by David McDine
But, whichever way Anson decided to make the attempt, it was vital to win time to get over the worst of their wounds and gather their strength before making a move.
And meanwhile, life at the auberge was pleasant enough.
*
After a few days, a toddler tottered unsteadily into Anson’s room closely followed by Madame Thérèse who apologised, picked him up and made to leave.
‘Votre fils?’
She nodded. ‘Il cherche son père—’
Anson pointed downwards, ‘Le patron?’
For the first time since the prisoners’ arrival she laughed. ‘Non, non – le patron est mon père!’
Strangely bucked to discover that the landlord was her father, and pushing his fractured French to the limit, he learned that her husband was dead. They had grown up in the village where his widowed mother lived on the other side of the square. When the recruiters came and the drums beat he had been desperate to enlist. It had been accepted that they would marry eventually. Now it had become urgent. They had pledged themselves in the village church, and three days later he went off to war.
Within the year, with little Thierry at her breast, news had come that her husband had been cut in half by an Austrian cannonball at Lodi in Italy.
So madame – Thérèse – was a widow.
That night she came to dress his wounds which were healing well. She lingered beyond all necessity, smoothing his hair back from his scar and fussing with his bandage.
And she pretended not to notice as he began to fondle her, until he took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Then she showed she was aware.
*
It was another reason to stall Whiskers for a few more days, and keeping up a steady supply of red wine saw to that.
While the French corporal succumbed to copious amounts of wine next evening and his simpleton side-kick’s attention was captured by Fagg, who was attempting to teach him how to tie knots, Anson quietly talked escape with Hoover.
‘From what I can deduce we’ve travelled more or less due eastward from the coast.’
Hoover nodded. ‘Reckon that’s about right, sir. But where’s this place?’
‘It’s just a tinpot village of no account. I judge we’re well to the north of Paris, somewhere around a place called Amiens if I’ve heard correctly.’ He gestured to the bar where a few locals were boozing and making idle small talk.
‘I’ve quizzed Whiskers here and he tells me he’s under orders to take us to Arras but then we may be sent on to Verdun, where they keep most of the naval prisoners.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A prison fortress beyond Reims. I think it’s in the province of Lorraine, well out of our way. It would be inconvenient to say the least if we ended up there.’
The marine looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. ‘So, sir, do you plan to make a run soon?’
Anson thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got to try it. But there’s no need for you to come.’
Hoover frowned. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Because you’re an American. You can tell the French you were pressed by the British, and wait out for a ship home to the States.’
The marine smiled and shook his head. ‘England’s my home now and I’m not quitting. Thanks for offering, but I’ll stick with you, sir. I could be stranded among the snail-scoffers for years, and even if I got to America I wouldn’t get much of a welcome, being a loyalist’s son.’
It was the answer Anson wanted. ‘Good man. I was pretty sure that’s what you’d say.’ He raised his glass to the marine and took a sip. ‘Now that’s settled, this is my plan. As I see it, we mustn’t let Whiskers here take us any further away from the coast.’
As if on cue, their moustachioed escort emitted a gross, ear-piercing snore that made every head in the place turn. The two exchanged a grin and Anson confided: ‘It’s plain we could slip away whenever we wish, but we need to be as fit as possible to make it to the coast.’
He frowned. ‘It’s not going to be easy. We’ll have to live rough, travel only at night and lay up during the day. And I’ll need to plan it carefully so we don’t stir up an ants’ nest when we make the break.’
Hoover turned to make sure Fagg was still occupying the younger Frenchman who was tying his fourth granny knot, much to his tutor’s frustration. ‘Non, non, you cretin! Left over right, then right over left. Droit over gauche. Regardez? Look, ’ere I go agin.’ His fingers flew and a perfect reef knot appeared. Simple Simon studied it and looked down at his own failed effort, perplexed.
Fagg winked at the marine and encouraged his pupil to try again. ‘Come along now, ’ave another go. Gauche over droit, droit over gauche. Simple, ain’t it? Leastways, you are at any rate, ain’t yer?’ Simple Simon wagged his head enthusiastically and tried again.
Anson continued to outline his plan. ‘So we need to lay up here for a few more days, recover somewhat, and get together what we need for the run.’
‘Will we head back for the Normandy coast?’
The officer shrugged. ‘That would be easiest, but maybe too obvious I think. From what I can tell we’ve gone past Amiens so we could head for St Omer, by-pass the town and continue north to the Channel ports.’
Hoover could not help looking quizzical.
‘Yes, I know it’s a bit further than the Normandy coast – maybe 80 or 90 miles – but it’s through Picardy where it’s likely to be pretty quiet. The coast roads will be buzzing if the alarm’s raised. But I don’t think the Frogs’ll be expecting us to head north. If we make it to the Channel ports and manage to get a boat of some sort we’ll have only a short passage to the Kent coast. But then Normandy is nearer. It’s a toss-up.’
Hoover looked thoughtful and far from confident.
Anson saw the doubt in his face, but shrugged it off. ‘Trust me – whether it’s Normandy or the Channel Ports, we’ll make it!’
That night Thérèse again slipped into Anson’s room after the inn settled down for the night. There had been a need.
