‘I shall return once we are clear of this place.’
He returned to the deck as Joe Packer commenced a stream of cursing directed at the luckless surgeon’s mate once more. He laughed in spite of the sadness he felt. Looking aft he noted the coast slipping away into the darkness so in a moment more it would be invisible. Looking forward he saw his men busy bracing the jib-sail and Dickie Bird looking stern-faced at the helmsman.
‘She can sail a point closer man, make it so.’ He looked directly at his captain. ‘A poor business, sir, don’t you think so?’ The midshipman had been the first to see the French amongst the dunes and had ordered the guns to fire a carefully directed salvo amongst them. He felt saddened it had not been enough to disperse the enemy and enable the boat’s crew to retrieve the marines before several had died and Lieutenant Vizzard had been seen to fall.
‘Yes, Dickie. I fear we have lost a good man this night. But I have my duty, as Mister Vizzard knew his. I must get our guests back to England with no delay. So much I do know.’
The commander of the Nimble paced back and forth across his small deck, constantly examining the set of the little ship’s sails, feeling the wind and feeling wretched and the guilt of having failed another officer. He cursed the top-men for imaginary failings, made the helmsman so nervous that the man let the ship fall away half a point, and generally became such a nuisance that his midshipman, Dickie Bird, finally and with much trepidation, obliged him to go below and speak to the marine sergeant.
Joe Packer was lying in a hammock Lieutenant Lapenotière had slung in his own cabin, a sailor’s pipe issuing a spiral of smoke up to the blackened beams above his head.
‘How is the wound sergeant? Are you comfortable?’
Joe Packer attempted to rise but was waved down by the tired officer.
‘All things considered, sir, I ain’t too bad. Least I am alive.’
Packer looked ill. His face was white but smeared with dirt and gunpowder his unqualified physician had not troubled to clean. Around his right thigh a clean piece of linen had been tied. A small dark stain revealed the wound had ceased to bleed.
Lapenotière poured a large measure of rum into a small battered pewter tankard and offered it to the wounded NCO.
‘Thank you, sir. I will if you’ll join me. I reckon we need something to keep the ghosts away tonight. Sorry sir, but I think I lost a good friend on the beach. Mister Vizzard and I, well we’ve seen quite a bit together.’
‘If you wish for my opinion sergeant, it is your officer is a prisoner of the French. I do not believe him to be dead.’ He sat on a three-legged stool and swallowed a large mouthful of the spirit. ‘There is another matter though sergeant, I would discuss with you. My vessel has a small crew, insufficient to have landed and attacked the French. It is my opinion, and I shall report it as such; your party was betrayed’.
‘You mean the Frenchman we brought with us sir? I know Mister Vizzard didn’t trust him sir.’
‘Exactly so, sergeant, exactly so. The force we saw tonight was a strong one, and suggests to me they were aware of our coming; they were prepared to wait until you had collected our government man, and then pounce. Damn them. I will report to my superior of course, but my intention is to get the government’s man back to England and see what we can do to rectify this situation; perhaps to find Mister Vizzard and bring him back.’
Joe packer grunted, more from the pain in his leg than the Lieutenant’s words.
‘Brave words, sir, but if Mister Vizzard is still alive, they bastards will have him in Paris afore we can blink and then chop his poor head off. If it weren’t for this leg I’d ask you to put me ashore an’ I’d be after them myself. I wouldn’t say no to another tankard, sir.’
Lieutenant Lapenotière obliged with a half-smile and said, ‘I will see if our intelligence man can cast some light on matters, and perhaps seek his opinion, but you should know, Sergeant Packer, if I can, I will surely return here and bring him back.
Chapter 9
He did not know how long the voices in his head had been at work, only he did not understand much of what was said. The occasional word carried some meaning of course, such as “Angletterre” and “Londres” and later, “Paris”. Then another voice, obviously belonging to an Englishman, joined the two other voices, and this familiar one was an assault to his ears.
