by David McDine
The guide had suggested that one of the prisoners should make use of a fishing rod he had in the boat to allay suspicion and Cornacchia, a keen angler, was happy to oblige. Bardet and Girault dozed in the thwarts, unseen from passing vessels.
Another long stretch of empty, flat, marshy shore came into view to the south and to the north Shell Ness, marking the extremity of Sheppey, could be seen – and beyond it the North Sea.
The guide rested on his oars. ‘There yer are mates, that there’s the open sea and what we’re headin’ for now is what we calls the platform. The sea ’ereabouts ebbs two miles or more from the shore, see?’
‘So?’
‘Well, we’ll be reachin’ the platform when the tide’s out so I’ll land yer on it. It’s where us fishermen land our catch and clean it. The market boats can load oysters, fish and whatnot at any time or tide, see?’
The platform was now clearly in view and a few oyster and cockle gatherers could be seen around an old wreck further inshore.
‘What will ’appen after we land on this platform?’
‘Another guide’ll walk you ashore. See that ’ulk of an old brig? That’s where the oyster people used to live. Line that up with the platform and you can see a buildin’ just a few yards up on the beach. It’s a pub called the Blue Anchor and that’s where you’re ’ eaded next.’
‘And there is no-one else about? No military?’
The guide laughed. ‘Bless me no, what’d sodgers be doin’ down ’ere, gettin’ their boots all muddy? No, no – all you get hereabouts is the fisher-folk and wild-fowlers using punts or the half barrels sunk in the mud as hides. But I don’t reckon any of ’em’s about today.’
‘And this Blue Anchor?’
‘Don’t worry about the landlord there or his customers. They do well out of the escape business, and I reckon some of ’em would be revolutioners themselves given half a chance!’
*
Daylight was fading and the new guide waited while the escapers cleaned themselves up and had a meal at the Blue Anchor before mounting his heavy horse and leading the way to Seasalter Cross and on along a narrow lane with high protective banks.
The pub landlord had explained to Bardet that a man going ahead on horseback would be best able to warn the escapers of any likely trouble ahead.
On the way they met only a couple of workmen trudging their way home. The guide nodded to them but carried on without speaking – and the two showed no interest in the Frenchmen, escapers evidently being a common sight hereabouts.
It was not long before they came upon a crossroads. The guide raised his hand and waved it to right and left – the signal to get off the path while he trotted forward to check that all was well.
After a few minutes he returned, leaned down and told Bardet: ‘That’s Pye Alley Farm the other side of the crossroads. I think all’s clear but you’ll know if you see a light from a little window over the door when you get up close. The farmer here will fit you up with any clothes you need and feed you. Then you’ll be shown where to hide up until they’re ready to send you across to France. Au revoir, messieurs!’ And the horseman touched his horse’s rump and trotted off back towards the Blue Anchor.
The escapers approached the crossroads and, looking ahead, Bardet could clearly see the square of light from the farmhouse ahead: it was the all-clear signal.
He nodded to himself in satisfaction. His escape had gone exactly as planned and in a few days he and his companions should be back in France.
14
Arranging a Bunfight
So much had happened since Anson had been summoned to Chatham – the mock funeral, his visit to the hulks, the brief stay at Ludden Hall, and now holed up with Hurel at his father’s rectory. Small wonder, he told himself, that he had given little thought to running his Sea Fencible detachment.
Leaving Hurel in the care of his family he set off on Ebony for Seagate where Fagg and Hoover soon brought him up to date and he told them as much as he was able of the mission he was likely to have to undertake with the Frenchman.
Fagg warned him: ‘That there Captain ’oare’s bin asking after you, sir. I told ’im you’d been summonsed, like, by that Commodore Poporf bloke, but ’e seemed a bit miffed.’
‘When was he here?’
‘Well, soon after you left and agin just a couple of hours ago.’
Hoover offered: ‘Yeah, he said he was going to see the mayor. Something about a presentation?’
