by David McDine
‘The pigtail. It’s a dead give-away. How many French peasants have you seen with pigtails?’
Fagg was stricken. ‘Well I, well … not a lot, but then I’ve been growin’ this ’ere pigtail pretty well ever since I joined …’
On board, and ashore in the naval ports come to that, the length of your pigtail showed you had got some service in, and Fagg reckoned his had been one of the best in Phryne.
But Anson knew he was right and was not to be denied. ‘Off!’ he said, handing him his dirk.
Reluctantly Fagg took the blade, held the pigtail in his left hand and sawed away at it with his right. Once cut, he threw it into the undergrowth and shook what remained of his hair free.
Hoover looked on appreciatively and teased: ‘Lovely – just like some gal I met in Portsmouth one time …’ But then he caught Anson’s eye, felt for his own short queue of plaited hair and held his hand out for the dirk.
They spent an uncomfortable day dozing and fending off voracious insects, and late in the evening emerged from the thicket and set off again on foot.
It was not long before Anson noticed that even after covering only a mile or two Fagg was having increasing difficulty with his ankle.
‘How’s it holding up?’
‘Perfick sir, jest the odd twinge when I puts it down ockered like,’ he lied.
They must be all of 60 miles from the coast and it was already becoming clear that Fagg would not be able to go much further on foot. They struggled on at a snail’s pace, with Anson and Hoover taking turns to support the crippled Fagg and resting every few hundred yards. This must be the main Amiens–St Omer road, but to their relief it was traffic-free.
Towards dawn they saw the outline of a barn which lay down a rough track. A nod from Anson sent Hoover off to reconnoitre while he and Fagg hid in a roadside ditch.
Soundlessly the marine melted into the shadows to check the barn. After ten long minutes he slid into the ditch beside the others to report. ‘All clear. Not a soul about.’
Nevertheless they entered the barn cautiously and in the growing light made out piles of what appeared to be recently-harvested turnips. A crude ladder led up to an open loft area full of hay.
Anson indicated the far end of the barn and then the loft, whispering: ‘Heads down there, beds up there.’ Fagg hopped off to relieve himself in the far corner.
Cautiously Anson mounted the ladder and, after checking all was clear, he beckoned the others to follow. From the open loft they would be able to keep an eye on the barn doors.
Although he did his best to disguise it, Fagg had a lot of trouble negotiating the ladder rungs. It was increasingly obvious that his ankle could no longer bear weight. But nothing was said.
They breakfasted on bread, hard-boiled eggs and one of the bottles of wine Thérèse had given them in a sack along with a large chunk of cheese and some apples when they had left the inn. If they could find water they could eke out these supplies for a few days.
In the loft they burrowed into the hay and tried to get some sleep. Hoover was soon snoring gently, but Fagg was restless. Unable at first to find a comfortable position for his throbbing ankle, he muttered as he rubbed his itchy eyes: ‘I ’ate ’ay. Bleedin’ stuff gets right up me nose …’ But eventually he too drifted off.
Anson took even longer to succumb to fatigue. He realised now that it had been a major tactical error to abandon the wagon – or at least both horses. Round and round in his head went the realisation that Fagg would never make it to the coast without help. They could not have covered more than five or six miles during the night and it was clear that Fagg would not be able to walk, or hop, for another six let alone 60.
There was a simple choice. He could be left to his fate, or they had to find him some sort of transport. Leaving him to be recaptured by the French had some merit. The chances were that he would be given some medical treatment. But there was no guarantee and Anson dismissed that option.
They had stuck together so far and they must see it through together. Not least, if Fagg fell back into French hands the Arras receipt would almost certainly be revealed as a forgery. He could not even be sure that he had used the correct French wording. And if Fagg was retaken the trail would inevitably lead back to the Auberge du Marin – and make trouble for Thérèse and her father, not to mention Whiskers, his young side-kick and the wagoner.
All could be deemed responsible for aiding and abetting enemy escapers. No bounds what the punishment would be, but the French had a reputation for seizing any opportunity to exercise Madame Guillotine. No, they must push on for the coast together. And that meant finding and stealing or borrowing a horse – and a cart.
Anson dozed, returning over and over again to the problem in moments of consciousness. Finally, exhausted, he too fell into a deep sleep.
*
Mid-morning, back at the auberge, the revellers were slowly coming round. Only the patron had made it to bed and now he was dipping his frowzy head in a bowl of water in a vain attempt to wash away the ravages of Bacchus.
The wagoner was on his back under the table, mouth lolling open, grunting like a litter of pigs at feeding time, his nasal passages emitting a shrill whistling noise between snores.
Corporal Whiskers, who had slept where he sat, head cradled in his folded arms on the bottle-littered bar counter, staggered to the door to relieve himself. On the step he found the sprawling, groaning body of the youngster lying in his own vomit. And, having relieved himself against the wall of the inn, the corporal returned, drew a bucket of water from the well and threw it over his spluttering side-kick.
