The Body in the Boat

by MacKenzie, A. J.

  ‘Two men have already been shot dead in connection with this business,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Then you see what I mean. If Vandamme wants to live a long and healthy life, he’ll be a good boy and play by the rules. That’s not to say he might not get greedy. Ninety thousand pounds is a lot of temptation. But I’m guessing if he does, he won’t live for much longer.’

  The rector nodded. ‘The courier, Jean. What do you know about him?’

  ‘We don’t gossip in our world, reverend. Jean has family on both sides of the Channel; he knows how to travel discreetly, and where to hide; and he can be trusted to deliver a message. That’s all I know, or thought I ever needed to know.’

  ‘When does he next go to France?’

  ‘He’s in Boulogne now.’ Matthew touched the butt of his pistol. ‘But I’ll be waiting for the little bastard when he comes back.’

  ‘No,’ said the rector. ‘Let him live.’

  ‘He’s a traitor, reverend.’

  ‘They all are. But Jean might be able to lead us to the man, or men, who employ the gang. They’re the ones we really need to take. Jean is small beer.’

  Matthew nodded, reluctantly.

  ‘When is he due to return from France?’ Hardcastle asked. ‘And where will he land?’

  ‘A week today, the 23rd. He’ll come back through Hythe, as usual. He has connections there.’ Matthew looked out over the sea in the fading light. ‘But if he gets word you’re after him, he’ll stay in France. You’ll never touch him.’

  ‘Perhaps not now. But once the peace treaty is signed and relations between our countries resume, I shall ask for the help of the French authorities.’

  ‘Peace treaty.’ Matthew glared at him. ‘There’ll be no treaty, reverend, not now. The French have broken off negotiations. Lord Malmesbury has been ordered to leave the country. He’s already on his way home.’

  The rector stood astonished. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Two weeks ago, the royalists launched an insurrection in Paris. The government crushed them. That’s where Peter is now, trying to salvage something from the wreck. The Directory claims Britain supported the coup; that’s why Malmesbury has been told to pack his bags. The Dutch fleet is about to put to sea, and the French and Spanish ones will follow. And they’re raising new armies to send against us; paid for, this time, with smuggled British gold.’

  ‘Dear God,’ said the rector quietly.

  ‘You’d better pray hard to Him, reverend, and hope He listens. This country is in peril as never before. And another thing. The Directory is wreaking vengeance on its enemies. They’re arresting everyone, not just royalists but dissenting politicians, priests, writers and intellectuals, anyone who has ever breathed a word of opposition. The prisons are full and the guillotine will be back in action soon. Anyone who can get out of Paris is fleeing for England, and sanctuary.’

  ‘It is the Terror all over again,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes. And so, you’ve got refugees coming. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. They’ll be crossing over in the next few days. Be ready for them.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you for the warning, and we’ll do our best for them.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Grudgingly, Matthew said, ‘You’re a good man, reverend. I hope you find your killer.’

  The sun set. Shadows fell deep and cold across land and sea. The rector stood silent, listening to the faint crunch of Matthew’s boots on the sand as he walked away.

  18

  The Refugees

  For the moment, the East Weald and Ashford Bank would have to wait.

  Sunday and Monday passed in a rush of preparation all across the Marsh. Immediately after his meeting with Matthew, the rector had sent out messages to the other magistrates and clergymen of Romney Marsh, and the mayors of New Romney and Hythe and Lydd, warning of the impending arrival of the refugees and asking them to pass the word further along the coast. He wrote also to Cole, warning that boats would be coming across the Channel and asking that his officers and the Stag should let them pass freely. He then went around his own parish and began knocking on doors, asking for help.

  Unsurprisingly, he called first at Sandy House. Mrs Chaytor listened, her clear blue eyes wide as he told her the news. ‘The shipwreck of our hopes,’ she said. ‘Poor Willie. He worked so hard for peace. He will feel this badly.’ Then, dismissing the Foreign Secretary from her mind, she said briskly, ‘What do you need from me?’

  ‘The people coming to us will be cold, probably wet from the sea crossing, exhausted and hungry,’ Hardcastle said. ‘Some of them may also be injured. Our task is to look after them when they land, and help them through the first hours and days.’

