by David McDine
Augustine snorted. ‘My future father-in-law, the archdeacon, has already been asking me if some sort of scandal is behind all this, and at all costs I must keep it from the ears of Podmore, the incumbent at Nether Siberton.’
‘The skeletal fellow with the annoyingly loud voice?’
‘Well, yes, admittedly he is rather slim and has a penetrating vocal delivery, but that’s ideal for sermons in his large church. Worshippers tend to congregate at the back of the nave, but I’m told his voice still penetrates there. He saw my sisters at a Cathedral service. I introduced them and he has led me to believe he is interested in Anne.’
‘And you think he would be a good match for her?’
‘Indeed. He has a good living, he’s highly ambitious and it’s thought he could be a bishop or dean one day.’
The rector nodded appreciatively. In the present circumstances it would be good to marry off his younger daughter to a fellow clergyman in a wealthy parish with a rich tithe income. Pity about the bellowing, he thought, but after all no-one was perfect. He confessed: ‘Does Anne return his interest?’
‘She is aware and is not averse, I believe. Mother and I will have to arrange things carefully, exposing him to her gradually as it were and making her aware that by marrying him she would become mistress of a substantial household and first lady of his parish. The first step is to invite Podmore here for dinner, but if he hears about this Brax business it could spook him.’
The rector knew that Augustine and Anne were two of a kind and marrying for status and comparative luxury would not put her off a match with a man like Podmore, loud and skeletal or not.
He asked: ‘So you’ll not progress the match-making as yet?’
‘Not until after Charlotte Brax is married off to Chitterling and the fuss about her and Oliver has died down. To tell the truth I’d be more than happy if my wretched brother were to be killed in whatever this action of Nelson’s is. At least we could hold our heads up – and, after all, the memorial plaque is still in the church. As I have said to you before, all we would need to do is to get the mason to alter the date of death!’
The rector was shocked. ‘I do hope that was meant to be a joke. I entreat you not to make light of all this with base humour, but then I suspect that in saying such things you are actually serious …’
35
Run for Home
Having spent several hours on a fruitless search of the bars and streets of Boulogne, Bardet and his men realised they were on a wild goose chase. Their quarry had obviously gone to ground.
Short of a house-to-house search which would require many more men, there was virtually nil chance of finding Hurel and Crispin, who had probably long since joined the English naval officer wherever he was hiding.
On the way back to report to the intelligence officer, Bardet tried to place himself in the fugitives’ shoes. Having so recently been on the run himself, he reckoned they would be intending to get out of Boulogne as soon as possible.
The bombardment and resulting confusion gave them the perfect opportunity to slip away – and they would realise that if they delayed until the situation got back to normal there was a danger that a full-scale search could be mounted.
So where would they go? Almost certainly they would head back to the beach most regularly used by the smugglers and hide up in the dunes until the next run.
And so, when he was ushered into the intelligence colonel’s office to report that he had failed to find any trace of the missing men, he was able to offer a plan.
*
Crouching in the sand dunes, Anson strained his eyes seaward. Nothing. He was now beginning to question whether he had found the right rendezvous point – and at the correct time.
Hurel whispered: ‘Can you see anything, mon ami?’
‘Not much, but I’m fairly sure that headland behind us is Cap d’Alprech.’
‘Oui, and these rocks, they are the same, ’ow do you say, formation, as where we landed, are they not?’
Anson had thought the same, but the dunes and beach were otherwise featureless and might there not be similar rock formations, as Hurel called them, elsewhere?
They went to ground among the rocks and Anson fished in his kit bag and pulled out the spout lantern and tinder box the smugglers had given him, lit the candle and pointed the spout seawards.
If the galley crew were anywhere near they would look for a pinpoint of light that would tell them all was well ashore.
There would be no need, he hoped, for the flasher – the barrel-less pistol he also had in his bag that could be used to emit a blue flash to warn an incoming boat if the landing site had been compromised.
But, he wondered, would the small focused point of light from the spout lantern be visible from a boat anyway?
Crispin lay back against a low rock. Unfit as he was from excessive drinking over a long period, the trek to the rendezvous had exhausted him. He asked, weakly: ‘Are you sure they’ll come for us?’
Anson lied: ‘Of course. We’re just a bit early.’
But as he spoke, shouts from the dunes back towards Boulogne made all three freeze.
Crispin croaked: ‘My God, they’re after us! What can we do?’
Anson peered back out to sea. And suddenly there it was – a galley heading straight for them. His signal had been spotted and rescue was at hand. He grinned. Why had he doubted? The smugglers knew their business.
A swift calculation told him that judging from the shouts of the men approaching through the dunes it would be only a matter of minutes before they arrived. And the row galley? Maybe about the same.
They could run down the beach and wade out to the approaching boat, but the moon was already up and they would most certainly be spotted. In any event, Crispin was unfit, exhausted and would never make it.
The options were limited. They needed to let the smugglers know where they were, but as soon as they revealed themselves their pursuers would zero in on them.
