by David McDine
Although there was still a steady drizzle, Fagg and Hoover had emerged from under the tarpaulin sheet, but were obeying the last order and keeping quiet. When Anson pointed to Fagg’s ankle and raised an enquiring eyebrow the response was a thumbs-up.
Whenever occasional travellers on horseback and the odd farm cart approached, the escapers ducked back under the tarpaulin. The only military traffic they encountered was a line of commissariat wagons heading south, but the accompanying soldiery – collars turned up and heads down against the rain – ignored their cart, no doubt assuming this was merely a lone peasant off to market.
Mid-morning and again late afternoon, the farmer stopped to water, feed and rest the horse, and after a while they continued clip-clopping and creaking northwards.
In the early evening the pace and noise changed, awaking the dozing escapers. It had stopped raining at last and the farmer had pulled off the road into the shelter of a copse of trees where they could not be easily seen from the road.
The passengers got down, stretching aching limbs, and relieved themselves in the bushes while the Frenchman unhitched the horse, gave it water from a pail and left it to graze.
‘Il est fatigué,’ he grumbled. ‘Moi aussi.’
Anson nodded. The man must be kept on side. Surreptitiously he teased another guinea from its hiding place in the lining of his jacket and handed it over. ‘Pour manger.’ It was important to conserve the remains of what they had brought from the auberge in case they could obtain nothing else later.
Magically, the farmer’s attitude turned from taciturn to friendly. He examined the coin carefully before tucking it into his pocket with the ghost of a grin and doled out chunks of gammon, bread, cheese and more of the rough red wine.
They rested up overnight, dozing for a few hours.
Back on the road early next morning, Anson thought it wise now to keep a lookout lest they were caught unawares by passing gendarmes or chanced upon more military traffic.
He took the first watch himself while the others dozed, but nothing untoward occurred other than occasional encounters with other farm traffic.
A shake woke the catnapping Hoover with a start. Anson signed that it was his turn and the marine took over the watcher’s role. They pulled off the road for a makeshift meal and to rest the horse before setting off again towards St Omer.
For mile after mile there was nothing to report as the horse clip-clopped slowly along pulling the creaking, lurching cart.
But then, late in the afternoon, ahead of them on one long straight stretch, Hoover spotted two stationary wagons and what looked like two blue-coated figures apparently giving the first of them a going-over.
He put his hand on the dozing officer’s shoulder. Alert in an instant, Anson raised his eyebrows questioningly. The marine gestured down the road. A blue-coated figure was now on one of the wagons, looking under a tarpaulin. The other appeared to be questioning the driver. Gendarmes?
‘Shit!’ Anson stirred the sleeping Fagg with his foot and, as he came to, put a finger to his lips, and called softly to the farmer: ‘Arrêt ici, s’il vous plait.’ A tug at the reins and the cart halted.
Checking that the gendarmes were still fully occupied searching the other vehicles, the prisoners gathered their rolled-up coats and the sack of food, and disembarked, Fagg easing himself down with the aid of his crutches.
There was a whispered exchange and more gold coins and the remains of the ham, cheese and bread changed hands, drawing a full-sized grin from the farmer who immediately set about turning horse and cart back towards home.
The escapers hurried into the bushes beside the road. ‘I’ve given him an extra guinea on condition he goes straight home and tells no one about us because we’re on secret business for France,’ Anson told the others. But as they set off into the woods the retreating farmer called softly: ‘Bonne chance, Anglais!’
Anson winced. So much for posing as Flemish allies. The wretched man must have known they were English all along.
9
What passed for the county set gathered outside the parish church to attend the memorial service for the late lamented Lieutenant Oliver Anson, RN.
The invitation letters had been penned by his elder brother, Augustine, or Gussie as his naval brother had always called him to his intense annoyance.
He had been jealous of his younger sibling’s adventurous life at sea almost to a degree of hatred. So it was with some only thinly-disguised enthusiasm that he organised the service on behalf of their grieving family.
