by David McDine
As they made their way back to the hotel Anson asked: ‘By the by, does this strange vessel have a name?’
‘It does. They call it the Nautilus.’
46
The Battle of Woodhurst
At the sound of the drum, MacIntyre stopped in his tracks and the rest of the men followed suit, all quiet now and waiting for his orders.
He had expected nothing short of capitulation — but the drum told him otherwise.
Could the villagers have sent for the military? Unlikely. No, this was a naval alert calling men to their action stations, so it must be Anson’s pet marine and the hop-along bosun from Seagate.
But, he reckoned, the drum was not only being used to call out the defenders. This was some kind of attempt to put the attackers off, or at least buy time.
He called out: ‘Tak nae notice o’ the drummer boy, men. He’ll be wearing it round his fuckin’ neck soon enough!’
The men nearest him laughed and his pock-faced henchman asked: ‘What’s the plan then, Billy Boy?’
‘The drum’s coming frae the church tower and that’s where their look-outs are. We’ll tak cover behind the churchyard wall and gie ’em a taste of musket balls. That’ll shut the buggers up!’
The order was relayed and the smugglers advanced towards the flint wall that surrounded the church. But to MacIntyre’s astonishment an explosion nearby sent several of his men reeling and one shouted: ‘They’ve got a cannon!’
He yelled: ‘Have they bollocks! Get to the wall and open fire at the church tower!’
But as some of the men rushed to obey another explosion scattered them and they fell back.
‘What now, Billy Boy?’ his henchman asked, with more than a touch of sarcasm.
‘That’s nae but a few fuckin’ fireworks. They’ve set charges wi’ long fuses. Get to the wall men and open fire on the bastards!’
Nervously now, half a dozen of the men ran forward, but most still hung back, fearful of more explosions. Those who made it to the wall took aim at the crenelated top of the church tower and began firing one by one.
But to their horror, shapes rose up from behind headstones in the churchyard like ghostly creatures rising from the grave and a calm, firm voice ordered: ‘Present, aim, fire!’
A ragged volley sent musket balls screaming over the attackers’ heads and shotgun pellets hit the flint wall sending splinters and sparks flying. The men at the wall crouched low behind it, pinned down, and there was no need to call on the rest to fall back. Some of them were already running to shelter behind any cover they could find.
From the churchyard the same voice could be heard calling on the defenders to reload, watch for a target to present itself and fire at will.
MacIntyre’s sidekick, now crouching low like his leader, enquired drolly: ‘As I was saying, what now, Billy Boy?’
‘There’s nae but a handful of ’em, so we’ll spread oursel’s out and attack from several places at once. Get some o’ the boys to rip up yon garden fences to use as ladders to get o’er the wall!’
‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea to send some men through the village? If these blokes in the churchyard think their families are in danger they’ll panic.’
‘Aye, do that. Tell the boys to break into some o’ the houses and drag some womenfolk back here. No auld crones, mind!’
*
Leaving five of Fagg’s men crouching behind tombstones with instructions to fire at anyone poking his nose over the churchyard wall and retreat into the church itself if hard pressed, Tom Hoover joined his mobile team waiting on the far side of the churchyard.
Joined by the drummer boy who had come down from the tower as planned, they went out through the lych-gate into the village.
Apart from some shouts from the smugglers on the far side of the church there was no other sign of life. Using hand signals to avoid giving their positions away, the marine fanned his men out and they made their way slowly down both sides of the main street, moving silently from doorway to doorway. He intended to make sure the village was all quiet, circle round and take up position on the flank of the main body of MacIntyre’s men.
But when they reached the crossroads in the village centre they were rooted to the spot by screams coming from somewhere over near the chapel — women’s screams.
*
Three women were pushed forward and flung at MacIntyre’s feet. The smugglers who had broken down their doors and dragged them out had gone for the younger ones and by the looks of their torn dresses, the girls had already been groped.