Anson shrugged. ‘Very well, I’ll seek him out.’
He made his way to the Rose where he found Captain Hoare in the dining room with the mayor and three of his cronies, all local tradesmen when not engaged in busy-bodying around the town on corporation matters.
The remains of what had obviously been a substantial lunch were on the table and all five were tucking into cheese and port wine.
‘Ah, Anson, my dear fellow! Back from Chatham, are you? You must tell me about that. Meanwhile, you’ve missed a splendid lunch but do join us and help yourself to some of this cheese. There’s plenty for all, is there not Mister Mayor?’
The mayor adjusted his paunch so that a little more of it hung over his belt and laughed. ‘Indeed there is, sir, and all paid for courtesy of our grateful townsfolk!’
Anson cringed inwardly. He had no wish to join this group and the thought of impoverished townspeople footing the bill for these parasites revolted him.
Not least, he was put out because Hoare had successfully convinced the mayor and his henchmen that he had masterminded and led the operation to capture the Normandy privateer although in reality he had nothing to do with the planning and arrived on the scene only after Égalité had been taken.
Anson excused himself. ‘Most kind of you, gentlemen, but I have already eaten.’
‘Well, take a pew anyway. His Worship the Mayor here was just telling me that he’s proposing to invite the town council to grant me a presentation sword in honour of my …’ He hesitated, remembering that Anson had been there – indeed had been the true victor – before continuing condescendingly: ‘I of course meant our victory over the Frogs.’
Anson remained standing and managed to stifle a gasp at his superior officer’s bare-faced effrontery, muttering: ‘A presentation sword? Good grief!’
Hoare appeared not to register the sarcasm, reading it as awe rather than incredulity. ‘Yes, I was a bit taken aback myself. It’s the same sort of thing as the swords of honour presented to people like Nelson by the City of London, although not quite so ornate, eh, gentlemen?’
Equating himself to Lord Nelson was breathtaking even by Hoare’s standard, Anson thought. There would be no honour about this sword, and the local coffers would probably only run to a cheap version anyway; but then cheap would be fitting in this instance.
The mayor took another lump of cheese and refilled his glass from the decanter before passing it to his left. ‘Not quite so ornate, sir, but I daresay we can run to a handsome ceremonial weapon, suitably inscribed – perhaps something like: “To the victor of the Battle of Seagate, the date, your name, Captain Hoare, and from the grateful Mayor, Corporation and townsmen.” That kind of thing … oh, and various patriotic symbols of course.’
Anson took a deep breath and said nothing, not trusting himself to hide his disgust.
But Hoare was enthusiastic. ‘Capital, Your Worship! Handsome of you, but just be sure the engraver spells the full name correctly: Captain Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare. You may not be aware that I am closely related to a number of prominent, indeed aristocratic, West Country families …’ He pondered and then added: ‘I think perhaps you should add Royal Navy after my name to indicate that I am not a lowly army captain, eh?’
The mayor scribbled a note: ‘Never fear, it shall be done exactly as you’ve suggested, sir.’
‘Good, good. Now, allow me to suggest that you hold a presentation ceremony at the town hall after one of your council meetings followed by a civic dinner for the top people her
e at the Rose. Once we’ve vacated the town hall it can be used for a bun-fight that all the hoi polloi and Sea Fencibles can attend. Then you can all bask in the reflected glory, eh Anson?’ The imputation was clear: Anson would not be at the civic dinner.
But when Hoare turned to see his subordinate’s reaction, Anson was no longer there.
*
Back at the detachment, Anson was in a huddle with Hoover and Fagg discussing the training programme for the fencibles when Hoare turned up, red-faced, perspiring and a little unsteady on his feet. His three-hour lunch with the mayor had clearly taken its toll.
‘Ah, Anson, I was just telling you about the bun-fight when I receive my presentation sword but you disappeared …’
‘Duty called, sir.’
‘Now you come to mention duty, your bosun tells me you were summoned to Chatham. What was that all about and why wasn’t I consulted?’