A brother fallen fighting for King and country was more useful in death than life to an ambitious young cleric, so Gussie had made sure that what he called ‘the right society’ was invited.
His invitation had smacked of blackmail. Distance precluded many, but who of those unfortunate enough to live within half a day’s journey could ignore a call to honour the sacrifice of a hero such as this? Any who responded with a ‘much regret unable’ would be made to feel unpatriotic, and their absence would be noticed – and remembered.
And so the ivy-covered, flint-walled, 12th century church dedicated to Saints Cosmos and Damian, pioneer makers of prosthetic limbs, was full to mark Lieutenant Anson’s passing.
Everyone who was anyone was there, from minor gentry and squirarchy to the navy, including officers from the dead hero’s ship, red-coated representatives from Canterbury and Dover garrisons, a goodly sprinkling from the church, and land-owners and farmers from the neighbourhood.
The navy was there in no lesser personage than Captain Phillips of HMS Phryne, temporarily berthed at Chatham. Immaculate in post captain’s best fig, his jacket heavily edged with gold braid, he attracted every eye.
He was accompanied by the first lieutenant, John Howard, a particular friend of the late Lieutenant Anson, and by Lieutenant McKenzie of the marines, resplendent in scarlet jacket that contrasted sharply with his magpie-uniformed naval colleagues. His left arm, struck by a French musket ball in the boat pulling away from the mole at St Valery-en-Caux, was still supported by a black sling.
Captain Phillips was somewhat taken aback when, on arrival, he was presented by Augustine Anson with a monumental mason’s hefty bill for work done on the memorial about to be unveiled. As he opened his mouth to query it, he was told sharply: ‘The plaque is in the name of his brother officers. That’s you, is it not?’
The rector himself, apparently completely unaware of his eldest son’s barefaced effrontery, welcomed Phillips warmly.
The captain expressed his condolences and asked: ‘I gathered from your late son, sir, that you are related in some degree to the great circumnavigator?’
‘Yes, but distant, I fear. And you, sir, are one of the Pembrokeshire Philipps, I assume?’
‘I am, indeed, from that glorious county of Pembrokeshire, sir, but a Phillips with two ‘l’s with a single ‘p’ at the end. Not to be confused with one ‘l’ and two final ‘p’s. They are the ones with the money who live in castles.’
The squire – portly, ruddy-faced Sir Oswald Brax – was as ever, loud and prominent, arriving in the family carriage with minutes to spare before the mourners filed into the church.
As owner of the area’s largest estate, he held the advowson – the right to nominate a rector who met his criteria: a cheery, hunting cleric, Tory of course, who kept a good table, a well-stocked cellar, and would not go around prophesying doom and spreading gloom among the peasantry.
Parson Anson the elder fitted the bill admirably, although he did tend to get carried away of a Sunday and rant against the ranters. But fair enough in an age when non-conformist sects were constantly hovering like hungry wolves around the edge of your flock trying to make off with easily-persuadable yokels.
In the Brax family pew, ornately-carved in an otherwise largely austere boxed-seated nave, was the squire’s plump, extravagantly-attired wife, envied by most because of her position in society and imagined lifestyle, but to be pitied if they only knew of h
er husband’s private peccadillos.
Next to her sat their three daughters, Charlotte, Jane and Isobel, aged 20-something, 18 and 14 respectively, and youngest son William, at 16 not quite forceful enough to defy his father like his elder brother George. The latter had chosen to ignore the memorial service and was elsewhere, either destroying some kind of wildlife with gun or hounds, playing with the local yeomanry troop, drinking and gambling at his Canterbury club, or hunting a softer species of game among the housemaids at Brax Hall. Like father, like son.
The church was well represented by the archdeacon and Gussie’s fellow minor canons, as well as assorted rectors, vicars and curates from nearby parishes. The archdeacon, a decent though thoroughly unworldly man more interested in antiquarian than spiritual pursuits, had been flattered to be invited to conduct the service, give the address and dedicate a memorial tablet to a naval hero from such a respected Anglican family. Centre stage, he felt a little of the reflected glory.
