by David McDine
She took it, asking: ‘May I open it now?’
‘Of course.’
Untying the ribbon she smoothed out the paper to reveal a small red leather box and opened it expectantly.
‘Oh, Oliver — a golden anchor!’
‘Yes, it can be worn as a brooch or a pendant. There’s a delicate gold chain with it, you see?’
‘How lovely! May I wear it straight away?’
He nodded happily. It seemed his romantic gesture had paid off, but his hopes to capitalise on it were dashed with Bessie’s return.
‘Ah, Bessie, I fear I sent you on a wild handkerchief chase. It was here up my sleeve all the time. But perhaps you’d help me put on this lovely pendant that Lieutenant Anson has kindly given to me.’
Frustrated, Anson couldn’t help pulling a face. His plan of campaign had been to kiss Cassandra’s neck as he draped the necklace around it...
*
Next day, the old gentleman had no luminaries’ meetings or lectures about rat droppings to attend so opted to join them on a visit to the Louvre.
As they approached it on the right bank of the Seine, he explained: ‘It was originally a fortress and then Francis I occupied it as a royal palace. But Louis XIV chose Versailles instead so it’s become one of the civilised world’s greatest museums and galleries.’
Anson wondered, facetiously, if there were any museums and galleries in the uncivilised world, but held his tongue. Parkin burbled on. ‘Napoleon has appointed its first director, you know, his art advisor, Dominique Vivant, Baron Denon. He’s something of a polymath: archaeologist, artist, author, diplomat, you know. He accompanied Bonaparte’s expedition to Egypt and inspired the discovery of the Valley of the Kings.’
Cassandra, wearing her gold anchor as a brooch today, commented: ‘Fascinating, but it’s my greatest wish to see Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.’
‘And so you shall, my dear. We are extremely lucky to see anything at all because the Louvre has only recently reopened after structural problems.’
They wandered the galleries, with Parkin exclaiming in admiration at many of the masterpieces. Louis XVI’s collection formed the core of it, along with great works seized during Bonaparte’s campaigns. Strangely, Anson thought, Parkin appeared to admire the First Consul for that, although many might consider it looting.
There were not enough scenes of sea battles for Anson’s taste and he was staring, by now rather bored, at yet another classical depiction when he felt a tug at his elbow.
It was Cassandra. ‘Oliver, don’t make it obvious, but look at that woman at the other end of the gallery.’
He followed her glance. ‘Good grief! It’s that ghastly Trumper’s wife! So they are in Paris.’
‘Should we do anything?’
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I could follow her discretely to find out where they’re staying, but to what purpose? Miss Ward is free of him and I very much doubt that the French, of all people, have a law against attempted seduction while already married!’
44
Time Runs Out
The deadline Black Mac had given the Woodhurst Militia by which to disband and for Hoover and Fagg to make themselves scarce was fast approaching.
The mood, when the men gathered in the barn, was sombre.
‘Well, men, this is it. They’ve threatened to attack any time from tomorrow and I reckon they will,’ Hoover confided. ‘If they don’t, they’ll lose face and their grip everywhere else will be weakened.’
Fagg, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, but unlit on account of his not wishing to burn the barn down, nodded his head vigorously. ‘Tom and me was told to eff orf and you lot to disband an’ crawl back ’ome. But we ’ain’t and you lot ain’t. We’re still ’ere and ready to stand up to ’em, right?’
The militiamen did not appear to be entirely convinced, but Lade the blacksmith offered: ‘There’s only one of us that isn’t here.’
‘Clark, the grocer? Why not?’
‘His mother’s been took bad and won’t let him leave her side.’
One of the Anglicans put up his hand, ‘My wife’s been on at me. Keeps moaning about what’s going to happen to her and the little ones if I get killed.’
Several others began muttering, clearly sharing his misgivings, and Morris, the baker, said darkly: ‘Those that live by the sword, die by the sword. Maybe we should give up all this militia foolishness and turn the other cheek.’
Fagg began spluttering, as if prior to explosion, but Hoover held up his hand to quieten the waverers. His Baptist upbringing in America came in useful now and then. ‘Remember Samuel 2, verse 22?’
Finch got there first. ‘You mean, “I call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised, and I am saved from my enemies”?’
‘That’s it. We are in the right and the Lord is on our side. If you melt away your enemies will triumph and you’ll never be able to lift your heads up again. But if you stand up to them they will learn a lesson they will never forget and leave this village in peace.’
He picked up his musket. ‘Right now it might seem like you’re facing Goliath and the Philistines, but remember what David did, and this here sea service musket is a whole lot more powerful than his slingshot. It’s your choice, brothers.’
Fagg watched, first mystified and then astonished at the effect of the marine’s words. The reluctant militiamen were galvanised and when dismissed to get a good night’s rest before the coming battle, went off with a spring in their step.
When they were alone, Fagg shook his head in disbelief. ‘I got to ’and it to yer, Tom. I ain’t never seen a bunch o’ ditherers like that lot stirred up wiv a sayin’ out o’ the bible afore. Dunno ’ow you can remember all that stuff. Sounded like you meant it, too.’
