Dead Man's Island

by David McDine

  Sarah Shrubb was gathering bullaces from the fruit tree in the hedgerow and called down: ‘Have you come for Sergeant Hoover?’

  ‘Yes ma’am – and for the Froggie, I mean the Frenchman!’

  She smiled and put down her basket, half-filled with the wild plums. ‘I’ll fetch them.’

  Tom Hoover was splitting logs with an axe in the yard at the back, watched by Hurel who was sitting on a grassy bank having absolutely refused to engage in such menial tasks.

  The American put on his jacket and went down to the gate, saving the crippled Marsh what would have been a long hop up the steps on his crutches.

  ‘Time for us to go, young Tom?’

  ‘Yes, sergeant. I’m to take the Froggie and Mister Anson said I was to bring his horse back for you to ride alongside, like.’

  Hurel, his flesh wound from the one-sided duel with Chitterling now thoroughly healed thanks to expert treatment from Shrubb with his ointments, was demonstrably keen to be on his way.

  As he had muttered several times to Hoover, nightly Bible readings, plain food after the culinary delights of Ludden Hall and the rectory, and having to hide in the small, dungeon-like cellar whenever villagers came seeking the apothecary’s potions, were not his preferred amusements, even though life at Wealden Bottom was something of an improvement on the hulks.

  It was different for the American. He had not experienced any form of home life since he had joined the marines. His father had been killed fighting alongside the British during the War of Independence, and now the patriarchal Phineas Shrubb was filling that gap.

  As to Sarah, Tom Hoover could not take his eyes off her. She was plainly, almost puritanically, dressed, yet her wholesome good looks still shone through. She was gentle and caring, but intelligent and confident too. And the marine had fallen for her, hook, line and sinker.

  Hurel was keen to be off and quickly gathered his few possessions.

  He told Shrubb: ‘It was kind of you to ’ave me stay ’ere, monsieur, but I ’ave to say I did not enjoy my imprisonment in your cave.’

  ‘You mean my cellar?’

  ‘I assure you, m’sieur, that in France it would be called a cave. I ’ave been in many, including the very large one at my family chateau. In France they were filled with many bottles and vats of delightful wines, but yours ’as only bottles of medicine for curing disorders of bladders and bowels. Not the kind of cave I am accustomed to.’

  And, although he did not speak of it, the Frenchman had become increasingly frustrated by the fact that whenever he tried to engage Sarah in conversation or grasp her hand on some pretext or other, Hoover had appeared – his sheepdog and her guardian.

  Nevertheless, Hurel thanked his hosts as warmly as he was able and strode off down the steps.

  But Hoover lingered. ‘Lieutenant Anson would wish me to express his thanks to you, Mister Shrubb.’

  The apothecary smiled benignly. ‘It was nothing. We enjoyed having you as a guest, brother.’

  Hoover turned to Sarah, and Shrubb tactfully walked away.

  ‘We, I, will miss you, Thomas.’

  ‘And I, you, Sarah.’

  ‘Until we meet again, then.’

  He took her hand and squeezed it gently, then turned, musket slung over his shoulder and pack on his back, loped down the steps and mounted Ebony.

  Hurel was already embarked in the cart. Tom Marsh flicked his whip and they set off.

  As they rounded the bend in the lane the American looked back and raised his hat to Sarah, standing alone beside the house, waving farewell.

  *

  The wisdom of having an extension built at Armstrong’s own expense became apparent with the arrival of Hurel and Hoover at Fairlight Signal Station.

  The commander read the note Anson had penned and chuckled over the references to the Frenchman’s garrulity and the need to keep him away from women of child-bearing age. Chance would be a fine thing, he mused: the only females seen around the lonely station were generally over-large examples out picnicking with husbands and broods of children.

  ‘Welcome, mon vieux,’ he greeted his guest. ‘And you, sergeant. Of course I shall be delighted to accommodate you both. You may take over what were my quarters until I invested in the slightly more private addition you see attached.’

  ‘Most gentil of you, monsieur. I am sure we will be most comfortable.’

