Dead Man's Island

by David McDine

The makeshift gun crew flinched as the 18-pounder roared and lurched back, spewing forth the ball which flew well away from the privateer.

  Nevertheless, it had startled the Frenchmen as well as the gun crew.

  *

  By the time Striker was rowed out, the French privateer had secured the coaster alongside. The master of the merchant vessel and his crew of three men and a couple of boys were crowded aft with hands raised while some of the Frenchman had already set about plundering his vessel.

  With only half the oars manned, Sam Fagg was having trouble loading the carronade. The only chance he had of saving the day was getting off a shot and causing some real damage, but even when ready he dared not fire for fear of hitting the coaster or its crew.

  As he rammed home the ball he shouted to the coxswain: ‘See if ye can bring us round t’other side, Joe. There’s no way I can ’it the effin’ Frog from ’ere.’

  Hobbs stuck his thumb up and ordered the starboard rowers to hold fast so that their opposite numbers could pull the boat round.

  But with so little oar-power the manoeuvre took time – time Fagg could ill afford. He cursed his lack of preparedness. But then, he reasoned, it was hardly his fault.

  Captain Hoare was constantly on the detachment’s back bawling them out for paying out too many of the King’s shillings, and no shillings meant no fencibles on permanent duty. It was as simple as that. The men had to earn a living rain or shine, not hang around the detachment without reward waiting for something that might never happen.

  A loud crack from the Seagate shore battery turned all heads and the plundering Frenchmen looked around for the fall of shot. But when none could be seen they returned to the task of off-loading the coaster. She was too small for them to bother sailing away as a prize, so the intention was to sink her.

  *

  Back at the battery Captain Hoare peered through the glass trying to follow the ball but saw nothing but sea.

  He turned to the gun crew. ‘Just a touch wide, I think. Re-load Swallow!’

  ‘Shallow, sir. Aye aye, sir!’

  The crew repeated the swabbing and loading sequence, the mayor again being given the honour of selecting the ball destined, he hoped, to sink the Frenchman.

  When all was ready, Hoare stepped forward and announced. ‘I think we need some real navy expertise this time.’ He took position beside the gun and squinted out to sea in the general direction of the drama being played out there, pronouncing: ‘Port a bit, Swallow, and up a bit, I think.’

  Shallow and his mates manhandled the gun so that it pointed slightly more to the left and elevated the barrel a smidgen.

  ‘About right, don’t you think, Mister Mayor?’ Hoare asked.

  The mayor shrugged. ‘Looks near enough to me, sir, although gunnery isn’t my …’

  The rest of the gun crew were muttering and Shallow spoke for them: ‘Sir, sir! It looks like the coaster’s in the way, like. If we fire we might ’it it!’

  ‘Nonsense, man. You fencibles would spend half your lives arguing the toss given a chance. Just get on with it!’

  ‘What, fire, sir?

  ‘Yes, fire damn you … fire!’

  Again Shallow put his mate’s pipe to the touch hole and again the gun roared and lurched back. The only difference this time was that there was no mistaking the fall of shot.

  To cries of alarm from the privateer’s crew and their English captives, the ball struck the coaster on the water-line amidships sending woodwork flying.

  The coaster was already rocking and rolling in the heavy sea, and within minutes she was taking on a great deal of water and clearly about to sink.

  The French boarders rushed to abandon the sinking vessel leaving their prisoners to their fate.

  Barely able to keep his feet in the gunboat wallowing close by, Sam Fagg could hardly believe his eyes. ‘Shit! Our own battery’s gorn and blurry well sunk the effin’ coaster!’

  It took some moments for him to recover his wits and call to Joe Hobbs to swing Striker round so they could rescue the coaster’s crew, now floundering in the water.

  On board the privateer the French captain was even more astonished. And as he frantically urged his boarding party to speed up their return and ordered others to cut the ropes securing the sinking coaster he shook his head in disbelief. These crazy Rosbifs were clearly prepared to sink their own vessels rather than allow them to be taken – ‘Encroyable!’

