Dead Man's Island

by David McDine

  At his observation post beside the window Anson could see nothing and snapped his telescope shut. It would be a long, frustrating day and he looked forward eagerly to Hurel’s return.

  Across the Channel on the famous white cliffs above Dover, watching crowds of spectators were calling the gunfire that could be clearly heard “Nelson speaking to the French.”

  *

  After a few hours Anson couldn’t bear not knowing what was going on any longer. His room had become a prison. All he could see from the window was a blanket of drifting smoke covering the harbour and all he could hear was a cacophony of detonations. There was nothing to indicate whether or not the defensive line of French vessels was still intact and he felt totally impotent.

  What if Hurel had been taken – or killed? Either was a real possibility, and if the worst had happened Anson would have to stay in hiding and try to make it to the rendezvous alone without being able to assess the effect of the bombardment.

  His report would be useless and all the effort put into mounting the mission would be wasted.

  There was only one course of action: he must leave the comparative safety of his room and go down into the harbour; that was the only way he could find out what was happening.

  His scruffy seaman’s rig should not attract attention, especially in the smoke, and the noise was such that he could avoid speaking to anyone. If challenged, his schoolboy French should get him out of trouble – especially if he posed, as he had during his escape after the Normandy raid, as a Flemish sailor in the service of France.

  The old lady was nowhere to be seen and he was able to slip out of the house unnoticed.

  The streets leading down to the harbour were almost deserted, no doubt because the populace was taking sensible precautions and taking shelter during the bombardment.

  Nelson had specified that his bomb-boats were to “throw shells at the vessels, but as little as possible to annoy the town.” But the inhabitants were not to know that.

  Through the thick smoke Anson could see the flames from a fire evidently caused by a stray shot and on the street corner several men were pumping up water and filling leathern buckets.

  Perfect! He ran over to them, grabbed a filled bucket and hurried towards the harbour. In this inferno no-one was going to take the slightest bit of notice of a man heading for a fire carrying a water bucket.

  Down in the harbour, men were bustling around, some like him carrying buckets, others bringing away casualties on stretchers and many soldiers being organised, he supposed, ready to counter any attempt by the British to land.

  Explosions continued every few minutes and from the heights around the town came the echoing return fire from the French shore batteries.

  Men were fighting another fire in one of the harbour-side buildings that had been hit but the amount of destruction appeared to be limited.

  He paused at the water’s edge and strained his eyes seaward, trying to make out what effect the British bombardment was having on the defensive line of French vessels – the object of the raid. But the smoke was too dense for him to see anything except for a few boats bringing casualties ashore.

  There was nothing more he could learn here until the bombardment ceased and the smoke cleared. Meanwhile he risked capture so, with reluctance, he decided to make his way back to Madame X’s house and hope for Hurel’s safe return.

  As he walked back, still carrying his water bucket, he noticed two large horse-drawn wagons parked in the comparative safety of a back street.

  Curious, he made for them, nodding to the two drivers who were standing beside one of them smoking clay pipes as if everything was normal and the British flotilla was not hammering the harbour.

  He sat on a nearby fish crate and took out the bread and cheese he had in his pocket, and, chewing on it, he took a closer look at what the wagons were carrying.

  To his surprise their loads were chains – great coils of large-linked, and no doubt extremely heavy, chains.

  *

  Soon after wading ashore from a Kentish lugger just south of Boulogne, Bardet and his two fellow escapers had heard the cannonade and counter-fire begin.

  It came as no surprise. The Whitstable smugglers who had brought them here had warned them of an imminent attack but had not been fazed by it. No-one, friend or foe, was going to bother with the comings and goings of a fishing boat while that was going on.

  On the way over, Bardet had been told that they were not the only ones landed near Boulogne in the past day or so. The lugger skipper had confided: ‘It were a Folkestone galley, we hear. They put a Frenchman and some English bloke ashore close by where you’re landing.’

