The Normandy Privateer

by David McDine

  Progress became slower and slower, and it was to the relief of all three when the emerging dawn forced them to seek a suitable wooded area where they could leave the road and hide up again until nightfall.

  *

  Waking from a brief doze, Anson focussed on his two companions sitting beside him. Fagg looked nervous. ‘Sir?’

  Anson blinked and rubbed his eyes. ‘What is it? Trouble?’

  ‘Not exackly, sir. But while you was sleeping, well, we ’ad a meetin’ …’

  Schooled as he was in naval discipline, and conscious that it was not long since he had been tangled up in the Spithead and Nore mutinies, Anson had a deep distrust of lower deck meetings. ‘A meeting?’

  ‘Yeah, well we what-you-call mulled it over like, y’know—’

  Hoover came to Fagg’s aid. ‘We kind of talked through how we’re fixed, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  A magpie fluttered down into the clearing and, spooked by the unexpected sight of humans in its bailiwick, skittered away squawking.

  Fagg touched his temple in superstitious salute to the bird – a precautionary Kentish custom – and tried again. ‘Well sir, t’cut a long story short, we reckon you’d stand a better chance on yer own, escapin’ like.’

  ‘Why?’

  Hoover cut in. ‘The fact is, sir, that you speak French – and Fagg here can’t help it with his leg and all, but he slows you down.’

  ‘So what are you proposing, that we should leave him behind?’

  ‘No, sir. Sam and I will stay together. We’ll try our luck in slow time.’

  Anson pursed his lips. ‘We’ll take our chances together, and that’s that.’

  ‘But like ’e said, sir, I’ll slow yer down. On yer own you could get back to the navy that much quicker.’ Fagg rested his case.

  ‘That’s true enough, sir,’ Hoover added. ‘On your own, wearing a blue jacket and speakin’ French, well, you’d make it sure enough. But with the two of us along, why, we’d be sure to finish up in that prison place.’

  Case made, they awaited the officer’s response. Anson smiled. ‘Your consideration for me is touching. Or maybe you want to get me back into the war that much sooner?’

  They grinned.

  ‘Well, whatever your motives, let’s get a couple of things straight. We may not be on board ship, but this is still the navy. And allow me to remind you of what Captain Phillips was fond of telling us – that the navy is not a democracy. I make the decisions here. And get it into your thick heads that we are going to make it together. There’s no question of anyone going it alone. We’ll stay together and we’ll make it back to England together. That’s final. Understood?’

  Fagg and Hoover exchanged a relieved glance. ‘Well, we tried, sir,’ the marine muttered philosophically, ‘but we’re glad you think that way.’

  And Fagg nodded. ‘Yeah, stick together it is, sir – an’ I’ll try not t’slow yer down.’

  Suddenly they froze. Someone, something, was rustling in the nearby undergrowth.

  Anson raised himself stiffly on an elbow. Sleeping in the open was taking its toll.

  A sheepdog appeared and barked at the fugitives, teeth bared. ‘Here boy,’ Anson called softly and held out a crust of bread. But the animal was not to be enticed.

  Fagg swore quietly. ‘Bleedin’ hanimal. Don’t let ’im near me. I ’ate the effin’ fings!’

  The dog was unimpressed and came closer, barking fiercely. Hoover reached for his stick and the dog turned its attention to him. He raised the stick but before he could strike, a whistle stopped the dog in its tracks. The escapers froze.

  Giving Hoover a final threatening snarl, the dog turned and dashed back to his unseen owner who could be heard admonishing the creature for running off.

  ‘Phew,’ muttered Hoover, ‘that was awful close.’

  The three exchanged relieved glances. ‘Bleedin’ shepherd must ’ave thought Fido was arter a rabbit or somefink,’ whispered Fagg. ‘Picked up our scent, like. It ain’t hardly surprising when you fink about it. We must smell a bit by now.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ Hoover agreed.

  ‘Met some girl when I come ashore down at Portsmouth one time. She said I niffed a bit so I told her as I had a barf reg’lar every month whether I needed it or not … And d’you know what she said?’

  Hoover sighed. ‘I don’t doubt you’re gonna tell us, again.’

