by David McDine
‘No doubt your father is old, but why do you call me “mon vieux”?’
‘Well, you see, the crowd I ran around with in Paris were mostly aristos of a sort and although we were only in our early teens everyone called everyone else “mon vieux”.’
‘Even the girls?’
‘Oh no, they were always mon amour! Anyway, these things stick, which is more than I can say for my young French friends’ heads. I suspect most of them will have lost theirs to the guillotine during The Terror …’
Anson nodded understandingly.
‘Oh, talking of the fair sex, do you think it would be in order for me to write inviting your two charming sisters to visit Fairlight? Elizabeth did show quite an interest in it when I stayed at the rectory for the Brax ball.’
‘Certainly you should write. After all, Elizabeth sent you a note via me when I came here before to plan the Égalité affair, did she not? Both girls are on the hunt for husbands, you know, and you are clearly in Elizabeth’s gun-sights.’
Armstrong spluttered: ‘You’re a touch ahead of the clock, mon vieux, but yes, I will compose an invite for you to take back with you, if you will.’
Anson thought he detected a blush on his friend’s cheeks, but then that could have been due to the prevailing westerlies.
Remembering his duties as a host, Armstrong hurried to change the subject: ‘Anyway, mon vieux, a warm welcome. My dragoons and signalmen will look after young Marsh and his pony, so let’s get out of this wind and take a glass or two in my so-called abode.’
But Anson halted him for a moment. ‘While we are still alone I should tell you of something that I have been strictly ordered to keep under wraps.’
‘Even from me?’
‘From the world, but then I trust you more than anyone I know, and I would welcome your opinion on it all. I am dying to tell someone. You see, it concerns my attendance at a funeral that never was and a clandestine mission of some kind that I am apparently going to be called upon to undertake.’
‘Tell all, mon vieux, and it will be a secret shared.’
*
Once Anson had told Armstrong all he knew about the Hurel affair, they agreed to say no more about it lest any of the men overheard.
Instead, over a few more than two glasses and their mutton chops – the best his host could muster and one of the few things his signalman-cum-cook could produce on the station’s small stove without ruining it – Anson filled Armstrong in on the details of the capture of Égalité.
The last Armstrong had seen of the privateer was the Frenchman giving chase to the Kentish Trader as the small merchantman fled eastward towards Seagate with Anson disguised as the skipper and a party of his Sea Fencibles hidden below deck.
But he knew the gist of the outcome because Anson had written to him immediately after the battle that ensued thanking his friend for the vital part he had played in predicting the privateer’s return to the Sussex coast.
Characteristically, Anson had played down his own role in taking Égalité, but now he was able to give Armstrong, hungry for detail, a blow-by-blow account.
And, as the wine did its work, he revealed to his astonished friend how the divisional captain had arrived on board when it was all over but nevertheless demanded the French captain’s sword that Anson had already accepted when the privateer struck, but had handed back.
Taken aback, Armstrong asked: ‘You had handed it back because …?’
‘Because the Frenchman had ordered his men to lay down their arms to avoid further bloodshed. Therefore I thought it the honourable thing to do.’
‘But Captain Hoare felt otherwise?’
‘It appears so. What’s more he claimed the victory, lording it in front of the local bigwigs, and gave me a severe dressing down as if I were some wet-behind-the-ears midshipman …’
Armstrong was incensed. ‘I trust you have complained and demanded redress?’
Anson shook his head. ‘To me, such a course would not be honourable. In any event, Hoare insisted on reporting the capture of Égalité to the Admiralty himself, but did not see fit to show me his letter. Nevertheless, I’ve no doubt he painted himself the hero of the hour.’
Pouring another glass, Armstrong could not hide his fury. ‘The wretched social-climbing Captain et cetera, et cetera Hoare, or whatever he calls himself, must be given his come-uppance and I’ll not rest until he has!’
‘No, no,’ Anson protested. ‘Don’t concern yourself on my account. Those who were actually there know what happened and that’s enough for me. Remember your Latin: Sibi quisque naufragium facit – each man makes his own shipwreck. Given time, Hoare is the kind of man who will fulfil that prophecy without any help from us.’
Armstrong could but agree and revealed: ‘I’ve been summoned to the Admiralty, y’know—’
‘Summoned?’
‘Yes summoned. Usually, as you know, from time to time I go cap in hand seeking a posting to anywhere on God’s earth except here, and get sent packing with a large flea in my ear. But this time they have sent for me, would you believe?’
‘A posting a last?’
‘Could be. I can’t think of any particular offence I’ve perpetrated of late that warrants another dressing down. Mind you, whatever’s behind it I’ll find a way to say my piece about Hoare’s outrageous claims about the Égalité affair.’
Anson shook his head. ‘Please do no such thing. You will win no kudos wittering on about a senior officer. In any event, although you were heavily involved in the planning – and we could not have succeeded without the intelligence you provided – you were not actually there when the privateer was taken, so the Admiralty will completely ignore what you have to say and insert another black mark against your name.’