His first, his immediate instinct, was to leap at the voice, and crush the breath from the thin neck of the body to which it was attached, to extinguish forever the traitorous sound rasping across the room. He realised he was prone on the floor, a cold stone floor, littered with straw, and it reminded him of the stables at Lampern. As he listened, not daring to move a muscle, his rational mind began to work and he realised he should remain still, perfectly still and simply listen. As he did so, the English voice moved about the room, not that Jack had any vision or comprehension of where he was. The smell was disgusting; an odour of rotting carcasses pervaded the darkened room, mingled with the odour of stale earth and the vomit inducing smell of blood. Then he recognised it as a butcher’s slaughterhouse, he was sure of it.
He waited until the English voice, the voice he once respected, moved further to his rear. He heard a footfall on a creaking wooden stair and risked a brief view of his surroundings with one eye. He scanned the dim room and observed empty meat hooks suspended from the blackened beams. A wooden block was in his line of sight, a bloodied, dismembered animal spread across it, a cleaver embedded in its carcass. By the door hung two muskets and a lantern cast a dim light across the floor. On the rough-timber door hung his sword. He could just make out the maker’s name; John Knubley of Charing Cross. His knapsack was on the floor with two others of a different style. French, he thought absently.
His body ached but nothing immediately appeared to be broken or in pain. His brain mentally checked off the fundamentals; feet and legs, torso, arms. Nothing consciously damaged; the wound in his leg still sore and the back of his head was damaged. He sensed a matted patch of hair and he resisted an urge to explore it with his fingers. The merest movement would alert his captors to his conscious state. He changed his attention to his ears, trying hard to understand what was being discussed. Obviously it concerned his immediate future, and could not be beneficial. The longer he remained a captive, the more difficult things would become; of that he could at least be certain. He anticipated brutal treatment at the hands of these Frenchmen, and then what? When they discovered he knew nothing of Hamilton Smith’s enterprise? He then served them no purpose, had nothing to bargain with. They would simply shoot him and throw his body in the river. He had to escape before they had a chance to start their inquisition.
It was time.
With a sudden scramble he was up and in two fast steps he was at the door. Grasping the sword he spun around, noting the two Frenchmen were seated at a rough bench drinking wine, but his real foe, the man who had until yesterday, was it only yesterday, had been his commanding officer, was standing on the stairs. As his eyes met those of George Squires the Frenchmen reacted. With an oath the first of them shot to his feet, reaching for his sword. It was the last thing he did as Jack’s blade pierced his abdomen, spearing the man’s intestines and liver. The second man would have to be dealt with swiftly as Jack could see Squires reacting more quickly behind. Pulling the blade free with a quick twist he slashed catching the man, a sergeant, across the throat, a stream of bright crimson pumping from the severed artery as he fell but then Jack was facing a pistol levelled only three feet from his face.
‘Clever work, Lieutenant Vizzard. I had heard tell of your skill with a sword. But of course you cannot escape, and for this you will have to die. I am so sorry.’ Squires’ voice and eyes carried no remorse, as he pulled the trigger.
The flintlock fell as Jack flinched and ducked, but there was no pain; no sound, no discharge of grey-white smoke as the pistol misfired. Squires stared at the useless weapon, disbelief and fear on his face.
Jack ne
eded no other opportunity, but thrust with hate in his heart, disappointed as the blade caught the major high in the chest, and struck bone. He kicked hard into the man’s groin as Squires screamed in pain. Pulling the sword free he used the hilt smashing it up and into the major’s face breaking the left cheekbone and pulping the left eye socket. Squires fell with another scream, which died in his mouth as the back of his head made contact with the stairs behind him and he lay still.
