Sarah's Story

by Helen Susan Swift

'I have loved you since the first minute I saw you,' Charles told me. 'I did not know how to say it.'

  His arms tightened around me. It was secure within these arms. They were strong, muscular, protective; the arms of a man. I wanted to stay there and be nowhere else, ever.

  'People will not like us being together,' I said.

  'I don't care,' Charles said.

  'They will make it difficult for us,' I said.

  'That will only make our love stronger,' Charles grip was unflinching.

  'Mr Howard wants me as his wife, I fear.'

  'Than I will eat Mr Howard,' Charles was becoming a little outrageous in his statements. 'Or challenge him to a duel.'

  'I would rather you did not do that,' I said. 'I quite like Mr Howard, despite the fact that he is a French spy and wants to throw me over his shoulder and carry me off to Paris with him.' I had a sudden vision of Mr Howard doing exactly that, with my legs kicking as I perched across his shoulder and all the people in the Back of Wight waving as I was carried out of the chapel. I could see these two portraits watching me, Mr and Mrs Bertram, both wearing completely opposed clothes and living utterly different lives.

  'When they find out you are French they will come for you,' I said, more seriously.

  'Then we will board my boat and sail away from Wight and England and France, we will escape from kings and queens and emperors and wars and governments.' These strong hands began moving on my person. I did not object to what they were doing.

  'Would that be Les Hanois,' I asked.

  ''My beautiful Les Hanois,' Charles said, 'the fastest sloop between Brittany and the Scillies, able to ride the wind and smooth the storm gods with her figurehead.' He moved slightly beneath me. 'She has the most perfect figurehead,' he told me. 'Venus in all her glory with breasts that would grace a goddess…'

  'I am not at all certain that I wish to hear this,' I said mildly. 'Is it a good idea to praise the breasts of another woman while fondling those that belong to me?'

  Charles laughed. 'You would love her, Sarah.'

  'And you remember her,' I said, gently.

  'She is the love of my life,' Charles said, and quickly corrected himself. 'Or rather, she was the love of my life until I met you.'

  'And one sight of me put her quite out of your head,' I allowed my left hand to do a little exploring of its own, tracing his muscular back and the deep ridge of his spine down, down, down with my finger stepping to more smoothly curving muscles, where they rested, kneaded and prepared for their next and even more daring adventure.

  'If they catch you,' I said more seriously, 'they will put you in the hulks,' I said, testing him even as I hated the words I said.

  'Then I will escape and swim to your island,' Charles told me. 'Or I will say I am a royalist and join you here.' He shrugged, 'for all I know that is true. I could well be a royalist, a rebel against Napoleon Bonaparte. Vive le Roi.'

  He stopped suddenly. 'Les Hanois; he said. It is a reef; my vessel is named after a reef!' He grinned to me. 'I should say Vive le Roi more often.'

  'Vive le Roi,' I repeated, softly. Even in such an insular country as England with our dislike of foreigners in general and Frenchmen in particular, we know that these three words meant. 'Vive le Roi: Long Live the King!'

  These words were the talisman that the royalist resistance against the Republican murderers had used since 1789. Now that Napoleon Bonaparte had usurped the Revolution for his own even more egoistical cause I could identify with the royalists with enthusiasm. In my sudden surge of royalism and maybe because of what had happened between me and Charles, I shouted the words with gusto and Charles, caught in the mood of the moment, joined in. Our combined voices yelled 'Vive le Roi!' as we lay beside the Long Stone in the mist.

  'Vive le Roi!' we roared, and then we realised that the mist no longer concealed us and we were not alone on Mottistone Down.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Before I continue I must explain that these ancient Stone raisers knew what they were about when they placed the Long Stone exactly where it is, for it commands one of the finest all-round panoramas in an island where extensive views are common. If we looked south and west we could see the headland of Hanover Point and the great sandy sweep of Compton Bay and Freshwater Bay all the way to Scratchell's Bay and the Needles. If we looked east we had the beautiful rolling downland, great hedged fields and patterned woods of the fertile interior of Wight. It is the finest spot in the island, and that means the finest spot in God's own garden, for Eden was surely planted here rather than in the heat and dust of somewhere East of Egypt.

