Dead Man's Island

by David McDine

  Anson smiled. ‘I thought that might be the case.’

  ‘Luckily for the rest of us he and the commander spent a heap of time together gabbling away in French—’

  ‘Capital! And did Armstrong entertain you well, Hurel?’

  ‘Bien sȗr, ’e is a very amusing fellow and obtains good French wine from the smugglers, but the cuisine is, well, not of the same standard – very English, I fear. For some strange reason ’e insisted on calling me “mon vieux” – yet, as you can see, I am still quite young. And another thing that was most disturbing …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was the man Lloyd’s bird, what we Frogs call “un choucas” – a pet jackdaw. In the night it uttered shrieks like some devil creature. It made me think of The Terror and of victims’ screams as they were dragged to the guillotine.’

  Hoover offered: ‘That’s true, sir. Sounded like a banshee. Commander Armstrong reckoned it has bad dreams.’

  There was no answer to that and, the pleasantries over, Anson was anxious to get to the business in hand.

  He sent Fagg limping back down the stairs to bring up a cold supper and beer he had ordered earlier, explaining: ‘We cannot risk people seeing you dining in public, Hurel, so we will eat here in my room with Sergeant Hoover and then I am afraid we must revert to the pony and trap to get to our rendezvous and take passage for France.

  It was said matter-of-fact, but all three knew they were about to embark on as dangerous a mission as they could imagine.

  There could be Revenue men to dodge on their way to take passage in a smuggling vessel crewed by men they did not know they could trust. Then there was the Channel – sometimes benign, sometimes treacherous – to cross in the middle of the night to land on the enemy shore where they could quite easily be captured or killed.

  It was a daunting prospect, but both Anson and Hurel had long awaited this moment and were anxious to make a start. Hoover would be along only to see them safely ashore in France, but would have to repeat the crossing again two nights later to pluck them off the beach – if all went well.

  Anson had initially thought it inadvisable to take Hoover along at all. But he had relented, for the crossing at least. As the marine had proved during their escape from France, he was too valuable to be left behind. With Hoover beside him, Anson at least knew he would not have to watch his back constantly.

  They ate in silence, each reflecting on the role expected of him, and when they had finished put on the scruffy clothes and boots that Sampson Marsh had borrowed for them from local fishermen.

  Anson hoped their opposite numbers across the Channel were wearing something very similar. Sampson had assured him that was the case, and with Hurel’s complete fluency, albeit with an upper deck drawl, and his own basic French, he hoped they could pass for fishermen.

  Certainly the stinking sea boots should tend to keep inquisitive Frenchmen at bay once they reached the other side.

  As soon as they were ready, Fagg led the way downstairs where he engaged the landlord and the few occupants of the bar in noisy conversation enabling the others to slip outside unobserved.

  Young Tom Marsh was waiting. They threw their kitbags into the trap and Anson motioned Hurel to climb aboard. Marsh handed Anson a bag containing two pistols supplied by the smugglers who were to take them across to France and passed Hoover a longer weapon wrapped in sacking.

  The marine examined it by the flickering light of the inn’s lantern. It was a coaching carbine made by John Jackson of Cranbrook, and its brass barrel was a good foot shorter than the musket he was accustomed to using. He nodded. The carbine would be easier to handle in a cramped boat and – importantly – it was patently not of service issue.

  Tom Marsh clicked his tongue to alert his pony, shook the reins and set off down the cobbled street with Anson and Hoover following behind on foot.

  30

  A Night Crossing

  From the Jolly Sailor pub high up to the east of Folkestone beside the Dover road, a guide from the nearby hamlet of Capel first warned them to move as quietly as possible in case of patrolling Revenue men and then led the way down into the Warren, a jungle of stunted trees and dense undergrowth formed long ago by a giant chalk landslip and sloping down to East Wear Bay.

  It was crisscrossed with narrow paths, some man-made, others worn by grazing animals, and without a light it would have been near impossible to find their way – unless you knew it like the back of your hand.