  *

  Back at the battery, Hoare was already shifting the blame on others. ‘Hmm, your gunnery was a bit awry there, Swallow. I do believe you’ve hit the coaster.’

  ‘But, sir!’

  Ignoring Shallow’s protest, he raised the glass and focused on the drama being played out below, noting to his relief that the privateer was crowding on sail and leaving the scene.

  Seagate’s chief citizen was still registering shock, but Hoare reassured him: ‘Never mind, Mister Mayor, we’ve frightened the Frogs off!’

  ‘But what about our vessel?

  Hoare waved a hand dismissively. ‘Not to worry. We’ll put the loss of the coaster down as due to enemy action.’

  Swallowing hard, the mayor stammered: ‘I, well, er, s-suppose—’

  But Hoare interrupted him. ‘Yes, yes. It’s just as that fellow Bonaparte himself says: “On ne fait pas d’omelette sans casser des oeufs” – eh?’

  The mayor was perplexed and Hoare translated: ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. This is war!’

  But despite his bravado, he knew that this was one privateer action that required playing down rather than up. However, he prided himself on being a past master at playing things up or down depending which best suited his career prospects.

  He had famously played himself up after the Seraphim incident in which his captain had been decapitated – and of course the recent taking of the Normandy privateer.

  But this one could be a trifle tricky. It was the first time he had actually presided over the sinking of a friendly vessel. No matter, he’d exaggerate the mayor’s role so that the oaf would have his tongue in the mangle, so to speak.

  And he’d use his false modesty ploy about his own part in it. It was a technique that had yet to fail the gallant divisional captain.

  20

  The Key to England

  Dover Castle dominated the heights above the famous white cliffs and the port – imposing, seemingly impregnable and popularly known as the Key to England, at least to those with a shaky grasp of its history.

  Anson knew his – and that a small party of Dover men had seized it for Parliament during the Civil War, proving to him at least that a clever plan carried out with determination could triumph over apparent might.

  He made his way to the Keep, the castle’s innermost stronghold, and checked in with the sergeant of the guard. ‘Name of Anson, sir? You’re expected by the officer in room three, down that passage there and third left.’

  Rapping at the heavy oak door marked “3” he heard a faint voice from within call: ‘Enter!’ and did as he was told.

  A familiar figure rose, smiling, from behind the large desk that dominated the cell-like office.

  ‘Ah, Anson, we meet again! Come in and take a pew.’

  ‘Colonel Redfearn! Good to see you again, sir. It’s been quite a while since we met – at dinner at my father’s rectory a while back.’

  ‘Yes, it was something of a celebration of your escape from France and you were surrounded by a trio of extremely attractive young ladies, I recall.’

  Anson remembered the occasion with a twinge of embarrassment. It was where he had first been hooked by Charlotte Brax stroking his thigh under the table, and Bosun Fagg had discomfited him by loudly referring to the caviar as “snail shit.”

  Not least, after a good deal of wine and port, Anson had, in hindsight, waxed a touch too lyrical when giving this very same colonel of engineers the benefit of his views on France and the French, the ease of going back and forth across th
e Channel unhindered, and the likelihood or otherwise of an imminent enemy invasion.

  But he reckoned Redfearn was the kind of man he could level with. ‘I fear that after rather too much wine I allowed my tongue to run away with me a little too freely that evening, sir. I hope I didn’t make too much of a fool of myself trying to impress you with what little knowledge I had of all things French …’

  ‘Not at all, Anson. In vino veritas, as the Latins said, and all the male guests downed many a glass. I woke next day with quite a headache myself. Your father keeps a damn fine table – and cellar, thanks no doubt to a bit of help from the free traders!’

  He smiled at the recollection. ‘But let’s get to the business in hand. I’ve been following your exploits closely since then.’

  Anson was apprehensive.

  ‘You were, as I thought, the ideal man to lead Sea Fencibles – and the taking of the Normandy privateer proved that.’

