by David McDine
Hurel raised both hands. ‘Of course, but it is less obvious than Calais, Boulogne etcetera. And we will not enter the port boldly demanding instant passage as if we were Englishmen abroad.’
‘But we are Englishmen abroad! At least you may not be but the rest of us are.’
‘I, too, am a paper Englishman, remember? You still ’ave not mastered my Gallic sense of ’umour, Anson. You will be escorted to the port, where you will join our friends, all Frenchmen with apparently the correct papers, take one of the invasion craft moored there and sail pretending to be ’eading further down the coast to Dieppe or Le ’avre.’
‘What of us?’ Pettiworth asked.
‘The rest of us will make for a place to the south of Étaples. My party will be rowed out by boat and rendezvous with Anson at sea.’
‘And then?’
‘We will ’ead for England, praying for a wind that will take us to the Kent coast.’
‘But if caught, your friends’ lives will be forfeit. Are they really prepared to undertake such a plan to help a handful of English tourists get home?’
It was the silver-haired man who replied: ‘I think you underestimate the ’atred some of us royalists ’ave for the republicans, monsieur. Those of us who lost relatives during The Terror would ’appily give our own lives to avenge them.’
*
As it would take a good while for their guardians to put the necessary plans in place, the English party got to work on the chateau.
Parkin set about the library, doing what he could to repair damaged books and returning them in some sort of order to the shelves. What he considered to be the most precious volumes he put in a trunk to be taken back to England for safekeeping.
With Hurel’s approval, Pettiworth removed the damaged family portraits from their frames and rolled them up carefully, tied them with ribbons and placed them in a large canvas hold-all.
Meanwhile Cassandra, sleeves rolled up and looking like a maid herself, spent the days with Bessie washing clothes, cleaning and tidying as best they could.
When she was not fully occupied, Hurel insisted on continuing his French lessons, and Anson couldn’t help hearing their laughter with irritation.
Communal meals were cooked by a couple of the Normandy men, who clearly knew what they were about, and Anson took a share of guard duty.
Bell did the same and passed the rest of his time helping the coachman look after the horses. The carriage would be key to their escape.
*
After a week without any interference or contact from the outside world, a messenger arrived on horseback from the coast and went into a huddle with the leader, Hurel and Anson.
The man was clearly of good breeding and spoke excellent English, but like his comrades remained anonymous, other than suggesting that the English party call him Pierre, which Anson guessed was almost certainly not his real name.
He reported that there were many invasion craft gathered in the harbours bordering La Manche.
‘So their intent is to invade Britain, possibly in the near future?’
‘Of course,’ the Normandy men’s leader spread his hands dismissively. ‘The peace was a mere interlude. Bonaparte knows ’e must overcome the power of your navy to secure Europe and ’is overseas territories. Your strangle’old by blockade frustrates that. If ’e cannot destroy you at sea he must defeat you in your islands.’
Anson asked the messenger: ‘How many of these invasion craft are there at Étaples?’
‘Maybe already 20 or more.’
‘And the other ports: Dunkirk, Gravelines, Calais, Boulogne?’
Pierre shrugged. ‘I do not know. But I believe there are as many already in each place and very many more building. It is rumoured that Bonaparte will ’ave as many as 2,000 for ’is invasion.’
‘What types are they?’
‘The biggest are prames, three-masted vessels of the premier class carrying 12 guns. Then there are chaloupes cannonière with two masts, péniches that carry ’owitzers, and many gunboats.’
‘How many men can they carry?
‘They say the chaloupes and péniches can embark maybe 100 men and their weapons.’
Hurel exercised his Gallic shrug: ‘I tell you my friend, the Bonapartists ’ave been very busy during this sham peace.’
‘When we get to Étaples I must sketch these craft? Such intelligence could be of the utmost value to the Admiralty.’
‘You need not sketch the chaloupes, my friend. We are going to steal one, sail it to England and when we are safely in the dockyard there your shipwrights can crawl all over it to their ’earts’ content.