  ‘Then we need to begin collecting dry clothing and blankets. I’ll ask Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper to help me; it will be good for them to have something to do. We will need to feed them too; we can use the Star’s kitchen, but we’ll feed them at the church, there’s more room there. And we’ll need billets where they can sleep.’

  ‘I will look after the billets, if you go to the church.’

  The church was the largest building in the parish; it made sense to establish their headquarters there. Within the hour, the nave of the church was vibrant with activity. Blankets and bundles of clothing brought in by every household were stacked around the walls. Bread, cheese, mutton hams and pots of soup were sent over to the Star and carried into the larder under the efficient supervision of Bessie Luckhurst. Around the village, lofts and sheds were cleared out and mattresses of straw or grass or bulrushes made ready. The larger houses cleared out rooms and put down mattresses in these too. Early on, the rector looked up to find someone at his elbow carrying pen and ink and paper. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked his sister.

  ‘Making a list of who has volunteered rooms, and how many beds they have,’ said Calpurnia. ‘Someone must, don’t you think? You’ll never remember all this.’

  She was entirely right. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘How many can we take at the rectory, do you think?’

  ‘Ten in the house, if we clear out the morning room and put beds there, and six in the stables and two in the tack room. I’ve already given instructions to Mrs Kemp. She took the news with surprising calm.’

  ‘Did she really?’

  ‘No.’ Calpurnia giggled. ‘But I managed her. Depending on how many people come, we might have to billet some in the church itself. But I think we should try to put as many into houses as possible. They will be warmer and drier there.’ All through that evening and the following day she was at his side, and her calm competence astonished him. He saw in those hours a side to his sister that he did not know existed.

  By Monday more blankets and food and bedding were arriving, this time from some of the inland villages, Ivychurch and Newchurch, Brenzett and Snave, and there were offers of beds there too, should St Mary and New Romney and Dymchurch be overwhelmed. In the middle of the morning Joshua Stemp came into the church.

  ‘We’ve had a message from the other side, reverend,’ he said. ‘They’re coming tonight. Finny says we can expect about two thousand all along the coast. Maybe a couple of hundred here in St Mary.’ The run the smugglers had arranged for the previous day had already been cancelled.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ said the rector. ‘All at once?’

  ‘Has to be. The government sent troops to round people up and stop them from escaping. There’s been fighting on the roads already. Now the troops are closing in on Boolong. If the refugees don’t get out tonight, they won’t get out at all. We could have wounded folk, along with the rest.’

  ‘Dr Mackay has been alerted, and more doctors are coming down from Tenterden and Ashford.’

  Stemp nodded. ‘Jack Hoad and the Tydde boys and some others are going across this afternoon, to lend a hand. Have the Customs been told?’

  ‘Cole’s men are out hunting for Noakes, but they’ll keep clear,’ said the rector. ‘The Stag will offer assistance if needed.�
� He turned to look around the crowded church and drew a deep breath. ‘Two thousand people,’ he said. ‘May the Lord watch over them, and us.’

  *

  Late in the day on Monday, as the evening gloom began to fall over the Marsh, a big wagon with a team of four Belgian horses made its way down the turnpike from Ashford to Ham Street and then out onto the levels beyond. Two men sat on the driving bench, one holding the reins and the other carrying a musket, and the wagon was preceded by two outriders on horseback, both armed with cavalry carbines. The wagon’s cargo was securely tied down and covered with canvas.

  A little north of Snave the wagon came to Stock Bridge, a broad span over the big sewer that drained away south towards Fairfield. A patrol of Customs officers stationed at one end of the bridge looked up as the wagon approached. Petchey, their leader, held up a hand. ‘Where’re you bound for?’

  ‘Rye,’ said the driver, bringing the wagon to a creaking halt. ‘We’re making a delivery to the battery down there.’

  ‘What’s your cargo?’

  ‘Gunpowder. Fifteen barrels of it.’

  The Customs men gave each other significant looks. Petchey strode to the rear of the wagon and climbed up. Unfastening some of the securing ropes, he drew back the tarpaulin. There were indeed fifteen kegs of gunpowder, branded with the name of Stourbridge Mills and the broad arrow of the Board of Ordinance.