  ‘But Captain Hoare —’

  ‘Stuff Hoare! I hear he’s claiming the credit, but my sources know better.’

  Something jogged Anson’s memory. The colonel’s name had been mentioned by Commodore Home Popham when he was first briefed about the likelihood of future clandestine missions.

  It was now perfectly clear. Colonel Redfearn was a key figure in anti-invasion intelligence.

  ‘Anyway, I have more important matters to discuss with you.’ The colonel handed him a document, explaining: ‘It’s a copy of a letter Home Popham wrote to Sir Charles Grey some time ago.’

  Anson glanced at it and looked up questioningly.

  ‘Yes, read it now. Take your time.’

  Redfearn leaned back in his chair, massaging his forehead as Anson read the letter. The only sound was the loud ticking of a wall clock.

  The letter set out Home Popham’s assessment of the practicality of an enemy landing on the stretch of coast from the North Foreland in Kent to Beachy Head in Sussex. It dismissed the possibility of a partial attempt by the French as being likely to have only a limited effect, and went on to consider the conditions that would make a general invasion possible on the coasts within what he termed “the Narrow Seas”.

  The letter continued: “… it must also be considered what wind will permit the transports to sail out of every port in Holland, Flanders and France to the eastward of Havre de Grace, and at the same time insure the smoothest water on the coasts of England, because they can have no covering navy, and must very much depend on small vessels for the advantage of beaching.”

  A wind from East to East North East, the letter stated, would enable invasion craft to sail from French-occupied Holland for the southern part of Suffolk and Essex. From Sluys, Ostend, Nieuport and Dunkirk the same wind would carry them through the Queen’s Channel and South Channel up the Swale past Faversham; and, the letter emphasised there were plenty of suitable boats in Holland and the turbot fishermen were as well acquainted with the coasts of Essex and Kent and the channels leading to the Thames as English pilots.

  Anson turned to the marginal note and was surprised at the number of enemy-held ports listed: Gravelines, Calais, Boulogne, Etaples, Crotoy, St Valery – a name that gave him a jolt as he recalled the raid on the mole there in which he had been wounded and captured – Treport, Dieppe, Fecamp, and Havre de Grace, after which Home Popham had written: “… distance from the above place to the S.W. coast of Kent and coast of Sussex from fifteen to twenty-five leagues.”

  The letter continued with Home Popham’s assessment of the invasion coast, concluding that the presence of the British fleet in the Downs was security enough against a landing between the North and South Forelands.

  But it suggested that, significantly for Anson:

  “… westward of Folkestone to the sea wall near Dymchurch there is a fine bay of six miles on which infantry may land at any time, and cannon and cavalry may be landed at half tide; and in many places … it is so bold a shore that large ships may anchor within half a mile …”

  Redfearn held out his hand for the letter. He took a long hard look at Anson, as if weighing up whether or not he could be trusted with a piece of information of great sensitivity.

  ‘There is something else you should know.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘This letter was written to Sir Charles Grey, who commands the Southern District. Other than him only a handful of people – those who have a need to know – have had sight of it—’

  Anson knew of General Grey, who had made his headquarters at Barham Court, near Canterbury, just a few miles from his father’s parish. Sensing that he was about to be lectured on the importance of maintaining tight security, he interrupted: ‘Have no fear sir, I will keep it close to my chest.’

  The colonel shook his head and replied gravely: ‘I would expect nothing less. However, I regret to tell you that the detailed information in this document is already in the hands of the French.’

  Anson was taken aback. ‘The French, but how can that possibly be? Surely Sir Charles is totally trustworthy!’

  Redfearn shrugged. ‘That goes without saying. He is after all the very man charged with overseeing defence of the invasion route counties. What you need to understand, young man, is that the Admiralty, and no doubt General Grey’s headquarters, tend to be gossip clubs in which a traitor – whether for ideological reasons or for money – can easily skulk while pretending patriotism and loyalty.’

  ‘So there could be a spy at the very heart of the navy?’

