His motionless body started to ache with tension as he strained to detect any further sound as his eyes peered into the thin fog. He saw and heard nothing for a long minute. His heart sounded loud and must be heard. Again, that sense of fear encroached. Keep your fear to yourself; you have nothing to fear from a Frenchman. It’s the Frenchwoman you must guard against, he told himself. Forcing his muscles to relax he looked at Vanessa and signalled her to follow him as he stepped forward, his boots crunching in the frozen mud. The sword slid from the scabbard as silently as he could manage but he was still unprepared for the slash of another blade as it cleaved through the wisps of fog, some instinct causing him to pause as the blade whistled past his face, followed by a roar from a face appearing a few feet only from his own. Reaction was immediate and effective as his own blade shot forward piercing the man’s chest and turning the roar of attack to a gurgling cry of fear as the Frenchman died.
Were there others? His muscles strained and ears remained on full alert, poised for another assault. A whimper from his rear acted as a reminder.
‘Do you recognise him, Vanessa?’ he asked, panting heavily.
She nodded. ‘He was with the Major yesterday,’ she answered. ‘One of his thugs I think. He was sent to the town to watch for strangers.’
‘The bastard very nearly killed me,’ he grunted. ‘Are there any more of his henchmen?’
‘None that I know of, Lieutenant,’ she said. ‘We should make for the port, monsieur. The fishermen will be making ready to leave with the tide,’ she whispered. ‘My friend will be with them. He has business with the English in… how you say it? Corn Wall? Is correct yes? My friend sells cognac and makes much money. He will help us.’
Jack Vizzard grunted. He did not share the lady’s confidence. It would take little for him to be betrayed. Frenchmen would do so willingly as soon as his nationality was revealed. His diffident use of the French language would instantly identify him as English. His lack of uniform would merely mark him as a spy of the British government, and spies received no sympathy, here or in England. This was a pretty kettle of fish, he thought. How to escape? The question dominated his thoughts. If the lady’s friend was as co-operative as she believed him to be, then perhaps it was possible. What must be in Mary’s mind now? She would surely know of his capture. She would be worrying, and there was not a thing he could do about it. He failed to suppress the feeling of helplessness intruding into his tired brain.
The enterprise had been foolhardy in the extreme, he thought. Oh certainly the government’s agent had been found and returned to England. At least he had performed his duty; he had served his king and his country. He had been wrong to abandon the King’s uniform; perhaps it had been a mistake. Now he was committed to assisting a French woman, about whom he knew nothing, except she was one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen, but could he trust her?
He thought not.
* * * * *
Charles Hamilton Smith lounged in the chair, his right leg draped across his left knee as he studied His Majesty’s First Lord of the Treasury, Mr William Pitt. His eyes became fixed on the politician’s face as the documents, now removed from his bag, were devoured with hungry eyes, each word and phrase consumed with the insatiable appetite for language the young politician displayed in the Commons.
‘You are quite certain in your mind of the authenticity of these documents, Charles?’
Hamilton Smith raised an eyebrow in disdain at the question.
‘Need you ask, sir? I am indeed. The documents were signed and sealed in the presence of an impeccable source, one whose word and integrity cannot and should not be doubted.’
‘They are remarkable, Charles. I am in your debt and so is the country; I do not exaggerate. So in point of fact and revealing, but you will know this. There will be a sea-change,’ said Pitt.
‘Sir?’
‘Shakespeare, Charles. The Bard of Avon as Mister Garrick named him. “Full fathom five thy father lies; of his bones are coral made. Those are pearls that were his eyes: nothing of him that doth fade but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell…” and such and such. There will be a change on the Continent, Charles. You have my word on it.’
‘Yes, sir, I am familiar with The Tempest. I am then heartily pleased to have been of service, sir. You will be directing appropriate action to manage the situation, I trust?’ Hamilton Smith asked.
‘This will be a naval matter, Charles. We cannot send an army to the continent at this time. I must consult with His Majesty and my fellow ministers, but in all conscience I must acquaint The First Lord of this intelligence. You understand?’
