‘Our work here is done, corporal. Time to be away from this place.’
‘You might like to see this, sir’, interjected a breathless Sergeant Packer, handing over a leather satchel. ‘Found it with a Frog officer who seemed rather unwilling to part with it. I’ve had a quick squint and it `as a bundle of important looking paper. Lists of what looks like ships and dates and whatnot; pages of numbers too. God knows what they are; more your thing than mine. Was going to put `em on the fire I lit up there.’ Packer jerked a bloody thumb over his shoulder towards a glow now appearing in a lower window.
‘Time enough for that later, Joe. Now we must make an orderly and rapid withdrawal to the boats. Take the rear and watch the back door, will you.’
The platoon left over the drawbridge, Sergeant Packer dropping a bag with a burning fuse behind him as, in Indian file, the marines ran along the track
The return to the boats was accompanied by loud shouting and screams and the sound of explosions as the cannon within the fortress exploded amidst sporadic musket fire as the troops stole away and the wind picked up. Freezing sleet stabbed at their faces and Jack grew troubled; worried the exhausted men would find the return too difficult.
‘Come on lads,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Keep your heads up. That was good work tonight. We’ve dealt the French a punch and I’ll see you have a double tot of pusser’s rum once back aboard the Nimble.’
The platoon reached the beach without incident and quickly collapsed into the boats, Dickie Bird grinned in spite of the cold, ‘Good morning, sir. You have fired `em up; there’s sounds of firing everywhere. We need to get back to the ship, Mister Vizzard. The captain is becoming agitated.’
Vizzard looked around and made certain there were no stragglers and that all his men were in the boats. ‘Very well Mister Bird. Shove off,’ he ordered, climbing into the boat. The oars rose and fell as the boats crawled with agonizing lack of speed, the slap of water interrupted by a shout from beyond the sleet, ‘Qui va là?’
Dickie Bird pushed the tiller to larboard with one hand, raising free arm to halt the second boat to his rear. ‘Oh shit, a French guard boat,’ he whispered. ‘Patrouille de la Tour Vauban,’ he muttered through his woollen comforter. ‘Best prepare for an encounter, sir,’ he said to Vizzard. He pulled his dirk from his belt as Jack slowly drew his sword.
The guard boat bumped into the starboard gunwale catching the marines off-guard; all but Joe Packer and Michael O’Farrell, who levelled weapons and fired a volley into the French boat, sending two of the Frenchmen into the stern sheets of the craft. Two other guards shouted and fired their weapons too hurriedly, the shots going wide and high. Before the French could recover, a second pair of marines turned and sent another lethal discharge into the boat, one guard thrown backwards and swallowed by rising swell. The shouting ceased.
‘Good work, Joe,’ he grunted. ‘Now let’s get away from here before another of the bastards catch us.’
The air temperature was lower, turning pale skin raw. Within minutes they were back aboard Nimble, her captain watching the low, leaden clouds scudding by as the small and crowded vessel that had become his life slipped silently and unseen through Le Goulet, aided by a fast-flowing ebb tide of five knots and chased out into the welcome solitude of the Atlantic by flurries of snow.
* * *
Three glasses of brandy were poured by a smiling Silas Matheny, captain’s steward and general factotum, the heat of it welcome in the cold, damp atmosphere of the cabin.
‘Christ on the Cross, that’s what I needed,’ said Mountjoy. ‘I was shaking so much I reckoned on my teeth falling out.’
‘Hah, dear man, I was startled at the ease of the thing. They simply were not expecting any assault, which is in truth an oddity considering the history of the place. I truly expected greater resistance.’ Jack appeared more relaxed than he felt. ‘We could have achieved more, I feel. Pass the Frog satchel would you please? I think I should see what intrigued Joe Packer so much.’
He pulled at the straps and opened the bag, extracting a slim bundle of loose papers wrapped in waxed paper and spreading them on the table.
His knowledge of the French language remained poor and he passed a couple of letters to John Laponetière. ‘Take a look at these, would you, John. You will likely understand the language more rapidly than I.’
Beneath the letters were two other documents, but they were not in the French language. The plain sheets were covered in clusters of numbers; hundreds of groups of three, four, five and six integers. It made no sense to Jack at all.
