by David McDine
The increasing swell caused by the ‘bit of weather’ dismissed so contemptuously by the military man became obvious as the Goodwife left the pier behind and headed into the open sea.
Soon the vessel was rising, dipping and rolling from side to side in a corkscrew motion, and Parkin, Bell and the ladies were quick to join the rest of the passengers below deck.
Anson and Hurel joined the captain beside the helmsman, who was struggling at the wheel.
Sutton explained: ‘With this nor’-westerly, gentlemen, I’m forced to head for a point to the east of Calais.’
‘Anything less would take us too far down-Channel?’ Anson observed.
‘That’s right. Once we’re beyond Calais we’ll wear round on a port tack and let the tide run us in.’
Hurel asked: ‘I take it these fore-and-afters ’andle well in coastal winds and shallow waters, captain?’
‘That’s right. Makes ’em ideal for going into ports like Calais.’
He broke off to order the helmsman to steer further to larboard and turned to resume his conversation with Anson and Hurel.
‘Not the weather I had hoped for, gentlemen, but then this narrow stretch of water can be calm as a millpond and a raging tempest in the space of an hour. It’s on account of being at the corner of the North Sea and the Channel, you see.’
Anson offered: ‘Can we be of any help?’
‘Bless you, no, sir. We’ve been back and forth pretty well every other day since the peace and a bit of weather’s no problem. I just hope that the other members of your party manage to keep their breakfasts down!’
No sooner had he said it than the major, who had gone below with the ladies, reappeared on deck with the suddenness of a jack-in-the-box, bolted to the side and threw up.
Anson had to laugh. ‘Poetic justice! I fear that the passenger keenest to make the crossing and never mind the weather has fallen at the first fence, or whatever the sea-going equivalent is!’
Sutton grinned. ‘Never suffered with it myself, but I believe sea-sickness is worse than almost any other malady known to mankind other than giving birth, and I’m not planning to try that!’
Tapping the vomiting army man on the shoulder, Anson commiserated: ‘Feeling a bit liverish, major? Perhaps it was something you ate?’
The army man heaved again, turned weakly and mouthed what Anson took to be Anglo-Saxon for ‘go away’.
*
The Goodwife ploughed on through heavy seas, rising then lurching and rolling with waves breaking over the bow and soaking those still on deck.
The major and had disappeared below again and only Anson and Hurel remained with the captain and duty watch.
Clinging to the foremast, Anson found it exhilarating — a reminder if needed of how much he loved being at sea, whatever face it showed. His thoughts turned to what he would do when the peace ended and he determined to find a way to win a sea-going appointment whatever the cost.
He was still musing when, within sight of Calais, the Goodwife hit an exceptional wave. The schooner lurched violently, caught Captain Sutton off balance and sent him sprawling. As he went down he hit his head on the corner edge of a grating, knocking himself senseless.
Anson and Hurel looked on in horror as he rolled onto his back, apparently lifeless, blood pouring from an ugly head wound.
‘Good grief!’ Anson sprang to his aid, and could see immediately that Sutton was badly hurt. Kneeling beside him, he felt the injured man’s neck and found a weak pulse.
The mate came hurrying up, blanched and exclaimed: ‘Oh my Gawd, is he dead?’
‘No, but he’s in a pretty bad way. Has he got a cot in his cabin?’
‘He has, sir. Shall we carry him down?’
‘Yes, and can you find some bandages?’
Still a trifle weak from his recent wounds, Anson stood back as Sutton was carried below, limp and heavy as a sack of potatoes, leaving a trail of bloody drops.
Following them down, Anson just avoided colliding with Cassandra, who had emerged from the main cabin to see what was going on. He answered her unasked question. ‘He’s alive, but we must stop the bleeding.’
The captain was now on his back on the cot in his tiny cabin and the mate had found a piece of more or less clean towelling.
Anson took it and bandaged the injured man’s head as best he could with it, wishing Phineas Shrubb or his daughter Sarah had been there. From personal experience he knew of no-one better at patching damaged bodies than the pair of them.