‘Indeed I do, sir. I have yet to have the pleasure and honour of your noble brother’s company, but would be delighted to discuss the circumstances and implications of this intelligence with him, should it assist in his deliberations.’
He stood slowly, stretching his legs unobtrusively, as he contemplated another long coach journey.
‘With your leave, I shall continue my journey, Mister Pitt. I have some people to visit in Gloucestershire.’ Head inclined, he left the room as silently as he had entered.
Pitt watched him leave and returned to his chair, reading one document with studious care. He slapped his thigh; ‘Good God’, he whispered. ‘They are starving and will be forced to buy from the Americas. A year from now or less, they must, or the country will revolt again.’
He pulled twice on a braided cord by his side. An official opened the door, raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘William, thank you. Please draft an urgent letter to the Commandant of the marine garrison in Portsmouth if you would be so kind. A copy to the Admiralty, yes the First Lord. I want the officer responsible for my visitor’s safe return to be recovered from France. He must be rescued himself and there is not a moment to be lost. And I wish to meet him as soon as practicable. See to it immediately, please.’
Chapter 10
The lack of any word was a concern. There had been no message from the barracks, nothing at all from the colonel. As Mary walked with the dog, which trotted erratically from clumps of grass to a rabbit scrape and back again, amongst the bare trees the frosted ground snapped and crackled beneath her feet. She felt the cold through the soles of her shoes, come damp with the dew. Her mind was oblivious to the cold; it was across the Channel in France; with Jack.
As she traversed the rising ground leading to the escarpment, Mary glanced back at Lampern. It was large house, part covered in creeping ivy with several carved brickwork chimneys causing smoke to spiral into the clear light air. Leaded lights to the rear sparkled as the sun slipped away from a veil of morning cloud. The original house, dating from the time of Elizabeth, had been extended but then left to deteriorate by the previous owner of the estate. Sir Henry had invested large sums of his, and Caroline’s, money to make it a habitable home for their family. A new roof of clay tiles had been added, an oak staircase installed with new wall panelling to replace the rotted timbers. ‘New hat and new boots’, Henry had said about it when they had talked years before; before the nightmare of her trial then imprisonment and the voyage to New Holland. She shivered, and not because of the cold air. Two wings had been added to enclose a parterre, with steps down to the Ewelme, the stream which wandered lazily through much of the village and which had powered the mills further down the valley from which the village had derived so much of its life force. It was a house greatly admired in the district and Mary, as a young girl, often wondered about the family who occupied it, never imagining that she would, one day, act as de facto mistress of the house, as Sir Henry wished her to be. The mellow Cotswold stone looked pale in the morning light, but in the evening, with the dying sun washing the stone, it glowed like creamed honey. The realisation that the house would one day pass to Jack gave her a sense of wonder. The humble weaver’s cottage in which she spent her early years would fit entirely within Sir Henry’s drawing room. She
resolved to visit her father after luncheon.
She watched as a squirrel paused, stared in her direction, directly at the puppy, eyes innocent but touched with alertness, before the creature bounded for the closest tree, the puppy oblivious to the woodland animal. Smoke drifted across her nostrils from the cottage at the edge of the woods. Nausea made her retch and bile rose in her throat; she bent as her breakfast disgorged itself onto the whitened grass, discolouring the crisp, virgin frost. She coughed. Again and again. The taste assaulted her tongue. It was simply dreadful.
Whatever was wrong with her? She was never ill, not since Sydney Town, but now she felt a stream of nausea, such a wretched sensation in her stomach she had never before experienced. Only she had. Oh yes she had! Once before in the leaking, crude log hut in Sydney. Oh no, surely not, she thought. She sat, shaken at the realisation, on a fallen tree, its bark cold and rough. Oh Dear Lord, why now? She was pregnant. She was convinced of it. The realisation Jack’s child grew within her, his dream and he was not with her to share it. She pulled the woollen cloak tighter around her.
