Tom Hoover had been wounded and captured – Fagg moved with the alacrity of the foretop-man he once was and leapt to his feet as Captain Hoare entered.
‘Bosun, I am here to see Lieutenant Anson.’
Fagg knuckled his forehead. ‘Ain’t ’ere, sir.’
‘Wherever he’s idling, kindly fetch him.’
‘Orders, sir. Away on orficial business.’
‘Orders, whose orders? He takes his orders from me, and I have given him no orders! And where is he away?’
‘Chatham, I fink, sir. Sent for—’
‘Sent for? I am the only one who can send for him. Who sent for him and when did he leave?’
Fagg pondered. ‘Some commodore I fink, sir, Poporf or some such name. And he left at the end of last week or thereabouts.’
‘So you are left in charge?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Are you pursuing training? One privateer does not a summer make, you know. There are Frenchmen aplenty and we must not rest on our laurels.’
‘Laurels, sir? Never ’eard of ’em. Some kind of flowers, are they?’
Hoare ignored the near insolence. ‘And where, pray, is the master-at-arms?’
‘Tom ’oover? He’s gorn off with Mister Shrubb, sir, checking up on the wounded.’
Hoover and Shrubb had indeed gone off in Tom Marsh’s pony and trap to visit the injured men now recovering at home, and to save them coming in the sergeant had taken each of them one of the King’s shillings that Fagg made free with, reckoning that their wounds entitled them to a day’s pay.
Hoare sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that would take long, given that only a few were hurt.’ This was not what the divisional captain had indicated in his official report on the “battle” in which he’d made the casualty list sound like the butcher’s bill after a fleet action.
Fagg assured him: ‘Mister Shrubb’s very particular about them as was wounded, sir. Doesn’t want ’em to turn sceptical, nor nuffink.’
Even the humourless Hoare could not hide a smile. ‘So he’s making sure their wounds don’t turn septic, eh?’
‘That’s right, sir, he’s what Mister Anson calls “a bit of a God-botherer.” But that don’t put a man like Mister Shrubb orf treatin’ us lot what ain’t exackly keen on church and chapel-going. He’s a proper Christian, he is.’
‘Tell me, the master-at-arms, Sergeant what’s-’is-name, he’s an American, ain’t he – a rebel?’
‘Tom ’oover? Don’t fink he’d like being called a rebel, sir. His lot was on the other side to the rebels – our side.’
‘I’ll call him what I damn well please. You can’t trust Americans. Mark my words: all those colonists are tarred with the same brush, babbling on about the rights of man and such. I’d have ’em all flogged!’
Tired of being on the receiving end of Hoare’s verbal broadsides, Fagg went on to the attack. ‘About that prize money what you said as you’d get for the boys for taking that Froggie privateer, sir?’
‘Yes, well, I have it on good authority that prize money will be forthcoming to encourage the rest of the Sea Fencibles around the country to do the same should the opportunity arise …’
‘Can you tell me ’ow much we’ll get? The boys are askin’, see.’
‘You’ll find out soon enough, though the wheels of Admiralty Courts grind exceeding slow.’
‘So, ’ow much will you get, sir?’
Hoare flushed. ‘You are on the verge of being insolent, bosun. It is sufficient for you to know that I will get my just desserts for taking the French captain prisoner and accepting the surrender of his ship. You will get your just desserts. The men will get theirs.’
Fagg pursed his lips, musing, and confessed: ‘Whenever I’ve ’ad money, the pusser’s snatched it back on account of some kit I’m supposed to ’ave ’ad, or I’ve pissed it away in pubs, treatin’ tarts and whatnot.’ He smiled at the recollection of the tarts. At least that had been money well spent.
‘But I’ve what they call matured since them days. This time it’s gonna be different. If I get enough I’m ’angin’ on to it and maybe I’ll set meself up in a pub. Free drink, see? Or I might buy meself a chicken farm. Always liked chickens, I ’ave—’
Hoare snorted: ‘I haven’t got time to stand here listening to your ramblings, man! But, come to think of it, you’ve got me thinking. Sea Fencibles are the dregs. If these harbour rats of yours are suddenly given a wodge of prize money it’ll go straight to their heads—’
‘Well, a few will piss it away, I s’pose—’
‘A few? The men will run amuck! Harbour rats to a man. Not to be trusted with money. I’ll make Anson personally responsible for their behaviour once the prize money comes through. Make sure you tell him that!’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
‘And while you’re at it, tell him that the capture of the privateer has given a golden opportunity to get the detachment up to full strength.’
‘Already in ’and, sir!’ Fagg assured him.
*
Captain Hoare had been right – news of the capture of the Normandy privateer and with it the promise of prize money had by now spread far and wide and created a fertile recruiting climate.
There had been little problem finding recruits since the ousting of the detachment’s brutish and corrupt bosun, Billy MacIntyre – known as Black Mac to those he had tormented and blackmailed.
But now, as his replacement, Sam Fagg was swamped by would-be recruits.
‘I’m ’avin’ to beat ’em orf wiv sticks,’ he complained later to the master-at-arms.
Tom Hoover was sympathetic. ‘Can’t you weed some of them out on medical grounds?’
‘
Good idea, but I’d need old man Shrubb to do the weedin’, so’s it’s all fair and above board, like.’
Hoover saw a chance of progressing his acquaintance with Sarah Shrubb and asked innocently: ‘How about I go fetch him?’
Shrubb was duly fetched and, leaving him with the bosun, Hoover volunteered to accompany Sarah into town for sewing articles she required, using the pretext that the place was full of militiamen, who, being from Essex, were inclined to pester unaccompanied females.
Fagg explained his dilemma to the apothecary-cum-surgeon’s mate. ‘This is ’ow it is, Phin. I got a dozen blokes ’ere what wants to join the fencibles, but I can only take a couple, well, four at most. So p’raps you can weed ’em out, so it’s sort of legal, like, an’ so’s they can’t keep on pesterin’ me. Orlright?’
*
His examination duly completed, Shrubb reported back to the bosun. ‘Well, Samuel, of the twelve potential recruits I’ve looked over, nine are sound of wind and limb and suitable for enrolling as fencibles.’
‘But, like I told you, we can only take four at most.’
‘Yes, yes, brother, but the five spares can be sent off to the Folkestone detachment. Several of them live nearer there than here anyway.’
‘Oh, orlright, I ’adn’t thought of that. But which of ’em should I get rid of altogether, then?’
‘Well, you obviously can’t take Pearse.’
‘For why? A good old seaman, ’e is. Served for years and only come out on account of wounds.’
‘But that’s the point. You noticed his awkward way of walking?’
Fagg nodded. ‘That I did, but there’s a good few of us old sailors what limps, meself included. Mine comes on account of that there cuttin’-out raid, along of Tom ’oover and Mister Anson. Them Frog doctors wus rubbish at settin’ me ankle. So what’s wrong wiv a limp if you’re a right seaman like George Pearse?’
‘A limp’s one thing, but a wooden leg’s another.’
Fagg registered astonishment. ‘Are you tellin’ me George’s only got one leg?’