7
And then, suddenly, it was over.
A military messenger stopped by to feed and rest his horse in the inn’s stables, and accepted an invitation to join the patron, the guards and wagoner for supper. They sat at the big table and the landlord called for Thérèse, who appeared with a pitcher of wine and took orders for the meal.
Fagg whispered behind his hand to Hoover who got up and nonchalantly strolled outside. The Frenchmen took no notice – too intent on the exchange of news over their wine.
Anson was sprawled in a corner seat, feigning sleep but straining to follow the rapid French of the diners. As far as he could make out, the galloper was passing on rumours of some major action against ‘les Anglais’. And, from his hushed tones and hostile glances at the prisoners, it had clearly not gone well – for the French.
Thérèse reappeared with a bowl of what smelt like onion soup and was ladling it out when the door burst open and Hoover stumbled in shouting, ‘Monsewer, your horse has scarpered!’
The Frenchmen looked up, startled, and the patron demanded: ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
Anson, somewhat taken aback himself, tried to explain, ‘Il dit que votre cheval est disparu …’
‘Disparu?’ The messenger panicked, jumped up and made for the door, closely followed by the other Frenchmen, and they ran to the stables shouting.
‘Heh, heh!’ Fagg laughed as he hopped across to where the messenger had been sitting and pulled his satchel from the back of his chair. ‘Keep cave lobster, whilst I just see what’s in this Froggy’s handbag.’
‘Relax. You’ll have plenty of time. Guess his horse will have made off quite a-ways. I gave its aft end a hell of a smack when I let it out.’
‘Good man. Now, let’s ’ave a look.’ Fagg opened the satchel and pulled out a bundle of documents. ‘Borin’ – all in Frog-speak I reckon. Don’t know why they don’t learn to speak English like what we do.’
Anson leapt out of his seat. ‘Let’s have it. By heavens, it’s a map of the whole region!’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Here, you idiot! Everywhere from here to the Channel coast …’
Fagg, who was now helping himself to the messenger’s bowl of onion soup, pretended to be more miffed than he was. ‘Oh, so I’m a idiot now? I thought that was a blinking clever trick getting the lobster to make that messenger bloke’s horse go walkies and nicking his handbag—’
Anson caught on to the diversionary ploy. ‘Yes, yes, it was very clever.’ He spread the map on the table. ‘Now, let me concentrate. We may only have a few minutes.’
From his look-out post beside the half-open door, Hoover reassured him: ‘You’ll have plenty longer than that, sir. After the slap I gave that pony he’ll be halfway to Paris by now.’
‘Why not go and give them a helping hand?’
Hoover smiled knowingly and set off to join the hunt, closely followed by hop-along Fagg. Anson knew that with the kind of help they had in mind the messenger’s horse could stay at large for some time.
Without the necessary materials it was not possible to make a copy, so he studied the map carefully, noting the positions of the major towns. He knew roughly where the auberge was in relation to them and with his finger traced the route south west, back towards the Normandy coast, and then the way north via St Omer to the Channel ports.
Thanks to the map it was now obvious to him what their escape route should be and he committed the important features to memory.
Outside, shouting erupted as the English prisoners joined efforts to catch the horse which had been driven back into the main square by a passing farmer. From the French and Anglo-Saxon oaths, Anson could picture the chaos his apparently innocent companions were causing and the map and papers were back in the satchel long before the door was flung open and the perspiring horse-herders returned, still arguing volubly as to whose fault it had been – and who the saviours of the situation were.
The patron called for Thérèse to bring more wine and he and his fellow diners returned to their now luke-warm soup – or, in the case of the messenger, what was left of it.
When they were alone, Anson confided in Hoover and Fagg. ‘From what I could make out listening to what the messenger told the others, there’s been a major battle involving the English.’
Hoover nodded. ‘And as we’ve got no troops on the Continent right now it could only have been at sea?’
‘That’s right – a fleet action. Perhaps Nelson.’
‘Why ’im, sir?’ asked Fagg.
‘He’s been hunting Admiral Brueys’ ships for months. While we were blockading Le Havre we were warned the French had at least a dozen ships of the line at sea.’
‘D’you reckon Nelson’s found ’em?’
‘Seems likely. Whatever’s happened, Whiskers is looking jittery. He won’t be able to hang about here any longer, and the further we go from the coast the more difficult it will be for us to escape, especially once word spreads of a naval defeat.’
Fagg scratched his head. ‘So, if we’ve seen orf the Frogs …?’
‘English sailors will be in season.’ Although he was sure no Frenchman was in earshot, Anson lowered his voice. ‘It’s time to make a move.’
Whiskers, had indeed sensed that word of English prisoners being holed up at the Auberge du Marin would spread via the galloper, and next morning he went into a huddle with the innkeeper.
Nights on the wine at the English officer’s expense were all well and good, but clearly the realisation had hit him that trouble could be looming unless he delivered his charges to Arras very soon.
Broken axles, lame horses or sick prisoners would excuse some delay. But all good things must come to an end, and the messenger’s appearance had convinced him the time had come. He sought out the English officer and announced that it was time to be off.