‘Oh, very well! I am sure you’re right as usual. I’ll keep my mouth shut tight when I get to the corridors of power and go to listening mode for once.’
‘Good, I’m sure that would be the best thing for both our sakes.’
*
As soon as the sun was over the yardarm of Armstrong’s land-locked command, they drank to success for his visit to the Admiralty and the commander announced: ‘After all that nonsense about the dreaded Hoare we need to cheer ourselves up. Now let’s see what I can rustle up by way of some entertainment for our rare but honoured guest. Wait there. Don’t move an inch!’
He disappeared into the outer room where his signalmen, dragoons and Tom Marsh were finishing their mutton supper.
Anson heard the buzz of conversation, then the scrape and screech of a fiddle being tuned.
Flinging the door open, Armstrong announced: ‘Allow me to introduce the Fairlight ensemble, with Dragoon Dillon on the fiddle accompanied by the rest on percussion instruments of a somewhat improvised nature! Middy – break out some more bottles of the better red!’
‘Bravo!’ Anson clapped loudly. ‘Let the music begin. Is it to be sea shanties?’
Dillon raised his bow. ‘If you’ll allow me, sorr, I’d like to limber up with an Irish tune in remembrance of my home.’
‘Of course, Irish it shall be!’
The Irishman tried an experimental scrape with his bow, turned a peg to adjust a wayward string, and, tapping his foot to keep time, launched into a lively jig, with the signalmen, his fellow dragoon and Tom Marsh joining in on a variety of cooking utensils masquerading as percussion instruments.
His nod to his Irish heritage over, Dillon swung into a hornpipe that got the sailors’ feet jigging and then Heart of Oak.
Inhibitions overcome thanks to the wine, Armstrong and Anson bellowed in unison:
“Come, cheer up, my lads. ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year,
To honour we call you, as freemen not slaves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?”
Then, holding both hands aloft to halt the entire orchestra, Fairlight’s commander called upon all present to join in the chorus:
“Heart of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men,
We always are ready; steady boys, steady!
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again … ”
To cries of Spanish Ladies! Dillon and the percussion team struck up again:
“Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain
For we’re under orders
For to sail to old England
But we hope in a short time to see you again.”
They ranted and roared through the chorus like true British sailors and the wine and singing continued with great vehemence into the night such that any passing shepherd must have thought there was an entire warship lying just off the coast with its crew celebrating some famous victory.
For once, Armstrong and his men were not ‘watch on, stop on’. They had let the end go, and looking out for enemy shipping was forgotten.
And with no Revenue men about either, this night the Sussex smuggling fraternity could go about their importing activities without fear of interruption.
*
Next morning Anson awoke with a similar dull pain behind the eyes that he had last suffered many months before following a run ashore in London with the same Amos Armstrong.
He decided a pre-breakfast stroll in the bracing air on the Downs might clear his head, and left Armstrong at his desk, scratching his head and pondering how to continue his letter to his friend’s sisters.
So far he had successfully completed only the salutation. But already he was having doubts. Perhaps he should address them alphabetically, in which case it should be “Dear Anne and Elizabeth”. Or perhaps eldest first: “Dear Elizabeth and Anne”. Either way, would they assume that he favoured whoever was mentioned first?
Truth be told, it was Elizabeth that he had been most thrilled to have on his arm at the Brax Hall ball. There was something about her dark good looks, cheerful demeanour and intelligent conversation that had captivated him – far more so than her slightly sulky and stuck-up sister.
Then there was the fact that both were sisters of his particular friend Oliver Anson, and he could think of no-one he would prefer more to be his brother-in-law as well as brother-in-arms.
But, he told himself, he was getting ahead of himself here. He had only briefly met the Anson sisters and had so much enjoyed dancing with them both at the Brax Hall ball.
Beyond knowing that they liked dancing and that Elizabeth showed a flattering interest in him and his career at sea, temporarily stalled thanks to this ghastly signal station appointment, he as yet knew little about them.
He knew that both enjoyed lady-like pursuits such as watercolour painting, embroidery and visiting the poor of their father’s parish, but beyond that … well, that was the point of the letter. Since he could not abandon his cliff-top station he had determined that they should be invited to visit him.
Finally he made up his mind and wrote:
“To the dear Misses Anson,
Remembering with great affection the wonderful evening I enjoyed in your company at the Brax Hall ball and the interest you both so kindly showed in my signal station, I have the temerity to write suggesting – indeed pleading – that you visit me here in my lonely eyrie at Fairlight.
Here I could offer extensive views of the English Channel, devoid, I hope, of enemy warships, a guided tour of my humble station, such as it is, and a demonstration of how such a telegraphic wonder operates.
When I tell you that a meal will be thrown in, I fear you could take that almost literally as I am totally reliant on the culinary skills of my signalmen who are more familiar with salt beef and plum duff than the refined dishes prepared by the rectory cook!
As to travel arrangements, I am asking your brother Oliver, my particular friend, to make the necessary arrangements so you can be here and back within a day.