  ‘Yeah, she give me the evil eye and she said: “I ’ope the month’s nearly up.” Cheeky cow!’

  Anson’s eyebrows went skywards. Whatever, he knew they must break their rule about laying up in daylight. They needed to quit this place – just in case the dog’s owner had spotted them or had his suspicions roused enough to report strangers hiding in the woods.

  They struggled to their feet and set off as quietly as possible deeper into the wood, following Hoover’s example by walking – in Fagg’s case hopping – through brackish puddles in an attempt to disguise their scent lest the dog returned to track them.

  The marine came to a fallen tree and, judging that they were now far enough from the road, he beckoned them forward calling softly: ‘Good spot to harbour up. Plenty of cover.’

  Fagg collapsed gratefully among the grounded branches, greedily refilling his lungs and gently massaging his throbbing ankle. They could not have covered more than a few hundred yards.

  He already looked totally done in and Anson touched him on the shoulder reassuringly. ‘I reckon that’s quite enough footslogging. We’ll have to find some transport.’

  Hoover offered: ‘Will I go and see what I can find, sir?’

  The officer nodded. ‘Do that, but take care – and bring us back a couple of beefsteaks and a bottle of wine while you’re at it.’ He fished in his jacket for a coin and passed it to Hoover. ‘And remember, we’re not thieves.’

  The marine grinned, stuck up his thumb and disappeared into the bushes.

  *

  At the rectory the sherry, good wine of suspect origin – as was invariably the case in smuggling territory around the Kent coast – and a cold collation of meat and cheese platters fuelled conversation.

  Avoiding the gentry’s tipples, the farmers stuck to the small beer, as even otherwise abstaining non-conformists rightly regarded the local water as too dangerous to drink, unboiled.

  Even without a body to bury, the feeling was that Lieutenant Anson had been laid to rest satisfactorily and a cheerier atmosphere prevailed, as almost always after a funeral or memorial service.

  Clerics, naval and military mourners, and the farmers formed separate cliques. Lesser mortals had shuffled away as soon as the service ended and were already back at work.

  Squire Brax held forth to Captain Phillips and the assorted colonels from nearby garrisons about the evils of the new-fangled income tax that was being introduced to finance the war. He urged them: ‘Put the wretched Froggies back in their boxes as soon as you like and put an end to this damned iniquitous tax!’

  ‘It is, we are led to believe, a purely temporary measure, sir,’ Phillips countered reassuringly.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that!’ grunted Brax, adding after a moment’s reflection, ‘temporary maybe, but it wouldn’t surprise me if once begun we’ll never see an end to it in our lifetimes.’

  And, pandering to Phillips, he added: ‘You navy people have got the right idea. Don’t know why we need an army at all. I say the best way to keep the lid on everything is the good old English way of building a damned great fleet and letting the Frogs do what they ruddy well please as long as they stick to their own side of the Channel, don’t you think?’

  The colonels, clearly reluctant to take issue with him on an occasion such as this, gradually moved away and involved themselves in less inflammatory conversations elsewhere.

  Augustine Anson used the occasion to ingratiate himself further with the archdeacon and his hawk-nosed daughter.

  In truth, if forced to give an honest opinion, the archdea
con would have had to confess that he had never warmed to the man, regarding him as something of a Pharisee who observed the tenets of the church and rules of society, yet in reality was chiefly concerned about his own advancement and outward appearances. But since Augustine Anson showed every sign of climbing further up the ecclesiastical ladder, he would make a useful catch for Rachel, who was no beauty nor in first flush.

  Abraham, the youngest Anson brother, the squire’s son William, and the other young men quizzed Lieutenants Howard and McKenzie about life at sea, and among themselves the farmers discussed corn prices, which had risen as ever in wartime.

  The older womenfolk who classed themselves as quality surrounded the dead hero’s mother, oozing sympathy. Then, as such social gatherings providing for the exchange of information were few and far between, the talk turned to important matters such as possible matrimonial alliances for sons and daughters.

  The daughters commented on one another’s dresses and eyed the uniformed male contingent speculatively.