  To Bardet, the most likely explanation for that was that this was Hurel from the hulk who had supposedly been buried on Dead Man’s Island, but he now knew was very much alive. And the Englishman with him could well be the officer who had reported on the fake funeral and had been staying with Hurel at Ludden.

  As they trudged along the foreshore towards Boulogne, Bardet put two and two together. The probability was that Hurel and his companion were on some sort of spying mission, no doubt connected with the bombardment now taking place.

  If they were to be captured it was vital that he reported to whoever was in charge of intelligence in Boulogne, and as soon as possible.

  He hurried Girault and Cornacchia along and the three soon entered the town, now seething like a disturbed ants’ nest, with some fighting fires down in the harbour and others bringing casualties from the defensive line of ships.

  With some difficulty, Bardet managed to discover where the headquarters were and there he sought out the officer in charge of intelligence.

  In the same room where Hurel had been interrogated the day before, the colonel adjusted his spectacles and stared at Bardet for several moments, making the normally supremely confident Citoyen fidget uncomfortably.

  The colonel indicated the young man seated beside him. ‘This is Lieutenant Crispin. He is an English navy officer. You speak English, do you not?’

  Puzzled, Bardet replied: ‘I do, but …?’

  ‘Very well. Crispin is, shall we say, now on our side, but ’is French is not good, so we will use English. Now, you have just arrived from the shores of perfidious England and the ’ulks? How?’

  Bardet shuffled his feet. ‘My escape was arranged through a bribed guard. My comrades and I got out through a hole cut in the side of the vessel; we swam ashore and were picked up by a gang in league with smugglers.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Whitstable escape line. I have ’eard of this. In fact many others before you ’ave used the same people. They are apparently very good at what they do and are most discreet on account of the fact that they would prefer not to be ’anged as traitors aiding and abetting the enemy – us.’

  Bardet nodded.

  ‘And your passage back to France?’

  ‘All organised by the smugglers – for a price.’

  ‘Smugglers – ah, yes, my friends the Kentish smugglers. They believe in free trade you know. And they are a most useful source of information. They bring me everything from the English newspapers – full of poisonous propaganda, half-truths and lies, but sometimes also a little gem of information – to Steel’s navy list, a most useful document and freely available. Such trusting, naive people, these Rosbifs. Doomed to defeat, of course.’

  Outside, the din of bombardment continued. The colonel took off his spectacles and polished them with a small cloth. ‘And what can you tell us of Nelson’s activities – other than the dreadful noise he is currently making?’

  ‘Monsieur, I know little of Nelson’s plans, but I do know he ’as sent spies here and I believe they may be ’ere in Boulogne, right now.’

  Suddenly animated, the intelligence officer demanded. ‘And do you know who these spies are?’

  ‘One is French, a man named Hurel, and ’e is with an English naval lieutenant called Anson. They, too, came over with smugglers.’

  The
colonel looked up in surprise and Crispin blanched. They exchanged a questioning look.

  ‘Hurel? Are you certain?’

  ‘As sure as I can be, monsieur, yes, he was a prisoner on the same ’ulk as me. The Rosbifs faked ’is death and I believe ’e must be a royalist who ’as agreed to work for them. The smugglers told me he was seen with the naval officer after we ’ad been told of ’is funeral.’

  ‘So it appears we have a suspected royalist agent accompanied by an English navy spy at large here. So what could be the reason for that? To report on our invasion preparations, certainly – the number of barges et cetera – and what damage Nelson is doing to our defences.’

  Bardet nodded.

  ‘Now, Bardet, would it surprise you that this Hurel was in this very room only yesterday, telling me tales of ’is own escape and giving me supposed intelligence of Nelson’s anti-invasion plans?’ He reached for a document. ‘This is a report this Hurel ’elped Crispin to write.’

  Bardet was truly astonished.

  The intelligence officer turned and squinted at Crispin. ‘You were with Hurel for some time. Did you discover where ’e is staying?’