Black Mac looked them over. ‘Ye’ve chosen well, lads. Nae auld crones here, eh? Now, you men get into three groups, use these fences as ladders and get o’er the wall in three different places. The rest of us’ll keep the bastards’ heads doon while you go o’er the top’
‘What then, boss?’
‘The bastards’ll run, for sure. Top any as don’t, and the first three of you back here when they’ve surrendered can have some fun wi’ these tarts.’
*
Atop the church tower, feeling like he was back aloft in his foretop days, Sam Fagg watched the smugglers’ flaming torches concentrating at three different points around the churchyard wall.
It was what he and Hoover had anticipated. They were going to make a three-pronged assault and there was no way the five defenders left crouching behind gravestones could stand against that. He leaned over and yelled down: ‘They’re gonna come over the wall at three different places, boys. Fall back on the church like what we told yer!’
A few musket and pistol balls whizzed overhead as the five left their protective gravestones and hurried into the church, locking the great iron-studded oak door behind them.
As planned, two took cover behind pews that gave them a clear line of fire at anyone who managed to break down the door and the others, breathing heavily, climbed one by one up the ladder steps to join Fagg and his lookouts at the top of the tower.
The dozen or so of MacIntyre’s men who had made it over the churchyard wall moved cautiously forward, expecting defenders to rise up from behind tombstones. But none did.
‘The beggars have run away!’
Up in the tower Fagg yelled: ‘No they ain’t. They’re up ’ere ready to fire dahn on yer!’
The attackers looked up in confusion and as they did so musket balls screamed down, some striking chips off the tombstones. Fagg pushed three more of his men forward while the others reloaded. ‘Take aim, boys, and fire when ye’re ready!’
Pinned down, the attackers dared not press on or retreat. The churchyard wall had become their temporary prison.
Frustrated at not knowing how the attack was going, MacIntyre sent his henchman forward. ‘Find out what the fuck’s going on, will ye?’
But before his order could be obeyed the beating of a drum to his right made his blood run cold.
Someone yelled: ‘The bastards have flanked us! They’re in the houses!’
Sure enough, he could see several men looking down on him from upstairs windows and almost immediately they fired a volley that sent one of the smugglers reeling with a ball in the head.
It was time to get the hell out of there, and Black Mac saw a way. He reached down, grabbed one of the girls and pulled her to her feet, calling to the men nearest him to do the same.
Three figures emerged from one of the defenders’ houses and approached, muskets at the ready.
In the lead was Tom Hoover. ‘It’s time to surrender, MacIntyre. Half your men are trapped in the churchyard and the rest of you are covered by the boys in the houses. If you want to get out alive throw down your weapons — now!’
MacIntyre pulled the crying girl in front of him and ripped the top of her dress exposing her breasts. The men who had grabbed the other two girls did the same. ‘Ye dinna wanna harm these wee lassies d’ye?’
‘Let them go. If you don’t you’ll swing for it.’
MacIntyre sneered. ‘I fuckin’ thought so! Ye’re
that bastard marine. I thought ye’d have had the sense to fuck off hame to America. Well, we’ll leave right enough, but these wee girls’ll come wie us. If ye fire at us ye’ll kill them, so...’
Hoover stepped forward but with his free right hand MacIntyre took a pistol from his belt and aimed it at the marine. ‘One mair step and ye’re a dead man!’
As Hoover was about to take another step a shot rang out and he froze, thinking MacIntyre had fired. But it was the smuggler who fell, a neat bloody hole in his forehead.
The hysterical girl pulled herself free and fell at the feet of her saviours.
Hoover looked round. ‘Who fired?’
Jacob Shallow held up his hand. ‘Guilty, sarge. I thought the bugger was goin’ to shoot you and anyway, I owed him.’
‘Thanks.’ He turned to the smugglers holding the other two girls. ‘Come on lads, you don’t want to follow Black Mac to hell, do you?’