The American grinned. ‘Sure, I meant it, but I had to spend an hour in the church this afternoon looking up a suitable verse, in case they started to wobble!’
*
The deadline arrived but there was no sign of the threatened attack. The Woodhurst militiamen took time off from their work to patrol the approaches and man the church tower, but as evening wore on the smugglers had still failed to put in an appearance.
Eventually, Hoover felt he had no choice but to stand most of the men down so that they could eat and rest. They could be in for a long night.
Trying to put himself in the smugglers’ shoes, he pondered what he would do and decided he would wait until it was dark — or attack next day at first light. Either way they would need to harbour up not too far from the village, wait until all was quiet and then attack. Leaving Fagg in charge of the duty men, he tacked up Ebony and rather than keep to the main road, set off down a side lane.
A mile from the village his attention was drawn to a plume of smoke rising almost vertically on the near-still evening air. It came from the far edge of the wood he was skirting, so he dismounted, tied the horse to a tree, took his musket from its makeshift holster and set off into the wood.
As he neared the spot where the smoke was rising he could see the outline of a small barn and hear raucous voices. Creeping closer, he found a large recently-fallen branch and hid among its foliage, thankful that he was not wearing his scarlet uniform jacket and that his brown civilian coat camouflaged him well.
There appeared to be up to a dozen men beside the barn, and he gathered that they were eating and drinking. Two broke away from the rest and stood relieving themselves not more than twenty paces from him. He could see that both were armed with muskets, pistols and swords. They were clearly not military or revenue men, but smugglers: Black Mac’s gang.
One of the men made a crude remark about ‘sticking this in one of them militiamen’s wives come nightfall’, and his companion cackled in reply. When they had finished relieving themselves they turned and walked back to the others.
Having seen and heard enough, Hoover set off at a crouching run back to where he had left Ebony, but just before he reached the edge of the wo
od he had an idea, turned and fired his musket in the direction of the barn.
That would set the cat among the pigeons and get the gang running around in confusion, fearful that they were being attacked. At the very least it would jolt their confidence and make some of the nervy ones begin to wonder if they were about to bite off more than they could chew.
*
Back in the village, Hoover called a council of war with Fagg, the militia corporals, and Sampson Marsh, George Boxer, Joe Bishop and Jacob Shallow, who had answered the call for reinforcements from their lately-disbanded Sea Fencible detachment.
Shallow had more reason than most to hate MacIntyre, having been blackmailed by him and pressed into the navy when he couldn’t pay up. The Seagate greengrocer had been rescued from naval servitude by Lieutenant Anson and knew better than anyone which side his bread was buttered.
Hoover briefed them on what he had seen. ‘There’s a dozen of them holed up at a barn the other side of the woods to the west and they’re planning to attack tonight. I stirred them up with a musket shot, so they’ll be a bit edgy.’
Moses Lade asked, ‘So which way will they come?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Depends on how well they know the area. Myself, I’d come through the woods, but—’
He was interrupted by the arrival of Tom Marsh, who had been sent out to reconnoitre the main road in his pony and trap.
‘What’s afoot, young Tom?’
‘There’s men approachin’ up the main road a couple of miles from the village, sergeant. Soon as I saw ’em I turned and headed back.’
‘How many?’
‘Dunno, p’haps twenty, maybe a few more or less.’
‘Armed?’
Young Tom nodded.
Hoover thought for a moment. ‘This lot young Tom’s seen ain’t the same as the ones I saw the other side of the woods. They couldn’t have gotten a couple of miles south in that time.’
‘So there’s two groups?’
‘Yeah, about thirty or more all told.’
Fagg raised his eyebrows. ‘Strewth! And there’s only about fifteen of us, some as can barely fire a musket, even if we ’ad that many, which we ain’t.’
The American smiled. ‘But the militia’s on its own ground. We know they’re coming tonight, we’ve sorted out our defensive positions, and above all we’ve got our own fortress — the church tower. Now let’s get to it. Corporals, turn out your men and deploy ’em like we’ve practised!’
*
At the crossroads a mile from Woodhurst, Billy MacIntyre waited until the inland group that had been harboured up by the barn joined up with the larger contingent he had led up from the Marsh.
It was dark now, but there was sufficient moonlight for him to be able to see what was what and for the men to avoid stumbling into one another. He barked out his orders and, noisily with much excited joshing, his little army headed off down the road.
A few mounted men were left to secure the road behind them just in case the defenders had tried to summon up reinforcements, but the rest moved on to the outskirts of the village.
Some now carried flaming torches — MacIntyre’s idea to put the fear of God into the pathetic militia and remind them that if they didn’t give in straight away, their chapel and their homes would be set on fire.
His confidence was high. There was no way a handful of Bible bashers, even if led by that marine and his mate from Seagate, were going to stand against a gang of hard-nut smugglers in full cry. It would be a walk-over and he savoured the prospect of punishing those who had dared to defy the free traders. Not least, he had heard some of his men discussing in lurid detail what they would do to the defenders’ wives — and he was not averse to participating in that bit of sport himself.
All told, it would be a lesson the village — and the rest of the county — would never, ever forget.