The shouting was getting closer and Anson made his mind up. He rose, aimed his pistol in the general direction of their pursuers, cocked it and fired. The chance of hitting them was remote, but the sound of the shot might make them think twice and take cover. And the flash and bang would have let Tom Hoover and the galley crew know exactly where he was.
He turned to Hurel. ‘Help me with Crispin. We must get down to the water – now!’
They helped Crispin up and, supporting him each with an arm over their shoulders, dragged him down the hard-packed sand.
The shouts from their pursuers told them that they had been spotted immediately but ahead Anson saw that the row galley was negotiating the last of the breakers only a few yards from the beach.
But ashore it was an unequal race. Encumbered as they were, Anson and Hurel could make only slow progress, giving their pursuers the advantage.
Half a dozen French infantrymen, followed by Bardet and his two henchmen, appeared from the dunes, fanned out and doubled towards them shouting excitedly.
It was a stark choice – abandon Crispin and go flat out for the boat or stay with him and risk almost certain capture, wounding or death. And if Hurel was taken alive he would no doubt face a firing squad.
But everything changed in an instant. From the boat came the flashes and bangs of a ragged volley. One of the pursuing infantrymen fell, screaming and clutching his gut.
Anson mouthed: ‘Thank God!’ The smugglers had seen what was happening and come to their aid.
The volley had won him precious seconds and he urged Hurel on over the last few yards.
In the boat it was Tom Hoover who had orchestrated the covering fire – and it was a ball from his carbine that had felled one of the Frenchmen.
The American resisted the temptation to reload. It would have been difficult anyway in the crowded boat. Instead he left the weapon in the thwarts and vaulted over the side.
He waded through knee-deep water to where Anson and Hurel, both completely blown, had
dropped Crispin at the edge.
As they fought for breath several musket balls screamed past. Now over the shock of the volley from the boat, the pursuers had got their act together. The infantrymen had dropped to one knee to present a lower profile, and were firing, reloading and preparing to fire again.
Hoover grabbed hold of Crispin, pulled him up over his shoulder and turned back to the boat.
The crackle of musketry continued and a sound like a punch and a cry told Anson that Crispin had been hit.
Reaching the boat, Hoover heaved the wounded man into the thwarts and was joined in the water by several of the crew. They helped Anson and Hurel climb aboard and shoved the galley back down the beach.
Several of the smugglers had reloaded and their returned fire put the Frenchmen off their aim.
Some of the rowers were already in action, dipping their blades and straining hard, and gradually they pulled clear of the beach as the remaining crewmen clawed their way back into the boat.
Anson was so used to being in command in situations like this that he shouted: ‘Keep low, boys!’ before remembering he was merely a passenger for this escapade.
He looked back to see the Frenchmen running down the beach with a figure he recognised at the rear – Bardet.
Pulling his pistol from his belt, he tried to reload, but the oars were sending sprays of seawater over the sides of the galley and his hands were shaking so from the effort of getting Crispin down the beach that he fumbled it and gave up.
Hoover, trained to reload in any conditions, was more successful. He raised his carbine and took aim at Bardet, now only some thirty yards away up the beach.
But Anson shook his head. Killing one more Frenchman was not going to solve anything, and he had a sneaking admiration for Bardet’s successful escape from the hulks and for managing to track down Hurel.
The American got Anson’s drift, raised his weapon and fired what was now merely a warning shot well above the heads of their pursuers.
As the galley gained seaway, the Frenchmen stopped at the water’s edge and gave up the chase.
Turning for one last look, Anson saw Bardet remove his hat and could have sworn that it was raised in salute.
*
Mid-Channel, halfway between the country of his birth and the enemy he had betrayed it to, Lieutenant Crispin, one-time commander of the Seagate Sea Fencibles turned spy and traitor, was dying.
The musket ball that hit him as Hoover was carrying him to the boat had caused a devastating gut wound from which it was immediately plain no-one could possibly recover.
Anson crouched beside him in the thwarts and tried to make him as comfortable as possible, putting pressure on the entry wound to try to stop the bleeding, but it was a losing battle.
Crispin lapsed in and out of consciousness and when his eyes opened for a moment Anson leaned forward to speak to him, although words were unlikely to give him any comfort at such a time.
Nevertheless, it was worth a try. ‘Crispin. Can you hear me?’ The wounded man’s eyes flickered. ‘We’re making good progress and in a few hours you’ll be home.’
His response was barely audible. ‘Home, yes, please take me home. My gut hurts so.’
‘It won’t be long,’ Anson lied.
Crispin’s mouth was working but Anson couldn’t catch what he was trying to say so he whispered in his ear: ‘Try to speak up a bit.’
It registered. Crispin’s eyes fluttered open again and he said, quietly but quite clearly now: ‘I know I’m dying. I didn’t want to be a traitor, you know. It was the drink. It took over my life …’
‘I understand.’
‘By God, I need some now! Is there any in the boat.? ’
‘Sorry, no, but anyway it wouldn’t help you now. Is there anyone you want to be told what’s happened to you? Your parents?’
Crispin gave a slight nod. ‘My poor parents. They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me since I left Seagate. Will you tell them?’
‘Where do they live?’