‘Good grief!’
*
As the time drew near for Anson to leave, he sought out Cassandra, who was taking a brief respite from her self-inflicted chores and French lessons.
A trifle awkwardly, he told her: ‘I must leave for the coast with Pierre. We have to acquire a boat. Tomorrow the coach will take you and the others to another safe place Hurel knows and later we will rendezvous off the coast.’
She asked anxiously: ‘Oliver, do you trust these men?’
‘I do. They are risking their lives for us.’
He saw that she was wearing the anchor brooch he had given her in Paris.
Her eyes followed his and she asked: ‘Tell me before you go, why an anchor? I understand the connection with the navy, but...’
Colouring slightly, he took her hand and confessed, almost shyly: ‘It’s close to your heart, where I long to anchor myself forever.’
It was her turn to blush, but their tête-à-tête was rudely interrupted by Hurel, announcing: ‘It’s time to be gone, Anson, tide and time don’t wait for any man, as we English say!’
‘It’s “time and tide wait for no man”, but no matter.’
Parkin and the other members of the party came to make their farewells and before he could speak to Cassandra again he had been hustled outside where Pierre was waiting with his horse and another that had been conjured up for Anson.
Grimacing at the thought of having to spend many hours undertaking his least favourite mode of travel — horseback — he mounted the beast awkwardly.
Hurel reached up to shake his hand and Anson seized the opportunity to ask him quietly: ‘About your intentions towards Cassandra, you know I have strong feelings for her?’
‘Intentions?’ The Frenchman laughed. ‘Don’t worry, mon ami. I ’ave merely been flirting with ’er to pull your legs! Can’t you see she is in love with you?’
Anson was about to tell his friend that you pulled someone’s leg, not legs, but realised the import of what he had just heard and instead told him: ‘Thank you, Hurel. I should have remembered our vow to one another: honour and trust.’
It was a commitment they had exchanged on the Boulogne mission and Hurel repeated it now: ‘D’accord, mon ami. Honour and trust!’
*
It was beginning to grow dark when Pierre and Anson reached the outskirts of Étaples after three days of dogged travel, mostly by night, spending a few hours resting in safe houses and isolated barns during the day.
They dismounted and Anson massaged his aching thighs and rubbed his sore behind, vowing to himself that he would never ever climb on board a horse again.
Pierre told him: ‘I am taking you first to a place close by the harbour. If all has gone well we will meet some men who like me detest the regime. They are experienced sailors and will have procured some suitable clothing. It is easy enough to buy what you need from the French navy. Like you British they are not well paid.’
‘So we’ll dress like French sailors?’
‘Certainly. It is our best chance of moving around the area unnoticed. We will blend into the background.’
‘And we steal one of the invasion craft?’
‘Precisely. My friends will have already selected which one and forged orders that say we are to take her out on trial. It is a believable story because the one we will take will have r
ecently been fitting out. It will be like taking milk from a baby.’
‘Or, as my bosun would say, it could all go tits up!’
Puzzled, the Frenchman shrugged. His English might be good but it did not extend to lower deck sayings of the Rosbifs’ navy.
They left the horses at an inn’s stables — Pierre telling the ostler he would be back for them in a day or two — and approached a shabby-looking detached house in a side street.
The Frenchman rapped softly on the door and it opened slightly, as far as the chain fitted on the inside would allow it, letting out a wedge of pale light. There was some low muttering in rapid French that Anson could not follow, the chain was unfastened and the door swung open. Pierre beckoned him and they entered, blinking at the light from an oil lamp.
The door was immediately shut behind them and the chain replaced.
As Anson’s eyes adjusted to the light he found himself being stared at by three Frenchmen, one with a loaded pistol in his hand. For a split second, he wondered if he had been betrayed, but the man who had opened the door stuck his pistol in his belt and smiled reassuringly.
