Dead Man's Island

by David McDine

  Anson had intended to purchase a copy of the resulting print, but due to the pace of events since then it had slipped his mind. He made a mental note to obtain one on return. It would be a fitting reminder of a great occasion – and, thanks to his chance meeting with the artist, a representation of a naval ensign would mark the tables his fencibles had occupied.

  *

  Hurel had left the house by a back door and waited, partly hidden by some bushes, until he was certain he was unobserved.

  He followed an erratic route down to the harbour area where in his seaman’s rig he passed unnoticed among the mariners – navy and fishermen – soldiery, and dock-workers thronging the area.

  Entering a bar, he bought himself a carafe of wine and sat in a corner sipping it and listening to the chatter of off-duty soldiers – mostly fusiliers, he noticed – and sailors. They spoke of the Rosbifs being busy outside the harbour but appeared totally confident about the port’s defences.

  Then he had a bit of luck. One of the fusiliers announced he was due back on duty at the admiral’s headquarters, downed his drink and left.

  As unobtrusively as possible, Hurel followed suit. He dogged the soldier from a good distance, and to avoid suspicion stopped at one point pretending to get a stone out of his boot.

  Eventually the fusilier unknowingly led the way to what was clearly the admiral’s headquarters, in the ruins of a Roman lighthouse on the east cliff above the town.

  Having waited until the man had reported for duty, Hurel presented himself to the guard commander who looked him up and down suspiciously.

  Hurel assured him that despite his disreputable seaman’s garb, he was a naval officer recently escaped from England and had important information for the admiral.

  The young fusilier officer bade him wait in the outhouse that had been turned into a makeshift guardroom and went off to seek higher authority.

  After a wait of some ten minutes that seemed to Hurel like ten hours the guard commander returned and ordered two of his men to conduct the newcomer to a nearby house.

  A sentry stood at the door and one of the escorts approached him. There was a brief conversation that Hurel could not hear and then the sentry opened the door and he was hustled inside.

  He was left standing in the hallway under the guard of the escorts while the sentry knocked and went into a nearby room, emerging a few minutes later to beckon him in.

  Bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes lined the walls and behind the enormous desk that dominated the room sat a small, cadaverous, balding, middle-aged man wearing what appeared to be an officer’s blue jacket.

  After what seemed like an age the cadaverous incumbent looked up from the documents in front of him and examined his visitor and if he were some natural history specimen, polishing his thick spectacles but remaining silent.

  Hurel assumed this was an intelligence officer, came to attention, bowed slightly, and announced himself as Lieutenant Gérard Hurel, a naval officer lately escaped from England, and repeated that he had important information for the admiral.

  The intelligence man replaced his spectacles and, leaving Hurel standing, subjected him to a cross-examination: what ship had he served in, how was he captured, where was he held, how had he escaped – and how had he crossed La Manche?

  Hurel had all the answers off pat and most had the benefit of being true. He explained that he had been held on a Medway hulk, escaped when taken ashore with a pretended fever, and made his way to the coast where he met up with Kentish smugglers.

  These he bribed with money he had made from giving fencing lessons on board the hulk, and they had provided him with the seamen’s clothing he was wearing and brought him across on a smuggling run.

  He had grown accustomed to the smell of fish that enveloped him but noticed that the mention of the fisherman’s clothes he was wearing prompted his interrogator into taking a small silver vinaigrette from a drawer and passing it under his nose. Hurel could not disguise a grin: the smell must be strong if it had to be countered with smelling salts.

  As he gave details of his escape, the intelligence officer listened attentively, asking occasional questions and scratching notes with a quill pen.

  Apparently satisfied that Hurel was bona fide, he came to the matter of the information his visitor claimed to have.

  Hurel now launched into his story – that while arranging his crossing with the smugglers he had learned that Admiral Nelson was in the Kentish fishing port of Deal gathering a large flotilla.