  Crispin cleared his throat nervously and thought quickly. He had arranged to meet Hurel again in little over an hour, so lied: ‘No, Monsieur, but we are to meet again this evening.’

  ‘Bien! Then Bardet, here, and his two men will accompany you.’

  Near panic, Crispin protested: ‘But that will spook him!’

  ‘They will follow at a distance. Bardet is the only one who knows what both Hurel and this Lieutenant Anson look like.’ The colonel rose. ‘Come, Bardet, I will introduce you to the officer of the guard and ’e will provide you with some weapons and fusiliers to back you up. I want both these men taken – alive – and brought back ’ere for interrogation. Is that clear?’

  They went out leaving the panic-stricken Crispin alone. He put his head in his hands for a moment and then, mind made up, he shuffled through the papers on the colonel’s desk, stuffed what looked important down his jacket and left hurriedly.

  *

  Within the hour Crispin was back in the drinking den where the day before he had unburdened himself to Hurel.

  By now the intelligence officer would have realised he had made off with the stolen documents, so he was on the run. He was known to frequent this bar, but it was the only link he had with Hurel and the possibility of escaping the living hell he had allowed himself to be sucked into.

  All he could do now was pray that Hurel arrived before Bardet.

  From Nelson’s flotilla targeting the harbour area and the opposing gun batteries on the heights around Boulogne, the fire and counter-fire continued, sometimes intensive, sometimes spasmodically.

  At least, Crispin thought, it drew attention away from him.

  To steady his nerves he ordered a stiff brandy and nervously clutched a bag containing a few possessions he had just had time to collect from his billet – and the stolen papers.

  He had another drink, and then another before the hour passed.

  At last Hurel entered, looked around and made his way to Crispin’s table at the back of the bar.

  Hurel held out his hand, but Crispin rose and stuttered: ‘We must go – now!’

  Puzzled, Hurel shrugged and followed the Englishman from the bar. On the way out Crispin flung some coins on the counter and muttered: ‘Au revoir.’

  Outside, as they walked away from the drinking den, he explained: ‘We must get away from here and off the streets immediately. I have stolen some papers from the intelligence colonel and a Frenchman called Bardet knows you are here—’

  Taken aback, Hurel exclaimed: ‘Bardet? Citoyen Bardet! But ’ow?’

  ‘He escaped and came across with smugglers – like you. He’s told the intelligence people that you’re with a naval officer called Anson. Is that true?’

  Hurel nodded. There was no point in denying it.

  Crispin looked around. ‘For God’s sake let’s get off the streets! Bardet’s been given soldiers to help find you – us – and they could be here any minute.’

  There was no time to think it through. Crispin could be laying a trap to catch both him and Anson, but Hurel was fairly confident the Englishman was telling the truth. He was clearly rattled, scared almost witless in fact – and when they halted briefly in a doorway to let the dust settle after a stray cannonball hit a nearby building, Crispin opened the bag he was carrying.

  A tantalising glimpse of official-looking documents, including one that appeared to be a plan of the port defences, was enough to convince Hurel and he led the way through the back streets to the safe house.

  *

  Lying on the bed, Anson had let his mind wander over recent events. All this had resulted from attending Hurel’s funeral that never was. The Frenchman had been exasperating at times, and trying to keep him under wraps and eventually getting him across to France had been an exceedingly tricky business.

  And now the longer Hurel was away, the more Anson became convinced he had been taken, forced to talk – and perhaps even already executed as a spy.

  One thing was certain. This time the Frenchman would not end up being buried on the God-forsaken mudflat of Dead Man’s Island, that dismal place in the Medway haunted by the cries of curlew sounding like the uneasy spirits of the dead.

  Not least, what Anson had seen of the bombardment did not encourage optimism. Some of the ships had been damaged but the masts of landing craft were clustered just as thickly as before in the harbour. And although it was not yet over, it seemed to him that in effect the raid was going to fizzle out in failure.

