Blake's Reach

by Catherine Gaskin

  Jane rose reluctantly, handing back the telescope. ‘Will she leave soon?’

  He scanned the sea and the heavy grey sky. ‘Just pray that this weather holds on ‒ as dark as it can. It’s any time now Jane. As soon as I have news of the plans of the Revenue cruisers the Dolphin will be on her way.’

  She turned back to look once more at the small spread of canvas, which was all she could now see of the Dolphin. She gestured briefly with her hand, a half-wave, half-salute.

  ‘There goes my luck and my fortune ‒ well may she ride!’

  Nine

  The streets of Folkestone were beginning to empty, and the long shadows were reaching across the cobblestones. People were hurrying now, where they had strolled an hour earlier. Most of them were making towards home and supper, and those who weren’t, like herself, had an idle, purposeless air. Reluctantly Jane turned away from the display of discreetly trimmed hats in a milliner’s window; Patrick would be waiting with the carriage at The Wool Pack, and there was no further excuse to keep her in the town.

  Sheer restlessness had drawn her away from Blake’s Reach this afternoon to visit this port, where the shipping packed into the harbour and the bright coats of the Dragoons flecked the crowd. She could see the line of mast-heads down by the harbour, with the gulls wheeling above them; the smell of fish and salt water was strong. Mingling with the crowds had stifled her restlessness for a time, as she responded to the noise and the movement about her. But her few purchases had been made long ago; the sun was dropping behind the chimneys and the tempo had slowed. Now the shops were emptying, and the ale-houses came into their own, their windows lighted, their doors open to the summer twilight and the passers-by.

  It was four days since she had been on the sand dunes near Barham-in-the-Marsh with Paul ‒ and she had not seen him since then. Twice in the early morning she had gone to Old Romney, to wait hopefully until the sun was high and full before returning to Blake’s Reach. She reasoned that Paul’s increased activity could mean only one thing ‒ that the Dolphin had at last turned and headed for Flushing, and that almost at any hour now she could be expected back off the English coast. The full meaning of Paul’s refusal to allow her any active part in the run came home to her now; it was hard to bear the knowledge of her own helplessness, to realize how little she mattered now to success or failure. She faced the thought unwillingly, and Kate and Patrick had had to bear the brunt of her displeasure. Even William sensed her mood and kept out of the way ‒ making a vague excuse when she suggested driving into Folkestone. She had gone by herself ‒ aloof and lonely in the carriage, missing William’s talk, and haughtily refusing to let Patrick come with her as she made her tour of the town. She was slightly ashamed and ill at ease now as she made her way back to The Wool Pack, and obsessed with the feeling that every other person but herself had somewhere to go. Her footsteps lagged, although she kept her head held stiffly and erect.

  It was a relief to see Robert Turnbull standing beside the carriage outside The Wool Pack. He was chatting amiably with Patrick, and he broke off as he saw her.

  ‘My dear Jane …!’ Now he was smiling broadly. ‘It was such a pleasant surprise when I recognized the carriage …’

  ‘Yes, I had some shopping …’ The sight of him had never been so welcome before. She found herself smiling unrestrainedly back at him.

  ‘I was going to have supper here before starting back to Rye,’ he said. ‘Could you stay and share it with me? The food here is good …’

  ‘Why, yes!’ she said at once, beaming at him. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more.’ And it was true ‒ except for the fact that she wanted to know above anything what was happening to the Dolphin. A grin immediately appeared on Patrick’s face; it pleased him to know he would have a few more hours of ale and gossip in the tap-room; but for him the best thing was to see the smile return to Jane’s face.

  The inn was crowded. But Robert Turnbull was well known there, and he hailed the innkeeper confidently. The man shook his head apologetically as he explained there were no private rooms left. With lips pursed in annoyance, Robert took Jane’s arm and was about to turn away. It was unthinkable to him that Jane would eat in a public room.

  ‘Your pardon, sir!’

  Robert halted. ‘Well ‒ what is it?’

  ‘There is a small dining-room, Mr. Turnbull, that has only one other party in it. I’m sorry I can’t offer you better, sir ‒ but the other party are very quiet. All ladies and gentlemen, they are.’

