While the sloop ploughed on until the Le Touquet beacon had become only a speck astern, Roger and Formby alternately studied the coast through the latter’s night glass, until Roger said, ‘Somewhere here should serve.’
Formby gave orders to stand in, start sounding and prepare to lower a boat. For some minutes a monotonous chant broke the silence as a seaman swung the lead. When he called four fathoms the command was given to heave to, and the sails came rustling down. A kedge-anchor was thrown out and the boat lowered and manned. Formby wished Roger luck, they shook hands, then Roger climbed down into the stern of the boat.
It had a crew of six: the coxswain, four oarsmen and a man in the bow to jump out with the painter. No sooner had it started to pull away than Roger’s attention was caught by the loud splashing of the oars. For a secret landing such as this the oars should have been muffled and it was another indication of Formby’s lack of experience that this precaution had been neglected. It was now too late to do anything about it, but Roger said to the coxswain in a low voice:
‘Go easy. Tell the men to dip their oars gently; and there’s to be no talking.’
As the coxswain passed on his order, Roger reflected that it was hardly necessary to observe caution to the point where it would double the time it would take for the boat to reach the shore, and he realised that he had given it only as a result of habit. Even so, perhaps it had been wise, since the coast here was so much nearer to England than at Dieppe that it was much more frequently patrolled, and one could not be too careful.
Slowly the boat nosed its way in, was lifted slightly by the surf and grounded on the beach. The bowman jumped out and threw his weight on the painter to keep the boat from being sucked back by the undertow. But the man was still standing calf-deep in water and as the wavelets broke they were wetting him up to the thighs. Seeing this by the faint starlight, Roger said to the coxswain:
‘Be good enough to have the boat hauled up for me. It will be many hours before I can secure a change of clothes and I have no mind to spend the night in those I am wearing half soaked with seawater.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’ The coxswain spoke sharply to his crew. The four oarsmen shipped their oars, scrambled over the side into the surf and set about dragging the boat up out of the sea. When the bow was clear of the water Roger stood up, with a word of thanks slipped a guinea into the coxswain’s hand, scrambled over the thwarts and jumped ashore.
When he sprang out the men were still heaving and cursing, and as they dragged at the boat the keel was making a loud, grating sound on a patch of shingle. It was these noises which had prevented any of them hearing other sounds up by the cliff face. Before Roger caught them he had taken a dozen paces along the shore in the direction of Le Touquet. His heart began to hammer. They were, unmistakably, the footfalls of men running towards the sea. At this hour, in such a deserted spot, it could only be a French patrol that had seen the faint outline of the sloop or heard the boat approaching from her.
He gave a swift glance round. The seamen were now endeavouring to re-launch the boat. He could dash back to it. But would they get it off in time? Even if they did it was certain that the French patrol would be armed with muskets and the boat still within point-blank range.
The alternative was to chance taking to his heels. The men in the patrol would, without doubt head straight for the boat, in the hope of capturing it as well as its crew. If they reached it before it was afloat a fight would ensue. They would then be too fully occupied to come after him before the darkness had rendered it impossible for them to tell the direction he had taken. He was already some way from the boat and as soon as the patrol came within sight of it the eyes of all of them would be riveted on it; so he might even escape their notice and get clear away without fear of pursuit.
While these thoughts were racing through his mind, the seamen were shouting in alarm and urging one another to greater efforts to get the boat off. Through their shouting cut cries of challenge from the French and demands by them to stand or be fired upon. Without waiting another second, Roger plunged forward and pelted along the shore as fast as his legs would carry him.
Before he had covered fifty yards a shot rang out. Fearing that it might have been aimed at him, he did a quick swerve, then looked back over his shoulder. A second was fired at that moment and for an instant its flash lit the scene behind him as brightly as daylight. Two groups of black silhouettes stood out sharply. The boat had been got off, and the coxswain stood in the stern, his arm extended, pointing a pistol; but three of the seamen, clustered round the bow, had not yet managed to clamber aboard. No more than fifteen feet away the French patrol was charging down the slope. It was led by a figure waving a sword and some of the men had their muskets raised, with the evident intent of firing as they ran. Roger judged there to be at least a dozen of them, but it was obvious that their whole attention was concentrated on the boat’s crew and he doubted if any of them had given even a glance in his direction.
To put as great a distance as he could between them and himself while he had the chance, he clutched his valise to his chest, threw back his head, tucked his elbows into his sides and sprinted a good hundred yards. Panting for breath, he then eased his pace, stumbled a few more paces, halted and again looked behind him. Shouts and curses still echoed back from the chalk cliffs, but darkness now completely hid the scene. Suddenly another firearm flashed.
The boat was well away; a good twenty feet out from the water’s edge. Two of the men in her had got out oars and were pulling for the ship Some of the French had followed the boat out into the sea and were brandishing their weapons but they were already waist-deep and had halted, so it was clear that she would get away Nonetheless, their skirmish with the crew had not proved altogether a failure. They had captured one of the seamen. Before darkness again blanketed the scene Roger glimpsed a group of them dragging him away, still struggling, up the slope of the beach.