Leaving Cassandra to keep an eye on the captain, Anson went back on deck with the mate and Hurel.
‘Look, Mister...?’
‘Abbott, sir.’
‘You must take over, Mister Abbott. Are you up to it?’
Abbott’s look of alarm said it all — he wasn’t. He stammered: ‘I’m, well, new to all this, sir. Only joined the Goodwife a couple of weeks ago. I’m a fisherman, y’see. When his proper mate went sick, Captain Sutton gave me the job on account of me being his nephew.’
Anson’s eyebrows shot skywards. So much for a leisurely crossing. He and Hurel would have to take over in all but name.
‘Nevertheless, Mister Abbott, you must take command, but Hur—, er, Mister Tunbridge and I are both navy men and will help as best we can.’
The man was pathetically grateful. ‘You’re sea officers, sir? So we’ll be alright, thank the Lord!’
Anson did not share the man’s confidence. Hurel had probably spent more time in a prison hulk than he had at sea, and what was more neither of them had ever taken a vessel of any kind into Calais before, even supposing they could find the entrance.
Nevertheless, he knew instinctively that he must appear confident and make sure Abbott and the rest of the crew were kept occupied.
*
If anything, the weather had worsened in the hour since the captain was injured and those still on deck had to move carefully from handhold to handhold to stay upright.
Shouting to make himself heard, Anson told the mate: ‘We’ll have a devil of a job getting into Calais in this weather. How familiar are you with the port?’
‘Not familiar at all, sir, on account of only having been there twice since I joined the Goodwife. And those times the Channel’s been like a millpond, so we had it easy. It was what you might call plain sailing. But I do know there’s an old watch-tower and there are two spires or belfries, one either side of it. We went ashore and saw them close up. The one to the left is a church.’
Anson took a quick look at his pocket journal. ‘L’Église Notre-Dame?’
‘Dunno about that, sir, but it’s a church sure enough. I remember last time we were here the bells were ringing and all the old biddies were scurrying in there like a lot of black beetles. But how’d you know about the church, if you haven’t been here before?’
‘A sailing master I know let me study notes he’s been keeping for years of his own observations and information he’s gleaned from others.’ He consulted his journal again. ‘There’s a fort over to the right of the harbour and a long curving wooden jetty to larboard with a line of stakes to starboard marking the navigable way in. But there are hazards.’
Abbott was looking more anxious by the minute, but Anson ploughed on: ‘Yes, apparently the tide sets across the harbour entrance and can be as strong as three knots so it’ll be easy to drift off course into danger as we enter. There are shallows offshore to the west and a sandbank one mile north of the harbour entrance with hardly any depth in places.’
The mate pulled a face and exhaled. ‘Phew! So it’s not going to be easy?’
‘No, and the notes warn that in strong northerly winds the sea breaks on the sandbank and it’s best not to enter Calais in such conditions!’
Anson turned to Hurel. ‘To sum up, we have a strong north-westerly, a vessel neither of us is familiar with, going into a strange port with an inexperienced and depleted crew, and a group of passengers precious to us and expecting that as experienced sea
officers we will get them ashore safely. That’s about the size of it. We could of course beat up and down outside Calais until the wind drops and take her in then, but...’
Hurel exercised one of his Gallic shrugs and announced: ‘Non! Let me go and check on the captain and passengers.’
Anson, left hanging on grimly as the Goodwife bucked and rolled in the heavy swell, was beginning to feel a little queasy himself.
The Frenchman returned looking concerned. ‘The passengers are in distress, mon ami. Mister Parkin has turned positively green and tells me ’e feels so dreadfully ill that ’e will never, ever again set foot on board a vessel of any kind that floats. I asked him how ’e proposed to get back to England but ’is reply was most out of character!’
‘How about the ladies?’
Hurel shook his head. ‘Not good.’
Anson considered for a moment. His mind made up, he announced: ‘We could pussyfoot around outside Calais all night hoping the weather calms down, so we’ll take her in, come what may!’