They pushed on noisily, but then over the chattering and laughter he heard a noise familiar to old sea dogs like him: the rat-a-tat-tat of a drum beating to quarters.
45
The Sea Monster
After further sightseeing over several days, sadly all with either Parkin or the maid Bessie tagging along unknowingly playing gooseberry, Anson was puzzled to hear that there was a fellow English gentleman awaiting him in the hotel vestibule.
Among the potted ferns in a quiet corner he found Hurel, ostensibly reading a tattered copy of the London Times, but actually using it to hide behind.
‘Ah, Hurel! How very good to see you! Back from revisiting your vast estate?’
Hurel’s face was a picture of horror. ‘Shush, my friend! I am keeping myself in the low profile, under what you call wraps! I would be much relieved if you addressed me as Gerald Tunbridge, my nom de guerre.’
Anson grinned. ‘Of course, mon ami, I mean… Gerald. But never fear, there’s no-one near and you are very well concealed behind The Times in this forest of aspidistras!’
‘This is not a joke, Anson. P’haps you do not realise there are spies everywhere in Paris and some are paid just to observe the comings and goings of we English?’
‘You, English?’
‘Well, temporary English.’
‘Anyway, no-one can overhear us here.’
‘You are wrong, Anson. Here in Fouché’s Paris, even the aspidistras ’ave ears. Please, let us take a stroll where we cannot he ’eard.’
Anson had become well aware of the iron grip the Minister of Police had on the capital and was happy to oblige. They left the hotel and walked towards the Jardin des Tuileries. When no-one was near, Anson asked: ‘Well, er, Gerald, I am itching to know how you got on. So, did you find your family home in good order?’
Hurel shook his head sadly. ‘No, I did not. The republicans had used it as a barracks and left it in a disgusting state. Although as you know I am not an emotional man...’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘Yes, even I was reduced to tears. They ’ad strewn rubbish everywhere, broken some of our finest furniture and burned many of the precious books in our library. Mon Dieu! They had even used my family portraits for target practice!’
‘What, even your great-great aunt, the mistress of a king?’ But even as he said it, Anson regretted being facetious.
Hurel, downcast at what his own countryman had done to his cherished family home, had not registered the sarcasm and answered sadly. ‘Yes, mon ami, even her.’
‘Look Hurel, I mean Tunbridge, you must not let this get you down. If and when the war is truly over, you will be able to return and restore your chateau to its former grandeur.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Of course, but for now you must put it out of your mind and concentrate on two things, enjoying the delights of Paris while we may and gathering whatever information we can that could help overthrow our enemies.’
‘In that connection I believe I ’ave outdone myself.’ Hurel looked around to make sure no-one was on their heels and tapped his nose. ‘I ’ave met with many fellow royalist contacts in Normandy and they will ’elp us if we need to leave in a ’urry, but more importantly I ’ave seen incredible things, mon ami, incredible things!’
Anson was intrigued. ‘Really?’
‘Indeed. Before we left England, Colonel Redfearn mentioned to me that a man called Fulton ’ad approached the French government some time ago offering to build a mechanical engine that could attack British ships from under water.’
‘How did he learn that?’
‘From spies, of course, especially a man called Johnstone who informed him that this engine was to be trialled in the Seine and then at Le ’avre.’
‘So that’s why you went south?’
‘Yes, the colonel wanted me to check on this story and it proved easy enough to learn the truth. Le ’avre is awash with tales about it. In the mouth of the Seine there has been much talk of a sea monster. One farmer I met on the way told me that one had been captured!’
‘Good
grief! You didn’t believe that?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But you believe they have built such a craft?
‘I know they have, mon ami. I have seen it for myself!’
‘Good grief! Does it work?’
‘Please do not keep saying “good grief” with your mouth ’anging open, Anson. It is not what you English call officer-like.’
‘But I truly am astonished!’
‘I can assure you it does work. It is shaped like a fish and maybe as long as a jollyboat, twenty foot or thereabouts. It ’as a copper ’ull with a diameter of perhaps seven feet.’
‘Not big enough to carry many men, then?’
‘No, I saw only three men go on board ’er, but I ’eard she can take more and remain submerged for eight hours.’
‘But how do they propel the beast?’
‘On the surface they rig a sail and when they wish to dive below the surface they use a ’and-cranked propeller.’
‘Did you see her dive?’
‘I did, and she remained under water for more than half an hour.’
‘But how can this machine attack surface vessels?’
‘This I did not see for myself, but I was told that when underwater the submarine boat can attach explosive devices to the hull of a surface ship to be detonated by a timing device, or they can moor the mine to the seabed beneath it to explode on contact.’
‘So it represents a real threat to our ships if war breaks out again?’
‘Yes, of course, but the strange thing is that Bonaparte is apparently sceptical about it and will not continue to fund this man Fulton’s efforts. So it might be possible to persuade ’im to work for the British instead.’
‘Well done, Hurel, sorry, Tunbridge! This information will be of the utmost value to the Admiralty.’
‘And there is something else, mon ami, I am told that the man Johnstone who is involved in all of this is also ’ere in Paris.’
‘Really? Then we must find him!’