  Unfortunately, because it commands such spectacular views, the Long Stone is also highly visible. Charles and I had been so intent with each other that he had not noticed that the mist had drifted away so we were quite exposed beside the stone, while the noise that we were making had attracted some very unwelcome company.

  'Vive La Republique,' one of the three French soldiers said quietly while his two companions merely stared at the spectacle of two near-naked people lying on damp grass beside a great hunk of stone. Naturally I scrambled up and hastened to cover myself, while Charles stepped forward manfully to protect me.

  I am not sure what was said in the next few moments, except that it was in French, it was very loud and there were many hand gestures, both by the soldiers and by Charles, who gave every bit as good as he got, despite his handicap of having nothing covering his lower half and very little above that. However he did dress himself as he spoke and the soldiers were gentleman enough not to try and interfere as I did the same.

  'They want us to go with them,' Charles said as he fastened his trousers.

  'Where?' I looked around. There were more Frenchmen on the slopes of Mottistone Down, speckling the calm green with their invasive blue uniforms. 'I am not going!'

  Unfortunately I had little choice in the matter. While two soldiers fixed wicked looking bayonets and prodded them at Charles, the third encouraged me to accompany him by the simple expedient of grabbing hold of my hair and dragging me behind him. My protests may have reached the mainland but they did not help my case in the slightest, and when Charles came to help one of the soldiers fetched him a blow with the butt of his musket that knocked him to the ground.

  'Charles!' I reached for him, fruitlessly. 'All right,' I said. 'I'll come along.'

  Holding his face where the musket butt had hit him, Charles said something and the soldier relaxed his hold on my hair. I scowled at him and moved closer to Charles. 'Are you all right?'

  'Are you?' The musket had left a huge red mark that would undoubtedly turn into a bruise before long. If I had felt my first taste of real love with Charles only a couple of hours ago, now I felt absolute hatred for that Frenchman who had hurt my man. I did not know that I was capable of such deep loathing.

  When I touched Charles' face he flinched. My anger boiled over. Unable to prevent myself, I landed a full force slap right across the face of the French soldier who had hit him. It was a beautiful slap, if I say so myself, and unbalanced the rogue. He staggered; Charles grabbed his musket, pushed me to one side and fired a single shot. The sound seemed to deafen me far more than the pistol had.

  'Run!' Charles nearly screamed. 'Run Sarah, for your life!'

  Glancing over my shoulder I saw him close with the remaining two Frenchmen.

  'Run, Sarah!' Charles shouted.

  I saw him duck under the bayonet thrust of the first Frenchman, saw him knock the man down with his own musket and stab him in the chest. Then I turned around to help him. I know that Charles had ordered me to run but I would not let him fight alone, even although I was scared near out of my wits.

  I was not needed. Before I got close enough to help him, he had knocked the other Frenchmen down.

  'I told you to run,' he grabbed me roughly and hustled me away from the scene. 'This is no place to linger.'

  We ran, or rather Charles ran, dragging me behind him. I did not protest.


  'That way,' I said, guiding him as best I could toward the Horse Head. 'The Army will be there.' I looked at him. 'You are no friend of the French now.'

  He nodded. 'Come on then.'

  I looked behind me. There were French swarming over my downs. They did not belong there. I hated seeing them there. 'Let's get to the Horse Head, Charles.'

  There were small parties of Frenchmen scattered between us and the inn, but I knew the island better than they ever would. On our way we called at Molly's cottage, only to find her out, with the walls of her fields down and her goats scattered across the downs.

  'I hope she is safe,' Charles said.

  'I would not like to be the Frenchman who tried to hurt her,' I said, although I was not as certain as I tried to sound. I had been scared when the soldiers captured us; now I was sick at heart. Watching a hostile force take possession of all that is dear to you is worse than anything you can imagine. All I can say is: thank God for Mr Howard.