  Their guide did. As a local lad he had played smugglers versus Revenue men here with his young mates. No-one had wanted to play the Revenue role, so sisters had to be drafted in for the purpose. Nowadays his free trading activities kept his eye in.

  Anson and Hurel stumbled after him, frequently near tripping on brambles and low bushes, with Hoover trailing behind, nursing his carbine across his chest.

  Carrying a bulky bag each did not help and halfway down Anson’s foot snagged on a bramble and he fell heavily.

  Hoover helped him to his feet and they resumed their descent.

  As they neared the beach their guide hissed a warning for them to freeze and they crouched low catching their breath. Anson could hear him fiddling with a striker. Sheltered under the man’s jacket, the flame flickered and it gave just enough light to see him ignite a thick stub of candle in a peculiarly-shaped lantern with a spout on it.

  The guide swung it seawards and its purpose became clear. The spout funnelled the light towards those it was aimed at while not revealing the signaller’s presence to anyone else.

  It was a ruse used by smugglers to attract the attention of only those they wanted to attract. Not surprising, Anson thought – these men are smugglers.

  Hurel’s rasping breath revealed to Anson that after his spell in the hulks, being wounded by Chitterling and moving from pillar to post over the past few weeks, the Frenchman was still far from fit.

  Ahead they could now hear the sound of waves breaking gently on the beach and the crunch of the shingle as they receded.

  The guide ordered them to stay put and crept forward towards the shore.

  Through occasional shafts of pale moonlight penetrating the cloud cover, a group of figures could just be discerned around a long row-galley drawn up on the foreshore.

  After a few minutes the guide returned and squatted beside Anson. ‘They’re ready for yer, mate, but some of ’em’s a bit nervous, like. They want me to remind yer that they’re doing yer a favour, right? They don’t want no come-backs, see?’

  There was no need for him to explain. Free traders were quite naturally jealous of their anonymity and followed the principle that the less anyone knows the less they can tell.

  Anson whispered: ‘I’m navy – nothing to do with the Revenue. You can remind the boys this is for old England – and they’ll be well paid. We don’t care how else they earn their bread.’

  The guide knuckled his forehead. ‘Fair enough, mate. But yer just might recognise a few of ’em …’

  That, Anson thought, probably meant that there were some of his own fencibles among the crew, so he offered: ‘No need for them to worry. It’s too dark to see who’s who. And anyway I’m terrible at remembering faces – and even worse at names.’

  The guide laughed. ‘I’ll nip and tell ’em, mate, then they’ll shove off. I’ll whistle to let you know when they’re ready and you lot will have to wade out and climb aboard, orlright?’

  He left them and minutes later they heard the boat scrunching on the shingle-dotted sand as the crew heaved it down and into the water.

  A low whistle and Anson rose, picked up his bag and told the others: ‘This is it – you first, Hurel!’ And they hurried down to the water’s edge, with Hoover bringing up at the rear.

  Hurel waded out and was pulled over the side by one of the oarsmen. Anson followed and once in the boat he took Hoover’s carbine so that the marine could climb on board unhindered.

  Anson noted that there were eight men at the oars and sev
eral more already in the thwarts – no doubt spare rowers to relieve the oarsmen.

  As soon as the newcomers were settled, squatting in the thwarts, the bearded coxswain called softly: ‘Dip oars, and pull …’ and the galley pulled away, leaving their guide standing alone on the beach and the sinister jungle of the Warren now well behind them.

  Hoover, crouching beside Anson, gave him a thumbs up.

  At last they were on their way back to France and after weeks of trying to keep him under wraps, Hurel’s mission was about to begin.

  *

  Although the sea was a little choppy at times, the narrow, shallow-draught galley made the crossing in little over six hours.

  The darkness had been kind to them, allowing them to approach the French coast without incident and both Anson and Hoover had taken spells at the oars to give some of the rowers a rest.

  Not being haunted by the Fairlight jackdaw’s nocturnal screeches and lulled by the lapping and slapping of the waves, Hurel had fallen into a deep sleep. In consideration of the ordeal the Frenchman was soon to face, Anson left him to what he hoped were sweet dreams.