  ‘Or on General Grey’s staff? Not necessarily. Others, in politics, the Treasury and elsewhere could have been aware of the letter and leaked a copy to the French.’

  ‘But how can you be certain that it has fallen into their hands?’

  Redfearn smiled wryly. ‘I can be certain because I have been informed, through our own network of, shall we say friends, that the French have a précis of this letter annotated in part by the First Consul – Bonaparte himself – commenting on the assessments of likely landing beaches.’

  ‘Good grief!’

  ‘Grief indeed! And I am led to believe that other marginal notes are probably attributable to the officer in command at Boulogne.’

  ‘So the traitor would have somehow got the document to them at Boulogne? But how? Smugglers?’

  ‘Quite so, they are still running almost at will between the Kent coast and the Pas de Calais. For gold, such light cargo could easily be taken across to Boulogne on a routine fishing or smuggling trip. As you are aware from your own recent escape, the French positively encourage such traffic.’

  Anson knew at first hand that security at the Channel ports was virtually non-existent but nevertheless it was something of a shock to hear that such sensitive news could so easily reach the hands of the French.

  ‘The alarming thing about all this is that among those who handled the document was your predecessor.’

  Anson was dumbfounded. ‘Not Lieutenant Crispin?’ He had never met the man but knew of his disappearance following an embarrassing incident, one of many, involving attempting to drill his men after having drink taken.

  ‘Indeed, one and the same. I am led to believe he is now in Boulogne, drinking himself to death at the Frogs’ expense, using his knowledge of our local geography to help them make their invasion plans – and interrogating smugglers and any prisoners they are able to take to monitor what we are up to.’

  Horrified, Anson exclaimed: ‘I’m appalled that a British sea officer would descend to such treachery!’

  ‘Cheer up, my boy! Already the information in the letter is outdated and the important thing is that the French don’t know that we know that they know.

  Redfearn smiled at his own word-play that had clearly flummoxed Anson, and explained: ‘All is not lost simply because the Frogs know this assessment of the likely invasion beaches. If they invade based on Home Popham’s assessment they will be in for a few extra nasty surprises. I am told that in his marginal comments Bonaparte himself has actually confirmed that H
ome Popham was correct, saying things like: “This is the opinion of all the pilots.” Flattering, don’t you think!’

  ‘So, if they don’t know we are aware that they have seen this letter …?’

  ‘And I am confident that they don’t, so my reading is that when planning their invasion the enemy will take careful note of what the assessment says and react accordingly, expecting that we will be taking steps to counter landings in what Home Popham assessed as the most vulnerable spots and striving to surprise us elsewhere. I expect them to employ subterfuge – the French invented the word, after all – using feints in places this assessment mentions to disguise their true intentions.’

  Nodding, Anson could see it clearly now. ‘So they will attempt their main landings where they think we will least be expecting them?’

  ‘Exactly, but we will be expecting them! Now, to the business in hand. You will be aware that Nelson has been appointed to command the anti-invasion forces in the Downs, with Deal as a focal point. We believe there are upwards of 75,000 men encamped between Flushing and Le Havre and already the French have at least a hundred shallow-draught barges on hand with many more on the way.’

  ‘So the threat is very real, sir?’

  ‘The government has let it be known that it fully expects the French are about to make an immediate decent on our coast. And so Nelson is planning raids on Boulogne aimed at destroying the greater part of the French invasion flotilla before it sails. He first aims to soften up their defences with a bombardment and later mount a major cutting-out raid.’

  Anson guessed what was coming.

  ‘Now, before the bombardment I want you to arrange for Lieutenant Hurel to be put ashore in the Boulogne area. His main task is to make a detailed report on the effectiveness of the attack and what steps the French take to strengthen their defences. Such a report will be invaluable to Nelson when planning his follow-up attack which will not just involve a bombardment but will also aim at cutting out or destroying the outer line of vessels – and the landing craft within the harbour.’

  This was exciting news for Anson and there and then he resolved to make sure he was in on the action himself.