  ‘Not much of a cargo for a wagon this size,’ he said to the driver.

  The driver shrugged. ‘I only do what I’m told. Hey! What are you doing? You can’t touch that, it’s government property!’

  Ignoring the other man, Petchey turned one of the kegs upright and prised open the lid with his knife. All he could see at first was burlap sacking. God, he thought, don’t tell me this is a dummy . . . He pulled the sacking aside; and then he saw what he was hoping for, the dull gleam of gold.

  ‘Take them!’ he snapped. In a moment, his men had dragged the driver and his mate from their seats and pinioned them; pistols covered the two outriders, who slid down off their horses with their hands in the air. Protesting bitterly, the four men were dragged together and manacled, their hands behind their backs.

  ‘Now,’ said Petchey, ‘let’s try again. Where were you taking this load?’

  A mixture of persuasion and threat soon broke the men down. They had collected the wagon and cargo, already loaded, from a yard in Ashford. Their orders were to drive the wagon down the track towards Midley and then abandon it not far from the ruined church. They did not know what would happen after that; they were paid not to ask questions. All four swore blind that they thought the cargo was gunpowder.

  ‘Put them in the wagon,’ said Petchey. He paused for a moment, thinking what to do next. He could take the gold down to Rye, but New Romney was closer. There was a lock-up there for the prisoners, and the town hall had a vault where he could store the gold. Most important of all, Cole would be somewhere near New Romney, and Petchey could find his chief and boast of his success. This night’s work would be the making of him. Visions of promotion to supervisor, perhaps even collector, filled his head. Also, might there be a reward for the recovery of the gold? Dazzled by his own success, Petchey gave his orders; two of his men climbed into the wagon to guard the prisoners, another sat down on the driver’s bench and took the reins, and he and the remaining man mounted the two horses and took up position as outriders.

  Night was falling now. Mist rose in spectral skeins from the ground. Petchey and the other outrider rode a little ahead of the wagon to check the road. They rode watchfully, hands on the butts of their carbines, but in the night and fog it was impossible to see more than a short distance ahead. They were completely unprepared when, two miles short of New Romney, a lantern shone out of the fog. Petchey pulled his carbine from its scabbard, fumbling with the lock.

  ‘Is that you, Petchey?’ a muffled voice asked.

  The riding officer breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, it’s me. Who’s that?’

  ‘Morris, from Dover. Cole sent me to look for you. Did you find the gold?’

  ‘I did,’ said Petchey. ‘I have it here.’

  ‘Huzza! Well done, man! Aren’t you the rum fellow? You’ll be the toast of the entire service, when this gets out. Come on, we’ll help you into New Romney.’

  Petchey rode forward, the wagon rumbling behind, and then stopped. Two more lanterns were suddenly uncovered, one on each flank, showing shivering curtains of fog all around them. In the light they saw a half-circle of dark silhouettes, masked men with pistols in their hands, all pointed at the Customs men. They saw too the long, vicious shape of the Puckle gun, its black muzzle trained on the wagon.

  ‘Drop your weapons,’ said the man who had called himself Morris, crouched behind the Puckle gun. ‘Or I’ll send all of you straight to hell.’

  Raging at himself for being taken in, Petchey dismounted. He had just time to observe that ‘Morris’ was small and slightly built, and well spoken for a smuggler, and then someone hit him over the head with a club. Lights flashed briefly before his eyes, and then all went black.

  *

  At the edge of the sea a wind was blowing, holding back the mist that cloaked the Marsh further inland. Torches burned, fluttering at the foot of the dunes, lighting the beach and flickering off the waves that rolled inshore. A bonfire crackled on the crest of the dunes, sending its light out to sea. The tide was nearly full.

  A crowd of people stood on the edge of the beach, men and some women, too, from St Mary and the inland villages, looking out into the inky blackness of the night. Watching them in the torchlight, the rector saw the same expression on every face: quiet, tense, waiting. Beyond them to the south were more lights, at the entrance to Romney Haven, and to the north at Dymchurch, another beacon burned. There would be crowds waiting there, too, he knew.