‘These are coded correspondence, damn and damn again! I cannot even tell from who they originate nor the recipients. They must be delivered to Pitt. He will know what to do with them, I have no doubt.’
‘The Alien Office has some ability in such matters I hear, Jack,’ said Mountjoy. ‘That or the Post Office. Documents taken from French prisoners are invariably sent there, according to my colonel.’
‘That’s as may be, Giles, but I report to the King’s Minister and only he, so I must ask our host to see we are returned to London with as much speed as possible.’ He raised the glass to Laponetière.
‘Alas, Jack, the same wind that fetched us out of Brest will provide a challenge to our up-channel swim! I will do the best with the wind we have, but may have to put you ashore at Falmouth and leave you to overland to Whitehall.’
‘So be it, John. But with Pitt I must speak and as soon as possible, as I fancy these papers will contain news of which he will be eager to know.’
The weather was against them. For the next two days Nimble made little progress, beating her way east, only to be pushed down channel again and again. Her captain rarely left the deck, save for brief spells to eat or snatch ten minutes of spare and light sleep.
On the third day Falmouth Bay opened before their raw faces and crusted hair.
Chapter 14
The birth of a boy had been celebrated in Woodchester as the leaves turned from vibrant green to yellow and gold and multiple shades of brown, falling from the beech trees as the fields hardened with the first of the winter’s frosts and as the village children pushed barrows laden with effigies of Guy Fawkes stuffed with straw and paper. They gathered firewood, all manner of combustibles, food, drink, and pennies from wealthier neighbours.
Mary, her adopted daughter Annie and Helena Squires had been walking home after attending church at St Giles’, as a troupe of excited children skipped along, chanting:
“Don’t you remember,
The Fifth of November,
‘Twas Gunpowder Treason Day.
I let off my gun,
And made ‘em all run,
And stole all their Bonfire away.”
They both smiled and, delving into purses, produced several copper farthings and halfpenny coins, which sent the children whooping with excitement. As they climbed the hill to Lampern, Mary stooped, clasping her belly, and groaned. She breathed deeply and quietly sat on a low dry stonewall, recognising it as one which she and Jack had shared so many years before.
‘Oh Mary’, said Helena, ‘has your time arrived?’ The talk had been of little else during recent weeks, as Mary’s belly swelled and as the ladies continued to enjoy the peace and security offered by the Gloucestershire countryside. They felt safe at Lampern, and had made friends with several families in the Stroud area.
As she spoke, one of the new scullery maids arrived following slowly behind with a basket of meats from the local butcher. The girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen, hesitated to speak, but smiled shyly.
‘Megan, oh, Megan, what a relief to see you here, girl. Do run to the house, child. Leave the basket. Mistress Vizzard is… so very near her time. Pray hurry and tell Neave. He’ll know what to do.’
‘How my back aches, Helena. I do believe my child is preparing to enter this world. Ow, ooh I should stand, perhaps that will ease me.’
‘Oh Lord. I have no experience of these things, Ma
ry. Pray, tell me how I may assist you, please.’ Helena implored her friend.
‘Goodness, I have no idea. In our time together, Jack and I have lost one; in New Holland, but we believed it to be due to our poor diet. Diet, well we near starved to death there, Helena. It has taken Jack all this time to regain his vigour. Now he has, he is away playing soldiers once more, when I need him here!’ she cried. ‘I am sorry, I do not mean to be self-pitying, but I do so miss him, Helena.’
‘Then as soon as we are back at the house, I will write to Their Lordships and urge them to release him from duty, Mary. There are many others to do the Government’s work.’
Hooves thudded as, from the bend ahead Neave, the family’s butler and general factotum, appeared driving a cart behind one of Sir Henry’s horses anxiety furnishing his reddened forehead, with his wife, Madeline, next to him. They pulled up and the old man slowly lowered himself to the ground, hands extended. ‘Now then, mistress, step here and we’m be taking care of you. I sent young Megan to fetch Doctor Steele and Mrs Bidgood from the village to aid thee. Careful now, here’s the step. And Sir Henry is mathering around the house in a right muddle, not knowing what to do or say! May be a fine lawyer, but… well, make thee comfortable and we’m have you home in a trice.’