‘Their address is in my notebook, in my pocket here.’ He felt for it but the effort was too much for him and he screwed up his eyes in pain.
Anson found the notebook and assured the dying man: ‘Of course I’ll tell them and I’ll report that you had been on a mission fighting the French and died at sea.’
Anson thought he detected a half smile on Crispin’s lips and a muttered ‘Thanks.’
The wounded man was clearly sinking fast, but made one last effort, asking: ‘You won’t put me over the side, will you?’
‘No, we’ll take you home.’
Blood appeared on Crispin’s lips and his body convulsed and went limp.
Hoover, taking a turn at an oar, looked across questioningly. ‘Has he gone?’
Anson nodded. ‘Yes, he’s gone, but we’ll take him home.’
*
The smugglers needed little persuasion to take the galley into Seagate. Several of them lived there anyway and they trusted Anson when he told them that if the Revenue or anyone else challenged them he would confirm that they were on an official Sea Fencible mission. If necessary, he promised, he would create retrospective paperwork stating that they were all fully signed-up fencibles.
However, they would be getting a good deal more than a shilling for this night’s work.
The galley’s approach had been sighted from the gun battery and Fagg was waiting for them at the harbour accompanied by Phineas Shrubb and his daughter.
But there was no patching up for them to do as everyone had come through without a scratch – except for Crispin.
Exhausted and ravenously hungry, Anson led Hurel to the Mermaid for bacon and eggs.
He had shaken hands with each of the oarsmen, telling them: ‘Thank you all, whoever you are!’ This especially amused his own fencibles among the crew, but it meant that the worst-kept secret of their free trading sideline was safe with him.
Hoover had grim work to do. He sent the Mermaid potboy to fetch George Boxer, who handled the detachment’s administration and in civilian life was an undertaker. There was a burial to arrange.
Over breakfast Anson quizzed Hurel as to what he wanted to do now that his mission was over.
‘Your friend Commander Armstrong told me that if such a situation arose he would introduce me to some émigré French friends of ’is ’oo are taking the ’ealthy waters at a spa somewhere called Tunbridge Wells. They are royalists, of course, and apparently would be willing to ’ost me.’
‘What an excellent idea! Tell me, are there some female royalists with them and do they all tend to talk almost without stopping?’
‘Mais oui! But I think this is some sort of pathetic English ’umour that you are teasing me with. Very amusing. If I was not so very fatigué I would laugh out loud, but for now all I can manage is a small grimace …’
‘Touché, mon ami!’ Anson clapped him on the back, dislodging a slice of bacon from the Frenchman’s fork.
‘By the by, I am extremely glad that you survived your mission. It would have been most irritating if it had been you and not Crispin who died in the boat.’
‘No more than irritating?’ Hurel asked sadly.
Anson laughed. ‘Well, don’t forget that I’ve already attended your funeral on Dead Man’s Island and I’m damned if I wanted an encore!’
Events had proved extraordinarily tricky since Hurel came into his life. Nevertheless he would miss the Frenchman when he departed for the healthier waters of Tunbridge Wells.
36
The Chain of Command
Anson had visited the small Cinque Ports town of Deal before, firstly to board the store-ship waiting in the Downs anchorage for a favourable wind to sail down-Channel and carry him to the Mediterranean to join the frigate HMS Phryne. And later, after his return from France, he had visited his two fellow escapers in the small naval hospital there.
Its many boatmen and fisherman not only served the many ships that gathered in the Downs but n
o doubt continued their favoured more lucrative pastime of smuggling.
He knew that not many years since, soldiers had been sent to destroy the Deal luggers and galleys suspected of smuggling.
However, these free traders were descendants of the Cinque Ports men granted – by royal charter, no less – the right to import goods freely in return for their services in defence of the nation before the emergence of the Royal Navy.
There was no way, therefore, that men of independent spirit like these were going to be put off carrying on with what they regarded as a sacred right.
And now, since the outbreak of the war with France, no-one was going to stamp out what had become an essential cross-Channel trade.
The French wines and brandy that graced many a table in Kent, including that of Anson’s clergyman father, came courtesy of the men of Deal and their like along the Channel coast – as did a good many other luxury goods.
Now the town was busier than ever, with marines and soldiery at every turn and a forest of warship masts in the anchorage.
Anson had gone there having been told at Dover Castle that Colonel Redfearn had left to call on Nelson’s staff – no doubt to discuss intelligence matters concerning the forthcoming operation.
Clearly the written report Anson had prepared for the colonel following the bombardment of Boulogne would be of the utmost importance, seeing that it was first-hand news of the effect of that raid and the state of the French defences.
In it, he had expressed his concerns: that the bombardment had caused little damage, the defensive line of vessels was still largely intact and, most importantly, that he suspected the French had by now secured them with chains, making them pretty well invulnerable to a boat attack.
For what it was worth coming from a mere lieutenant, he had recommended that if the proposed cutting-out raid was mounted, some of the boats should carry blacksmiths with tools capable of breaking chains.
His vital task now was to get his report into the hands of Colonel Redfearn who could then brief the admiral’s staff in detail.