  ‘Oh, well … in that case.’ Robert turned to Jane, who nodded quickly. Not for good reason would she be cheated now of dining at the inn with the sound of people’s voices pleasantly about her, and a blessed escape from Kate’s cooking. She urged him forward firmly.

  ‘It will do very well,’ she said crisply.

  The innkeeper seated them at a table that gave a view of the crowded masts of the harbour; the sun was rosy on the still waters. But their attention went immediately to the group who sat about the table before the fireplace. Even though they had fallen silent, there was no mistaking the foreignness of those faces; they were wary and strained, but in every gesture as they ate they proclaimed that they were not English. Robert bowed to them formally before pouring wine for Jane. But his eyes flickered over to them many times as he sipped his first glass.

  The innkeeper came himself to carve the duck and a side of mutton. Jane’s lips twitched hungrily as she smelled the apple sauce and the mint jelly; she held her glass towards Robert again, preparing to enjoy the wine and food, pleasantly aware that the Dolphin and Paul were slipping to the back of her mind.

  It was annoying then, to hear Robert softly question the innkeeper about the strange group, six of them, who sat at the second table.

  ‘Frenchies, sir!’ the innkeeper said, pausing with the carvers held high. Then he leaned closer to them ‘Emigrés,’ he added in a whisper that was too loud. ‘Just got in. Making for London by to-morrow’s coach.’

  At this single word uttered in their own tongue, the heads of all six immediately turned. They regarded Jane and Robert firmly, their faces showing a mixture of apprehension and fear. Robert set down his wine and rose, bowing again.

  ‘Mesdames … Messieurs.’

  In response the men of the party, four of them, also rose, executing bows that for nicety and precision were wildly out of place in that simply furnished room of an English seaport inn. Jane caught her breath sharply, and she was aware of sudden pain in her chest. With hostile eyes she examined in turn those foreign faces that were even now dissolving into smiles as they listened to Robert Turnbull. She looked at each of them minutely, carefully, as if daring one of them to assume the recognizable features of a Blake.

  When she was satisfied she turned her attention, with growing wonder, to Robert. Not for the first time she was surprised by the extent of his knowledge. The phrases that came quite readily to his tongue were French. She didn’t know that the people opposite shuddered privately at the horrors of their language as spoken by an Englishman; once again she was filled with the sense that the full extent of Robert Turnbull’s personality, the quiet and modest country attorney of Rye, would never be known to her.

  Now the strangers were talking, breaking in upon each other in their eagerness. From their sighs and despairingly raised eyebrows, their elaborate shrugs, Jane knew that they were describing their experiences ‒ though it wasn’t clear to her whether they were complaining of seasickness or imprisonment. She inclined her head frigidly as Robert presented her, ‘… Madame la Comtesse … Madame de … Monsieur de …’ acknowledging the introduction to each in turn, conscious as she did so that the eyes of the two women rested on her gown and hat with frank curiosity. She was irritated with Robert for continuing the talk ‒ she didn’t want to hear, even in a tongue she didn’t understand, of revolution and flight and death. Then at last she heard the words her ears had been straining for. Robert spoke Charles Blake’s name.

  Now her eyes
darted from one to the other frantically, waiting for an expression to change, a look of recognition to come. One by one they shook their heads. She breathed easily again.

  Then one of the women suddenly broke into animated talk, her sallow, handsome face wrinkled with an effort of concentration.

  ‘Lentement, Madame …’ Robert gestured for her to slow her pace to allow him to follow. Jane lived the next moments in an agony of suspense. Charles Blake’s name was used many times. Then came the last expressive shrug, the final shake of the head.

  Jane tugged at Robert’s sleeve imploringly. ‘Tell me …!’

  He looked at her, and now he also shook his head. ‘Nothing … nothing we didn’t know before. They don’t remember him at Court, but they knew his kinsman, the Marquis. The lady who spoke … the Countess … recalls him in prison. She says she remembers that he had an English name. She was in Paris in prison at the same time.’

  ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘She was released ‒ over a year ago, I think she said. It is difficult for me to follow exactly. She went south to the château of her friend, Madame de Marney, and posed as her child’s nurse until they learned that the de Marneys were about to be denounced and imprisoned. Then they had to flee with whatever they could carry with them … the child died on the journey.’

  ‘And the others …?’ Jane said.

  ‘Emigrés they met up with in Dunkirk.’

  ‘Do they know what has happened to Charles?’

  Again he shook his head. ‘More than a year since she’s heard of him ‒ and even there he was one among many. She described him, though ‒ dark and tall, as I fancy he must be now. Handsome, she said …’ Then Robert smiled a trifle. ‘She says he does not look like an Englishman.’

  The conversation seemed to be exhausted; Robert turned his attention back to Jane. In subdued voices the other group began to talk among themselves. Jane picked through her food dully, and drank the wine with complete indifference; the sound of those French voices across the room unnerved her. She was aware of nothing except that Charles seemed very near ‒ a stranger full of menace.

  Then one single word of Robert’s penetrated her daze. ‘What?’ she said suddenly, lifting her head. ‘What was that?’

  ‘The Dragoons, my dear,’ he said patiently. ‘I was speaking about the Dragoons.’

  ‘Yes? … what about them?’

  ‘Their commander, Leslie, is a good friend of mine. He’s a man from these parts ‒ I have handled some affairs for his family … and so, whenever we meet we generally take some time to share a glass of wine or ale.’

  ‘Yes … yes,’ she said impatiently.

  Turnbull shrugged. ‘Nothing of importance, my dear … I was just talking so that you might remember that I’m here.’

  ‘I’m sorry … it’s those people …’

  He smiled, and went on. ‘Leslie was grumbling because he’d have to turn out to-night. They’re expecting trouble … smuggling trouble, I would guess, from the sound of it. Of course Leslie didn’t say exactly … even he could hardly be so indiscreet. But I judge from his lack of enthusiasm that he’s expecting an all-night affair, and the Dragoons have never looked on chasing smugglers with much enthusiasm. The Revenue people frequently find it convenient not to pay them their split of the cargo when it’s captured. After a time the Dragoons don’t make very willing helpers.’

  ‘But it is to-night?’ she insisted.

  He laid down his glass. ‘Yes … why?’

  She shrugged weakly, the corner of her mouth twitching even with her effort at control.

  ‘Oh … nothing. I must remember to draw my curtains tight, and not hear anything on the road.’

  He said lightly, ‘If the Dragoons are out, I wouldn’t advise you to ride too early on the Marsh to-morrow morning. You may meet the stragglers ‒ from either side.’ From then onwards it seemed that the meal dragged to an interminable length.

  II

  Robert even insisted upon riding back to Blake’s Reach with her, although the sea-road to Rye was much shorter than circling the Marsh as he would have to do. He barely listened to her protests ‒ just hitched Roger to the back of the carriage, and then joined her inside.

  ‘It’s purely selfish, Jane,’ he said as he settled himself. ‘The fact that the Dragoons anticipate trouble to-night gives me the pleasure of riding with you, and at the same time imagining that I’m protecting you.’ He laughed as he spoke.

  ‘Protecting me!’ Jane shrugged. ‘These days I have so much protection I hardly know what to do with it. It’s not like the old days at The Feathers ‒ nobody fussed much about me then, but I never came to any harm.’

  He nodded. Lights from the open windows they passed fell across his face briefly, highlighting the firm, broad bones; now it was a sardonic and amused face.

  ‘You’ll forgive me speaking so, Jane ‒ but these are some of the disadvantages of being a lady. She’s expected to be as delicate as air, and yet strong enough to bear the pain of childbirth, to manage and run a house with skill and economy, but not intelligent enough to bother her husband ‒ and she has to ride in a stuffy carriage on a summer’s night flanked by men putting irksome restrictions on her, when her feet may be itching to get out and walk …’

  ‘She can also lie abed on a winter’s morning,’ Jane broke in. ‘And she needn’t soil her hands from one day to the next.’