  The farmers’ wives, large and small, critiqued their betters’ fashions – and discussed the marriage prospects of their own offspring.

  As ever, servants were assumed – quite erroneously – to see and hear nothing. But in a lull between topping up glasses, George Beer, the rectory butler-cum-steward, observed to old Maggie, the cook: ‘If you ask me, I’d say Master Oliver is well off out of it all.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say such ’orrible fings, George Beer.’

  ‘Don’t mean no harm by it. If he weren’t dead he’d have been married off three times already today, to that there archdeacon’s daughter with the unfortunate face or to one of squire’s flibbertigibbet daughters. Mind you, Farmer Finn’s girl might have suited. Good pair of child-bearin’ hips she has. As it is, that nasty piece of work Gussie is one of the few choices left round here. And who’d want him, the pompous prig?’

  Maggie shrugged. There was no arguing with that.

  Wherever his body lay, Lieutenant Anson had been laid to rest in the minds of shipmates, family and neighbours.

  10

  Hoover skirted the edge of the wood, now fringed by nettle and thistle-dotted meadows, until he saw a cluster of farm buildings a cable’s length away.

  Apart from the smoke rising from its solitary chimney, the long low farmhouse with barn attached had a neglected look and the yard beside it was littered with old pieces of equipment, a dunghill, woodpile and patches of nettles.

  Slipping back under cover of the trees, he watched for activity. For a while there was none, but eventually a fat peasant woman emerged from the farmhouse and waddled with a bowl in one hand and bucket in the other towards an ark-shaped chicken house. She threw the bowl’s contents into the fenced run, poured water from the pail into some kind of drinking trough, and knelt at the back of the ark to open a hinged flap.

  Hoover muttered: ‘Collecting the eggs. Wish I’d got there first …’

  The woman placed the eggs carefully in the bowl, picked it and the bucket up, and wobbled over to her stable-style back door, the top half of which was hanging open. She hesitated, as if remembering another chore, put down the bowl and bucket, and headed for the barn entrance.

  The marine tensed, sensing an opportunity. After a moment or two he heard the sound of chopping from the outbuilding. She was cutting firewood.

  Hoover was up and running full pelt across the stretch of meadow, a wine bottle in each hand like some drinker rousted from an alehouse by the press gang.

  At the back door he stopped, breathing heavily, to assure himself that the woman was still busy and that there was no one else about. Satisfied that he had a few minutes, he tilted the half full bucket to fill the wine bottles. Then he scooped up three of the half dozen eggs into his hat and flitted back across the meadow into the cover of the trees, where he froze, gasping from the effort.

  The sound of chopping ceased, and in the rapidly fading light he saw the woman emerge, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with kindling and logs. She stopped at the back door, tipped the logs and firewood out of the barrow, and wheeled it back empty – Hoover guessed ready for tomorrow’s fuel. He watched her go back to the house where she picked up the egg bowl and stared at it for a moment. She clearly felt sure she had collected more eggs than the few that remained, but shrugged and went inside.

  Hoover saw his chance, emerged from the trees and entered the barn, placed the coin the officer had given him on the chopping block where she was bound to find it, and quickly wheeled the barrow away into the trees.

  Back at their hiding place, the marine’s arrival pushing a wheelbarrow provoked some mirth, and louder laughter when he told them how he had come by it – and at what cost.

  Anson commented somewhat ruefully: ‘Must be the world’s most expensive wheelbarrow …’

  They each cracked an egg and ate it raw, and as soon as the light began to fade, Anson and Hoover helped Fagg into the barrow, his legs for’ard and arms dangling either side. He grinned cheerfully: ‘I feel like a hupturned tortoise.’

  Hoover grabbed the handles. ‘Permission to shove off, sir?’

  Anson nodded. ‘Let’s go.’ And the marine lifted the handles, leaned forward and gave the barrow a shove.

  It was surprisingly easy. Fagg was no fatty, and whoever invented wheelbarrows knew what he was about. But whoever made this one had built in an annoying squeak. Every time the wheel turned, it squeaked. Over potholes or on the level, it squeaked.