  He claimed that the smugglers had boasted to him that Nelson was planning to attack Boulogne with a bombardment due to start on the morrow and Hurel offered his opinion that the date had been chosen because it would be close to the third anniversary of the Battle of the Nile.

  Warming to his story, Hurel described the make-up of Nelson’s flotilla –frigates, gun-brigs, bomb-ketches and gunboats – and the fact that the admiral was now flying his flag in Medusa, a mere frigate.

  The object of the coming attack, he said, was to cause maximum damage to the French defences, but not on this occasion to attempt to board their vessels protecting the port and cut them out.

  After hearing him out, the intelligence officer, at last told him to be seated, rose, went to a side door and addressed an unseen man in the adjoining room: ‘Monsieur Crispin, come in, if you please.’

  *

  The three sat, Hurel and Crispin on one side of the desk, the intelligence officer on the other.

  There was another lengthy silence as the man took off his spectacles, blinked several times and polished the pebble-thick lenses once again.

  Hurel realised that this was almost certainly a ploy intended to create a sinister vacuum that an unnerved person would try to fill by gabbling on and revealing more than he needed.

  Crispin, pale, thin and sickly-looking, his fair hair long and straggly, sat toying nervously with the cuff buttons of his blue, French infantry-style jacket, his eyes darting between Hurel and the intelligence officer from time to time.

  At last the intelligence officer replaced his spectacles and addressed both men in English: ‘Lieutenant Crispin, this is Hurel. I am satisfied that ’e is a French naval officer recently escaped from England. With ’im comes confirmation of what we already know – that Nelson is about to bombard Boulogne.’

  Turning to Hurel, he explained: ‘Crispin is an English officer, but a republican who wishes to ’elp us fight ’is misguided countrymen.’

  The two eyed each other fleetingly and Hurel detected a look of desperation in the Englishman’s eyes.

  ‘Now, Crispin, I wish you to take Hurel somewhere quiet where you can obtain from ’im every morsel of information that might be of use to us – about the prison ’ulks, the possibilities of organising escapes and the system the English smugglers use to ’elp escapers and bring them across La Manche.’

  Crispin nodded nervously. ‘Of course, colonel.’

  The intelligence officer frowned at the revelation of his rank. ‘And furthermore, I wish you to discover from ’im every smallest detail of the English anti-invasion forces ’e may ’ave seen or ’eard of on the English coast: naval vessels, troop dispositions, the precise positions of gun batteries – every smallest detail, you understand?’

  ‘I do, monsieur.’

  ‘Your report will be on my desk first thing in the morning. Good day.’

  He removed his spectacles. The interview was over.

  *

  By coincidence, despite the wide choice of drinking dens in Boulogne, Crispin led Hurel to the same bar where he had listened in to the soldiery gossiping an hour or so earlier.

  The Englishman indicated a corner table, well away from prying ears, and a large glass of what appeared to be calvados was brought immediately by a skivvy. Crispin was obviously known here.

  The girl looked enquiringly at Hurel and he ordered red wine.

  Sipping it, he watched Crispin gulp back his glass of spirits and put his hand up
for another.

  The Frenchman made the first move. ‘I will give you what information I can for your report, monsieur. In fact, I will ’elp you write it if you wish. But first, may I ask ’ow you come to be ’ere?’

  Crispin, his hand shaking perceptibly as he lifted his second glass, bit his lip. ‘It’s a long story …’

  *

  Several refills later, Crispin was in full flow. Hurel had wheedled the full story out of him – how he had been undermined and incriminated in a blackmailing scam by his own bosun at the Seagate Sea Fencible detachment, and found relief only in drink. When a certain highly secret letter had come into his hands he had decided to escape in a smuggling vessel to France, using it as a bargaining chip to start a new life.

  But this drink-fuelled escape had turned into a nightmare. He was now firmly in the clutches of the sinister bespectacled officer he referred to as “pebble-eyes” and deeply regretted betraying his country.