  Out at sea, a lantern shone twice. ‘Here they come,’ said someone softly.

  They came, boat after boat, luggers and cutters and hoys and fishing boats, gliding out of the night into the orange glow of torchlight and grounding in the shallow water. Men jumped down into the water and began helping others over the side. The rector and Stemp and others waded out into the cold sea to the boats, extending their hands to the people crammed aboard, helping them down.

  There were old men and women, shivering and soaked with sea spray, coughing and weak. There were children, wide-eyed and shocked by the events of the past few days; infants screaming in helpless, uncomprehending panic. There were people staggering with illness and seasickness, and there were others with raw wounds to their arms and faces and heads, shot or sabred by the gendarmes and dragoons who had pursued them. Hardcastle took the good hand of a black-robed priest, his other arm bandaged and his cassock stained with blood that had streamed from a cut to his scalp. ‘Venez avec moi, monsieur. Prenez mon bras.’

  Slowly they waded through the surf, more boats piling in, more people stumbling down into the cold water and wading towards safety. Already there were hundreds of them, struggling up onto dry land and then collapsing from cold and exhaustion. The rector helped the priest to sit and then knelt for a moment beside him. ‘Reposez-vous, monsieur,’ he said softly. ‘Maintenant, vous êtes en sécurité.’

  ‘Dieu vous bénisse, monsieur. Vous êtes un sauveur. Thank you.’

  Out in the boats the smugglers worked together, Jack Hoad from St Mary and the Tydde brothers from New Romney, Finny Jack from Ambleteuse and the big man they called Le Passeur – the Ferryman – and many more. Another big, dark lugger grounded on the sand and Joshua Stemp, waist-deep in the sea, looked up to see Bertrand staring over the side. ‘I still don’t have your money,’ the Frenchman said.

  ‘Don’t be bloody silly, Bertie. There’s a time and place to talk about money.’

  There was a rush of movement in the water around him, more men coming to assist the refugees over the side. Some of the people in Bertrand’s boat were sobbing with relief; others were blankly silent, stunn
ed by the terror they had just escaped. Two frail women were carried by hand; a pregnant girl was lifted into the powerful arms of Murton the blacksmith. A child, a girl of about three, tripped on the bulwark of the lugger and screamed as she fell towards the dark sea. Stemp caught her with strong arms before she reached the water and swung her up, still sobbing, holding her against his chest. ‘Hush, my bonny,’ he soothed her, kissing her hair as he did his own daughters’. ‘This is England. You’re safe now.’ And over and over the word ran along the beach, soft reassurance cutting through the bitterness of fear and exhaustion. ‘You’re in England now. You are safe. You are safe.’

  Up on the beach, the refugees were given a few moments to rest, but they could not stay there for long; the night wind was sharp, and many of them were soaked through. The able-bodied were directed towards the village; bonfires in the fields lit the way, and some of the younger boys where there to act as guides. For those who could not walk, there were wagons and litters and handcarts. Hardcastle remained on the beach until most of the refugees had gone; then, signalling to Stemp to take over, he gave his arm once again to the wounded priest and walked him slowly through the firelight to St Mary. The other man did not speak; he was so weak from exhaustion and loss of blood that he could barely stand.

  At the church, Bessie Luckhurst and Lucy the housekeeper from Sandy House dished out hot food while Mrs Chaytor directed the distribution of blankets and dry clothing. Calpurnia Vane, fizzing with good cheer and bad French, sent people away to their billets; the two Stemp girls had appointed themselves as her aides and ran back and forth with earnest expressions on their small faces, guiding people to their beds. Slowly, the miasma of fear and shock began to subside, and fatigue took over. People slumped down over their bowls of soup, falling asleep as they sat. ‘The poor things,’ said Mrs Vane softly. ‘What will happen to them?’

  ‘Many will want to go to London, I expect, once they recover,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Or Canterbury, or some of the other provincial towns. Some may already have kin here.’ Thousands of French émigrés had already settled in England since the start of the Revolution eight years ago. ‘They will have a hard life, but at least they will be alive.’