To do so, we need information; sound, reliable, and regular. Information of all kinds; intelligence of the enemy’s shipping, dispositions, intentions. More agents. More true Englishmen willing to serve our country and to take risks for information. Eccentric landings on the enemy coast; a favoured idea of his late father’s, the First Earl of Chatham, would serve well, if properly managed and with the appropriate energy and vigour. Perhaps a campaign in the Mediterranean, or the Caribbean – there was so much to be done. We could, no we should, augment the army with mercenaries. Hanover and Hesse. I must speak to the King of this. And alliances or a coalition; Grenville must negotiate with some of the other powers on the continent. Austria, Prussia, Spain – perhaps Naples and Sardinia.
He pulled a flask from his coat and drank deeply. He continued along the short path overlooking St James’ Park for another twenty minutes or so. On the third perambulation he stopped gazing into the snow which now fell from a dirty grey sky, realised he was chilled and pulled the flask emptying the contents into his mouth, relishing the warmth of the liquid. An audible sigh escaped from his wide mouth, he turned quickly and strode purposely into the warmth of Ripley House.
If William Pitt found good reason to congratulate himself for the defeat of Charles James Fox, he also had good reason to regret the circumstances which had made his victory more certain. He had struggled long and hard to prevent the French subjugation of the United Provinces. He recognised the preparations to increase the strength of the King’s forces had been in haste; much had been neglected and now must be put right.
The state of the army was lamentable. It was contemptibly small, with perhaps two-thirds of it widely dispersed among garrisons in India and the West Indies. He had less than 14,000 men in England, for the most part poorly trained and poorly led by country gentlemen with no experience of warfare or overseas service. He knew then he could not send an army into Europe with any hope of success. Any alliance against France would primarily rest on the Navy. The service was well led by professional officers. The army, Pitt understood too well, was not so fortunate and knowing little himself of military matters, needed to find senior officers capable of organising the King’s forces, modernising its structure, developing a modern force which would acquit itself well in continental fields.
He slumped into a worn leather armchair, stared into the flames of the fire and ordered a servant to bring him a bottle of Madeira and a glass.
* * * * *
Helena Squires alighted from the carriage with worry lines etched on her chilled face. She had been married to George for nigh on three years and believed she knew her husband well. His service to the King, his devotion to the Corps was beyond question; or so she had always thought. Theirs had been a fast-moving courtship; friends of her family, her parents too, had advised caution, but of course as the younger daughter of an indulgent father she had forced her will and married George a mere five months after their first meeting.
Her husband had seemed so… well dashing was the word that came to mind. He was a man of action and glamour. Well-connected with friends in Parliament and at court, she had been impressed, perhaps too readily she now reflected. Never before had she found reason to question his frequent absences, nor the seemingly unlimited funds to which he had access, even though his pay from the Corps could not possibly have supported his extravagances. Then there were all those unexplained absences. She had believed him without reservation. Recently she had become unsettled, sensing her husband’s mood had altered, his absences longer, with ever less plausible reasons given. His expression too, usually cheerful and confident had become solemn and grave. He had become distant, uncaring, cold and inattentive.
His orderly, the furtive man who declined to utter more than an obligatory grunt when she directed him in some task, had avoided her completely, holding whispered urgent conversations with the Major, breaking away sullenly if she should encounter them together. Naturally, she had grown suspicious, curious. Her inquisitive nature urged her to become ever more watchful, ever more secretive.
Then she had found the note.
It had fallen from her husband’s second tunic as she picked it from the chair where he had so casually cast it, simply to hang it for the orderly’s attention. As she glanced at the folded paper before returning it to the inner pocket, she noted it was written in faded brown ink. She assumed it was of some age, but then observed it consisted of clusters of numbers and jumbled letters. Instead of returning it to his jacket, she kept it hidden. It had left her confused for days. Several times she had considered discussing it with George, but something deep in her conscious held her back. The more she wondered the more concerned she became. For many hours she had tried to recall what she had seen, but nothing clear appeared in her mind. Simple groups of letters and numbers but a pattern for sure. Each group had four characters. She decided to hide it behind the large wardrobe in her bedroom until she reached a decision as to what to do with it. The note occupied her thoughts for several weeks. George wore a constant troubled expression and spent much time in London. When she returned to read it a third time, it had vanished.
It had been Rachel Varlo who had persuaded her to consult the colonel. She had met the new colonel commandant of the division. One of those balls the Corps seemed so determined to hold in the grand mess. He had tried to be reassuring but she knew he was troubled by her information. The smile on his face had belied the concern in his eyes. She had returned home distressed and now convinced her husband was at best a charlatan, at worst an imposter, a double-dealer. A spy.
Her life changed with the thought. Her husband, the man who had filled her life with meaning and purpose, was a traitor. She was betrayed, felt anger and shame. She felt helpless and insecure. Yes, she felt she was in danger. If he knew she had discovered his secret life, she was at risk. He was in London this week, so he had said. ‘I will be in town for some time; business with the Admiralty and so forth.’ His words hollow now. So where had he gone?