The principal farmers were there with their wives, in Sunday best but awkward among so many clerics and their pinch-faced womenfolk, smugly superior in their bespoke mourning dresses. And at the back of the church a score of rectory servants and labourers, given the morning off to attend, shuffled in to pay their respects – more to keep in with the living rather than honouring a dead hero they had scarcely seen this past decade.
The Anson family – whey-faced father, weeping mother and daughters, Gussie with a carefully-contrived fixed expression of saintly piety, and younger son Abraham, proud to be a hero’s brother – filed in last and took their places at the front.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, and all that believeth in me shall inherit eternal life,’ droned the archdeacon, not altogether convincingly. And so the service began. Words, meant to be of comfort and reassurance of heaven’s many mansions, were punctuated by robust hymns specially chosen.
It had pleased the family to introduce a nautical theme with ‘Oh God our help in ages past … Our Shelter from the stormy blast.’ And the verse about time bearing all its sons away to ‘fly forgotten, as a dream’ brought a tear to the eyes of most mothers present.
The congregation was suitably stirred and impressed by Gussie’s reading from Psalms Chapter 107:
‘They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;
These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders of the deep.’
But when he reached the line about storm-tossed sailors who ‘reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man …’ Howard and McKenzie exchanged a glance and stifled grins. Both recalled happier times reeling and staggering with their deceased shipmate.
Came the eulogy, and Captain Phillips strode forward. He placed his notes on the lectern, and gripped it firmly as if clinging to the yardarm in a gale. Clearing his throat, he took a quick look round at the assembled mourners and, a shade less confidently than when on his own quarterdeck, proceeded to state the praises of his fallen lieutenant.
‘It was,’ he said, ‘for King and country that this bold young officer fell on an alien shore. He had shown great promise in his chosen profession, was well respected, and, indeed, well liked by every officer and man in HMS Phryne, and had died a hero’s death, bravely rallying his men against overwhelming odds to allow others to reach the boats and safety.’
It was standard fare for grieving relatives and on this occasion had the merit of being largely true. Only Howard heard McKenzie’s muttered: ‘And all for a foolhardy mission doomed from the start …’
A few more platitudes and the eulogy was over. Augustine Anson left the family pew and ushered Captain Phillips to a space between two stained glass windows, one featuring an odd-looking green-clad Virgin Mary and child, where a white ensign hung.
From the pulpit, the archdeacon delivered a blessing as the captain tugged at the cord attached to the ensign. The pegs holding it gave way and it fell, revealing a marble tablet but enveloping its unveiler, who quickly pulled it off his head to avoid further embarrassment.
The memorial was surmounted by a scroll and a relief of a warship under sail, and the simple inscription was supported by various nautical symbols: a cannon, compass rose and fouled anchor. It read:
‘Erected by his brother officers in affectionate memory of Lieutenant Oliver Anson, Royal Navy, second son of the Reverend Thomas Anson DD, Rector of this Parish, who fell in action at St Valery-en-Caux in Normandy, Anno Dom. 1798.’
It was, all agreed, a fitting tribute to a fine young man – truly a local hero.
*
Still very much alive, if a shadow of his normal self, the object of their memorialising was pondering what to do next.
Minutes after abandoning the cart it became clear that there was no hope of Fagg getting far on foot. With his splinted leg bent at the knee to avoid any risk of grounding it, he hopped awkwardly, alternately putting his weight on his crude crutches. The effort involved was considerable.
Anson observed him apprehensively. ‘How is it?’
Fagg paused in mid-hop, glad of a chance to lean on his crutches. ‘A bit dot an’ carry, like they say, sir, but I’ll make it.’
‘And pigs might fly. Here, put your arm round my shoulder and we’ll try it three-legged again.’
They set off shoulder to shoulder with Hoover in close attendance, protesting: ‘Let me give him a hand while you navigate, sir.’