  Almost in tears, he said he hated being used as a stool-pigeon to help interrogate captured fellow-countrymen and admitted to his sympathetic listener that he would give anything to be able to return home, no matter what the consequences.

  Another drink, and Hurel felt it was safe to tell him: ‘Mon ami, I know someone I think could ’elp you. But first, allow me to ’elp you with the report the colonel has demanded. We must use our imaginations to paint ’im a picture that will make ’is brain ache!’

  32

  Turncoats

  Day-dreaming at first, Anson had soon dozed off, awaking some hours later, he guessed, as it was now growing dark outside.

  Feeling hungry, he remembered what Hurel had said about the old lady providing him with food, but that she had been warned not to enter the room because of his alleged madness.

  Sure enough, there was a plate of cheese and ham, a bread baguette and a jug of red wine outside his door.

  He carried it in, made use of the chamber pot under the truckle bed and washed at the washstand with its bowl and pitcher of water. The old lady had even provided a towel.

  Refreshed, he tucked into the food and scanned the harbour as he ate. But it was too dark now and all he could make out was a confusing jumble of lights. He told himself there was nothing further he could do this night. It was time to stand down the watch until dawn.

  Taking off his jacket, he wedged the back of a chair under the doorknob and lay down on the bed, his loaded pistol beside him.

  Wondering how Hurel was faring, he lay awake for a while hoping that Nelson’s bombardment would come sooner rather than later so that he could escape the claustrophobic room which made him feel like a prisoner in solitary confinement.

  *

  He awoke with a start. Someone was tapping on the door. He froze. What if Hurel had been captured and talked? Supposing someone else had noticed the strangers entering the house and informed the authorities? But no, they would not come knocking quietly on his door – they would have kicked it open.

  It was Hurel.

  Exhausted, he slumped in the armchair and Anson passed him the remains of the wine.

  ‘You look done in.’

  ‘Mon ami, I am trés, trés fatigué as we Frogs say – exhausted! All day I ’ave crept around pretending to be on some official business or other.’

  ‘Did you get near enough to see what preparations the French, sorry, I mean the enemy, are making?’

  Hurel nodded. ‘The port is defended by a line of twenty-four brigs and gunboats anchored across the ’arbour mouth.’

  ‘How are they secured?’

  ‘I could not see for certain, but I presume by ropes.’

  ‘What about shore batteries?’

  ‘I counted ten, all of ’eavy guns although I was not able to get close enough to see the calibre. I joined a group of gunners smoking their pipes near one of the batteries to ask for directions and ’eard them joking that they might as well smoke next to the ammunition store because the powder is so weak it would not explode if you emptied your pipe in a barrel of it!’

  ‘Really? Do you think there was any truth in that?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I cannot be sure. They might ’ave been what you English call pulling my legs.’

  ‘Were you able to discover where the headquarters are?’

  ‘There is a ruined Roman lighthouse on the east cliff, above the town, where there was a lot of activity. I followed a soldier who was going on duty there.’

  ‘But it’s a ruin?’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is Louis-René de Latouche-Tréville’s ’eadquarters …’

  ‘Admiral Latouche-Tréville?’

  ‘One and the same. And if ’is ’eadquarters are ’ere, Boulogne is clearly the centre of the invasion forces.’

  Anson agreed. ‘The admiral would naturally wish to be at the centre of things.’

  ‘I know of this man. Like me ’e was an officer in the royalist navy. I did not serve under ’im myself but knew ’im by reputation – ’e has a good strategic brain and ’as been cunning enough to survive the revolution and serve on in the navy and prosper since then, when others lost their careers – and some were parted from their ’eads.’

  ‘Then he is a formidable opponent?’

  ‘Bien sȗr. Not only ’as ’e survived, but ’e is admired by all as the only French admiral who appears to be able to stand against Nelson with any ’ope of success.’

  ‘If only we could get to him …’

  ‘We cannot. I tried, but was, ’ow do you say, fobbed off and questioned by an intelligence officer.’

