Perilous Shore

by Chris Durbin

  ‘Certainly. The details of the fall of Emden are known only to you, Chalmers and me.’

  Albach’s actions at Emden, his confidential discussions with Holbrooke that at the very least nudged the French garrison into withdrawal, would be dangerous in the wrong hands.

  ‘Then I’ll bring them here within the half-hour, within a turn of the glass’ he added with a grin. ‘You’ll be uncomfortable here tonight, but tomorrow I’ll have horses and an escort for you, and you’ll spend the night under a roof with a good bed.’

  ◆◆◆

  The meeting with the four captains went much as Holbrooke had expected. He was the only one injured in the withdrawal, and he had the advantage of a measure of sympathy because of it. It did take some time to explain how he knew Albach, the story was so incredible, the coincidences so unlikely. However, when he put the question of parole to them, knowing the alternative arrangements, they quickly agreed. Rowley and Maplesden knew sea officers who had fallen into French hands in the last war, and they’d all stressed the vital importance of coming under French navy jurisdiction as soon as possible. There was a much greater fellow-feeling between the sea services.

  By the start of the dog watches it was all concluded. The adjutant-general sent his compliments and regrets; he was too busy to attend in person. His place was taken by a brisk, active French major, festooned with the aiguillettes and badges and lanyards of a general officer’s staff. He arrived in the afternoon, trailed by a harassed looking clerk with a folding desk and a portfolio of papers, inks and pens. The major witnessed their signatures on the parole documents and the clerk affixed a wax seal. Hats were removed, bows made, and the transfer was complete. They were now the legal property of Major Hans Albach of the Austrian Imperial Artillery, presently commanding a battery of field guns in the Bretagne Milices Gardes-Côtes.

  ◆◆◆

  Albach’s escort turned out to be the entire field battery of the Dol-de-Bretagne regiment of coastal militia. They mustered before first light at the top of the escarpment, just outside the town of Saint-Cast. That was where the attacking column came pouring down the defile, Holbrooke thought, looking at the narrow path to the beach. And over there was Point de Garde where Overton’s grenadiers had shed so much blood. The place where he’d nearly died was covered by the tide and the bay was empty now. Not even the wreckage of a flatboat was left; the only one to be salvaged by the French had already been removed for inspection.

  Four French militia officers, forty Breton-speaking artillerymen, thirty-four horses, four six-pounder guns and limbers, one of them squeaking along on a jury-rigged axle and wheels, four baggage carts, five British naval captains and an Austrian major. They made an exotic spectacle as the rattled along the road through the small villages and past the isolated farmhouses.

  The evidence of war, of violent conflict, was all around them. The crops that hadn’t been harvested in time were trampled, barns were burned, and the stench of death hung in the still air where horses, men and farmyard animals lay yet unburied. After two hours riding, they passed the wreckage of the bridge over the little Argeunon river. Whether it had had been destroyed by the French in anticipation of invasion or by the retreating British wasn’t clear, but the river was impassable at this place. They turned southwest and pressed on by an unmade road along the left bank until they came to a ford where they stopped to rest the horses and share a late breakfast.

  There were likewise no bridges over the Rance, and the ferries and boats had all been destroyed, as Albach’s messenger had reported. They’d continued to Dinan, the lowest point on the river that hadn’t been touched by the armies and the first place upriver that had not destroyed its bridge. The farmers and peasants of this part of Brittany had fled to the regional centre of Dinan for refuge in the face of the invading army. They hated the British for what they had done to their land. The five sea officers were fortunate to suffer nothing more than insults and taunts as they rode through the town, surrounded by Albach’s militia. That was the most worrying part of the journey. The militiamen were all drawn from the country around Dinan. They knew the inhabitants and were known by them, and there was no hiding the identity of their captives. Albach left the talking to the largest of his lieutenant’s; his own foreign accent would only make things worse. The lieutenant evidently didn’t relish the job, but he performed it manfully, alternately ordering and threatening the crowd, at one point even drawing his sword. There were harsh words from the people who knew him, people he’d grown up with as neighbours. It was hard to explain why it was his duty to defend these Englishmen who had put the ravaging army ashore.

  They were lucky that their uniforms so obviously identified them as navy. It’s doubtful whether an Austrian major could have held the discipline of his men if their prisoners had been British soldiers. The sight of the hated red coats would have inflamed the crowd beyond the ability of the militia to control them.

  Over the bridge and they were out in the country again and free from the town’s mob. Now they could pick up the pace again. Holbrooke set his teeth against the pain, refusing to be the cause of a delay in their arrival at Dol. Albach had warned them that the city gates were closed an hour after sunset, and it would take more than his authority to have them opened. A night under the stars among a hostile population appealed to none of the sea officers, and the militia were all eager to reach their billets.

  The sun had already set, and the short twilight was ending as they reached the ancient city of Dol. The moon, just past its first quarter and high in the sky on their right hand, shone down on the six horsemen who clattered through the city gates and into the cathedral close, to be welcomed by the vesper bells of Saint Samson.