‘I fear you were busily engaged in, er, fostering good relations with civic leaders at the time.’
Hoare reflected. ‘Fostering, eh? Good word, that. Yes, yes, an onerous task but someone has to do it.’
‘Quite. It’s fortunate that you are able to relieve us mere detachment commanders of such duties.’
The divisional captain nodded appreciatively at what he mistook as a compliment, but then recollected that he had not got an answer to his question. ‘But why were you summoned, behind my back, ignoring the chain of command?’
‘It concerned some matter which will involve me in carrying out a reconnaissance in due course, but as yet I know not what. I am to hold myself in readiness and will be called to Dover Castle to be briefed about it when the powers that be have their ducks in a row.’
Hoare tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘Hmm. More than likely connected to my own summons to advise Nelson on Sea Fencible matters for some operation he’s planning. They would have known I’d be busy advising the great man, so looks as if you’re going to be lurked for some minor task connected to that.’
Relieved at not having to elucidate about his summons to Chatham, Anson quickly switched to the attack. ‘May I enquire, sir, about where the men stand regarding prize money for the Normandy privateer?’
‘Prize money? Your wretched bosun was on to me about the same thing.’
‘Yes, the men have been asking about it.’
Hoare searched his wine-befuddled brain. ‘Yes, yes, I recall that I put up the case, quite forcibly, and am hopeful of a satisfactory outcome, but these things take time. Tides may wait for no man, but Admiralty prize courts grind precious slow.’
Anson was aware that the Admiralty Prize Court, part of the King’s Division of the High Court of Justice, had the authority to consider whether a ship had been lawfully captured – to evaluate claims and condemn prizes. It could also authorise head money of £5 per enemy sailor captured. It ruled on disputed prize cases and either condemned the ship, cargo, or both as lawful prizes or found in favour of the owners as “not lawful prize” although that was extremely unlikely given the circumstances. The court could also order the sale or destruction of the ship and distribution of the proceeds. All ships in sight of the capture qualified as their presence was deemed to have encouraged the enemy to surrender rather than fighting on until they were sunk.
That great oracle of law, the late Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice, had famously said: “The end of a prize court is to suspend the property till condemnation; to punish every sort of misbehavior in the captors; to restore instantly … if upon the most summary examination, if the goods are really a prize, against everybody, giving everybody a fair opportunity of being heard. A captor may, and must, force every person interested to defend, and every person interested may force him to proceed to condemn, without delay.”
Anson ventured: ‘I am led to believe that the captured privateer is now down at Portsmouth ready to be put up for sale, so may we expect to know of the outcome soon?’
Hoare stroked his chin. ‘Yes, come to think on it, I could do with my eighth share. I’ll put a ferret into the system. But surely you are not hard up, Anson?’
‘No, sir, I ask merely for the sake of the fencibles, most of whom are more than hard up, to put it mildly. But since you mention it, may I remind you that I am still considerably out of pocket as a result of your instruction to me to obtain uniforms for my detachment so that they would not disgrace the service at the Lord Lieutenant’s royal review?’
Anson had acquired uniforms of dark blue jackets, red-striped trousers, straw hats and sea boots for his detachment from a Chatham tailor who had blamed wartime shortages for his high prices.
The men had worn them to the recent royal review at Mote Park, Maidstone, where they had upheld the pride of the service against the gaudily uniformed militiamen, volunteers and the peacocks of the yeomanry.
But Hoare was clearly irritated to be quizzed on such a matter by his junior officer and asked waspishly: ‘So?’
‘As you are aware, sir, I obtained the uniforms according to your instructions and settled the not inconsiderable bill myself.’
‘Very noble of you, I’m sure, but what’s the point you are making?’
‘The point, sir, is that I passed my claim to you some time ago but it has not been paid and I am considerably out of pocket. Put simply, I wish to be reimbursed.’