The lank-haired, wall-eyed smuggler raised his pistol but was shot down by Bishop.
The rest looked uneasily at one another and released the girls.
‘Now, all of you, you’re covered by my boys. If you throw down your weapons we’ll let you leave unharmed. If you don’t...’ He pointed his musket at MacIntyre’s crumpled body.
They dropped their weapons.
‘Good, now make yourselves scarce. We’ll give you an hour to get clear of the village. After that, any of you we find will be strung up.’
Leaving Shallow and Joe Bishop to collect the smugglers’ discarded weapons, Hoover returned to the churchyard where a similar scene was enacted.
Under the cover of Fagg’s musketeers up in the church tower, the marine called on the attackers to throw down their arms and walk out via the church gate. They did, leaving one of their number sprawled across a grave, stone dead.
To speed up the smugglers’ withdrawal, Sam Fagg aimed his musket just behind the rear-most and fired, yelling: ‘Jump to it, ye bastards!’
*
Job done, the Seagate men left next morning.
The dead smugglers had been buried hastily in what was intended as an unmarked grave in a neglected corner of the churchyard. But already someone had stuck a wooden board in place of a gravestone with ‘All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword’ painted crudely on it.
Most of the villagers turned out to see their saviours off amid much hand-shaking and back-slapping from the men of the Woodhurst Militia, Anglicans and Baptists alike. Brother Finch, who had enlisted their aid through Phineas Shrubb, expressed their heartfelt thanks and asked Hoover and Fagg to name their reward.
But Hoover shook his head. ‘We didn’t come here for any reward, friend. There was a score or two to settle with Black Mac and I doubt that gang will bother you again.’
‘We’ll keep the militia going and if the smugglers give us any trouble we’ll send them packing again, brother. Anyway, we’ve got all their weapons now so we don’t need the muskets you brought us.’
Boxer overheard that with relief. ‘That’s good news. I didn’t really believe the hammock-counters would swallow that tale about them being lost off Boulogne!’
47
Versailles
The hired carriage sashayed up the long broad drive that led to the Palace of Versailles, sometime home of kings.
Parkin and his niece had chattered happily throughout the ten-mile journey but fell silent as they approached. One look at the unkempt park, weed-filled formal gardens and waterless fountains told a sad story of neglect since The Terror.
‘What would the Sun King make of it now?’ Parkin pondered aloud.
It had been not only Louis XIV’s palace but the seat of his government, too.
Entering the palace itself they found much of it almost empty except for a few old pots and items of furniture that had somehow escaped the organisers of post-Revolution sales. To their astonishment, they found that one of the great buildings where once officers of the court were accommodated had now been converted to an arms factory.
But the Hall of Mirrors still impressed, and the visitors were somewhat mollified to hear from a friendly Frenchman that Bonaparte was believed to be ordering a complete renovation of the entire complex.
Back outside, Anson took an interest in the mile-long canal that had in earlier years, he was told, been used for naval demonstrations held to entertain royals who enjoyed being rowed along it in gondolas.
Cassandra begged him to join her and her uncle on a visit to the Grand Trianon, which the Sun King had used as a private refuge to escape the constraints of court life. She was even keener to see the nearby Petit Trianon which had later been used for similar purposes by Louis XVI’s queen, the ill-fated Marie-Antoinette.
‘And there’s the Temple of Love she had built for her. So romantic!’
Anson would have agreed with her wholeheartedly and would have suggested they sit in it for a while together to see if its aura still worked, but with her uncle in tow romance would have to wait for another day.
*
On their way back to Paris, Parkin spoke of his ambition to see Bonaparte himself in the flesh.
Cassandra exchanged an amused smile with Anson and asked facetiously: ‘What, pinned to a dissection board, uncle?’
The old gentleman protested. ‘Not everyone thinks ill of him, my dear. One of my correspondents sent me a cutting from an English newspaper. Here.’ He fumbled in his pocket and handed it to her.