  ‘You stuck to your story?’

  ‘I did and ’e appeared to believe me. Then, encroyable …!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This colonel of intelligence introduced me to Lieutenant Crispin and sent us off together to prepare a report on escaping from England and British anti-invasion preparations!’

  ‘Crispin! Here? Good grief!’

  Hurel smiled at the reaction to his news. ‘It was easy to get ’im drunk and ’e told me ’e is disenchanted with republican France and would give anything to go ’ome. I ’ave taken the liberty to say that after the bombardment I will take ’im to see a contact, a ’orrible scar-faced English smuggler who might be able to arrange it.’

  ‘That’s me, I take it?’ Anson frowned wryly at his description.

  ‘Exactly – and I ’ave told him ’e must bring a plan of the ’arbour and the defending ships, details of the landing craft being built, the damage Nelson’s bombardment causes and anything else ’e can acquire.’

  ‘Good man, Hurel!’

  Anson was delighted. The thought of being able to take Crispin back to England and with him information about the Boulogne defences that would be of great value to Nelson in planning a cutting-out raid made all the risks they were taking worthwhile.

  He asked: ‘What will you do now, Hurel?’

  ‘I will return to the admiral’s ’eadquarters and offer to go back to England with the smugglers and spy for ’im.’

  ‘But how do I know that you—?

  Hurel was there before him. ‘So ’ow do you know that I am not a double agent, or about to become one? You don’t, mon ami, but this is a matter of ’onour – and trust.’

  Somehow Anson knew now that he could trust this man – this minor aristocrat who had lost all in the revolution yet served on, awaiting his chance to play his part in ousting the republicans; this skirt-chasing, proud, sometimes vaguely ridiculous character who was prepared to risk all for his cause. Yes, it all came down to a question of honour and trust.

  He held out his hand and the Frenchman grasped it. ‘Je suis d’accord, Hurel – honour and trust!’

  Anson sensed his companion was close to shedding a tear.

  ‘This mission has confronted me with old ghosts, mon ami. I admire Latouche-Tréville greatly for his professional attributes, but I do not admire ’is politics. In order to survive ’e ’as changed from royalist to republican. We are both from similar backgrou
nds, both from royalist families. But, sadly, ’e is now a traitor in my eyes.’

  ‘A turncoat, like Crispin?’

  ‘Exactly. But I believe ’e will think I am like ’im, willing to blow whichever way the wind blows. He will believe me.’

  ‘But if you are not able to see the admiral?’

  ‘I have told Crispin when and where we are to rendezvous, so I will meet ’im as planned and if all is well I will bring ’im ’ere and we can ’ide up until it is time for us to rendezvous with the smugglers.’

  ‘Will you rest here until the bombardment starts?’

  Hurel smiled. ‘No, there is a young … well, a lady I know from the past. Boulogne was my ’ome port, you see? I will seek ’er out and ’old ’er ’and if she is frightened by the noise of cannons.’

  ‘Good man, but I hope she likes the smell of fish! Now we must await the bombardment, assess its effect and report back to England with Crispin and as much intelligence as he can bring us. Simple, isn’t it?’

  But they both well knew it would be nothing of the kind.

  Again, Anson wished the Frenchman ‘Bon chance!’ and fell asleep soon after he left.

  But he awoke with a start at the detonations of many cannons. The bombardment had begun.

  33

  “Nelson Speaking to the French”

  At five o’clock in the morning, Medusa had sailed past Boulogne – just out of range of the shore batteries – trailing a line of bomb vessels and gunboats. The British flotilla then closed to within a mile of the French floating cordon and opened fire.

  The cannonade from the bigger ships accompanied by heavy fire from the bomb vessels and gunboats was soon being countered by the French ships and shore batteries.

  All day and well into the evening the bombardment and counter-fire from the defensive line of brigs, gunboats and shore batteries continued, covering the crescent of French ships and the harbour in toxic clouds of smoke.