  Even if they had been spotted, the galley was ideal for the task. It was not only fast when rowed by a strong, experienced crew like this, but as long as conditions were reasonably calm it could be steered every which way, no matter what the wind – or if there were no wind.

  As his bosun had explained to Anson, this gave it the capability of out-manoeuvring Revenue cutters, privateers or men-of-war – friend or foe. And it could be beached anywhere – as they were about to prove.

  Despite the darkness, Anson thought a few of the rowers seemed familiar. Some of his own Sea Fencibles, no doubt. But this was a time for turning a blind eye – not for fingering poor seafarers turning a slightly dishonest penny.

  In any event he did not see the evil in smuggling if it did not harm anyone. It put money in the pockets of poor men – and put fine French wines and brandy on dining tables up and down the coast, including his father’s and even that of his particular friend, Amos Armstrong, helping to ease his lonely vigil on the cliff-tops at Fairlight Signal Station.

  The Channel passage had given Anson the opportunity to study the weapons provided for him by the smugglers.

  He had been warned that it would be unwise for him to carry his navy issue sea service pistols as in a tight spot in France their long barrels would have made them difficult to conceal – and, if caught, the official marks they bore would betray him as a British naval spy.

  In the bag young Marsh had handed him were two smaller weapons. One was a .65 bore pistol with a nine-inch steel barrel and a reshaped stock – a light dragoon holster weapon much like those that Armstrong’s cavalry messengers carried. Anson could just see faint traces of the Government markings to the centre of the lock-plate, a crowned GR and Tower on the tail. The King’s proofs could still be clearly seen on top of the barrel. Heavy bruising on the stock indicated that the regimental markings had been deliberately removed, as had the butt cap. It had clearly been disguised for use by the smugglers and he wondered how it had been acquired. The other, lighter and more finely-balanced pistol was by William Bailes, of Tyburn Road, London, and almost certainly originally one of a pair stolen from some gentleman not quick enough to protect himself with them.

  He loaded both, chose the cut-down light dragoon pistol for himself and handed the other to Hurel when he awoke. They would be needing them.

  Just before dawn they heard waves lapping ashore and Anson could make out the vague outline of the French coast.

  Far away to larboard they could just make out Cap Griz-Nez and nearer was another promontory that the coxswain told Anson was Cap d’Alprech.

  They steered to starboard and in short order the galley ran up on a broad expanse of sandy beach where several men were waiting among outcrops of rock with crates and small barrels.

  The coxswain turned to Anson. ‘This is it, gents. You’re just a few miles south of Boulogne. Best make yourselves scarce afore it gets too light. The Frogs patrol the dunes but it’s a bit too early for them so you should be all right.’

  He brushed Anson’s thanks aside. ‘We daren’t hang around either. We’ve got some cargo to load and then we’re off.’

  The Frenchmen were already shouldering the casks and crates out to the boat.

  The coxswain shook Anson’s hand. ‘We’re getting paid for this, so we’ll be back here, same place, at midnight in two days’ time, right? We’ll look for a light from this here spout lantern, but fire this flasher if the Frogs are on to you. If you’re here and all’s clear we’ll take you back, but we’ll not wait. Understood?’

  Anson stuffed the lantern, tinderbox and the flasher – resembling a barrel-less pistol – into his kitbag. ‘We’ll be here.’

  Hoover helped Anson and Hurel over the side, handed them their bags and wished them good luck.

  The American whispered to Anson: ‘I’ll make sure these boys come back for you. There’s a few of our fencibles among ’em.’

  ‘I noticed!’

  It was becoming lighter by the minute as Anson and Hurel waded ashore and crunched over the cockle and razor clam shells littering the beach.

  They crouched among the rocks for a few minutes to catch their breath and get their bearings. Satisfied that the coast was clear, they left the rocks and made their way up to the sand dunes beyond. And, when they turned for a last look back, the party of Frenchmen had disappeared and the galley was already well out to sea.

  Anson stopped his companion for a moment. ‘Well, we’re here, and now it’s all down to you, Monsieur le Baron.’

