A Stormy Peace

by David McDine

  *

  Anson and the mate busied themselves ensuring that the Dover Goodwife was properly secured to the bollards and he then ushered Parkin and Cassandra ashore.

  A crowd of sightseers had gathered by the time all members of the English party had disembarked and among the gawpers were touts for various hotels. ‘This way, milord,’ one insisted. ‘Follow me to the best hotel in Calais! Comfortable beds, sheets changed monthly whether soiled or not, no fleas, exquisite cuisine...’

  ‘And a French widow in every bedroom, I hope?’ quipped Nat Bell, who was standing guard over the growing pile of luggage being landed by the crew.

  ‘Of course, monsieur!’

  But Parkin, already recovering from his bout of sea-sickness and gradually turning from green to ashen pink, appealed to Anson. ‘Let’s not be diverted by these barkers. We should make our way to the Hôtel d’Angleterre. That, my banking contacts tell me, was the best before the war. Let’s hope it hasn’t gone downhill.’

  Anson turned to Abbott, who was waiting by the gangway. ‘Mister Abbott, be good enough to fetch me the speaking trumpet.’

  Once again he put it to his lips and shouted: ‘Attention, s’il vous plaît! Nous allons a L’Hôtel d’Angleterre de M. Dessein.’

  ‘Monsieur, je suis de cet hôtel. C’est le meilleur!’

  Anson lowered the trumpet. ‘Bon. Parlez vous anglais?’

  ‘Oui. Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘You say it’s the best? Then be good enough to engage some trustworthy porters and lead us to the hotel.’

  ‘Of course, monsieur, immédiatement!’

  There was a good deal of muttering among the other touts. Although the war was over, at least temporarily, English visitors with gold in their pockets were still as rare as rocking horse droppings in Calais. Anson ignored the grumblers and instructed the guide. ‘Before we leave for the hotel, kindly send someone for a doctor to come on board the vessel. The captain has been injured and requires treatment.’

  ‘Certainly, monsieur.’

  ‘Mon ami.’

  Anson turned to find Hurel at his elbow, whispering: ‘I could ’ave ’elped with these arrangements, my friend, but there will be spies ’ere in Calais and I am trying to keep myself under wraps.’

  Anson smiled, remembering when he had urged the Frenchman to do just that before their reconnaissance of Boulogne — with precious little effect. Hurel had blown his cover completely by flirting with every female he encountered and getting involved in a foolish duel with that ass Chitterling. But maybe he had learned the lesson — hence the low profile he was now adopting.

  Looking round, Anson noted that Pettiworth and his man had already left the quayside, as had Major Trumper and his female companions.

  After a good deal of confusion, shouting and gesturing, his own little procession at last got under way with Nat Bell bringing up at the rear with his pistols in his belt keeping a careful eye on the porters carrying the luggage. No-one was going to make off with any of their dunnage on his watch.

  37

  Calais

  Major Trumper, still green about the gills, was already at the hotel and he and his two female companions disappeared to their rooms as soon as they were allocated.

  Dessein’s establishment lived up to its official name, the Hôtel d’Angleterre. Its original proprietor had become famous after featuring in a book by the novelist Laurence Sterne, and it specialised in catering for English travellers.

  English was spoken by many of the staff, so Parkin was able to negotiate good rooms, with Hurel at his elbow listening for stage whispers in French that might indicate that they were being dunned in any way.

  The old gentleman had worked out what he considered to be a suitable exchange rate and the management was more than happy to accept and exchange English gold. It mattered not to them whose head adorned the coins. They were only interested in the weight and would extract a suitable commission for their trouble.

  Bell stood guard over the large pile of luggage, so, free from responsibility for a while, Anson was at last able to seek out Cassandra, who was sitting with her maid on a chaise lounge in the foyer.

  Both insisted they were fully recovered from the ordeal of the crossing.

