Invasion

by Julian Stockwin

  A dead foul wind blowing hard could drive them helpless back on to the shore to be cast up. There would be no second chance.

  Redsull pushed his way past to the bow painter while Neame, at the sheet, looked steadily at Kydd, who in turn kept his gaze on Cribben. His arm fell: Kydd hauled furiously hand over hand and the heavy yard began to lift. The wind hustled at it until, at chest height, it caught the exposed sail, which bellied to a hard tautness, Daisy May’s bow shying away in response. At the same time Neame threw off the buoy slip rope, the mizzen briskly rose and took, and suddenly they were making way against the towering boisterousness of the onrushing seas.

  Kydd hunkered down behind the bow with Stirk, trying to avoid the sheets of spume curling over as they met each wave with a crunch and smash of white spray. They were winning their way slowly to seaward. Light-headed, he felt a guilty thrill at the escapade but savoured the exhilaration of such seamanship. He flashed a grin at Stirk, who winked back.

  They thrashed out through the anchored ships and towards the line of smoking white that now lay across their entire horizon, vivid against the dark of the storm-clouds. With her burden Daisy May made slow progress against the powerful seas but she was sure: this was her true element, and her high-waisted, broad lines felt sturdy and secure.

  On impulse, Kydd abandoned his shelter and passed hand to hand down the boat to where Cribben sat at the tiller. “Snug as a duck in a ditch,” Kydd offered.

  “Aye, she is that.”

  “We’re going north-about, then?”

  Cribben looked at him in astonishment. “No, mate, we’re goin’ through in course,” he said, as if speaking to a child.

  “Through! Why, we’re—”

  “F’r them as knows th’ Goodwins it’s no great shakes,” Cribben said. “Ye’d have t’ know that they’s shiftin’ all the time—ye have t’ keep a trace o’ every little spit and bay, where the swatch-ways run in a tide-fall, th’ gullies an’ scour-pits all a-changing, where lies th’ deepest fox-falls, how the tide runs, an’, b’ heaven, we knows it!”

  During their slow beat out he went on to tell of the sands themselves. In calmer weather they dried to miles of hard-packed grains on which the local lads would play cricket in bravado—but woe betide the laggard, for the returning tide could race in faster than a man could run. Then the water would transform the vast sand-bar into hillocks that ran like hot wax, quickening the sand into treacherous glue to drag a victim under. And if a ship was unfortunate enough to be cast up she had but one tide to break free: when the sand became quick she would “swaddle down” to be held in the maw of the Goodwins for ever—like as not, with her crew as well.

  “More’n two thousan’ good ships’ve left their bones t’ rot here,” Cribben said soberly. “It’s bin called b’ your Bill Shakespeare, th’ ‘Ship Swallower’ an’ he’s right an’ all.”

  They drew closer, and the effectiveness of the huge mass of the sands in arresting the onrush of the gale’s heavy seas was becoming apparent: to the weather side, there was a broad band of hanging spray where the waves were in violent assault, while to its lee Daisy May was making her laborious way in perfect safety.

  The Goodwins were now in full view with the ebbing tide—a long, low menace, not the golden yellow of a beach but the dark, sable sand of the seabed, stretching away unbroken into the far distance in both directions.

  A gull landed on the gunwale, hooking in its claws and swaying under the battering of the wind. It was not the usual grey-white species but a big, flat-headed type with cruel yellow eyes that watched them with cold calculation. Every member of the boat flailed at it, sending it quickly up and away. “Is a priggin’ corpse eater,” cursed Redsull.

  Then, ahead, Kydd saw their way: at a sharp diagonal through the main banks and therefore unseen before, it stretched away through to the violence on the other side. They went about for the approach. “Kellett Gut,” grunted Cribben. “Nothing to worry of—we’s more’n sixty feet under us.”

  Hundreds of yards wide only and churning with a tide-race, it seemed a fearful prospect for the plucky little boat but she won through, emerging into a quite different seascape—murderous combers crashing in to spend their fury in a bass thunder of breaking seas, their tops smoking with white spume, the stinging spray driven mercilessly downwind by the blast of the gale.