The boy, Mary thought to name him Henry Frederick John thus joining her father’s name with that of her father-in-law was born on Guy Fawkes’ night. The children of the village enjoyed apple-bobbing and hot pies and bowls of warming soup, much of which was due to the beneficence of Sir Henry, who enjoyed the annual celebrations with the same enthusiasm as the children. The night sky above the village was showered with coloured lights and explosions, sending the younger children screaming and the older ones shouting with excitement, as a full-size effigy of the Catholic traitor burned on a magnificent pyre in the middle of the village green.
Mary watched from the nursery room at the top of the house, and felt a sense of immense peace as she nursed the infant at her breast. She had provided her man with the son he secretly craved. She fell asleep smiling.
* * * * *
The horses pulling the Salisbury Flying Machine finally succumbed to fatigue as they snorted and stumbled into the yard of the Red Lion Inn at Basingstoke. Jack, too, was travel weary and in need of refreshment. The journey had already involved a dozen or more stops and changes of horses. Bodmin, Launceston, through Devon, Dorset and now Hampshire, the post inns en route already a fading memory. His bones ached from the constant bouncing and shaking. He longed for a hot bath and a hearty meal. His eyes were red and his face dark with growth. He scratched at his cheek. After two days and a night travelling he still had another fifty miles or so to travel before he could present himself at The Admiralty with the documents captured at Brest. They did not hear or see a lone rider slowly following them and who disappeared into the shadows of Wote Street.
‘Come, Jack,’ said Giles, ‘I believe we have earned an hour of peace, a shave and some of May’s ale.’
The coachman, making a note in his log, looked askance, spitting into the street and said, ‘You’ll have twenty minutes, sirs. Not a minute more nor a minute less, as this is the King’s mail and can wait for no man!’
Giles Mountjoy, with aching limbs and eyes half-closed, could only nod in assent and followed Jack through the door of the old inn. Candlelight danced along the panelled walls of the hall leading to the interior of the inn.
‘Landlord, two tankards of May’s ale and a room to freshen and shave afore we continue our journey’, Jack hailed the proprietor as he stepped forward from the gloom of the shadows.
‘Yes, sirs, please make you comfortable aside the fire and Bessie here will prepare some hot water. Make yourselves free with the room at the top of the stairs on the left, at your leisure, gentlemen. Bessie will call you when all is ready.’
Jack slumped in a worn leather armchair, enjoying the warmth generated by the logs in the inglenook, as the innkeeper produced two large foaming pewter tankards of locally brewed ale.
‘By God, it tastes good, Giles,’ said Jack. ‘Does it not?’
‘I declare it the finest ale outside of Gloucestershire, m’friend’, replied Giles, sat opposite in an identical chair. ‘Lord, I am so damned weary, yet we have more than some fifty miles to go, and for what? I do hope those French despatches mean something to Their Lordships. I fear they will prove to be not worth the exertions delivering them.’ He spoke quietly as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
‘We will know more once they have been decrypted, Giles,’ he retorted, ‘and the sooner we can ensure they are in the right hands, the happier I will be. Now, I see the chamber is prepared so I suggest we shave the whiskers and freshen ourselves in readiness for their Lordships’ reception.’ Jack rose from the chair, stretching the tiredness from his arms.
‘Before we do, Jack. I seek your counsel on a matter that has exercised my mind of late.’ He paused as Jack returned to his armchair. ‘I have an offer of an exchange of commissions. I wish to join a more er… shall I say a more energetic, distinguished regiment. I mean the Corps’, he added carefully. ‘Jack, damn it, I’m of a mind to join the Marines as you know, but have a contract waiting to join a proper line regiment, the 29th. Have a chap willing to sell me his commission; the militia is not for me now we are at war. But damn, I’ve found nothing short of a Captaincy at an extortionate sum of four hundred pounds. What say you, old chap? Would you speak up for me, do you think?’