After gulping in a few breaths, he ran on again, but at a steadier pace until he had covered about a quarter of a mile. The shooting and yelling in his rear had ceased. Suddenly, in the renewed silence, he heard the steps of someone running towards him.
Next moment the faint starlight revealed two figures emerging from the gloom ahead. Swerving, Roger spurted toward the greater darkness beneath the cliff. But it was too late. They had seen him. One of them shouted ‘Qui vive?’, then they, too, both swerved inland to intercept him.
With bitter fury he realised that, already winded as he was, there could be no hope of evading them. The only course appeared to be to fight it out. Dropping his valise he thrust his hand into the pocket of his coat, pulled out the little double-barrelled pistol and cocked it as he ran. A dozen yards from the water’s edge his path and theirs intersected. The bigger of the two was leading. He had drawn a sabre and swung it high to cleave Roger’s head. While the sabre was still pointing skyward Roger fired. The bullet struck the man in the right shoulder. With a howl of pain he dropped his arm and the sabre slipped from his grasp. As he staggered away, the second man came at Roger with a short sword. Roger fired his second barrel, but missed. Dodging the man’s thrust, he ran in and smashed the fist that held the pistol with all his force into his antagonist’s face. He, too, dropped his weapon, clapped his hands to his broken nose and bleeding mouth, then lurched away moaning.
For a moment it seemed that Roger would yet escape capture but, even as he stood there, his chest heaving painfully from his efforts, he caught the sound of more thudding foot-falls fast approaching. It flashed upon him then that the two men he had rendered hors de combat must be only the first to appear of a second patrol stationed further along the coast. It must have been alerted by the sound of firing as the first patrol attacked the boat.
Desperately, he looked about him. To run back the way he had come meant certain capture. The cliff was much too high to scale and it shut him off from attempting to escape inland. But there was still the sea. Sobbing for breath he swung about,
pounded down the slope, splashed through the shallows, then flung himself headlong into the water.
It was icy. As his head came up above the surf his heart contracted in a spasm and a shudder ran through him. But, still almost entirely submerged, he stumbled and thrust his way out until, with only his head above water, his feet could just touch the sea-bed.
He had decided to take the plunge on a sudden inspiration that he might get away by swimming out to the sloop. But he had temporarily overlooked the fact that it was early February. As he stood there, up to his neck in the sea, he knew that had he attempted to swim the Channel his chances of success would have been no more hopeless. Strong swimmer though he was even if he could have wriggled out of his heavy travelling coat and rid himself of his boots the cold would have numbed him into insensibility before he had swum a hundred yards.
Yet he still had one faint hope. Racked with pain as they were, the two men he had wounded might not have seen which way he had gone. If so, the patrol would divide to search the shore for him in both directions. Then, if he could stand the cold long enough, he might crawl out and find a hiding place under the cliff until the coast was clear of his enemies. To fortify himself against the ordeal he foresaw he got out his flask of brandy and took a long pull from it. The spirit coursed through his veins like fire, yet gave him only temporary relief from the deadly chill.
And his hope proved vain. The man he had shot in the shoulder had seen him run off and splash into the sea. As the main body of the patrol came up he began shouting to them, and Roger could plainly hear him giving an account of what had happened. In the faint starlight he could just make out the group of figures as it split up, and the men spread themselves along the shore, evidently peering seaward in an endeavour to spot him.
With only his head above water, and against the black background of the sea, he knew that it would prove impossible for them to do so. But his lips were blue with cold and shudders ran through him every moment. He felt certain now that if his body remained for another five minutes in the grip of those icy waters he would die there. Miserably he admitted to himself that there was nothing for it but to surrender, so he began to wade ashore.
As soon as his chest was above the level of the sea, he feebly waved an arm and cried in French, ‘Don’t shoot! I give myself up to you.’
No sooner had he spoken the words than he realised that, taken by surprise, he had committed an appalling blunder. Instead of firing his pistol when attacked, those were the very words he should have used, adding, ‘I am a Frenchman, and have just escaped from the English.’
To account for himself he could have told the story he had given to Formby—that he had been picked up by the sloop while attempting to get to France in a small sailing boat, or that he was a French prisoner-of-war who had escaped from the Isle of Wight and had bribed the Captain of the sloop to bring him over. By wounding two men of the patrol he had quite unnecessarily declared himself to be an enemy. Now it was going to be the very devil of a job to make his captors believe otherwise.
With his mind almost atrophied by cold, he vaguely berated himself for his folly, while lurching and stumbling his way ashore. When he reached the strand he collapsed upon it.
Laughing at the obvious madness of this Englishman who had endeavoured to escape by taking refuge in the sea when it was near freezing, but by no means lacking in humanity, the men of the patrol stripped off his heavy coat and pummelled a little warmth back into his shuddering limbs. Then one of them produced a flask of cognac and at short intervals tipped the greater part of it down Roger’s throat.
After this treatment he was sufficiently recovered to gulp out that he was a Frenchman, and would later give them the story of how he had escaped from England. At that, they exclaimed in great surprise and at once asked why, if that were so, he had attacked their two comrades. Roger stammered out that by coming upon him suddenly in the dark they had caught him unawares, and that he had been forced to it in self-defence, otherwise they would have cut him down before he had had a chance to explain himself.