‘You’ll get your turn soon enough,’ panted Anson. ‘The priority now is to get well away from the road. Then we can rest up. I reckon we’re still some miles south of St Omer, and if we keep the road on our right we shouldn’t get lost.’
They staggered off deeper into the wood, with Hoover now scouting ahead, holding one of Fagg’s crutches like a musket, which he dearly wished it was.
Fagg grumbled: ‘I wish to Gawd there was a bleedin’ river to float down. I ’ate all these bleedin’ woods an’ fields. Ain’t bleedin’ natural.’
Anson supposed the countryside would not suit a Chatham guttersnipe like Fagg. Back alleys were his natural environment ashore.
‘If Gawd ’ad meant us t’go cross-country ’e’d ’ave issued us with bleedin’ wheels or ’ooves, so he would. Will I be chuffed to see Boologny and the sea!’
Anson corrected him. ‘Not Boulogne. That’ll be too full of uniforms. No, our course is for Gravelines.’
Hoover asked. ‘Gravelines, where’s that?’
‘To the north east of Bolougne, between Calais and Dunkirk. English smugglers use it.’
‘So we’ll stand a better chance of getting a boat from there than we would from Calais or Boulogne?’
‘Correct – or anywhere else for that matter.’
‘And it’s still only 30 miles or so to cross the Channel instead of hundreds from the Normandy coast?’
‘Exactly.’ Anson was determined to keep morale up by maintaining a confident attitude, born more out of wishful thinking than certainty.
All they had to do for now was skirt inhabited places and avoid human contact. It would be if and when they neared the coast that their real problems would begin.
Anson’s dark blue jacket could be taken by country bumpkins for a French infantryman’s uniform and his fractured French for the Fleming he reckoned he had already successfully passed himself off as – until he recalled the farmer’s farewell when he had dropped them off.
Lank-haired, unshaven, and in the innkeeper’s cast-offs Thérèse had given them, Fagg and Hoover could pass for French peasants – until they opened their mouths. True, Fagg could now order drinks and curse like a Frenchman, but with an accent that shrieked of the mean streets of Chatham and of the lower deck.
Hoover, naturally reserved, spoke only when he had something to say. He had no intention of speaking any French whatsoever. If the Frogs wanted to speak to him they had best learn the King’s English.
The marine seemed tireless. Whenever a halt was called he took it on himself, without orders, to find the best cover, recon
noitre the surrounding area and hunt for water, berries, nuts and anything else drinkable or edible that he came across.
Anson, having noted the marine’s fieldcraft skills, was content to leave their security to him. It had become blindingly obvious to Anson that with Fagg’s ankle as it was they could only make a few miles a day and at that rate it would take a month of Sundays to reach the coast.
There was only one alternative. Anson judged they were now fairly close to St Omer. If he was right and they could skirt the town undetected they should hit the river that flowed all the way down to Gravelines on the coast.
*
By nightfall they had reached what Anson hoped was the northern end of the wood. Through the trees they could see the outline of a road. They crawled forward and lay up near a straight stretch to observe the traffic, but there was none save a solitary horseman who trotted past, unaware that he was being watched. Slung over his shoulder was a leather satchel. Another official messenger, perhaps?
Cloudless, the night sky soon glittered with stars. Anson sought the Big Dipper and with his index finger drew an imaginary line through the stars Merak and Dubhe, moved it upwards five times that distance to Ursa Minor – and with it pinpointed Polaris, the Pole star. He stood facing it, and confirmed: ‘This is north.’
With virtually no traffic, he reckoned taking to the road again was worth the risk. Even with Fagg’s game leg they would be able to make better progress than through the woods, and could scuttle into the ditch beside the road if they met any other nocturnal travellers.
Emerging from the trees, they set off up the road. It was a struggle, with Anson and Hoover taking turns to support their injured comrade who was coping manfully with the aid of his crutches.
Anson estimated they were perhaps five, at most ten, miles south of St Omer and wondered if Fagg would be able to keep up this sort of pace. Hopping along was hard enough for him, and adding that to sleeping rough without proper food, the odds appeared to be stacked against them.