  ‘No wonder you sea officers manage to keep such trim figures, Oliver. Bessie lost her breakfast the moment we left Dover, and couldn’t possibly have faced lunch. At this rate she’ll be positively sylphlike by the time we get home.’

  Anson cast an eye over the dumpy maid and thought to himself that she could do with a few more voyages. But he answered sympathetically: ‘I promise the sea is not always so inhospitable. If it were, Bessie, none of us would venture out of harbour. And you, Miss, er, Cassandra?’

  She smiled at his awkwardness and replied, pointedly, ‘I’m quite well, thank you, Oliver. I can’t say I enjoyed being tossed about but I managed to retain my breakfast and found the whole crossing quite exhilarating, particularly coming into the port with you clinging to the mast and waving your arms like some great bird.’

  He grinned. ‘Yes, I admit to flapping somewhat. In the service we don’t normally enter port in quite such a rush and I was trying to shoo that small boat out of our way. No, there’s a good deal more caution exercised in the navy on account of captains being wary of being court-martialled if they get it wrong. But then, this was a merchant vessel with the captain incapacitated so it was a case of different ships, different long-splices.’

  ‘Different ways of doing the same thing?’

  ‘You’ve caught my drift.’

  ‘Well, I, in fact both of us, thought you and Lieutenant Hurel were both heroic to take over and bring us in safely, didn’t we Bessie? If I’d felt well enough I would have sketched le Baron wrestling with the wheel.’

  Anson was less than impressed, but confined himself to warning: ‘While we’re here we must forget his silly title and string of names. Please remember, he’s Gerald Tunbridge now.’

  *

  The hotel buildings formed two squares, with attractive gardens and vines lining the walls. Parkin’s party was shown to handsome apartments in the inner square at one side of which there was a theatre and other places of entertainment including coffee, reading and billiard rooms.

  Once they were all settled in and been reunited with their luggage, Anson, freed from responsibility, persuaded Cassandra to accompany him on a walk around the harbour area with her sketchbook. It would give her a chance to record the busy quayside scene and him the opportunity to take a closer look at the fort that lay to the west of the entrance — and to memorise the layout of the port, so that he could commit it to his journal back in his room.

  The most striking features were the long curving wooden pier or jetty that swept out from the shore fronting the old watch tower and the matching arc of wooden piles marking the extent of the navigable channel they had entered so rapidly just a few hours earlier.

  The sea was calmer now and the channel was empty except for the boat they had almost run down, now tied up against the pier.

  A few pedestrians were strolling about, one with a dog, and others including a woman in what appeared to be traditional local costume with white bonnet and colourful shawl. She and her man, in broad-brimmed hat and wearing a kilt-like creation over loose trousers, were leaning over the jetty’s protective wooden wall, where there was an excellent view of the port.

  That gave Anson an idea. He shepherded Cassandra and her maid beyond these idlers and they took up a similar stance further along.

  Looking round to make sure no-one was paying them particular attention, he borrowed Cassandra’s sketchbook and drew the outline of the port’s main features — the curving pier and piles, the position of the three towers and old wall to his left and the fort to his right. He had been taught drawing as a midshipman for just such eventualities and reckoned he made a pretty fair fist of it.

  Before handing the book back he noted down approximate distances, the width of the chann
el and so on. If nothing more, the information would be a useful addition to Josiah Tutt’s notes.

  They strolled back down the broad jetty, nodding to the idlers as they passed, and when they reached the berths he was not surprised to see the Dover Goodwife was still tied up there.

  But he was disconcerted to see Hurel approaching from the direction of the hotel.

  ‘Ah, Cassandra, I believe you mentioned that my struggle with the wheel during the crossing would make an excellent sketch and I will be delighted to pose!’

  ‘Of course you will!’ Anson muttered, but if he heard the remark the Frenchman ignored the sarcasm.

  Anson spotted the mate, Abbott, who was at the gangway seeing off a Frenchman who had the look of a medical man, and went on board.

  ‘Ah, Lieutenant Anson. Settled into your hotel, I hope?’