35
Weapons and Tactics
It was an enlarged band that met in Finch’s barn. The Baptist elders had been joined by half a dozen members of the Anglican congregation who brought with them two fireable shotguns and a few edged tools that would do as weapons.
Although they obviously all knew one another, they were divided by their religious persuasions and the newcomers eyed the Baptists warily — and vice versa.
Well used to lower deck cliques, Fagg addressed them as if they were a bunch of street-scrapings newly arrived from a receiving ship.
‘Let’s get this straight right orf. I’m a proper petty officer in the navy and I ain’t bovvered about all this religious stuff, what foot yer kicks wiv and so-forth.’
There was some muttering but they held their peace. The bosun might be a trifle short and scrawny, but he had natural authority and didn’t look like someone you’d mess with.
He eyeballed the two groups and announced: ‘Don’t matter wevver ye’re Anglicans, Americans, Baptists or bigamists, ye’re all the same t’me and Tom, ’ere. Right? This ’ere militia ye’ve joined is what matters nah and ye’ve got to learn to take orders from us, and I’ll tell yer fer nothin’, the only fing what will bovver us if you lot don’t jump to it when ye’re told to jump.’
There was muttered assent, but Fagg glared fiercely at them. ‘Look a bit more lively for Gawd’s sake. I want all them as is gettin’ on a bit or ’as wooden legs or whatnot move to starboard and all them what’s sound o’ wind and limb to larboard.’
There was some confusion as the villagers first decided which was left and right and then which category each of them fell into.
One elderly specimen who ended up on the left with the fitter men had to be shunted off to the right.
‘Nah then, the old and bold lot are mine and the rest of yer now belong to Sergeant ’oover. Tom?
Hoover looked both groups over and explained: ‘We have the vicar’s permission to use the church tower as a look-out position, so Bosun Fagg will be in charge of the church group, on account of the game leg he acquired killing Frenchmen.’
‘That’s right,’ Fagg offered. ‘We’ll keep a watch from the tower.’
‘What all of us?’
‘No. One maybe two at a time. It’ll be easy enough by day and when there’s moonlight, but not a lot o’ good on dark nights.’
‘So what do we do then?’
‘That’s where Sergeant ’oover’s boys come in.’
‘Right! On dark nights some of my group will be stationed at the village approaches. Day or night, whoever spots the enemy will fire this flasher...’
He produced a barrel-less pistol that could be used to emit a blue flash as a warning signal. Ironically he had borrowed it from Seagate fencibles who used it on smuggling runs to let an incoming vessel know if the landing was compromised.
‘What if no-one sees it?
‘He’ll fire a musket, too.’
‘Then what?’
‘The rest of Bosun Fagg’s men must make their way to the churchyard. There’re plenty of places you can take cover and fire from if attacked.’
‘What, hide behind the gravestones?’
‘You got it. Then, if ’ard pressed we go in, barricade the church doors and fire down on ’em from the tower.
‘And the rest?’ Brother Finch asked.
Hoover explained, with more confidence than he felt. ‘The rest will be under me operating as a mobile force deploying to tackle the enemy wherever they appear.’
‘But we’ve got our businesses to run, our work to do,’ Morris, the baker, protested.
Fagg glared at him. ‘Look mate, we ain’t doing this fer fun. If y’want to let the smugglers walk all over yer that’s fine with Tom and me. We’ll be ’appy to leave you lot to it.’
Hoover was more diplomatic. ‘You’ve got a point about having to do your normal work. I understand that. We’ll need a duty roster and with careful planning we can minimise the effect of all this, so you men can cover for one another. Now let’s sort out training.’
The baker scoffed: ‘Training? What with, three old shotguns and a handful of tools? The smugglers’ll laugh at us.’
Fagg grinned smugly. ‘Ah, I wondered who’d be fust to bring that up. Well, as it ’appens, Tom and me ’as brung a present for yer.’
He limped across to a pile of hay, fished in it and held up a musket. ‘We got seven o’ these, as used in action orf Boulogne, so we know they works.’