His French accent was so impeccable that, to his great relief, they no longer appeared to have doubts about his nationality; but they obviously remained extremely puzzled about his behaviour.
As soon as he could stand, the officer said, ‘We will get to the bottom of this later. Let’s take him along to the other patrol and find out what has happened there.’
Two of the men then took Roger by the arms and helped him walk the quarter of a mile back to the place on the beach where he had landed. The rents between the clouds were larger now, so the brighter light from the stars enabled him to see that opposite this place there was a dark gap in the cliff leading up to higher ground. In the entrance to it the other patrol was gathered and several of the men had lit lanterns. Their officer came forward and exchanged reports with the one who led Roger’s party. Then they all moved up to the entrance to the gap.
Just inside it there was a rough lean-to, which was evidently used by the patrol as a shelter in bad weather. Stretched out on the ground under it, half propped up against a wooden bench, lay an unconscious figure. Roger guessed that it must be the seaman who had been captured, and that to put an end to his struggles he had been given a knock on the head. A moment later, by the light of one of the lanterns, he recognised the man as Giffens.
The two officers conferred again, and from what they said Roger gathered that he and Giffens were to be taken to a nearby house and locked up there till morning. A few minutes later, led by the officer of the first patrol, and with two men carrying the unconscious Giffens, a party with Roger in its midst set off up the steep slope through the gap between the cliffs. Roger, still swaying with exhaustion, had to be helped, but on reaching the top of the cliffs they had not far to go. In a hollow a quarter of a mile beyond the cliffs lay a small farmhouse, which had been taken over by the Military. The shutters were closed so no lights showed from the windows, but inside the kitchen a bright fire was burning and two lanterns hung from the central beam of the room.
For the first time Roger had the chance to get a good look at his captors. The officer was a medium-sized man with a long, droopy nose, prawn-like eyebrows and a greying moustache. He was dressed in a threadbare uniform, and one of his men had just addressed him as Citizen Lieutenant Tardieu.
Roger was shaking as though he had the ague, and a pot of soup was bubbling on the stove; so one of the men gave him a bowl of it. He swallowed about half the soup in a succession of gulps, then the Lieutenant said, ‘Now you must give me an account of yourself.’
Pulling himself together, although his teeth were still inclined to chatter, Roger replied, ‘I can go into no details in my present condition. I can only ask you to accept my statement that my name is Breuc, and that the sufferings I endured during my escape from England were such that I was half out of my wits when those two men attacked me, so I automatically defended myself. In due course I shall have no difficulty in proving my identity. I hold the rank of Colonel and while in Italy had the honour to be one of General Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp.’
Citizen Tardieu’s eyes widened. ‘What’s this you say? Aide-de-camp to General Bonaparte! I can scarce credit that.’ Then after a moment he added, ‘Still, since you aver it, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and treat you with the respect due to the rank you claim.’
He then gave orders to two of his men who were standing by to fetch blankets and heat them by the fire. Ten minutes later the men helped Roger upstairs to a bedroom, assisted him to get out of his waterlogged clothes, then wrapped him in the blankets and put him to bed.
When they left the room he heard one of them lock the door, but if it had been left wide open he would not have had the strength to stagger down the stairs in a bid to escape. As things were, he would not have made the attempt, even had he been able to do so, for he felt confident that he now had little to fear. Before he was questioned again he could trust to his fertile mind to have ready a convinc
ing story of an escape from England and, even if he were kept prisoner for a week or so, it should not be difficult to produce evidence that he was, in fact, one of General Bonaparte’s aides. Greatly relieved in mind, he dropped off to sleep.
When he awoke it was broad daylight and the Lieutenant was standing beside his bed. With a pleasant smile his visitor asked, ‘Well, and how is General Bonaparte’s aide-de-camp feeling this morning?’
Rousing himself, Roger returned the smile and replied, ‘Very different from last night, and almost myself again, I thank you.’
The smile suddenly left Citizen Tardieu’s face, and he snapped, ‘A taller, more impudent story I have never heard. General Bonaparte’s aide-de-camp, indeed! Through an interpreter I have questioned the seaman we captured. He says he knows you well. You are the son of no less a person than Admiral Sir Brook, and an accursed Englishman sent here as a spy.’
4
A Desperate Situation
For a moment Roger was utterly taken aback. He had been roused from a sound sleep barely two minutes earlier, and the events of the previous night were only just assuming their proper sequence in his mind. Yet almost his first memory was of his last conscious thought before he slept—that the officer beside him had agreed temporarily to give his claim to be one of General Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp the benefit of the doubt, and his own confidence that he would find means in the morning to substantiate that claim.
Now he recalled having seen Giffens lying unconscious in the patrol’s lean-to but, at that time, owing to his own recent ordeal, he had been hardly conscious himself. It had not even entered his mind that the disgruntled ex-groom might betray him. Taken entirely by surprise, he propped himself up in bed on one elbow and stammered:
‘I … I don’t know what you’re talking about. Admiral Brook? I … I’ve never heard of him. Giffens … the man is lying.’
The Sultan's Daughter Page 5