‘Certainly, Giles, you know I will. A formality, I assure you. The Corps is seeking to enlarge its establishment and there will be a place for you. You will not have to purchase a commission. We will arrange matters on the morrow. Now, we must wash the dust from our faces and sharpen our wits. Then we’ll take a modest repast and be on our way to London with not a moment to be lost.’
In the room ten minutes later, Jack was freshly shaved and washed, changed into a fresh shirt and pulling a brush through his hair, as Giles pulled his boots on after replacing his socks.
A gruff, incoherent voice accompanied a soft knock at the door, ‘Got some vittles and wine for you, sirs; master’s orders.’
‘Oh come in,’ said Jack, irritated at the intrusion.
The door opened swiftly with a creak. As Jack turned to speak to his friend, the explosion of noise in the small, dim room seemed to close his ears. A shadow moved across his vision of the servant entering the room, not with a platter of food and drink, but with a pistol in the man’s hand. Then he realised the shadow was Giles’ body leaping across the space and falling in a crumple at his feet, blood pumping from a hole in his chest. All this appeared slowly as life itself slowed to a heart-stopping dread-filled motion.
He reacted slowly to the unbelievable, feet leaden, hands heavy until the awful reality registered in his numbed brain. The intruder had shot his closest friend and was about to discharge the second pistol, but it wouldn’t fire. The man was staring at the inutile weapon, as rage tore through Jack’s now mobilised brain and with the roar of an aggressive lion he snatched up his sword from the table, the scabbard flying on a journey of its own. In the dim light he recognised a scarred Major Squires, but did not hesitate. The blade, always kept sharp, nearly severed the man’s head, sticking instead in the left side of his neck, opening muscles and the left carotid artery, creating a pulsing fountain of blood as the man fell dying at Jack’s feet.
He pulled the sword free, threw the weapon aside and dropped to his knees to speak to his friend.
‘Oh Christ on the cross, Giles, why? Dear God in heaven. For what did you do this thing? He held Giles’ face between his hands. ‘You gallant man, you fool; you damned fool… `
‘It comes dark now, Jack. My life is ending, I fear, and… it grows cold. So cold… Jack… there is one thing… it has been on my mind for many a year and I must… must speak of… Barnfield.’ He coughed blood onto his crumpled shirt. ‘You know of what I speak. I did deduce what you did the night you fled. The day Mary
was convicted…You knew I would… I never… never spoke of it… not to a soul. Take care of my Louise, I beg…’ He coughed more blood and wheezed as his life ebbed away.
Desolated, Jack wept.
* * * * *
‘They are starving, Mister Vizzard. Such is the content of the correspondence you have brought us. I had suspected as much’, said Pitt, ‘but what comes as a matter of some surprise is the lengths to which the rogues will go to manage their parlous state. They have courted the Americans who will provide for them, for their own ends I have no doubt.’
Jack Vizzard took the glass proffered by Williams, the Prime Minister’s servant, and sat in the easy chair in his rooms in Downing Street.
‘We have some clever gentlemen in a secret office near Abchurch Lane, Vizzard. They produce quite marvellous intelligence from various sources; the documents you liberated from Brest, and the information on the contents of the harbour there, have been analysed and deciphered. The rogues have been negotiating with the Americans for months; they have laid plans for a substantial merchant fleet, a convoy, to carry corn and other foodstuffs. An escort and the Brest fleet are to accompany the convoy.’
‘Then there will be work for the Channel Fleet, sir; and the prospect of battle.’
‘I believe that to be a necessity, Vizzard. We simply must find and capture the convoy; or see to its destruction. Thanks to you, we have the knowledge to ensure our success. The commander of the Channel Fleet, my Lord Howe, has the information now.’
Three days had passed since Giles’ murder in Basingstoke. Jack had stayed to make arrangements with an undertaker to prepare and store his friend. Letters had been written and despatched, arrangements made for his friend’s return to Gloucestershire, and his own, as soon as Their Lordships of the Admiralty granted leave to do so. The letter to Louise was especially painful to write, the paper tear-stained. The note to Mary all too brief, scratched in a shaking hand, heavy with grief. To the undertaker engaged to attend to the late Major Squires, he left instructions to send a bill to The Admiralty, with a copy and a brief note addressed to the Commandant General of the Corps.
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 16