‘Very little hope of that, Anson! When you have been in the service for as long as I have you will learn that it is extremely unwise to shell out on behalf of their lordships without squeezing the money out of the hammock-counters first. Otherwise the chances are that at best you’ll whistle for your money for a long, long time, and at worst you’ll never see it again!’
‘But, sir, you instructed me—’
‘Advised you, I think you’ll find. Look Anson, I’m a growing a little tired of your wittering on about money allegedly owed you and that sort of thing. Ain’t gentlemanly – ain’t officer-like. Just put it down to experience and crack on …’
15
A Fairlight Interlude
Fuming, Anson gave thought to how he could best spend the time before he was summoned to present himself at Dover Castle for instructions on the mission he and Hurel were to carry out.
He had no wish to sit around at the rectory watching his sisters throwing themselves at le Baron, putting up with his mother’s match-making – or risking bumping into Charlotte Brax if he ventured out of the grounds. He feared he had compromised himself as far as Squire Brax’s voluptuous, husband-hunting daughter was concerned and dreaded meeting her again.
Nor would staying at his room at the Rose in Folkestone and overseeing basic training for the fencibles hold much interest for him. Fagg and Hoover were perfectly capable of looking after that.
There was only one agreeable possibility – a visit to his particular friend Commander Amos Armstrong at Fairlight Signal Station on the windswept South Downs above the Channel fishing port of Hastings.
Having assured himself that Fagg and Hoover had everything well under control at the detachment and that training was going well, Anson made up his mind to go.
He wrote a note to be delivered to Hurel at the rectory explaining that he would be away for a day or so and reminding the Frenchman that he must keep a low profile.
Still sore from his ride, he did not feel obliged to set off to Fairlight on horseback, so left the good-natured, but – for Anson – uncomfortable Ebony with the ostlers at the Rose and took passage in young Tom Marsh’s pony and trap.
*
As before, the – he hoped – temporary custodian and master of all he surveyed, Commander Amos Armstrong was delighted to welcome his brother officer to his inhospitable signal station looking out over the Channel.
Most of the time, he claimed, he was bereft of agreeable company.
With only what he called his “moon-faced young midshipman”, two lower-deck signalmen and a couple of dragoons to share his lonely eyrie, he lacked like-minded companionship to share his vigil m
onitoring ship movements, especially any Frenchmen, and relaying the occasional signal.
Nor was there anyone with whom he could share a glass of wine or brandy, undoubtedly supplied by the very smugglers he was meant to keep an eye out for.
It was from this outpost of empire that Armstrong had recorded the movements of the Normandy privateer that preyed on English merchantmen and his carefully kept log had enabled him to predict the Frenchman’s return so that Anson could lure the raider into a trap.
‘Mon vieux!’ Armstrong enthused, helping Anson down from the cart. ‘How very good to see you! I do hope you will be able to stay a while?’
‘I can and will, but allow me to ask you, why do you always call me “mon vieux” when it’s patently obvious that I am neither French nor old?’
‘Ah, mon vieux, sorry, I should say my dear fellow, I fear the expression has stayed with me since I spent a year in Paris as a youngster well before the revolution got under way and heads started to roll.’
‘What on earth were you doing there when the likes of me were dozy young midshipmen trying to learn the mysteries of navigation and so forth?’
‘Ah, well, it was decided that it would be best for me to learn something of the ways of the world before cutting myself off from it and settling for a life at sea …’
‘But why Paris?’
‘Well, the grand tour would have taken too long. I’d have been almost in my dotage if I did that before becoming a midshipman. So I was sent by my most amenable father to Paris to learn the language and, well, certain other life skills of a romantic nature …’
Having joined Armstrong for a run ashore in London, Anson could guess what those skills were.
‘Yes, my father thought that when I joined the navy the ability to speak French would come in handy, taking surrenders and that kind of thing …’
Anson was amused at such foresight.
‘Sadly the old boy’s reduced to being pushed around in a Bath chair by a sturdy maid these days, God bless him.’