It would be a while before Thérèse could tell them what had happened, explain how the English officer had arranged to give them money and the protection of the prisoner receipt, and then send them off on foot to the village inn some miles back down the road to retrieve the borrowed wagon and horses.
8
Anson awoke suddenly. Someone was opening the barn doors. He shook Hoover and Fagg, and as they stirred he put his finger to his lips and indicated the door. Both understood immediately and Fagg scrabbled for his crutches. Then they lay still, hidden in the hay.
A man dressed in muddy, weathered working clothes came in and began filling hessian sacks from the piled root crops, apparently completely unaware that he was being watched. He carried a sack out of the barn and returned for another.
As the farmer went out for the second time, Anson whispered: ‘He must be loading a cart, and that means …’ Hoover nodded, ‘… a horse.’
In the half light of the barn the escapers had no idea of the time, but instinct told Anson it must be near evening and the farmer was about his nightly chores. After carrying out half a dozen bags, he returned and approached the ladder.
Fagg muttered: ‘Blurry ’ell! Why don’t ’e bugger orf ’ome!’
They pulled more hay over themselves and froze as the farmer climbed the ladder. Oblivious to their presence, he took a pitchfork that was leaning against the wall and speared a pile of hay with it.
Anson steeled himself to leap up and confront the man if the pitchfork came too close. But the farmer merely pitched the hay down to the foot of the ladder, pierced more and threw it down until satisfied he had enough. He swung his leg over the loft edge and slowly descended the ladder, pitchfork in his left hand.
Itchy-eyed, Fagg stifled an almost overwhelming urge to sneeze, as down below the farmer pitched up a forkful of hay and carried it outside, returning for more until the pile had gone. Then he shut the barn doors and the fugitives heard the sounds of a horse-drawn cart moving off.
Anson signed to Hoover to follow and the American hurried down the ladder.
*
In the barn, the half light faded to darkness. The door creaked. A sudden chink of moonlight and a figure entered, stage-whispering the password of the aborted raid on the mole, ‘Phryne.’ It was Hoover.
Anson helped Fagg down the ladder and they made their way outside ginger
ly. Hoover reported: ‘He lives about half a mile farther down the track and the stable’s in another barn attached to the farmhouse. He’s fed the horse and put it t’bed. His cart’s in the lean-to next to the stable. I could hitch him up again – no problem. But there’s dogs …’
Brushing hay from his jacket, Anson deliberated. The thought of making off with a peasant farmer’s only horse bothered him. Even in an enemy country it went against the grain. Then there was the practical problem of the dogs. And if their barking alerted the farmer, he would have to be dealt with too.
‘A change of plan,’ he told the others. ‘We’re escaping prisoners, not horse thieves, and we’re not at war with the peasants. We’ll get ourselves down the road a bit and see if we can find an easier lift.’
*
Fagg was clearly in pain and was no longer trying to disguise it. His crutches and sheer determination were the only things that were keeping him going. His usual chatter and quips had gone, and, apart from wincing every time his foot touched the ground, he was silent now.
Drizzle turned to a downpour but they hurried on, soaked through. Hoover lent Fagg his shoulder and they hobbled awkwardly down the track after Anson as if they were taking part in a village sports three-legged race.
They came upon the main road again suddenly and Anson beckoned the others to join him crouching under a tree that offered partial shelter. The ordeal of movement over for the time being, Fagg could not resist commenting with feeling: ‘Effin’ bleedin’ country!’
They lay, slumped close together against the tree trunk, rain dripping on and off them. Anson whispered: ‘We’ll rest awhile and see what comes along.’
But when at last they did hear hooves there were too many of them. Hoover crawled around from the blind side of the tree and in the moonlight made out a troop of cavalry heading north. When the horsemen had disappeared into the rain and gloom, Fagg voiced what all three feared: ‘D’you reckon they’re arter us?’
Anson considered the possibility but dismissed it. ‘Too soon. There’s no way the guards will report our escape while they’ve got a chance of getting away with that forged Arras receipt.’
Fagg nodded. ‘And I’ll bet Whiskers is still drunk from all that van rouge ’e put away. Bottles and bottles of it …’
The rain eased and stopped. Now it just dripped from every tree, branch and twig. They lay, wet and shivering. An hour or more went by and the road remained empty.
After weighing up the options, Anson rose stiffly, motioned to the others to wait where they lay, and set off back down the farm track.
Hoover whispered: ‘What d’you reckon he’s up to?’
Fagg shrugged. ‘Orf to murder the farmer and steal ’is ’oss, I ’ope.’ He reached for the sack. ‘So ’e won’t miss a sip or two of this here van rouge, will ’e?’
*
Anson made no attempt to conceal himself or stay quiet as he approached the farm buildings, and the dogs erupted in a broadside of excited barking that could be heard by his fellow escapers down by the road.