  No more than half a mile to the north, a foreign-looking barque was near hidden in the mists of spume. Cribben gave a soft smile and shouted against the wind, “He’s in a fair way o’ takin’ the ground where he’s at—loses his holding there, an’ it’s all deep water t’ the Knoll.”

  Kydd understood: the barque was hanging on to an unseen narrow spit, and if her anchor tore free of the sand under the wind’s blast, the deep water between it and the steep-sided Knoll would give no holding whatsoever—they were in dire peril. “Go forrard then, Tom, where we needs ye,” Cribben told him. He pulled on the tiller and, crabwise, Daisy May came up with the deep-laden ship, passing into the small lee around her stern. Smart work with fore and mizzen kept her there, while Cribben stood and, hanging onto a stay, hailed the anxious faces peering down from her taffrail.

  “Yez standin’ into danger, that there sand-spit. Compree? ” he bellowed.

  “Ach, ve know,” came back a faint hail. “But vot can we do?”

  It was a Prussian barque, a Danziger with a valuable freighting, but when her master realised what was afoot he quickly turned cagey. However, Cribben had done such haggling many times before and did not have to mention how inadvisable it would be if, in the event of an insurance claim, it became known that the offer of a perfectly sound set of ground tackle had been turned down.

  It was not long before they were lighter one anchor and cable, and the barque was in possession of a third anchor to windward. Taking advantage of their lee, Daisy May was put about for a rapid trip back before the wind. The absence of the deadweight of an anchor resulted in a lively roll in the beam seas before they were able to shape course into Kellett Gut, away from the chaos of the gale.

  “Hoy, Jack!” cried Neame, urgently, throwing out an arm to seaward. At first it was difficult to make out what he meant, but then a passing squall lifted the mist and revealed the stark outlines of a small derelict—a coaster perhaps, dismasted out to sea and now driving to her inevitable doom on the Goodwins.

  Kydd’s heart went out to the unknown mariners who had suffered this calamity for he knew they could not be helped; Daisy May was too far committed into the narrow passage of the Gut and the wreck would be cast up well before others could come to their aid.

  Nevertheless, perhaps out of some sense of brotherly feeling towards them in their extremity, Cribben luffed up and came to in the lee side of the immense sandbank. “Killick,” he threw at Neame laconically. The man cleared away their little bow anchor, which plummeted down while all eyes followed the final act of the drama.

  Figures on the derelict were jerking about in some sort of frantic activity, but the end could not be long delayed. Soon the huge breakers roaring in would rise up as they felt the solid bank under them, bear the derelict aloft and smash it to flinders on the unyielding sand.

  As Kydd looked on, mesmerised, he realised that the activity on deck had been that of some hero who had fashioned a steering oar from a plank and had succeeded in wrestling the bow resolutely shoreward. And he also recognised the vessel, with her rakish lines, she was a chasse-marée, a French privateer.

  Nobody spoke as a giant breaker curled and fell—and as the boiling surf raced up the sand, it sent the wreck shooting forward. The hero’s final actions were rewarded, for as soon as the dark shape of the craft came to rest, the figures stumbled from it on to the blessed firmness. The sea returned in a hissing roar and pushed the craft crazily broadside but the men were not running for safety: they were struggling with something in the wreck. It was a body—no, an injured seaman, and they were dragging him out, then making hastily for the higher ground.


  Kydd felt like cheering but Cribben’s look was bleak as he grunted, “They’ve got t’ come off of there—tide’ll have ’em in a couple of hours.”

  “Can’t we close with th’ bank an’ take ’em?” Kydd asked.

  “Why? They’s only mongseers, is all. Let ’em take their chances.”

  “They’re sailors, jus’ like us all.”

  “No.”

  Kydd felt his blood rise but held himself in check. “Five guineas t’ lay off the bank.”

  Cribben looked at him in astonishment, then peered into Kydd’s face as if for reassurance as to his sanity. “Seven.”

  “Done.”

  The others looked at Kydd warily, but helped to pull the lugger in as far as was prudent and Kydd signalled to the stranded seamen with exaggerated beckoning movements. There was a distracted wave back but no sign that they understood the urgency of their situation.