  The Frenchman smiled. ‘Pas de problème, mon ami. Allons-y!’

  ‘Yes, let’s go!’ And they set off into the dunes heading north for Boulogne.

  31

  Boulogne

  It was mid-morning by the time Anson and Hurel made their way to the outskirts of the port. Little notice was taken of them thanks to their well-worn seaman’s clothes and Hurel’s perfect French. Whenever anyone drew near, he gabbled away about women and drink and Anson nodded as if he understood every word.

  On the rising ground behind the cliffs of Cap d’Alprech, Hurel stopped beside a large house with paint peeling off the window frames, a small overgrown front garden and a broken wrought-iron gate.

  ‘Nous sommes ici. Wait ’ere.’

  Anson sat on a low wall trying to look as nonchalant as possible while Hurel disappeared inside the dilapidated house.

  After a short time he reappeared and beckoned Anson from the door.

  Inside, Hurel showed Anson upstairs to a front bedroom and announced:

  ‘This is the ’ouse of Madame X.’

  ‘Hicks? You mean Hicks?’

  ‘No, no, not ’icks, X.’

  ‘Oh, Madame X! You wish her to remain anonymous?’

  ‘It is for the best, mon ami. She is an elderly friend of my family – a widow. She knows me from days gone by, before The Terror, but she does not know why I am ’ere. Nor does she wish to know.’

  ‘But we must reimburse her for her trouble.’

  ‘I ’ave given ’er some money for our stay ’ere and she is grateful. She ’as, what do you say, fallen on ’ard times. You will not know who she is, nor she you. So if the worst ’appens and we are caught we will say we broke in ’ere and that she knows nothing. Compris?’

  ‘D’accord!’

  Hurel smiled at his companion’s French. ‘What is more, Anson, I have told this lady that you are a foreign sailor in the French service who is a little fou – a tiny bit mad – from the sound of gunfire, and ’ave been known to bite people when disturbed. So she will not enter your room. Your food will be left outside your door.’

  Anson laughed. ‘You have chosen well, my friend. From here I can see part of the defensive line of ships – and in some detail thanks to this.’ He tapped the small telescope he had carried concealed in an inner pocket of his trousers.

  ‘Go
od! Soon it will be time for me to play the escaped prisoner, just back from the ’ulks with the ’elp of English smugglers.’

  ‘It is not an act. All the above is true. Now, you remember what interesting snippets of information you are to pass on?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And that the object of the exercise is not only to gain intelligence about the defensive line and the effects of Nelson’s bombardment when it comes—?’

  ‘Yes, yes!’

  ‘But also to discover if Lieutenant Crispin is here, willingly or not.’

  ‘And if so to see ’ow we could disappear ’im back to England.’

  ‘Precisely. And when you return here—’

  ‘I make sure not to be followed.’

  ‘Good man!’

  Hurel rested for a while before venturing out. Then they shook hands warmly and as the Frenchman left Anson called after him quietly: ‘Bon chance!’

  *

  Anson settled himself down in a comfortable armchair beside the window, his feet up on the sill and telescope across his chest. There was a clear view across to the fortified old town – what Hurel called the “Haute Ville” – and the lower town, or “Basse Ville”, and the harbour it dominated. Hurel could hardly have chosen a better viewpoint.

  From time to time Anson raised the glass and observed the comings and goings down in the harbour – boats taking men and supplies back and forth, and occasionally a squad of blue-jacketed soldiers marching along the quayside, going on or off duty, he supposed.

  At first he busied himself trying to draw a plan of the warships moored in a defensive crescent guarding the port. But it was not possible for him to identify them all by type and certainly not by name at this distance.

  He had been taught the elements of drawing as a midshipman and had brought pencils and a leather-backed sketch book with him expressly for the purpose of making a plan of the French defences.

  His mind went back to when he had watched the artist William Alexander at work recording the scene at the royal review of the Kentish volunteers at Mote Park, Maidstone, when more than 5,000 men had paraded and then feasted in the presence of the King at the expense of the county’s Lord Lieutenant.