  ‘You may wish to revise your opinion after a night spent next door to my signalmen and dragoons who produce loud snores and other unpleasant sounds throughout the night – hence my extension. Oh, and then there’s Lloyd’s tame jackdaw which has the habit of emitting blood-curdling shrieks from time to time, presumably when it is having a bad dream.’

  ‘Most charming. Unlike we French, you English have such an affinity with creatures. My former ’ost, Monsieur Parkin, kept a great many of them, although of course they were mostly stuffed.’

  Armstrong raised an eyebrow. ‘Quite, quite. Now, mon vieux, I will not read you the Articles of War, but Lieutenant Anson clearly wishes me to lay down hard and fast rules for your stay, and here they are …’

  Half an hour later Hurel was left in no doubt of the dire consequences he would face if he failed to keep a low profile, tried to engage passing females in conversation or committed a great variety of other offences.

  The commander was most certainly affable and gentlemanly, but he was clearly also a strict disciplinarian when it came to members of his shore-bound crew straying from the straight and narrow.

  24

  The Presentation Sword

  Eager to enjoy his hour of glory, the divisional captain entered the town hall early to find the mayor and town worthies still involved in a discussion about the need to remove a line of pigsties along the church wall – and to request another resident to remove a growing dunghill near the gun battery.

  All eyes turned on the gallant captain, who, resplendent in his number one uniform, doffed his hat to the chair and was ushered by the town sergeant to a prominent seat at the front.

  Acknowledging the distinguished visitor, the mayor apologised for the over-running of the meeting, due, he said, to ‘complex matters of a sanitary nature.’ The truth was that the pigsties belonged to one councillor and the dunghill to another, neither of whom was willing to remove them.

  Now that Captain Hoare had arrived, the mayor was anxious to conclude council business and forced a vote. A show of hands put the two miscreants in the minority and the mayor was happy to announce: ‘Both motions carried and that concludes our business.’

  Hoare guffawed: ‘Motions carried? Haw, haw – most apt, what!’

  There was a polite titter from those who caught his drift and he turned to beam at the growing number of townsfolk gathering in the public seats, there not so much for the coming spectacle but for the free refreshments that were to follow.

  No-one noticed Sam Fagg entering and, for once, quietly taking a seat at the back.

  The town sergeant banged his mace on the bench and demanded: ‘Pray silence for His Worship the Mayor!’

  Clearing his throat, Seagate’s chief citizen rose to speak. ‘Gentlemen, Ladies – I see there are a few present – we have one further item on our agenda today. A most pleasurable item, if I may be permitted to say so …’

  Hoare nodded smugly: ‘You may, Mister Mayor, you may …’

  The townsfolk tittered again and the mayor continued: ‘It is my pleasant duty to welcome to this historic chamber the gentleman known to us as the victor of the Battle of Seagate …’

  There was a suppressed snort from the back where Fagg was having difficulty stopping himself from having an apoplectic fit.

  ‘ … the hero, I might say, of the hour. The man who put an end to the piracy of a notorious privateer out of Normandy that had been disrupting coastal trade along our coast for many a month.’

  Hoare was smiling pompously, his pink puffy features positively glowing with pleasure.

  The mayor was b
y now fully in his stride. ‘In ridding us of this scourge of our coast, the gallant Captain Hoare and his men – good local men who answered the call to duty as Sea Fencibles – have earned our eternal gratitude and respect.’

  Fagg smothered another hollow laugh that would have been lost anyway amid the ‘Hear, hears’ from those around him.

  The irony of the fact that none of those ‘good local men’ the mayor had mentioned was present appeared lost on the gathering. The simple fact was that Captain Hoare had specifically asked that the fencibles should not be invited because he did not want to turn the occasion into “a vulgar brawl”.

  They had been told that they could attend the bun-fight afterwards which would be more in keeping for them, while he and the town worthies were feasting at the Rose.

  The mayor continued: ‘This body, representing as it does the townspeople of Seagate, has therefore voted – unanimously I might add – to mark this great victory with the presentation of a special commemorative sword.’