  Kydd swore; in a short time they would be beyond mortal help. He repeated the signal, then got everyone aboard Daisy May to join in, but the Frenchmen were not going to risk the tide-rips.

  “Leave ’em be, the silly buggers,” Cribben said dismissively, clearly ready to leave.

  Kydd said nothing but began to strip off to his trousers.

  “What’re ye up to?” Cribben demanded.

  “I knows th’ French lingo,” Kydd retorted, “an’ in common pity they have t’ be warned.”

  “We only gets th’ bounty fer bringing back bodies, not live ’uns.”

  Standing on the gunwale Kydd leaped clumsily into the cold shock of the sea and struck out. The current seized him and carried him along but after frantic strokes his toe caught the hard roughness of the sandy bottom and he staggered upright, looking for the castaways.

  The chill of the wind’s blast nearly took his breath away and when a Frenchman hurried up to him he could hardly control his shuddering. “V-vous êtes i-ici dans un g-grand péril, m-mon brave,” he stuttered, and tried to convey the essence of the danger.

  It was surreal: he was standing on hard-packed brown sand that was about to plunge beneath the sea, talking to a French privateersman whom it was his duty to kill—and himself, a commander of the Royal Navy, taking orders from a Deal hoveller.

  The Frenchmen chattered among themselves, then explained that for reasons of humanity they could not abandon their injured comrade—he had been the one to wield the steering oar—and besides, like many seamen, none could swim. There was such poignant resignation in their faces that Kydd was forced to turn away.

  Staggering with the force of a vicious wind squall across the flat banks he tried to flog his frozen mind to thought. Cribben would not keep Daisy May among the leeward shoals for much longer. It was—

  A faint shout drew his attention to the lugger. He saw Stirk jump into the sea and strike out for them, Redsull back in Daisy May furiously paying out a line.

  Stirk splashed into the shallows and Kydd helped him up. A small double line was threaded through his belt at the small of his back, which he released. Hoarsely, he panted, “They hauls ’em out b’ this rope. Cribben’s in a rare takin’—but them others’ll be good ’uns.”

  The light line was handed rapidly along as an endless loop until a heavier line arrived and, with a piece of timber for flotation, the rescue was rapidly made complete.

  “S’ then, Mr. Hoveller, where’s our Luke Calloway?” Kydd demanded. Cribben was at the head of the beach with his arms folded, watching Daisy May hauled out of the surf and up the shingle in the fading light.

  “Where’s m’ seven guineas?” snapped the man, keeping his eyes on the straining capstan crew.

  “You’ll get ’em by sunset t’morrow,” Kydd replied tightly.

  Then Cribben turned to him with a smile. “I don’t rightly know who you is, Mr. Tom, but youse a right taut man o’ th’ sea as ever I seen, an’ I honour ye for it. Follow me.”

  “I’ll go, Toby—no need f’r you,” Kydd said.

  Cribben stamped up the shingle and into the maze of alleyways. He stopped at the gaunt old edifice of a deserted maltster’s and gestured contemptuously. “I know they’s got their heads down in that there loft. Take him an’ be damned to the shab.”

  Kydd eased open the ancient double doors and entered into the smelly darkness, the wind covering the noise of his entrance. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw dust-covered mash-tubs, long planked floors and, to the side, a flight of rickety steps leading up to the blackness at the top of the building.

  Kydd tiptoed to the stairs ears a-prick for any sound.

  Halfway up he heard muffled giggling. He completed the climb, arriving at what appeared to be an overseer’s office. Within it, he heard furtive movement and beneath the door saw dim light.

  He crashed it open. “Mr. Midshipman Calloway! Y’r duty t’ your ship, sir!”

  With a horrified shriek, a naked girl snatched for covering. Calloway sat up groggily, and glared resentfully at him.

  “T’ break ship is a crime and an insult t’ your shipmates, Luke. Why . . . ?”

  “Er, me ’n’ Sally, um, we’re—”

  “Y’r country lies under such a peril as never was. Are ye going t’ tell me you’re comfortable t’ leave the fighting to others while ye cunny burrow with y’ trug?”

  Calloway reddened and reached for his clothes. “I’m done with roaming,” he said stubbornly. “I want t’ cast anchor next to m’ woman, an’ she won’t be found in a poxy man-o’-war.”