  What’s more, seeing the wagons loaded with chains had worried him. If they were used as he guessed they might be, the follow-up cutting-out expedition he knew Nelson was planning could well end in disaster.

  His musing was interrupted by sounds of the front door slamming and hurried footsteps up the stairs.

  Cocked pistol in hand, he flung the door open. ‘Hurel! Thank God! And this is …?’

  ‘I ’ave brought you a visitor, Monsieur Crispin.’

  Before the two could exchange a word, Hurel explained: ‘Crispin ’ere has stolen some important documents and wishes to return to England with us. But by now the intelligence people will be on to me and Crispin. Another escaper named Bardet has arrived from Kent and spilt the peas—’

  ‘Beans!’ Anson was deliberately trying to play the situation down, but the mention of Bardet had alarmed him. The Citoyen would be able to recognise them both.

  Hurel shrugged. ‘Ça ne fait rien, as we Frogs say. Peas or beans, it doesn’t matter! They will be seeking us now and we must leave immediately!’

  Anson ushered them into the bedroom and, uninvited, Crispin sank onto the bed, clearly already shattered.

  Holding up his hand to hush Hurel, Anson urged him: ‘Calm down, mon ami, and tell me, were you followed here?’

  ‘No, they will go first to the bar Crispin frequents and try to pick up our trail from —’

  ‘But there is no trail, and so there is no need for us to leave here until it’s dark. Then, thanks to the bombardment, we stand a good chance of giving them the slip and reaching the rendezvous in time to meet up with our smuggling friends.’

  Hurel considered. ‘You are correct, of course. We Frogs ’ave a tendency to become over-excited, I’m told. Yes, we can rest ’ere and I am sure our ’ostess can find us some food. I ’ave not eaten today and ’ad a busy night at the ’ome of my lady friend, so I am trés fatigué. And Crispin ’ere is also very tired.’

  And three parts drunk, Anson reckoned, but kept the thought to himself.

  Food and some wine were produced and Crispin drank while Hurel and Anson ate. Then they rested up as best they could until it began to grow dark.

  Before they left, Hurel went into a huddle with the old lady, no doubt pressing some more money on her and explaining as much as he thought wise about what was afoot.

  He t
old Anson: ‘Unless they are watching as we leave they will never connect ’er with us. I ’ave told ’er that if the authorities do question ’er she must say that some men broke in, tied ’er up, stole food and slept in this room.’

  Then, with Hurel in the lead and Anson bringing up at the rear, they left quietly by the back door and made their way through winding alleys towards the outskirts of the town heading for the rendezvous.

  34

  Brotherly Love

  After dinner at Hardres Minnis, Augustine Anson sought out his father in the library.

  He found the rector deep in thought about next Sunday’s sermon – or rather once again wondering which one to copy from his printed book of such pontifications and tweak for local consumption.

  ‘Ah, father, so this is where you’re hiding!’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Augustine. It’s too early for bed and you find me pondering my next sermon. With Nelson at Deal and expected to make some further show against the French after this bombardment of Boulogne, I thought I might try something martial. If there is some action, your brother Oliver could well be involved.’

  Augustine hurrumphed. ‘I thought we had agreed that after his refusal to marry the Brax girl his name would not be mentioned in this house.’

  The rector protested weakly: ‘That was said in the heat of an unfortunate family spat. Surely we should not go that far. It was merely a disagreement after all.’

  ‘Spat? Disagreement? It was treachery! Firstly he embarrassed us all by bringing a Frenchman here – and a papist for God’s sake! And then he had the opportunity to secure this family’s future prosperity through marriage to the richest heiress this side of the county, yet shied at it!’

  The rector flinched at the tirade.

  ‘And now you’ve had the ignominious task of reading the banns for her marriage to that oaf Chitterling. The whole thing beggars belief!’

  ‘At least the squire has been kind enough to allow me to officiate at the wedding. To me that’s a sign that he’ll not take his revenge for Oliver’s refusal by freezing me out of my parish.’