The guide announced: ‘Mes amis, allow me to present Lieutenant Oliver Anson, of the Royal Navy. His French is, shall we say, of the schoolboy variety, so while we are here it is better that we speak in English. Anson, these gentlemen are friends, royalists like me.’
‘I am happy to make your acquaintance, gentlemen.’
He shook hands with each in turn.
The oldest and evidently their leader, a tough-looking man with greying hair and what appeared to be a duelling scar on his cheek, told him smilingly: ‘My men call me “le Compte”, but we do not introduce ourselves to you by name, m’sieur. It is not out of impolitesse, you understand. If we are captured by the republicans it is better that you do not know who we are, n’est pas?’
Anson nodded. ‘Nevertheless I am deeply grateful to you, gentlemen.’
‘Ça ne fait rien. Now, m’sieur, you must put on the clothes of a French sailor and we will get to work.’
53
Rendezvous at Sea
Pierre slipped outside to satisfy himself that the coast was clear and they left the house one by one to form up in the road outside, kitbags over their shoulders.
The leader, now in the uniform of a French naval petty officer, gave a quiet word of command and they marched off confidently towards the harbour. To call this marching was somewhat over-egging it, Anson thought, but then he doubted that French or any other sailors would ever come close to matching guardsmen.
He disliked wearing headgear at the best of times and had pulled on the blue stocking hat and threadbare jacket and striped trousers with reluctance, thinking that with his scarred face in this outfit all he lacked was an eye-patch to make him look the quintessential pirate.
On entering the port area they were challenged by a sentry, but waved through with a smile when the leader replied with some apparently amusing remark that Anson didn’t quite catch. He thanked his lucky stars that being among these Frenchmen he would not have to do the talking as he had during his escape after the St Valery raid.
As they approached the waterfront, Anson could see what he took to be a chaloupe — a two-masted vessel at any rate — drawn up on a slipway apparently awaiting repairs. Another, which appeared to be fully operational, was moored nearby.
He cast a professional eye over the one on the slipway and at a glance could tell it had been designed to be a troop carrier that could easily negotiate mud and sandbanks and be run up a beach, no problem. However, his seaman’s instinct told him that her shallow draught, small keel and low sides would make her the very devil to handle in heavy weather. Loaded with troops and with artillery embarked she would be vulnerable anywhere other than on a millpond.
But for now, whatever the weather, the moored chaloupe, new and clearly still being fitted out, would have to do. He noted with some misgivings that it rejoiced in the name of Tortue — Turtle or Tortoise, he supposed — and he hoped it handled better than its name suggested. Anyway, getting one to England intact for the experts to crawl over would be a wonderful coup.
While he was cogitating, the ‘petty officer’ grunted an order and the group came to an untidy halt. The leader muttered to the rest to stand easy and walked confidently to the gangway.
It was then that Anson spotted a marine armed with a musket sitting on a crate beside the main-mast observing them with vague interest. A sentry? This was unexpected but not surprising in view of Bonaparte’s edict ordering the rounding up of all British men of military age.
Vessels of every kind would no doubt by now be under guard all along the Channel coast.
The leader strolled nonchalantly over the gangway and raised a hand to his stocking hat as he went on board.
Shown some paperwork which he did not — or could not — read, the sentry indulged in a few Gallic shrugs, tilted back his shako and fished a clay pipe from his jacket pocket.
Le Compte turned to call the rest of the party on board, and without further ado they set about preparing to sail.
Anson busied himself as best he could, keeping a careful eye on the sentry who began to gather his kit as if about to go ashore.
Sidling up to the leader, Anson indicated the sentry and whispered. ‘What are we going to do with him?’
‘We must take ’im with us. If we leave ’im ’ere ’e might raise the alarm. I ’ave told ’im we are just moving to a different anchorage, but ’e is just a little suspicious. A drink would keep ’im occupied.’