  I told you at the beginning of this tale of mine that there was a fog the day he arrived, without telling you exactly who the 'he' was. Well, if you have read this far, then please finish the story and you will find out all.

  I was flagging by this time. I tell you that men have it easy with their trousers and even breeches. Running with free legs such as that must be so much better than running in long clinging skirts. I had also been awake all night and moving most of it. Despite having spent weeks in bed, Charles seemed as fresh as if he had just woken up.

  We reached the top of a knoll that gave us a most splendid view over the rolling hills and downs, with the small villages and hamlets, the isolated farms and cottages and the fields of wheat, sheep or cattle. I had been so intent on running that I had not noticed that the sun had quite burned away the mist and it was a really pleasant summer day. I also noticed that the French soldiers were beginning to form together; they were no longer scattered around the fields. There were men shouting at them, either officers or sergeants as they gathered in a single blue column.

  'We don't need to go to the Horse Head to get the army, Sarah,' Charles said. 'The army is right over there. Unfortunately the French are between us.'

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I am not sure what I expected. Probably I thought there would be two armies of brave men exchanging great volleys of musketry with heroic charges and deeds of derring-do by stalwart young heroes, or something of that nature. The reality was somewhat different.

  The French had gathered all their men into a single column and marched across the fields with absolutely no regard for walls, hedges or the welfare of the livestock. As they marched a great double line of redcoats waited for them behind a screen of trees, with Captain Chadwick in the centre on his horse, sword in his hand and looking very martial and important. Despite myself I could not help smiling at the sight and wondering, just a little bit, what might have been. He looked … and I glanced toward Charles and pushed William Chadwick entirely from my mind.

  'Stay with me,' Charles said. He nodded to our left. 'Look over there.'

  Sheltering behind a straggling wood, there were more soldiers, standing silent in another line. Rank after rank of scarlet clad men. The two armies could not see each other because of the trees in between but from our elevated viewpoint we could see the whole panoply of battle, both British and French as the French moved forward at the slow pace of marching men. To my inexperienced eyes, it seemed as if the French were marching into a scarlet box with very thin sides.

  'Who are they?' Charles pointed to a group of men who stood on tall horses at what would be the hinge of the British box. Two were obviously important military men in ornate scarlet uniforms much decorated with gold braid with a small number of more plainly uniformed horsemen who seemed to be waiting for orders. In the middle of the group was a tall civilian who I knew very well.

  'That's Mr Howard,' I said. 'The French spy who is looking for you.'

  'I know that man,' Charles face creased into a puzzled frown. 'I am sure that I should know that man.'

  'He knows you as well,' I said.

  'Whoever he is,' Charles said, 'he is not French. He seems to be helping to command the British forces. I don't believe that French spies do that.'

  As the French column trod on, Mr Howard leaned toward the two senior officers and moments later two junior horsemen detached from the group and galloped away, one to either side of the British box. The redcoated soldiers advanced a few paces through a screen of trees and stopped on the other side, when they were fully visible to the French.

  The French column came to a juddering halt as they realised they were all but surrounded by two British lines.

  Charles took hold of my arm. 'If these fellows start to fight,' he said, 'we'll get to the other side of this hill and lie down flat.'

  'I want to see,' I said.

  'No doubt you do,' Charles said, 'but there will be an awful lot of musket balls flying around and I don't want you to get in the way of one of them.'

  The two armies scanned each other in what was nearly perfect silence. Only the occasional cough from individual men and the neighing and whinnying of the horses disturbed the surreal hush.

  'What is going to happen?' I whispered.

  'I don't know,' Charles gripped my hand as if he was afraid it would fall off the end of my arm.

  I saw Mr Howard speak to one of the senior officers, who sent more horsemen to both flanks of the British army. The scarlet lines moved forward slowly, keeping in that perfect silence save for the whisper of grass beneath their boots.

  'Make ready!' The words were distinct, repeated from officer to officer. The British soldiers lifted their muskets so they were held at a 45 degree angle.