  ‘And what about yours, Jane ‒ don’t they get stiff with the dirt of the vegetable plot, and scratched with the rose thorns?’

  ‘And they’ll be scratched for as long as they have to be,’ she answered shortly. ‘Blake’s Reach can’t afford a lady yet.’

  He did not reply, and they rode in silence for some time. The summer’s night was fine, with a light wind blowing that whispered in the trees and the hedgerows. They left the lights of Folkestone behind; there was a faint moon, a waning moon which deepened the shadows. Low on the horizon was a mass of clouds, and Jane watched them carefully as they rode. There seemed no movement there, no sign that they would slip forward to hide the moon. If the Dolphin were to land to-night there was danger in that pale light. She was thankful for the silence and the darkness within the carriage, which made it unnecessary to keep the anxiety from her face and voice. She leaned farther back into the shadows and hoped that Robert would have nothing more to say.

  Their peace was shattered on the outskirts of Hythe. Here the roads divided ‒ one led on to Appledore, the other cut across the Marsh to the coast. Outside the first ale-house in Hythe’s main street they were hailed.

  ‘Hold there! Hold in the name of His Majesty!’

  Robert muttered something under his breath, and lowered the window. They could hear Patrick curse, and his voice rose loudly in complaint. ‘… nothin’ but a bloody edjit to be lepin’ out at the horses this way …’

  Robert cut in. ‘Who is it? … what does this mean?’

  Two men came forward, the first of them carrying a lantern which he raised above his head to examine the occupants of the carriage.

  ‘His Majesty’s Customs.’ Then the lamp held near to Robert’s face. ‘Why, it’s Mr. Turnbull! … Jack, it’s Mr. Turnbull!’

  ‘I can see that,’ the other man growled. ‘An’ you’d best let me handle the lamp in future if you don’t want us both run down.’

  Robert looked from one to the other, ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Nothin’s the trouble, sir … leastways not yet.’

  ‘Well, then …?’ he prompted.

  ‘Well, Mr. Turnbull, we were stoppin’ the carriage to ask if you’d seen any movement on the road out of Folkestone. The Dragoons, I mean, sir.’

  ‘No … none. Are you waiting for them?’

  The man swore softly. ‘All of three hours, sir … with it gettin’ darker by the minute.’ He swayed a little as he spoke, and clutched the arm of his companion. ‘We’re stuck here and darsant move for fear we’ll miss the soldiers, and they’ll go to the wro
ng place.’

  Robert’s manner became relaxed. He opened the door of the carriage, and leaned out. He gave the first man a light tap on the shoulder. ‘Now look, George … I’ve known you long enough to know that you think strange things with a drop inside you. Are you sure the Dragoons were meeting you here? I was speaking earlier to Major Leslie …’

  The man broke in with protests of injured dignity. ‘This is the place, sir, and we can’t go on by ourselves because the landing place’s been changed … leastways we’ve picked up information which makes us think it has. We heard of a cargo coming in at Barham, and now we think it’s been changed to Langley, this side of Drymchurch …’

  ‘Is it really to-night, George … are you sure that’s not a mistake, also? From what I hear there’s a cargo run in most nights of the week along here.’

  George spat on the ground in disgust. ‘Not this time o’ year, there ain’t. This one’s in a hurry ‒ an’ it’s a big cargo. An’ if those perishin’ fools what call themselves soldiers don’t show up, we’ll miss the lot.’ His voice took on a tone of wailing complaint. ‘There’s only two of us … and I reckon there could be mor’an a hundred owlers. We darsant go near ’em if the Dragoons don’t show.’

  ‘They’ll be along in due course,’ Robert said. ‘They’re not likely to set out so early as to give the lugger and the captain warning and a chance to clear off.’ He closed the door again. ‘Just you stay out of the ale-house until they come. After all, you can’t expect a landing for a few hours yet.’

  ‘Tide’ll turn early enough, sir ‒ if she’s a big lugger she’ll need to keep it with her.’

  Turnbull shrugged. ‘Well, these are things I’ve no experience of. I’ll bid you good night now, and advise you to be more cautious with that lantern. You might have frightened the horses badly.’