  He indicated the object in question, lying on a blue velvet cushion on the bench before him.

  ‘This, fellow councillors, gentlemen – and ladies of course – is the very sword, the finest work of both master cutler and engraver, at a cost of, well, never mind the cost …’

  ‘Worth every penny!’ one of his cronies offered.

  ‘Yes, worth every penny. It is suitably engraved: “To the victor of the Battle of Seagate, Captain Arthur Veryan St Cleer Hoare, Royal Navy, from the grateful Mayor, Corporation and Townsmen.” And the engraving includes various patriotic and nautical symbols, a British lion, an anchor and whatnot.’

  With that, the mayor was handed the sword on its pillow by the town sergeant and called for Captain Hoare to step forward.

  ‘And so, it gives me the greatest pleasure on behalf of the town of Seagate to present you, sir, with this sword, a symbol of our deep gratitude for the great gallantry displayed by you and your brave fellows in capturing the Normandy privateer.’

  There was loud applause from all but Fagg, who near choked at the travesty he was witnessing.

  Hoare, however, was completely unfazed. It was as if he now believed that he truly was the hero who had captured the privateer and he had deluded the local hierarchy into believing it, too.

  Accepting the sword from the mayor, he pulled it from its scabbard, peered at the inscription and announced to more laughter: ‘Yes, Your Worship, you have spelled my name correctly!’

  He slashed the air with it theatrically and pronounced it ‘perfect for seeing off Frogs!’ before returning it to the scabbard and attaching it to his belt.

  ‘Your worship, town councillors, ladies, gentlemen. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the honour you have done me in presenting me with this symbol of my victory over the French. It was not my first tussle with the enemy, gentlemen, ladies – nor, I earnestly hope, my last. In fact, just a few days ago myself and your mayor had the pleasure of firing from the Seagate Battery at another French privateer that had the gall and audacity to approach our coast. And we soon sent him packing, did we not?’

  The mayor preened himself and thanks to the ensuing clapping and many ‘Hear, hears’ not all heard Fagg mutter: ‘And sendin’ that poor coaster to the bottom, eh?’

  Hoare paused for the applause to die down before adding: ‘I accept this sword, not only for the albeit leading part I played in the action against the Normandy privateer, but on behalf of all the brave fellows serving under me who did their bit, however small, on the day. And finally …’

  But his last words were lost under the wave of applause which continued until a voice from the back shouted: ‘Where’s Lieutenant Anson and Coney, the impress bloke, eh? They was the ’eroes, wasn’t they? Why ain’t they ’ere?’

  There was a pregnant silence as Hoare tried, but failed, to see who had called out.

  He looked to the mayor. ‘It seems we have a dissenter in our midst. But yes, the anonymous heckler has a point. Of course the officers mentioned did their bit, too. However, I prefer to think of this victory as my team’s effort. It would be invidious to single out some for praise and fail to mention others. We were all, as it were, in the same gunboats …’

  ‘But that’s just it, ain’t it? You wasn’t in the boats, was yer?’ the hidden heckler countered.

  The mayor was looking uneasy. The triumphal presentation ceremony was in danger of turning into farce. He rose and called to the town sergeant: ‘Remove that man!’

  But by the time the town sergeant had made his way through the spectators to the back of the chamber Bosun Fagg had slipped away.

  *

  One of the small pleasures of the Reverend Thomas Anson’s life in his country rectory was the arrival of the much-respected county newspaper, the Kentish Gazette.

  Each week, rain or shine, he sent one of the servants down to the end of the driveway to await the local carrier, Hezikiah Champion, who delivered it along with various household items ordered from Canterbury.

  Occasionally, when the rector was expecting some particular piece of news such as new ecclesiastical appointments, he would go down to collect it himself.

  However, of late he had given up that practice since his son Oliver had been damned with faint praise in the outrageous letter, reprinted in the Gazette, that Captain Hoare had written to the Admiralty following the Normandy privateer affair.