  After weaving through the trees for a few hundred yards Hoover dropped the handles and scooped up a handful of mud from a puddle. He smeared it around the wheel pin, cleaned his hand with grass and resumed his place between the shafts.

  His passenger clucked appreciatively. ‘Well done, Dobbin, we’ll make a cart’orse of ye yet.’ Hoover grimaced. Had he been a swearing man, his response might well have referred to shoving the wheelbarrow up somewhere it couldn’t possibly fit. But he resisted the temptation.

  For a few turns of the wheel there was blissful silence. Then the squeak returned, slight at first but soon as loud, if not louder, than before.

  ‘Effing Frogs! Can’t even build a barrer proper,’ observed Fagg. ‘That bleedin’ squeak’ll drive us all nuts afore the night’s out.’

  Hoover grunted and pushed on. And Anson resolved to acquire some grease at the earliest opportunity.

  In the increasing gloom, he took a turn between the shafts while Hoover scouted ahead, beckoning the barrow on when satisfied all was clear, and showing the flat of his hand in a stop motion if any noise or movement ahead gave the slightest cause for concern.

  As he pushed, Anson considered the situation. Now that they had the barrow and could move Fagg along at a reasonable pace, there was no question of abandoning it and attempting to find their way round St Omer, especially because of the marshy ground that lay all around.

  No, they were going to have to take the risk, take to the road, brazen it out and wheel their way straight through the town to find the river.

  *

  Ahead, on higher ground, lay St Omer, its great square-towered cathedral dominating the skyline, and just before they reached the outskirts, Anson motioned Hoover to push the barrow into some bushes beside the road.

  He helped Fagg out of the barrow. ‘We’ll attract attention with you in that thing, so you’ll have to do some more hopping.’

  Fagg knuckled his forehead. ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Now, we’ll put our kit in the barrow and collect some wood to cover it. That’ll make it look as if we’re going back into the town with firewood.’

  Five minutes later they set off again, Anson pushing the wood-filled barrow, Hoover walking beside him with a bundle over his shoulder, and Fagg hopping along on his crutches some distance behind.

  Scruffily dressed with unkempt hair and some days’ growth of stubble, they looked every inch French peasants as they made their way slowly past the old walls and into the town. The few people still about were tra
ders bringing their unsold goods away from the town square in carts and barrows from the day’s market, and no notice was taken of them.

  All was going well until, as they passed through the market debris where a lone dog was gnawing on some discarded offal, Anson and Hoover heard a sudden cry and crash behind and turned to see Fagg sprawled on the road. He had taken a heavy tumble.

  They looked around, but in the semi-darkness they could see no one close enough to have noticed, so Hoover wheeled the barrow back to where Fagg had fallen.

  He was sitting now, groaning and massaging his leg. ‘Sorry sir, I took a tumble on these bleeding cobbles and me ankle’s givin’ me gip agin …’

  There was only one thing for it. Anson looked around to make sure they weren’t being watched and tipped the wood out of the barrow. He helped Fagg climb aboard again and once more they set off, Hoover now bringing up at the rear carrying their kit.

  With the light load of wood the wheel had barely squeaked, but Fagg’s weight set it off squealing with every turn and Anson cursed under his breath. They could hardly fail to draw unwelcome attention to themselves now.

  Hoover broke step to join a scruffy dog rummaging among the market detritus, Anson presumed in search of anything edible. Fagg urged the marine: ‘See if ye can find summat to eat – me stomach’s grumbling somefink terrible.’ But he might have been less enthusiastic if he had known that the food sold at the market that day had included fresh frogs and snails from the nearby marshes.

  The marine waved the dog away with a heavy stick he had kept from those they had tipped from the barrow. He grabbed at whatever the mongrel had been chewing and caught up with the others in triumph.

  Anson was unimpressed. ‘A bone’s not much use to us.’ Hoover shook his head. ‘It ain’t a bone, sir. Leastways it is but it’s got a heap of smelly old gristle and fat on it.’

  ‘That damned squeaky wheel—’

  ‘Yeah!’ Hoover set to work greasing the axle and when he had finished Anson gave the barrow a shove and they were off again, mercifully squeak-free.