Hoping that you will be willing and able to accept this invitation,
I remain
Your devoted friend and admirer,
A Armstrong
Commander, Royal Navy
Fairlight Signal Station
Sussex.”
16
Pye Alley Farm
Bardet and his companions approached the farmhouse with some trepidation, despite the assurance by their guide that the light from the small square window above the side door meant all was well.
As they drew nearer, Bardet could see that this was a large, brick-built house roofed with the peg-tiles that he had noticed were common to this part of England. The window showing the light was small – just big enough to frame a man’s head – and positioned under the eaves. The light from it could only be seen when approached, as they had, from Seasalter and the coast.
He motioned Girault and Cornacchia to stand either side of the door and tapped three times.
It opened immediately to reveal a thick-set, red-faced man he correctly assumed to be the farmer who looked them up and down and beckoned them inside.
‘You’re expected, gents. Fed up with life in the hulks, eh?’
Bardet nodded.
‘D’you want anything to eat, drink?’
‘No. We ’ave eaten, but we are very tired.’
‘It’s been a long day, eh? Take off your boots down here and I’ll show you upstairs.’
They complied, glad to be rid of their boots after so long, and the farmer led them upstairs to a room with two single beds and a washstand, telling them: ‘You can clean up and sleep here tonight, boys. But two of you will have to share, all right?’
Bardet, who would not be sharing, shrugged agreement. He asked: ‘Are we safe ’ere, from soldiers, informers?’
‘We’re off the beaten track here. There’s no military about and the locals don’t dare rat on us. They know what would happen to them if they did. Anyway, most of ’em get some benefit or other out of the smuggling and escape trades. Mind you, best keep your boots close at hand just in case I have to move you sharpish.’
Bardet immediately claimed what appeared to him to be the most comfortable bed and indicated to the others that they would have to share the other, Girault with his head to one end, Cornacchia with his at the other.
The farmer sniffed the now-rancid air. With their boots off, he told himself, it wouldn’t be surprising if the two sharing end to end fainted from the smell.
Smell or no smell, all three were asleep almost before their host had left the room.
*
After a good night’s sleep, interrupted only by his companions’ curses whenever one or the other’s head encountered a foot, and a breakfast of ham and eggs, Bardet went into a huddle with the farmer.
‘We’ll fit you out with any more clothes you need and then you’ll have to hide out in the woods during the day, alright?’
‘When can we leave for France?’
‘It could be a few days, could be weeks. Depends if there’s what they call a hue and cry – and when there’s a smuggling run we can get you on.’
Bardet shook his head and gave the farmer the kind of look he had used in the hulk to browbeat dissenters. ‘I am not going to wait for weeks, mon ami. You must get me away as soon as possible. Is that understood?’
But the farmer was not to be intimidated. ‘Steady, mate. What I’m telling you is for your own good. You can sleep here at night when all’s clear, but it’s too dicey for you to stay indoors in the daytime. As to getting you away, we’ll do that the minute we can – when we reckon it’s safe, right? We haven’t failed to get escapers away yet and don’t intend to mess things up now by jumping the gun.’
Bardet shrugged. ‘Very well, but make it soon.’
‘We will, we will. But by the by, we’ve heard there’s another foreign gent hiding up near Faversham. Word is that he’s a Frog, too – sorry mate, I mean a Frenchie. We’re trying to find out if he’s coming here to join your lot for the crossing.’
Bardet was puzzled. He knew all the escape plans
for his hulk, but of course it could be someone who had got away from the Bristol, Eagle or one of the other prison ships.
Another possibility was that the mystery man was an officer who had given his parole but unless he had broken it and intended to escape there would be no need to hide.
The only other Frenchmen at large this side of La Manche would be royalists – traitors siding with the Rosbifs.
He stared at his host. ‘I would like to know more of this man. Has he, too, escaped? If so, perhaps he can join us. If not, if he is a royalist, then …’
Slowly, Bardet drew his hand across his throat.
17
A Welcome Invitation
It was with still pounding head but lighter heart that Anson took leave of his friend. For once both had been able to forget the loneliness of command and relax in convivial company.
Nevertheless, the journey back from Fairlight was a silent affair, Tom Marsh suffering with a much worse headache having been plied with far more smuggled wine than was good for him by Armstrong’s dragoons and signalmen until the early hours.
*
The arrival of Armstrong’s message at Hardres Minnis rectory was greeted with barely suppressed excitement by the Misses Anson, to whom it was jointly addressed.
Elizabeth, the elder by little more than a year, used her seniority to seize it and break the seal, announcing: ‘It is most likely in response to the note I sent him after the Brax Hall ball!’
Anne wrinkled her nose in distaste. She, too, had been somewhat taken by the commander and had enjoyed her share of dances with him at the ball. But since then, through their older brother Augustine, she had met one of his fellow clerics shortly to be inducted into a nearby parish and, despite his skeletal figure and abnormally loud speaking voice, quite fancied the life he could offer. However, these were early days, so she was keeping her options open.
‘The letter is clearly addressed to both of us equally,’ she sniffed, ‘but you may read it out loud if you wish. No verbal editing, mind!’