  But the rector’s righteous anger about that had faded over time and today he was not expecting to find anything of particular interest in the newspaper columns – or at least, nothing to annoy him. But he was wrong.

  Coffee beside him and pipe in hand, he settled into his favourite armchair and scanned the public notices and war news, mostly reprinted from the London Gazette.

  It was when he turned the page that his eye was drawn to an item of county news and the reviled name of Captain Hoare jumped out at him.

  In disbelief, he read:

  “It is with considerable satisfaction that we record the award by the Mayor and Corporation of Seagate of a handsome presentation sword to Captain Arthur Veryann St Cleer Hoare of the Royal Navy to mark the successful capture of the Normandy privateer Égalité.

  The enemy brig, of 12 guns, was boarded while attacking merchant vessels off Seagate last month and taken after a stiff fight by Sea Fencibles under Captain Hoare’s command.

  Presenting him with the suitably engraved sword, the Mayor referred to the heroic performance of the captain and the local Sea Fencibles.

  Accepting, the hero of the hour said he was glad to have rid the coast of a ruthless enemy and modestly said some of the praise should go to his robust sons of the ocean who played their part in the action.”

  The Reverend Anson grunted with distaste, flung the paper down as if it were unclean and cursed loudly enough to draw the attention of his entire household.

  His wife came to investigate, but he brushed her questions aside, stormed out of the rectory and marched down the driveway kicking stones.

  ‘This,’ he told himself, ‘is a step too far! This charlatan Hoare must be brought to heel. The Admiralty must be informed, but how?’

  25

  A Proposal

  Returning to the rectory, Anson was greeted by his mother, her eyes shining with excitement at some anticipated triumph. ‘Oliver, you have a visitor, a most important visitor – Sir Oswald is waiting for you in the library!’

  Anson experienced a most uncomfortable sinking feeling.

  Squire Brax was indeed waiting for him, seated in a leather-bound armchair, glass in hand and a decanter at his elbow, florid-faced and portly as Anson remembered him from the welcome home dinner his parents had thrown for him on his escape from France – the dinner at which Charlotte Brax had first bewitched him …

  ‘Ah, at last, young Anson – thought you might have got yourself becalmed somewhere!’ Brax guffawed.

  ‘Sir Oswald, what a pleasure!’ Anson lied. ‘How may I be of service?’


  The squire laughed coarsely. ‘Service is it? Yes, young man, you can be of service by marryin’ me daughter – and then you can do as much servicin’ as you like, eh? You catch my drift?’

  Anson did catch his drift and was taken aback. ‘Are you here on behalf of your daughter, sir?’

  ‘You could say that. I’m here because Charlotte’s a chip off the old block. I know what she wants and that’s to be married before she runs to fat like her mother. And for some unknown reason it’s you that she wants. So, I’m here to close the deal.’

  Anson was appalled. Brax made it sound like a cattle market transaction.

  ‘But, sir, when I last saw your daughter she made it very clear to me, very clear indeed, that she did not wish to marry an impoverished ship-less sailor, and I was very happy to withdraw from the fray in favour, she led me to believe, of Chitterling.’

  He remembered only too well the stinging slap round the face she had given him and his unspoken relief at being free of her – or so he had thought.

  The squire poured himself another glass. ‘But that’s the point! You need not be impoverished. That’s why I’m here – to make you a proposal.’

  Anson was astonished. ‘You are proposing, to me? On her behalf …?’

  ‘Call it what you like. What I’m proposing is a settlement, y’see? A generous settlement. You’ll be well off and you can give up the navy altogether if y’like. I’ll give you a lump sum on marriage, a sizeable lump sum, an annual allowance – and I’ll settle a few farms on you. The income from those’ll keep the wolf from the door. And of course you’ll have her. Half the men in the county would give their eye teeth to bed her!’

  The thought struck Anson that a good few of them probably had already, but he managed to button his lip.

  Brax sank another gulp of wine. ‘Well?’

  Anson shook his head slowly. He was not for sale. ‘I’m afraid, sir, that however generous your offer I cannot accept. Absolutely not.’