  ‘We are, thank you. But more importantly, how is your captain?’

  ‘Not too bad, sir. The Froggie doctor seemed to know his business. He’s sending men with a stretcher to take him ashore on account of how the motion of the ship, even alongside, isn’t doing him any good.’

  ‘Is he conscious?’

  ‘Drifting in and out, you might say. But the doc seemed to think his skull isn’t broken and he’ll recover with complete bed rest for a couple of days at least. I’ve given the doc some money from the ship’s imprest to tide him over.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear. So what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll sail tomorrow on the ebb, sir. Now that the weather’s calmed down I reckon I can get her out without hitting anything. The Dover end will be a pushover. The crew are used to slapping her alongside there, no problem. I’ll report what’s happened and likely as not the next packet to call here will be told to check up on the skipper.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘By the by, sir, I’d like to thank you and Baron Hurel for helping to bring her in. I don’t think I’d have made it without your help.’

  Anson winced. So much for Hurel’s low profile. He had clearly revealed his true name and title to the Goodwife’s mate — and who else?

  The Frenchman had ushered Cassandra on board and took up an exaggerated heroic pose at the wheel. Catching on, Abbott produced a crate — and to Anson’s annoyance she sat and started busily sketching the scene.

  He could not resist asking: ‘Shall we ask Mister Abbott to fetch the proper helmsman for authenticity?’

  Again, he was ignored and Cassandra continued for a while before announcing: ‘I’ve more or less sketched the outline of you at the wheel and perhaps you could pose for me again in the hotel so that I can capture your features, Gerald?’

  Tunbridge, alias Hurel, said he would be only too delighted to accommodate her, a remark that made Anson seethe. Why, she was actively encouraging the man and if this was an attempt to make him jealous, it had succeeded.

  A small crowd had gathered to see what these ‘Rosbifs’ were up to and, wary of attracting unwanted attention and anxious to bring the sketching session to an end, Anson thought it wise for them to return to the hotel.

  There they learned that Parkin and Bell had successfully hired a suitable carriage and four that would be available in a week’s time. That gave them plenty of time to recuperate from their exhausting crossing, enjoy the delights of the hotel, and obtain anything they might need for the onward journey.

  ‘My dears!’ Parkin exclaimed on hearing of their sketching foray. Have you not heard of William Hogarth’s misadventures here for the self-same activity?’

  ‘No,’ Cassandra admitted hesitatingly. Nor was she quite sure of who Hogarth was.

  Anson had heard of the artist and cartoonist famous for his moral representations of A Harlot’s Progress and A Rake’s Progress, and asked: ‘Why, did he visit Calais?’

  ‘He did. It was during a previous peace some fifty years ago, and he got into a great deal of difficulty through sketching the ancient gate. The French arrested him as a spy, thinking he intended to draw a plan of the fortifications.’

  ‘Good grief!’

  ‘He was marched in front of the governor and his sketchbook was scrutinized page by page.’

  ‘And did they find anything incriminating?’

  ‘Not at all, in fact they made him prove himself to be a genuine artist by getting him to draw some of them, and of course his talent was obvious! Nevertheless they told him he was lucky they didn’t hang him from the ramparts!’

  Cassandra put her hand to her mouth. ‘So we were lucky to escape the same treatment?’

  ‘You were! But he got his own back by painting a scene at the Calais gate showing the French as emaciated, cringing creatures watching an enormous side of beef arriving, symbolising British prosperity and superiority. He called the painting O the Roast Beef of old England: The Gate of Calais.’

  Thinking back over their own sketching trip, Anson reddened, embarrassed that he had put Cassandra into a compromising position. If they had been challenged by the authorities and her sketchbook subjected to the Hogarth treatment, his drawing of the port and fort would certainly have been discovered and there could have been hell to pay.

  ‘Hmm,’ he ventured, considerably chastened: ‘I think we’d best keep sketchbooks in our baggage while we’re in Calais and commit scenes to memory.’