Fishing in his kit bag, Anson produced a flask of brandy he’d brought along for just such emergencies. He approached the sentry, pretended to take a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and handed the flask to the Frenchmen.
The man grinned, took a swig himself and handed it back. But Anson shook his head, muttered gruffly ‘Pour vous’ and went to help cast off, leaving the sentry happily downing another shot.
It was early evening and no-one on the waterfront took the slightest interest in the Tortue as she slowly left the mooring. After all, the vessel was crewed by French sailors and the sentry was still on board, so they could well have merely been changing berths.
*
Once out of the harbour they tacked slowly down towards Berck.
With no duties to perform, Anson fell to wondering how Cassandra and the others were faring ashore. He consoled himself that at least they had Nat Bell to look after them but otherwise were totally reliant on Hurel and the royalists he had enlisted to escort them to the rendezvous.
A cackle of laughter startled him. It was the sentry, now three sheets in the wind, and apparently finding everything hysterically funny. The brandy flask had done its work.
‘What’ll we do with him?’
Le Compte spread his hands and shrugged. ‘I ’ave taken ’is musket and bayonet. Soon ’e will be asleep and when ’e wakes up and finds ’imself in England I expect he will decide to become a royalist.’
Anson smiled. ‘Very wise.’
He tried to catch some sleep with his head resting on his kitbag, but his mind was still churning over and over all the things that could go wrong for the shore party. They could so easily have been betrayed or fail to make the rendezvous for a dozen different reasons. And it would be his fault for agreeing to such a hare-brained scheme.
Exhausted from his travels, he did doze off eventually and woke much later to find the chaloupe hove to and the Frenchmen scanning the moonlit coast and the lights of Berck to the south, anxiously.
He joined them and suddenly there it was: the outline of what appeared to be a rowing boat.
Le Compte had seen it too and within minutes a lantern showing a green light was swinging from the chaloupe’s mainmast.
*
Boarding Tortue was a trial for Parkin and Pettiworth who made heavy weather of scrambling over the side. But, shoved by Bell from below and eagerly pulled on board by Anson, Cassandra and her maid cop
ed without mishap.
On deck Cassandra appeared to stumble and fell into his arms — or was it intentional? Whatever, he held her tightly for a few moments and she whispered to him: ‘You see, I am wearing my anchor and we are moored alongside one another once again.’
He smiled happily at the thought but broke away reluctantly to help hoist their luggage on board. Bell came next, clutching his blunderbuss, and finally Hurel clambered on board.
At the last minute le Compte decided to send the drunken sentry ashore with the returning boat rather than taking him to England and he was lowered unceremoniously over the side.
With cries of ‘au revoir’ and ‘à bientôt’, the royalist oarsmen pushed off, gathered themselves and struck out for the shore — rowing more easily with their lighter load.
54
Who Winks First
With everyone on board at last, Tortue headed out to sea to take advantage of the south-westerly that they hoped would drive them down Channel to the Kent coast.
Happy to be reunited with Cassandra and the others, Anson set about trying to make them as comfortable as possible.
She told him: ‘We’ve had such adventures since we left the chateau, Oliver, but they are for the telling later when we’re safely home.’
Parkin was positively effervescent, announcing: ‘Now I’ve got over the Calais crossing, I’m quite taken with this maritime life. It’s so much more exciting than dissecting toads!’
But the sudden crack of a cannon back towards Étaples turned his smile to a look of alarm.
Anson exclaimed: ‘If I’m not mistaken that’s a Frog trying to bisect us! What’s afoot, Hurel?’
The Frenchman was already peering through a glass. ‘A sail, ’eading this way.’
‘Can you make out what it is?’
‘Not enough light to be certain, but it looks like a frigate.’
‘Ours or theirs?’
Le Compte answered for him: ‘French for sure, maybe the Rapide out of Boulogne. She patrols this coast.’ He ordered a crewman to hoist the tricolour, telling Anson: ‘It may fool them into thinking we are trialling the chaloupe.’