Anson knew that the Frenchman had no choice and it was pointless to argue. But Arras did not fit in with his plans. It was time for the parting of the ways, but for the coast and England, not a French prison. He could not ignore the war and his duty.
The desire to escape overwhelmed everything else. The war could last for years and kicking his heels as a prisoner would mean wasted opportunities. Contemporaries, even juniors, would be winning glory and promotion over his head.
He thanked God he had not given his parole, trading his word not to escape for restricted freedom and the possibility of exchange at some future date. That would have meant loss of honour if he escaped, and sitting it out waiting for exchange was not an option for an ambitious officer.
There was no question: escape before they reached prison was an absolute necessity.
Getting away from their dozy guards would not be a problem. The difficulty would be the journey back to the coast across hostile enemy country – and crossing the Channel.
It was easy to persuade the newly-righteous Whiskers to go along with his proposal that they stay for one last night – a farewell supper with flowing wine. So what if they delayed just a little longer for a morning departure and slept off the wine in the wagon as they headed further inland?
*
Thérèse was busy in the kitchen serving up what Fagg dubbed ‘the last supper’. He and Hoover were charged with ensuring that their guards, the wagoner and the patron drank themselves insensible. And to finance that, Anson produced another golden guinea and called for the best wine.
As the meal progressed, Fagg used skills that smacked of a recruiter ensnaring yokels: proposing toasts in appalling slurred Anglo-French, constantly topping up his victims and appearing to be getting steadily more drunk himself while remaining more or less sober.
Anson liked a drink but needed a clear head. He slipped away to his room after the meal complaining of a headache and needing to sleep it off before the onward journey.
Soon afterwards, Hoover, who had also put on a show of drinking while staying sober as a Methodist, rose unsteadily to answer a call of nature in the outside privy.
The Frenchmen, by now singing the new Republican anthem, conducted by the wily Fagg, did not notice that the American failed to return. He was busy in the stable behind the inn.
Thérèse came to Anson’s room and they lay in each other’s arms, speaking in whispers to a background of drunken singing. He did not need to spell out what was afoot. She had read the signs.
‘Now you forget me?’
He shook his head. ‘I will return when peace comes.’
‘Promise?’
She could not see that he had crossed his fingers. ‘I promise.’
Eventually the raucous singing tailed off and the inn fell silent.
In the early hours floorboards creaked. Anson, already awake, acknowledged a theatrical cough from Hoover in the passageway with a hissed ‘Wait!’
He dressed hurriedly and gave Thérèse a package and whispered instructions. They clung together for one last time, and then he was gone.
Outside, Fagg and Hoover, now dressed in some of the patron’s cast-offs Thérèse had found for them, were waiting with the wagon. They clambered aboard and, with the marine at the reins, slowly left the square and headed back down the road towards the coast.
As Anson turned to look once more at the moonlit inn and fix it in his memory, he glimpsed a face at an upper window and raised his hand in a sad farewell salute.
Fagg chortled: ‘I got them Froggies drunk alright! Snorin’ like pigs they are. They’ll ’ave terrible ’eads come morning!’ Then in the moonlight he caught the officer’s desolate expression, understood, and fell silent.
*
Through the night they continued coast-bound and just before dawn abandoned the wagon at another auberge near crossroads Anson had noted on the way inland 15 or so miles down the road. It wou
ld be unwise to draw attention to themselves by continuing on the main road in daylight.
Hoover tied the horses to a rail and they set off on foot, Fagg supporting his game leg with the makeshift crutches he had made at the inn.
Anson held up his hand for a halt when they reached the finger post pointing four ways – back towards Arras, south to Amiens, west to Dieppe, and north to St Omer. He stared up at it for a few minutes before confirming the decision he had made while studying the map back at the Auberge du Marin – and turned north.
As soon as it became light they would hole up somewhere close to the road and rest until nightfall.
Fagg and Hoover exchanged a knowing glance. So it was to be the Channel ports. And the short sea route home.
*
Back at the inn, Thérèse spent a sleepless, tearful night rehearsing her instructions. When the carousers came to she was to give the corporal back his written orders that had been issued to him at St Valery-en-Caux and borrowed from his pocket by Fagg during the last drunken supper.
Thanks to an ink-stained cork whittled painstakingly by Hoover it was now stamped ‘Reçu Arras’ – Received Arras – over a florid, totally illegible signature. It was a convincing enough receipt for the English naval prisoners that would surely pass muster with all who had never seen the real thing – even supposing such an item existed. And it should get the bemused Whiskers off the hook.
As dawn broke, the escapers left the road and crawled into a thicket to rest up until nightfall.
They shared supplies Thérèse had given them and Anson told the others: ‘Tonight we’ll need to by-pass St Omer and head for the Channel ports.’ An insect buzzed his ear and he slapped it away. ‘If we make it there and manage to get a boat of some sort we’ll have only a short passage to the Kent coast.’
Far from the sea, his tattered dark naval jacket could pass muster and in the inn-keeper’s cast-offs his companions made plausible peasants, except for one thing. The officer stared at Fagg. ‘It’ll have to go.’
‘What’ve I done now? What’s gotta go?’