Then she knew. With a flash like lightning she understood. How ignorant she was; how naïve she had been. Squires, she could not now think of him as George again, was in France, amongst the turbulence raging uncontrolled through the country. My God. Then she realised he was involved in some intrigue, some treachery and it must involve Lieutenant Vizzard. She had flown to see Mary, to take her into her confidence. It was how she found herself in the small rooms in Great Southsea Street emptying her heart to this young woman of whom she knew so little, but who exuded such understanding and compassion. As she did so, she felt a symbiosis, a closeness she had never before shared with another person.
She had cried. Not one much given to tears she now sobbed deeply, her eyes red and her face becoming blotched and lined as the tears ran into the labial folds of her cheeks as Mary ran to her and embraced her, with soothing sounds, as though comforting a baby.
‘Hush now, Helena. We must think. If you are really in danger, and my dear Jack also, we must get away from here, to a place of safety, and I think I know exactly who we should see.’
Helena allowed Mary to take charge. Two valises appeared and a small, confused little girl was told to gather her favourite doll and toy while essential clothes and toiletries were hurriedly packed. Within half an hour the two women were hurrying through the cold evening air to the coach at The George, for the eight o’clock Royal Mail service to Bristol. From Bristol, another would take them to Gloucester, which could be met on the road near Stroud. No time for a note to Henry, thought Mary. We will have to make the best of it, she said to herself, her heart competing with her mind for attention. Thoughts and fears reeled through her head as she took in the impact of Helena’s news. Jack in danger. She could not contemplate what he might be facing across the dark, freezing water of the Channel.
A coachman, wrapped in a deep scarlet cloak, his tricorn hat pulled down over his eyes and his neck swathed in a woollen warmer, was stamping his feet as the leading Cleveland Bay snorted great gu
sts of vapour from flared nostrils, shaking its head as if anxious to be on the road away from Portsmouth. The two women looked at each other, concerned to see a solitary passenger, a young man, seated within the carriage.
‘To Gloucester you say’, the coachman answered Mary’s question, ‘yes there’s room enough, if you have the price.’ He looked on their worried faces. ‘The fare’s 28 shillings each; same for the girl.’ He snorted, resembling the Cleveland whose bridle he now grasped, settling the animal. ‘It will be eighteen hours to Bath, say twenty to Bristol, and I can have ye in Gloucester for this time tomorrow, easy as you like.’
It was more than Mary had expected. Her scant savings were no more than three guineas. She knew once in Woodchester Henry would come to her aid, but now her wilful nature took over.
‘Nonsense man. Why, I could buy a pair of your nags for the sum.’
‘They’re not my rates miss. But I can’t take thee for less.’
‘Look, your coach is all but empty and I don’t see you taking any more passengers this evening. And it hardly seems fair to charge the full rate for my small daughter. Three more guineas will please your masters surely?’
The man shuffled from one foot to another, conceding her argument.
‘Oh dammit madam, pardon my language, but do not you speak a word of this, or I will not keep my job.’ He returned her smile, with a show of carious teeth. ‘You an officer’s lady, mistress? Only such would speak to me thus.’
‘Not that it’s of your concern, but yes, we are both,’ she spoke proudly, ‘which is why I would not pay your asking price.’
During this exchange Helena was fumbling in her valise for a purse, slightly relieved to learn the fare was agreed as she had left home today without sufficient money, and was anxious as she would not be able to draw any credit from her bankers. She need not have concerned herself; Mary appeared to be in funds.
The guard checked the time on his fob watch, noted it was precisely eight o’clock and mounted the front of the coach. The horn sounded the opening notes of Black-eyed Susan, as a few onlookers, braving the cold, watched and cheered the departure of the coach to Bath and Bristol. The service had been running for eight years but was still a subject of curiosity to many; only the wealthy could afford coach travel.
The interior was as cold as the exterior, and Mary pulled the leather curtains tight to keep the air out, and settled Annie onto her lap, with Helena taking the seat adjacent and opposite the other passenger who briefly introduced himself as Martin Hale, a banker from Bath, returning from a visit to Spain on behalf of his father. Evidently his travels had been tiring as his chin soon slumped against his chest and he commenced to snore with a low sonorous tone. She settled a basket with the puppy at her feet, and covered him with a blanket, hoping he would endure the journey without disgracing her. The puppy whined for some minutes, before curling up and falling asleep.
The coach rattled along the Old London Road leading north along the peninsula, initially making good progress along the dark and quiet road. It turned west raising its speed to nearly ten miles an hour, making a rapid change of horses at The Dolphin in Southampton High Street, before heading north and west for Salisbury. At each halt during the cold night, the guard would sound a warning of the approach, raising the ostler from his room for fresh horses and the toll-gate-keeper from his sleep to record the toll in his account book for the next stage of the journey.
Mary slept little, Helena not at all, and the young banker, Martin, with some gallantry exited the coach when the pull uphill proved too much for the team of horses. The horses were changed at The Red Lion in Salisbury, a little after the midnight hour. There, a halt enabled the coachman to offload a mailbag and take a pot of ‘summat warming’, during which Mary and Helena took seats next to a tall Parliament clock for a late supper of toasted bread and warmed mutton broth, before returning to the coach to resume the jostling and pounding which was to be endured as the coach travelled the frosted, snow covered road.