There was a likeness of Bonaparte with a poem beneath. She read it aloud so that Anson could hear:
It was a maxim in ancient Greece,
To learn the art of war in time of peace;
But he found out a better maxim far.
By conquest to make peace in time of war;
And through all Europe, bidding discord cease,
Gave to France; liberty; to the World, peace.
Anson shrugged. Whichever way you looked at it, Bonaparte had come a long way from his Corsican birthplace and service as a lowly artillery officer to the upper political and military echelons of Republican France. And now he was swanning around as First Consul being fawned upon right, left and centre by all and sundry — apparently even the otherwise enlightened Josiah Parkin.
Why, Bonaparte was already well on the way to becoming as much a dictator as a Roman Caesar. It might be impolitic to proclaim himself a king now, for sure. But how long would it be, Anson wondered, before the Corsican assumed the full powers and trappings of an emperor?
*
Hurel had stayed behind in Paris and was beside himself with excitement when the Versailles party returned.
He grabbed Anson’s arm and almost dragged him to a secluded corner of the vestibule among the aspidistras. Anson protested: ‘What on earth’s got into you? Has war broken out again?’
‘Not just yet, mon ami, but I ’ave seen ’im!’
‘Who’s ’im, I mean him?’
‘You know, the smuggler, Johnstone!’
‘The fellow involved in the Nautilus business?’
‘Precisely — ’e is ’ere, in Paris, and contacts of mine are keeping their eyes on ’im.’
‘Good grief! Have you met him?’
‘No, mon ami. That is a role better suited to you, is it not?’
*
Within the hour, one of Hurel’s contacts had shown them to a drinking establishment on the left bank.
The Frenchman remained outside wishing Anson ‘bon chance’ as he entered with some trepidation, although he had the pocket pistol with him in case of trouble.
At the bar he ordered a glass of red wine and looked around as nonchalantly as he was able, but none of the clientele looked English. He decided to wait for a while and as he sipped his wine a man entered from a rear door, evidently having been to relieve himself in the urinoir. Anson noted that the man had the curious rolling gait peculiar to those who had spent a good many of their years keeping their balance on heaving decks. His face was well-weathered but not unh
andsome, with bright blue eyes, jet black hair and luxuriant side whiskers, and he was as tall as Anson — a little over six feet.
The man took a seat at the bar near Anson who said, ‘Your face is familiar. English?’
‘Depends who’s asking.’
‘It’s a treat to be able to speak to a fellow-countryman amongst all these Frogs. Can I get you a drink?’
The man smiled, glanced at his near-empty glass and nodded. ‘It’s brandy, and yes, I’m fed up with trying to make myself understood.’
His manner of speech was featureless — certainly not refined and clearly Kentish, but not that of sailors like Fagg, whose conversations were littered with dropped aitches. This man could fit into pretty well any company without standing out one way or another.
He asked: ‘What’re you doing here, taking a holiday?’
‘You could call it that. After so many years of hostilities it’s good to be able to come here openly. My name’s Anson, by the by.’
‘Navy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any kin of the Anson?’
‘Only very distantly, I’m afraid.’
‘So where do you think you’ve seen me?’
‘In Deal perhaps, after the Boulogne raids, or maybe in Seagate. Before the peace I commanded the Sea Fencibles there. Now? Well, like many another I’m washed up on the beach and over here with friends to see the sights.’
‘Ah, Seagate! That’s where it could have been. You may not know it but a number of your men were believers in free trade, much like myself.’
Anson smiled at the euphemism smugglers used to describe themselves. He had himself benefited from their efforts to import wine, brandy and other luxury goods without handing over large sums to the revenue.
‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I didn’t throw it, but I’ve no reason not to tell you. It’s Tom Johnstone, known as Captain Johnstone to most.’
‘Then I most certainly do know who you are. You’ve earned quite a reputation, being imprisoned by both the French and back home for smuggling, escaped from a press-gang and been posted as “run”.’