  This was the city where Albach had been stationed since April. He’d been a regular worshipper at the cathedral, and his genial good humour and his appalling Austrian accent had endeared him to Bishop Jean-François-Louis. It was that friendship that had led him to agree to accommodate the Austrian’s British guests, away from the hurly-burly of the French army and in the bosom of a city that had not experienced the horrors of the invader.

  Paston and Elphinstone helped Holbrooke down from his horse; he would have fallen otherwise. During the ride his wound had opened, and the good shirt that Albach had lent him was covered in blood. His only possessions were the clothes that he stood up in, his drowned watch, a small, discreet purse of guineas and the ruined pistol that had saved his life. He’d held onto that pistol as a memento of the event to show to his father. He fancied that the scar in his side would match the lock mechanism, it was too good to leave behind. The others were no better off, except that their clothes were intact, if somewhat less clean than their servants back in their ships would have wished. Their swords, like Holbrooke’s, had been claimed by the victors.

  The militia led their horses away to the stables at the other end of town. The four field guns rattled away over the cobblestones bound for the barracks. There were no friendly farewells, the lieutenants and the soldier had expended a great store of local goodwill in their defence of these British invaders. They knew it would be months before they were again cheered in the streets as they used to be.

  ◆◆◆

  The ride through the devastated countryside had been a harrowing experience and riskier than any of them could have imagined. They were used to the martial values of the navy and to a lesser extent of the regular army. They had reckoned without the blind hatred of the peasants and townspeople. The five of them stood in the close at the door to the cloisters, blinking in astonishment at this peaceful place that they’d been brought to.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’

  They hadn’t seen the dark figure emerging from the gathering shadows of the cloister gate. He was all in black except for a tiny flash of a white clerical collar around the neck. His black cassock reached to the ground and his close black biretta covered his head. Even his buttons and the tassel on the biretta were black.

  ‘I a
m the dean of the cathedral of Saint Samson, and in the name of His Grace, Bishop Jean-François-Louis Dondel, I bid you welcome to the cathedral close. His Grace is occupied at vespers, of course.’

  Holbrooke and the others were still looking cautiously around them, yet not quite believing that they had reached safety.

  ‘There’s no need to be alarmed, gentlemen, nobody would dare to even consider insult against you in the close. In fact, your person becomes more and more inviolate the further we penetrate. In the close you are free from insult, in the cloister you are free from even a raised eyebrow, and in the sanctuary of the cathedral you are as close to heaven as you will be until the day of your deliverance.’

  The dean kept up his smooth patter as he led them through the next door into the cloisters and on to a suite of two rooms that looked out onto the close.

  ‘There are four rooms here, gentlemen. They are usually reserved for passing pilgrims, but His Grace has agreed to set aside two of them for your use, for a month if necessary. I expect you are hungry. Supper will be served after vespers; my servant will bring it to you. Until then, I expect you want to wash,’ he said looking dubiously at their travel-stained clothes. ‘The doctor will come to look at the gentleman’s wound,’ he said motioning towards Holbrooke who was being supported by Paston and Elphinstone.

  ‘I will call again in the morning after prime.’

  The dean could see the blank looks all around him.

  ‘That will be at the hour of sunrise, more-or-less. About six o’clock. I’m sure you naval gentlemen are used to rising early.’

  And with that he was gone, moving soundlessly across the flagstones of the cloisters.

  ◆◆◆

  There was no settling in to be done. The rooms were bare except for two beds in one and three in the other. There were no conveniences of any kind except a chamber pot and none of the men had any belongings to be organised. They sat in silence, gazing out of the windows at the darkening world beyond. Albach caught the mood and left for his own lodgings, promising to return early the next morning.

  After half an hour, there was a knock at the door and the promised servant brought supper. It was bread and cheese, hardly a meal for men who hadn’t eaten since a hasty breakfast on the banks of the Argeunon. Nevertheless, what it lacked in imagination it made up for in quantity. As they were finishing the same servant returned carrying two bottles of wine and five glasses. The man spoke only Breton but managed to convey – by tracing an imaginary tall hat above his head – that it was a gift from the bishop.

  The doctor arrived soon after. He had a competent air, spoke excellent French and carried the essentials of his trade in a black leather bag.

  ‘Sit, if you please, sir,’ he said in a firm voice. He unwound the bandages – Holbrooke noticed that he was surprisingly gentle – and called over his shoulder for the servant to bring warm water. When the water came, he washed the wound. It didn’t look so bad once the filthy bandages had gone and the dried blood had been washed away.

  ‘This may hurt a little, sir,’ he warned.

  Holbrooke would swear later that he jumped involuntarily two inches from the seat. The doctor was pushing hard on the bruised bones one by one, starting at the lower rib. The pain increased as he moved up the chest.

  ‘Very well,’ he announced. ‘As my colleague in the army appears to have decided, there is no fracture, just a general bruising over five of your ribs and an area where the skin has been removed almost to the bone. May I ask what caused this bruising?’

  Rowley produced Holbrooke’s pistol. The doctor smiled wryly and offered the smashed weapon up to the broken and bruised skin.

  ‘You see, it’s a perfect match.’

  He produced fresh bandages and started winding them expertly around Holbrooke’s chest, watched by the fascinated sea officers.