Jack straightened up, breathing in short, hard bursts, staring down at his enemy, knowing the man was not dead. He could not kill him now. Instead, he took the belts from the dead Frenchmen using them to bind the major’s feet and hands together. He stuffed a rag into his mouth. It would buy him time; time to think and get away from this place. Where was this place, he wondered? He had no knowledge of his location, guessing it was in the town. His brow creased as he thought. Where to then? The landing beach would still be under observation. All suitable beaches would be watched, he concluded. More troops would have been alerted, surely. Then he must find a sympathetic ship’s master or a fisherman, willing to cross the channel in mid-winter with a hunted English officer. Perhaps he should make for a different port, one further along the coast. Dieppe had become a death trap and one from which he must escape.
A half-eaten loaf of bread caught his eye and he realised he was hungry. Grabbing it he fell on it with passion and looked for other supplies. A bottle of brandy, its contents glowing by the lamplight, caused his search to halt. He poured a large measure down his throat, enjoying the fire as it travelled, he nevertheless coughed. As he raised the bottle for a second time he froze.
‘You will get used to it monsieur – but this house has only the poor quality’.
Jack spun around at the sudden interruption, astonished to see a tall, slender woman standing close to the stairs. He had failed to hear her approach.
‘Hell and damn’, he said aloud. Why had he not searched the house?
‘The major is dead, yes?’ She asked her voice soft as she examined the prone, motionless figure of George Squires.
‘He lives madam, although he deserves to die.’ Recovering from the surprise intrusion he addressed the lady more politely. ‘I am Lieutenant John Vizzard of His Majesty’s Corp of Marines. Perhaps I may have the honour of knowing your name mademoiselle?’
‘Certainly, Lieutenant. I am Vanessa d’Aubusson. My father is an avocat, a lawyer, yes? He is a good man, one of the Girondin, you understand? A member of the National Convention, he seeks a peaceful change to our regime. Alas monsieur, I fear for my country and the extremists these dangerous times seem to bring forward. I go to England because it is safer there I think. Your Major Squires, I met him last summer in Paris and he promises to help me, so I meet him here, but now yesterday I learn different. He tells he is an agent of your government, but I find out he is in the pay of the Jacobins? He argues for more extreme change, more violence. This I do not agree with, so I worry and listen to him and these men. They talked of an English spy to be captured. That is you, no?’
She was beautiful in an understated way, a crown of butter-coloured hair flowed around her face. Her eyes were of cerulean blue that drilled into his like narrow steel blades, a patrician nose and wide lips. She captivated him instantly. The timeworn cloak she wore hung from her shoulders, open at the front, displaying a diaphanous shirt, which defined her ample breasts. His eyes were too slow; she smiled understanding his reaction, expecting it perhaps.
‘No, mademoiselle. I believe they were referring to another, to one of us who escaped.’ He moved closer. ‘It would seem that we have a common purpose, madam; we both wish to reach England. I have been wondering how to achieve my object.’
She sat down on the stool previously used by one of her dead countrymen. Wrapping her cloak about her she shook her hair from her face. ‘Perhaps I can help, Lieutenant. I have friends in the town. One might be willing to arrange a boat. It will cost much money I think.’
Vizzard looked down at the still unconscious form of George Squires. He fumbled beneath the major’s coat and found what he suspected, a large purse heavy with coins. Pulling open the neck he saw the glint of silver; a good many Constitutional Ecu. They would support a peasant’s family for many years.
‘The expense should present no difficulty madam. We need only locate a willing fisherman and he will be well rewarded.’ He smiled, a trace of triumph fleeting across his face.
The dim light in the room seemed to glow brighter as he gazed on her face. She returned his look, and he sensed a spirit in the room, as though another presence had entered. Vizzard shuddered. ‘We cannot stay here; wherever here is?’ He had no memory of his movements since the disaster on the beach. Hamilton Smith had got away, that much he knew, that marine had told him so, just before he died. What was his name? Corporal Davis. He recalled the man now. Poor bastard. With his last breath, the man had confirmed Vizzard’s duty was done.
‘We are in a farmhouse to the west of the town. You and your men passed it earlier yesterday monsieur.’ She looked down at the straw-covered floor. ‘We… him and I, watched as your men went by. He laid a trap for you, and was boasting about it, about how stupid and proud you were.’ She stood, at once decisive. ‘I am sorry, but I believed and trusted him. Come, I will take you to a friend.’