  'Present!'

  Both sides of the British box lifted their muskets to their shoulders, aiming at the French. There must have been around five hundred muskets aimed at the French column.

  'Oh God,' I said, 'I don't want to see,' yet at the same time there was a fascination in watching this cruel game of war. 'What will happen next?'

  The blue-clad column stood still as if unable to decide what to do. 'The French are in a bit of a quandary.' Although Charles spoke normally, his voice seemed to carry like a fog horn. 'If they remain as they are, the British lines will fire and there will be a massacre. If they advance, they will be closer to the British so the next volley will kill even more of them; if they retreat they will be caught in flank by that second British line.'

  'Poor men,' I said. Suddenly the evil, tailed French ogres had become men no different to those that I knew, young men with mothers, married men with wives, family men with daughters and sons of their own.

  'Wait…' Charles hand tightened even further around my own. 'Something's happening.'

  Two horsemen trotted forward from the knot of British officers. One carried the white flag of parley, the other was Mr Howard.

  'The French will slaughter them,' I said. Having been raised on tales of French perfidy I was prepared to believe anything of these evil foreigners from the other side of the Channel. Instead a mounted officer rode forward from the French ranks to meet Mr Howard.

  'It's a trick,' I said. 'They'll kill him.'

  'No they won't.' Charles soothed my fears. 'I think peace is about to break out.'

  Charles was correct. As you will know from your history books, there never was a battle on the Isle of Wight. The French commander, presumably realising that to fight would only result in the needless slaughter of his men, shouted something out. There was a moment of silence and then we watched the French carefully pile their muskets in neat little pyramids as the British moved down to them. I had expected jeers and vituperation. Instead, while Chadwick's Volunteers watched from a short distance away with their muskets ready, the second British line, regular soldiers, moved among the French, shaking hands, exchanging tobacco and surreptitious sips from water bottles that certainly did not contain water and generally making friends.

  'So what
now?' I wondered. The battle and the French invasion of Wight had ended in an anti-climax, yet I was left with the same problem of what to do with Charles.

  'I do know that man,' Charles said. 'Come on, Sarah. He might solve the mystery of who I am and what I am doing here.'

  'Be careful, Charles,' I said.

  'I have been careful long enough,' he told me, smiling. 'Somehow I think that this is the time to be bold. It seems more natural.'

  Clutching his arm, I accompanied Charles down the slope and through what might have been a battlefield. Both British and French soldiers looked at us with surprise but nobody sought to block our path. One or two of the French made comments to me, although I do not know what they said. When Charles laughed, I suspected that the Frenchmen were being somewhat risqué but Charles refused to tell me and to this day I do not know.

  Mr Howard was in the centre of a knot of officers, both British and French when we approached. Two stalwart soldiers moved toward us when we got close.

  'Hey; where the devil do you two think you are going?' The first soldier had a face the colour of nutmeg and the three stripes of a sergeant.

  'We are going to speak to Mr Howard,' I said as calmly as any woman could when she was surrounded by hundreds of men.

  'Oh no you're not. 'The sergeant put a hand the size of a ham on Charles' chest. 'He's too important for the likes of you.'

  'Do you know who we are?' Charles adopted a very lofty tone that I had never heard before.

  'Some island peasant with big ideas,' the sergeant said. He nodded to his nearly-as-large companion who took hold of my arm, quite gently.

  'Sorry miss; orders is orders,' the second soldier said.

  'I am Charles Durand, just come from Limestone Manor,' Charles said truthfully in that impeccable accent. 'I am certain that Adam would wish to see me.'

  'Adam?' The sergeant was slightly less sure of himself now.

  'Adam Howard,' Charles said.

  'Charles?' Mr Howard sounded incredulous. 'Charlie: is that you?' Ignoring the senior officers, both French and British that stood on either side of him, Mr Howard advanced on Charles with his arms outstretched. 'Charles; you're alive! Where have you been? I've been searching for weeks!'