  But all that — and the ordeal of the crossing — was forgotten over dinner that evening which was a happy occasion of good food, wine and excited conversation, auguring well for the adventure that lay ahead of them.

  38

  Pinning Tails on Donkeys

  On the other side of the Channel the volunteer militiamen of Woodhurst were gradually growing familiar with the workings of the sea service musket, shorter than the infantry’s Brown Bess to make it easier to handle in the confines of a warship.

  They practised over and over again with its flintlock firing mechanism and the loading drill via the muzzle using a ramrod. Once Fagg was satisfied they had mastered it sufficiently, they were sent one by one to rendezvous with Hoover in the woods, where at last they were able to forget the dumb show and fire for real. Anyone hearing occasional shots would no doubt think someone was out hunting.

  Hoover had rigged up a kind of scarecrow, dressed in a ragged jacket and with a turnip for a head, as a target, figuring that men who spent a good deal of their time praying needed to be faced with the reality that sooner rather than later they would be required to fire at their fellow men, albeit ruthless ruffians.

  Although the musket was effective for about 100 yards against a close-packed enemy, he stationed them a mere 20 yards from his target. He wanted to make them feel confident that they could hit it — and in any event when it came to action it was likely they would fight at close quarters.

  To that end, he showed them how to fit the bayonet, charge and thrust it into the dummy. But although they were doing it before his eyes only, the men went about it as if they were playing a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game at a children’s party.

  They exhibited about as much menace as mice trying to frighten off cats.

  He despaired but hoped when the time came they would find some grit from somewhere.

  From among the old and bold of his churchyard section, Fagg appointed one of the Anglicans, Jacob Fairbrother, a middle-aged farmer, as his corporal, and for the mobile squad Hoover chose Moses Lade, the tall, well-built man who doubled as village blacksmith and unpaid constable.

  The man’s policing role had so far merely involved impounding straying livestock and sending the occasional drunk home with a flea in his ear, but he gave every indication of being up to this stiffer test — and, importantly, he was well respected by his fellow villagers whatever their religious persuasion.

  Fagg’s men took turns as church tower look-outs during the day, and at night the whole group met for an hour or so in the churchyard. With the rest of the village in virtual lock-down, Hoover and Fagg were able to rehearse the men in what they were to do when the smugglers attacked.
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  For ease of recognition after dark they wore white cross-belts and white bands round their hats. Hoover explained: ‘This is how we do it at sea. We marines wear uniforms but the seamen are dressed every which way, so we lend ’em white belts so’s we’ll know who’s who.’

  Brother Finch bearded Hoover and Fagg after the latest training session. He warned: ‘We’ve sworn everyone in the village to secrecy about what’s going on, but I fear that word will get back to the smugglers.’

  Hoover shrugged. ‘Sure, we have to expect that they’ll find out about it but if they hear you’ve formed an armed militia prepared to defend the village maybe they’ll stay away. So it’ll be mission accomplished.’

  ‘But surely they’ll just wait until you’ve gone and then attack us anyway?’

  ‘Not if they know you’re organised, well-armed and determined to see them off. The man who leads them is a bully and won’t attack if he’s convinced you’ll stand up to him no matter what.’

  But behind his back, the marine was crossing his fingers.

  39

  A Maiden in Distress

  Anson was surprised by a knock on his door. He put down his razor, patted his chin with a towel and on opening the door was astonished to see Cassandra, clearly somewhat agitated.

  He asked: ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Oliver, may I come in? There is something I feel I should tell you.’

  ‘Of course.’ He ushered her in and closed the door.

  ‘What’s afoot? You have decided you no longer wish to mix with rough sailors like me?’

  She blushed. ‘Far from it, and kindly stop fishing for compliments. No, this is serious — and excruciatingly embarrassing.’

  ‘You know you may tell me anything. Is it, er, personal?’

  ‘No, no. It concerns Major Trumper.’

  ‘The surly conceited soldier?’ His face darkened. ‘He hasn’t insulted you?