She spat at the inert body of Major George Squires.
* * * * *
Sergeant Joseph Packer was solid. The men all thought so. He commanded respect from all he encountered, private soldier or officer; he could be relied on. He never wavered in his duty, never allowed anything to be other than as his orders or conscience required of him. He never neglected the care of his men or the good of the Corps. He had never left a wounded man behind; until now. Now his record was tarnished, blemished and dishonoured. It was an uncomfortable, unfamiliar condition, and Sergeant Packer was angry.
Lieutenant Vizzard was more than his commanding officer. He had become a friend, as unlikely as would have been thought between men of different ranks, backgrounds and circumstances. Or perhaps it was because of their differences. He recalled the day Jack Vizzard had first walked through the archway into the barracks all those years ago. Well-dressed, although dirty from a long journey, Packer had him marked as another ‘nob’, one of the gentry, a younger son who had to find some occupation because an elder sibling had the father’s estate. It was common to find many in the same situation, in both the Corps and the Navy.
Then he had realised Second Lieutenant Vizzard had the right qualities to be an officer in his Corps. Slowly, almost begrudgingly, Joe Packer admitted his ‘new officer’ would be sound, would and could make decisions, could and did use initiative, led men not push them, would never ask a marine to do something he couldn’t do. Perhaps most of all, Sergeant Packer had witnessed him stand up to a bully. He had been with Vizzard through the voyage to Botany Bay with the first fleet of wretched criminals sent to the other side of the world. When none of the men had known where they were bound, it was Mister Vizzard who taught them. It was their officer who had trained them, guided them and shown them new and novel ways of doing things. He had set an example and set the standard for the men to reach.
Then, on a warm, misty morning at dawn, overlooking the sparkling waters of Sydney Town’s expansive harbour, Vizzard had beaten the bully, had settled a matter of honour that finally sealed Joe Packer’s respect. That morning he had watched from the cover of shrubs as ‘his officer’ had given a display of supreme swordsmanship, and defeated a bully. The bully had been their commanding officer, Major Robert Ross, and Mister Vizzard had displayed more moral courage in that one act, than in the other escapades in which they had become involved.
But now, his officer, his friend, was caught by bloody revolutionaries and trapped on the other side of the English Channel, and he could do nothing to help him. The colonel had made that clear. His first act on returning to the barracks had been to march into the colonel’s room and demand, yes h
e had demanded and now smiled at the memory, demand the right to lead a rescue party back across the Channel to find the lieutenant.
‘No sergeant, I cannot, would never sanction such foolhardy a thing! Why man, we are at war with the bloody French again. I respect and admire your loyalty and courage but I cannot countenance such nonsense.’
The colonel had made his views quite clear. Vizzard was almost certainly dead; if not then he was a ‘prisoner and as good as dead’. He would not be found, not by a ‘squad of volunteer marines, however loyal and courageous they might be’.
Joe Packer had marched from the colonel’s office in sour mood, swearing at the first marine he encountered as he strode to the barracks. ‘As good as dead’. Not Jack Vizzard, it just could not happen, he thought.
It must not.
* * * * *
The fog had settled, silently lying low in the fields, and Jack could see the sharp relief of the woods, etched against the night sky to his right as they moved with the protection of the wall. The clouds ahead were paler, a discernible grey against the darkness of the night. Trees by the road, their branches like spectral fingers, blown in one direction as if by some superhuman force, pointed the way inland.
His companion kept close to his side as he made for the town for the second time. He was uncomfortably aware of her presence, and aware too the town was plagued by self-appointed guardians of the state, by brutal men who would not hesitate to cut him down and only later enquire as to his identity and business.
A rasping cough from the bushes ahead halted him instantly. His hand instinctively went to his sword. Vanessa d’Aubusson dropped to one knee and listened. She placed a finger to her lips, quite unnecessarily.
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 10