  “Leave my Luke be!” screeched the girl. “Him ’n’ me’s gettin’ spliced, ain’t we, darlin’?”

  Kydd ignored her. “Your duty calls ye, Luke,” he said remorse-lessly.

  “I—I’m not . . .”

  “I c’n have you taken in irons and haled aboard as a deserter.”

  The lad stiffened.

  “But I won’t. I’m leaving—now. And if y’ follows me, it’s back aboard, no questions asked, all a-taunto. And if y’ don’t, then you’ll have t’ live with y’r decision for the rest o’ your life . . .”

  CHAPTER 6

  RENZI CONTEMPLATED THE WIND-TORN SEAS of the Downs through Teazer’s salt-encrusted stern windows. Years in Neptune’s realm had inured him to the motion and he knew he would miss the honest liveliness and daily challenges of the elements if ever he was obliged to go ashore for good.

  For now, though, that was not in question and he blessed his luck in securing a situation that ensured food, board and the company of his friend while he pursued his scholarly quest. It was proceeding well: he had settled back into his studies after the catastrophe of the failed plot against Napoleon and, just recently, had reached a delightful impasse in his careful building of the edifice of support of his central hypotheses: the Nomological Determinist position was threatening the entire substructure of his “Economic Man,” but once again the sturdy pragmatism of Hobbes, two centuries earlier, was coming to the rescue. In fact, conflated with the naturalistic philosophies of Hume, the so-called “Compatibilists” had—

  The distant wail of the boatswain’s call sounded. Kydd was being piped aboard after his enforced delay ashore. Voices echoed in the tiny companionway to the great cabin, then Kydd poked his head in, shaking water everywhere.

  “I’ll be with you in a brace o’ shakes, old chap,” he said, and disappeared to change, then returned quickly to down a restorative brandy. “A tolerably divertin’ time of it yesterday,” he said expansively, “and one young fussock back aboard as is considering his position.” He wedged himself in his chair against Teazer’s jerking at her moorings, which was her way of indicating her impatience for the freedom of the open sea. Eyeing the canvas dispatch bag, he added, “I see the boats are running again—is that the mail?”

  Guiltily, Renzi emptied the contents on to the table. Only one item seemed at all official; any concerning officers would be conveyed personally by a midshipman or lieutenant, so this was probably in regard to a member of the crew or yet another r
outine fleet order that Teazer, still awaiting repairs, would be unable to comply with. He passed it to Kydd.

  “Why, I do believe you’re found out, Renzi. Listen to this: ‘The ship’s clerk, HMS Teazer, to attend at the flag-officer’s . . . forthwith.’” Kydd laughed, “Don’t worry. I’ll send along a hand to bear a fist with all your workings.”

  The trip out to Monarch was uncomfortable, wet and not a little irksome. The order had not specified which papers were due for a surprise vetting so Renzi had been obliged to take along as many as he could manage, carefully protected in two layers of oilskin.

  His irritation increased when no one seemed to know why he had been sent for. Finally, the first lieutenant appeared and regarded him curiously. “Ah, yes. It is Renzi, is it not?”

  “Sir.”

  “Then my instructions are to convey you to Walmer Castle with all dispatch. They’re expecting you, I believe. Er, pray refrain from discussing your visit with anyone. That is, anyone whomsoever. Do you understand me?”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Renzi replied, taken aback.

  “Very well. I shall call away our own boat immediately. There’s no need to detain yours. And do get rid of that raffle—I hardly think Walmer are likely to be interested in your weekly accounts or similar.” He chuckled.

  This was strange indeed. Renzi had seen Walmer Castle from the sea, a low, round edifice like Deal Castle, also dating back to the eighth King Henry. He had heard that it was now home to the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, an honorary position under the Crown whose origins were lost in medieval antiquity.

  The castle was near the edge of the beach at a secluded location a mile to the south of Deal. A tight-lipped lieutenant accompanied Renzi as they trudged up the shingle and approached the ancient bastions.

  “Halt, an’ who goes there?” It was the first of many sentinels who challenged them before they reached the round Tudor gate-house and Renzi felt stirrings of unease. Army sentries at a private residence?