The night wore on, interrupted only by the regular halts for change of horses; the coachman deciding to dispense with a change on the long stretch between Salisbury and Devizes, until eventually the thin grey light of dawn crept into the carriage to stir the chilled, sleepless occupants within.
A brief breakfast was taken at The Woolpack Inn at Beckington, before the journey continued through the bustling spa city of Bath halting at the Three Tuns for another change of horses, the young banker offered a polite farewell as he left the coach, which then took the road north towards Gloucester.
Helena slowly opened her eyes from a fitful sleep, and felt able to speak of their situation with the absence of an audience.
‘Mary my dear, I make a poor travelling companion, I fear. Do we have far to go?’
‘We can set down at Wootton-under-Edge. I have spoken to the coachman. From there I hope we can secure some transport to our final destination.’
Mary had no means of sending a message to her father-in-law, and her busy mind had been occupied during the night with thoughts of her husband. Quite what she expected Jack’s father to achieve she was uncertain, knowing only he was a man of influence, able to offer a safe harbour and above everything, a place of refuge, of safety.
* * * * *
Hamilton Smith could not suppress the anxiety rising within him. The imminent meeting of Royal Navy sailors, sent by Pitt to rescue him, was full of risk, and a risk he no longer controlled.
He was to meet them outside in the square in… he consulted his watch. Just ten minutes. He drained the last of the wine, picked up his cloak and bag and silently crossed to the door. He listened for several moments before opening it, hearing the voluble sound of argument rising from one of the rooms on the ground floor. He had noted a door leading to the rear of the hotel and with practiced stealth made his way through into the night, his passing going unobserved. He paused to ensure he was not followed and placed a white lily in his hat and, keeping to the shadows, walked slowly towards the church.
Thankfully the town appeared quiet tonight. A drunken fisherman made his way across the square, with deliberate but inaccurate care, until accosted by a prostituée, who he embraced with patent gratitude. Hamilton Smith stepped forward to move from the security of the shadows when a harsh command made him dart behind a wall. A patrol of citizens, four of them, had surrounded the couple and the leader, a large man, was remonstrating with the fisherman. An argument developed and the fisherman was viciously clubbed to the ground.
Hamilton Smith shivered. Such scenes had become too common in France. Revolution brought with it a rise in brutality in most towns, by a handful of violent men, and women, self-seeking in the main, but intolerant of almost any whom might challenge their self-appointed authority. From his window Hamilton Smith had noted two such patrols during the evening. He waited until the group moved away, taking the woman with them.
He moved to the west end of the church, with as much natural movement as he could manage. The shadows of two men appeared then halted at the end of the Rue de Clieu, just to the north of the Place St Jacques. He watched them unobserved, until he was sure. The taller of the two he did not recognize, but this man was alert to any movement or sound. His eyes scanned the roads and buildings with practiced efficiency. The second was still in shadow until he moved forward and he recognized his friend and assistant – Bontecou!
He moved half a pace, raising his hat which the first man instantly noticed. The two quickly moved across the Place toward him, until the Frenchman grasped his hands in a warm and affectionate greeting, pressing his cheek to that of Hamilton Smith.
‘Mon ami. Je suis heureux de vous voir à nouveau et se porte bien.’
Turning to Vizzard, he said simply, ‘This is my friend Charles Hamilton Smith. This is the man you have come to rescue.’
Jack looked at the young man in some surprise, not expecting to see a fellow Englishman, or one so young. He extended his hand, ‘Delighted to meet you, sir
,’ he said with warmth, ‘First Lieutenant Jack Vizzard of His Majesty’s Corps of Marines, to be at your service.’
‘The privilege is mine, sir, I assure you. But I see no uniform to confirm your status, sir?’
‘I thought it to be unwise in the circumstances. Our scarlet coats would be patently out of place in a French town. But come, sir, we must hasten. The road to the beach is now patrolled and my duty is to return you to England as swiftly as possible. Follow me if you will.’
Jack turned smartly, noting Joe Packer and another marine were in the shadows some twenty yards behind, and the sergeant took up the lead for the return to the landing beach at a smart pace. He glanced at the young man to his left, whose sang-froid unsettled him. Hamilton Smith caught his look and grinned briefly.
‘This must be an unusual assignment for you, Mister Vizzard? Secret landings at night on the coast of a country embroiled in revolution? Rescuing a government agent? Not a service one might have anticipated perhaps?’
‘Indeed not, but the Corps must now expect the unexpected I feel, Mister Hamilton Smith. This country’s troubles are most likely set to continue, and I expect we will be at war afore long.’
‘Have you not heard, Mister Vizzard? Paris issued a declaration against Holland and England yesterday. We are indeed now at war, sir.’
Jack halted. ‘Are we indeed? Well, now we must get you to London with all haste. I am instructed your knowledge is of the highest value to the government.’ No price too high; the Colonel’s order continued to haunt him. With war now confirmed he could not fail; the mission or his life depended on his actions over the next hour or so.
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 8