  ‘Now sir, are you a student of the illustrious William Shakespeare?’ he asked as he finished the last turn of the bandage. ‘Good, then you’ll remember King Harry’s words before the skirmish, for that is all it was, whatever Shakespeare may have imagined,’ he wagged his finger in admonishment, ‘before the skirmish at Azincourt.’

  He suddenly stood erect and to the amazement of his audience, in a solemn, ferociously accented English he declaimed:

  He that shall live this day, and see old age,

  Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

  And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’

  Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.

  And say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’

  Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

  But he’ll remember with advantages

  What feats he did that day.

  ‘We’re not so far from Saint Crispin’s day,’ he continued in French. It appeared that his English was limited to the works of the bard, ‘although quite far from Azincourt. You must keep that pistol, sir. It is visible, irrefutable evidence of your courage.’

  He closed his bag and washed his hands in the remains of the warm water.

  ‘Now, I must leave you. I’ll call again on Wednesday when I expect a scab to have formed and to find you feeling more comfortable.’

  ‘Well, I’ve not heard better at Drury Lane,’ exclaimed Paston. ‘Do you realise that nobody else spoke the whole time the doctor was here? The man should be on the stage. We’re certainly getting our money’s worth in entertainment.’

  ◆◆◆

  27: The Exchange

  Monday, Eighteenth of September 1758.

  The Cathedral of Saint Samson, Dol-de-Bretagne.

  The days passed. The doctor visited again, but they were disappointed of another theatrical performance. He seemed a much more workaday person in the light of day and merely removed the bandage and recommended Holbrooke to let the wound have the air.

  After six days in Dol they were visited by a French naval captain who had come up from Saint-Malo. He asked them questions about Howe’s squadron, about the flatboats and about the plans for future raids. The Frenchman evidently had no experience of interrogation and he utterly failed in the most basic of techniques. The captives weren’t separated, and they were offered no inducements and no threats. It was easy to talk without giving away any information. Rowley told him what he already knew about the squadron, he offered shameless lies about future expeditions and described a flatboat that he knew the French had already captured, omitting details of the larger kind that they had not.

  The French captain could give no estimate of when they would be moved to Saint-Malo. There were no King’s ships there yet and the navy owned no houses in the town. The yard at Saint-Servan had been destroyed and with it the foremen’s homes and the workers cottages. There was nowhere for them at Saint-Malo. He would send for them when the navy was ready to receive such senior prisoners.

  He brought new parole papers that superseded the army’s agreements. They restricted the parolees to the limits of the city of Dol unless escorted by an officer of the French navy. They were under the jurisdiction of the French navy now and not even Albach would be permitted to take them outside the city walls.

  ‘Our exchange, sir?’ asked Rowley. ‘Is there any word of a cartel?’

  ‘Your Admiralty has been informed of your presence here and has been invited to offer French equivalents in exchange; we are awaiting an answer. You know of course that these things take time.’

  Then his father and Ann would already know his whereabouts and would hope for his speedy return, Holbrooke realised with a start. He’d written letters, of course, but their safe delivery was nowhere near as assured as a cartel letter addressed to the Admiralty. He was surprised at how much he wanted Ann to know that he was safe. Yes, he was concerned that his father should know, but that concern was fading into the background of his preoccupation with Ann.

  Their days were pleasant enough. It took a little while for the people of Dol to warm to them, but they’d each had a purse of guinea
s – a standard precaution when there was a danger of being captured – that they’d managed to hide from their captors. They were able to drink coffee and wine at the inns and offer small coins to the beggars who hung around the cathedral close. Nevertheless, they were captives and the war continued without them. They thirsted for news like shipwrecked mariners craved water.

  ◆◆◆

  The first letters started to arrive after two weeks. Rowley had a short note from the naval secretary, by command of their lordships, to inform him that the formalities of exchange had been started, that equivalent French prisoners had been identified in Portsmouth, that no objections had been raised by Paris and that he anticipated a fast conclusion. Holbrooke had a letter from his father, but nothing from Ann. He was surprised at how nervously he awaited the next delivery.

  Only three days later Albach rode up to the cathedral with another packet of letters.

  My dear Captain Holbrooke, Ann’s letter started. There was something infinitely comforting about that familiar use of my dear… That single short additional word made all the difference to the intimacy of the letter. Holbrooke savoured the thought for a moment.

  Ann went on to congratulate him on his deliverance from the jaws of death and his hoped-for recovery from his wound, and to look forward to the day when he could return to England. It was a cautious letter, naturally, but within the bounds of convention it expressed warmth and hope for the future of their relationship that Holbrooke was beginning long for. He’d heard the romantic poets speak of love at first sight. It had been nothing of the sort for him, and he didn’t believe Ann had felt anything of that nature when they met at Christmas. It was a slow-burning mutual regard, a relationship that they both wanted, without the flowery sentiments and the embarrassing changes in mood. And it was the sort of romance that Holbrooke needed, the kind that he felt he could manage. Unbeknown to him, Ann also thought it was the sort of romance that he could manage, and she suited her own actions accordingly. There was more to Ann Featherstone than met the eye, but Holbrooke hadn’t even started to suspect that truth.