There were mutters of surprise. He had their attention.
‘Tom ’ere, Sergeant ’oover, is goin’ to show ye ’ow to fire these ’ere muskets. We’ll do what they calls dry trainin’ ’ere on account of not wanting to scare the shite outta the village wiv lots o’ loud bangs and set the effing barn on fire.’
Hoover took over. ‘Excuse the bosun’s salty language folks. Comes from mixing with a lot of rough sailors. Anyhow, I’ll teach you the basics here — how to handle the weapon, clean and load it, but we’ll do the proper firing well out of the way in the woods.’
36
Green Around the Gills
Seizing a speaking trumpet, Anson struggled for’ard and stationed himself behind the foremast, contending with the high wind and drenching spray with the utmost difficulty.
On reaching it he immediately took the precaution of lashing himself to it — otherwise, he reasoned, in these heavy seas a sudden lurch could easily throw him over the side.
Several of the Goodwife’s hands were reducing canvas. One of them, he noticed was Abbott, the mate. He prayed that they had taken similar care and roped themselves on. The vessel was now level with the harbour mouth, pitching and rolling alarmingly in the cross current and flowing tide, and began her perilous run.
Even with some of the way taken off the vessel, the forward momentum was still alarming and Anson was relieved to see that Hurel had again joined the helmsman wrestling with the wheel.
Shielding his eyes, he could see the triangular outline of a church tower to larboard. That must be l’Église Notre-Dame. A good distance away to its right were two more tall buildings, closer together — the observation tower and the belfry.
Glancing towards the long curving jetty, he could see that the Goodwife was well off line and in imminent danger of running into the stakes marking the starboard edge of the channel, or, worse, grounding beyond them on the sandbanks in front of the fort.
He put the speaking trumpet to his lips and made to shout, but only a strangled cry came out so he coughed to clear the frog in his throat, thinking to himself what an absurd expression that was, although strangely apt on this occasion. His mind flashed back, too, to his pathetic attempts to blow a post horn while standing in as a mail coach guard.
‘Helmsman there!’ This time his voice was strong and clear. Their attention caught, Hurel and the helmsman, clinging to the wheel together, looked up.
‘Bear hard to larboard and steer
for the left-hand tower!’
The pair fought with the wheel and the vessel swung round almost immediately, but too far, her bow heading for the jetty where a number of locals were lounging, watching proceedings with interest although apparently blissfully unaware that they were in some danger.
Anson yelled again: ‘Starboard!’ and the helmsmen reacted just in time to avoid colliding with the jetty.
They over-corrected again and the vessel veered dangerously near the line of stakes, but they quickly noticed and made the necessary adjustment.
With the tail wind shooting them down the curving Channel towards the harbour, Anson saw to his horror that in their path was a small rowing boat, with a single oarsman apparently oblivious to the fast-approaching danger.
Anson put the speaking trumpet to his lips again and yelled: ‘Attention, attention! Prenez garde, idiot!’
Miraculously the startled boatman managed to row to one side as the Goodwife swept past, rocking his dinghy so violently that he had to let go of his oars and hang on to the thwarts for dear life.
The following waves were milder now and, without needing to be ordered, Abbott and his crewmen were feverishly reefing and dropping the remaining sails, taking off much of the way that had brought them so speedily into the channel.
Anson shouted: ‘There’s a spare berth behind that merchantman. Head for the spot in line with the two right-hand towers.’
Hurel waved his acknowledgement and, in the nick of time, heavy woven-rope fenders were flung over the side to protect the hull. Seconds later the Dover Goodwife thumped and slid alongside the jetty in the heart of the harbour sending several crewmen sprawling as they flung mooring ropes ashore.
To the alarm of gesticulating Frenchmen, the schooner’s bowsprit ended up inches from the stern of the merchantman in the next berth. It had been a close-run thing.
Allowing himself to relax for the first time in many hours, Anson mouthed: ‘Phew!’ Whether by luck, judgment, or a bit of both, they had arrived more or less safely, if a little green around the gills, in France.