In her dreams she had wondered if this time would ever come. Then she smiled, he would be ecstatic with joy, and she knew it. It was time to tell Sir Henry. After all, he would be the child’s grandfather. Good heaven no. What was she thinking? Heavens no, that was not right or proper. I cannot do so, she reasoned with herself. Jack must be the first to know.
When she could do so however was the question she could not answer.
‘Oh come here, Charlie do,’ she called to the puppy, who was still hard at work sniffing the grass, leaving an erratic trail of prints in the frost-coated grass. ‘It is time to return home.’
Dutifully, the dog stopped her investigation and bounced toward Mary, eyes bright and wide and they walked together across the field back to Lampern, to the sound of a horse pulling into the yard and Neave’s voice greeting a visitor?
Ed Neave nodded in her direction as a young man in worn and unfashionable clothes, was dismounting from a large grey horse, similarly mired in the stains of travel, removed his hat and, turning to Mary introduced himself with a polite bow, ‘Madam, I am Charles Hamilton Smith. I owe my life to your husband and have come, uninvited, to tell you so.’
‘How do you do, sir? I have not heard my husband speak of you but if you have news of him then you are most welcome and must come inside and speak with us. His father and I are most desperate to learn any news of him.’
‘I would deem it an honour, madam. I thank you.’ He allowed Neave to walk the animal into the stables and pass instructions to the village boy who worked there.
The puppy led the way into the house as Neave made to announce the unexpected visitor to Sir Henry.
‘Pray do come into the drawing room, Mister Hamilton Smith. I know there is a fire set there and Neave will find you some refreshment. Will you take tea?’
The puppy scrabbled on the tiled floor of the entrance hall as Neave pushed open the doors to the room, wearing an intrigued expression on his face, ‘I’ll inform Sir Henry, Mistress Mary.’
‘Do take a seat, Mister Hamilton Smith. Not the green one though, if it appeals, as it is Sir Henry’s favourite. The one opposite will prove just as comfortable, I am certain,’ Mary said apologetically.
‘Too kind of you, dear lady. I see your husband is unquestionably a most fortunate man.
‘Oh no, I do assure you I am the fortunate one. Lieutenant Vizzard did me great honour in taking me as his wife,’ said Mary.
‘Fiddlesticks and fiddle-faddle, my dear,’ interrupted Sir Henry Vizzard, entering the room with the aid of a stick. ‘It is yourself has brought grace and beauty to the dusty life of the Vizzards, for which I will ever be indebted to you.’ Henry beamed at his daughter-in-law, extending his hand to the visitor as Charles rose from the armchair.
‘I am Sir Henry Vizzard young man and I am delighted to have the honour of your acquaintance, sir. How may I be of service to you?’ Henry lowered himself into his armchair and sighed audibly.
‘Sir Henry, the pleasure is mine and I do hope I may be of service to you.’
‘Neave, Neave,’ Sir Henry bellowed, ‘some claret if you will. Bring a bottle of Harvey’s best, would you please.’ The demand had clearly been anticipated by the long-suffering servant, who appeared clutching a decanter as Sir Henry’s last words left his mouth.
Henry Vizzard dropped uneasily into his chair by the fire, extending his legs and looking at Mary’s puppy in a silent invitation. The dog, requiring no further bidding, bounded onto the old man’s lap and rolled its head into the crook of Henry’s elbow.
‘This is really the most affectionate of animals, Mary. What did you name it again?
Smiling patiently, Mary replied, ‘I have named her Charlotte, Henry, to honour my sister-in-law.’
‘Hah. Indeed you have told me so my dear. Well, no matter, the puppy is still a delight.’ Henry fondled the dog’s ears, smiling and making noises such as a nurse would to an infant.
Neave returned with two glasses carefully balanced on a tray, setting them down on a small mahogany wine table, he slowly poured some of the contents of the decanter into the glasses and offered the tray up to the guest first.
‘If you will permit, Sir Henry, I should like to offer a toast to your son, who I am pleased to report is alive, or was to my eyes when I last saw him four nights ago.’ Hamilton Smith stood and turned his back to the fire enjoying real warmth for the first time since leaving London. ‘For it is entirely thanks to his sense of duty I owe my liberty, indeed my very life, for I venture to say had I been taken by my enemies I would not be alive today.’
Henry Vizzard beamed at Mary. ‘There my dear girl. Did I not tell you so? Now, sir, I am delighted to hear your news naturally, although curious, I confess, to learn more of your acquaintance with my son.’
‘He does you great honour, Sir Henry. He is working on the most secret and direct orders of His Majesty’s Minister and assured my safe repatriation to England, escorting me safely from Dieppe, so much I can say, and into the safe custody of the King’s Navy. Without his courage and example, I fear I would have been taken by a villainous traitor - one of his own senior officers so I now understand; a Major Squires.’
The sudden eye contact between Mary and Sir Henry did not escape Hamilton Smith’s keen observation but he continued as though it had.
‘Lieutenant Vizzard was ambushed at the last moment. We had escaped the town without apprehension or challenge and we had returned to the beach at which we were to be collected by the Navy. As I walked to the sea, indeed my boots were in the water, we were fired upon.’
‘Where was Jack?’ Mary could not help the interruption.
‘He was to my rear, my dear. I believe the enemy had not immediately been aware of our arrival as the marines were quiet and were not in uniform scarlet coats or their white cross-belts. Your husband had taken the curious and most unorthodox precaution of using non-uniform clothing for his men – we were quite invisible until we reached the landing point. Quite ingenious I thought and something I have observed in nature; I shall investigate Lieutenant Vizzard’s ideas in a more scientific manner I believe.’ Hamilton Smith held the glass of wine to the light and gazed through the windows with his mind on other matters, in particular the animal kingdom and how certain creatures had evolved to remain hidden from predators.
‘He has an imaginative and inventive mind,’ Sir Henry brought him back to the conversation. ‘Always did have to try to do things differently.’ He smiled at her portrait.
‘Be that as it is, Sir Henry, ambushed and surprised as we were, his first action was to ensure my safety and then, in as calm a fashion as if he was on a field exercise on the South Downs he had his men formed up and returned fire. With remarkable accuracy too, I may say. I watched this from the boat as the Navy rowed me to their ship or cutter as they reminded me. A ship is a ship, ain’t it?
‘I know nothing of the world of ships, Hamilt
on Smith, or the Navy for that matter.’ Sir Henry concurred.
‘Sadly he lost some men; I saw one unfortunate man die at his side before he gave up the fight. Oh indeed, I did see him lower his sword at the moment of his capture, by the Major Squires I referred to earlier.’ Hamilton Smith sipped from the glass. ‘I should very much like to meet that officer and see him dishonoured and preferably, hanged. The Major, I hasten to say, is not known to me but I have gathered more knowledge of him since my return and none of it provides any comfort or pleasure, I regret to say.’
‘Alive? Henry’s voice trembled. ‘You are certain he is alive?
‘I have every reason to believe so, Sir Henry. He has been taken prisoner, I feel sure of it. They will believe him to have valuable information and, if I slipped through their treacherous net, they will wish to…’ Hamilton Smith left unsaid that which he feared; that Jack would receive little mercy once his enemies realised the little intelligence a junior officer of marines actually held.
‘Then there must be the prospect of an exchange. I have heard of this before,’ Henry failed to keep the note of desperation from his voice.
‘Before I left London I sent word via my servant to a friend in Paris who might be of some assistance.’ Hamilton Smith could not tell this kindly old man, or the beautiful distressed woman opposite him such a thing was unlikely in the extreme. Lieutenant Vizzard was a junior officer of little importance or value and the more probable outcome was torture and a painful death as an English spy, incarceration in The Paris Temple, or at best a swift end under Madame Guillotine in the Place du Carrousel. Hamilton Smith suppressed a shudder at the memory. ‘Certainly, Sir Henry, it is a possibility and I sincerely hope an achievable one.’
‘Ah, Mister Hamilton Smith, Charles, if I may, what in truth is the prospect for his safe return? I have been going half out of mind with worry for him.’ Mary’s face was composed; she kept the turmoil inside concealed.
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 11