He rapped at the farmhouse door, sending the chained dogs into an even greater frenzy.
A light flared upstairs and after much muttering within and barking without, shutters creaked open and a night-capped head appeared. So did what looked to Anson like the business end of some kind of ancient fowling piece.
‘Bon soir, monsieur,’ he said, moving into the square of light below the window. It was clearly important to take the initiative if this relationship was to get off on the right foot.
The farmer growled thickly: ‘Où êst vous, et qu’est-ce que vous voulez?’
Anson had prepared his response. ‘Je suis un ami, monsieur. Excusez-moi de vous dérangé, mais j’ai un problème.’
‘Problème?’
‘Oui, je suis un officier Flamanque au servis de France en route la côte à rendezvous avec mon bateau.’ A Flemish background would excuse his poor French and make him a plausible ally.
The response was garbled but Anson could make out various sacrés and merdes – and what appeared to be a suggestion that he should allez off and find his boat. If not, the farmer would first fire his shotgun at this disturber of the peace before setting les chiens on him. Les chiens dutifully backed his words with a further volley of barking.
‘Pardonnez moi, monsieur, mais j’ai besoin de votre assistance et j’ai beaucoup d’argent.’ And in case the message had not got through he added, ‘D’or!’ and to prove it held up a golden guinea that glinted in the light of the lantern the farmer was now holding out of the window.
Anson had calculated correctly that peasant farmers did not see much if any gold in a year, or even a lifetime.
After much banging about inside the farmhouse the top half of the ground-level, stable-style door creaked open on rusty hinges and the farmer – still in nightshirt and nightcap – held up the lantern to examine the mysterious, unkempt nocturnal visitor who came seeking aid and offering gold.
As a precaution he held his rusty weapon by the barrel in his left hand.
Anson could understand the man’s caution, confronted as he was by a wild-looking foreigner. But he guessed the farmer would be in the greater danger if he attempted to fire his elderly gun.
The farmer held his lantern closer and stared at the gold coin Anson held out to him. Satisfied it was real, he nodded and motioned his visitor inside. The dogs at last subsided.
Inside the large flag-stoned kitchen, the farmer, as hairy and weather-beaten a son of the soil as Anson had ever seen, indicated a bench and plonked the lantern down on a much-stained table which bore the rings of a hundred bottles.
Hesitating for a moment, the man decided his visitor offered no immediate threat and laid the ancient shotgun down. He filled a crude pitcher from a cask in the corner and poured some of the contents into two pots.
Anson sipped the rough red wine and opened negotiations by placing the glinting coin in the farmer’s calloused hand.
The Frenchman held it close to the light in his open palm for a moment before closing it tightly in his fist. It didn’t matter to him that there was the face of some foreign king on it. Just as the patron at the Auberge du Marin had concluded, gold was gold, and a rare sight for a peasant farmer.
In his halting grammar school French, aided by appropriate gestures, Anson repeated his claim that he was Flemish, from Zeebrugge, and an officer in the French Navy.
The pots were filled, and emptied, again. The wine was not for a dainty palate, and it was strong. Anson soon felt a warm glow and struggled not to slur his words as he embarked on his story.
He and two of his matelots had been in hospital recovering from wounds sustained in a fight with the English cochons. Now they were on their way north to rejoin their ship, but the wagon taking them had shed a wheel. In haste not to miss the rendezvous they had continued on foot.
The farmer refilled the pots and Anson struggled on, his French coming back to him more fluently thanks to the wine. Now, he explained, one of his matelots was lame, his injury making it impossible to continue one more step. And with much gesticulation he painted a picture of all three, still not fully recovered from their wounds, being too exhausted to continue on foot.
The farmer appeared to have understood, but remained silent, his tanned and deeply-furrowed whiskery features deadpan.
Anson took another slurp of wine and made his bid. If the farmer would provide food and drink for the journey and take them to St Omer in his cart they could find military transport to take them from there to Calais and their ship. He would be given another two pieces of gold now, but they had to leave ‘immédiatement!’ Otherwise, they would miss their ship. And on their safe arrival at St Omer he would receive three more such gold coins.
The farmer stared back, still silent. Anson asked earnestly, would he do it ‘pour la France?’
At last, after querying the financial arrangement, the man nodded. ‘Oui, pour la France!’ Anson managed to stutter that su
ch patriotism deserved its reward – and handed over the agreed advance of two guineas.
The Frenchman examined the coins closely and, satisfied, mounted a rickety wooden ladder that did duty as a staircase. There was a muttered conversation with his wife who sounded querulous at first, but her tone softened when, Anson assumed, she was handed the gold coins for safekeeping.
The farmer descended, now dressed in the same muddy working clothes he had been wearing when he almost stumbled on the escapers in the hay loft. He gathered bread and cheese and took down a ham from among several hanging from the beams, filled a large stone bottle from the wine barrel and pulled on an oilskin topcoat and hat.
Outside it was again raining steadily. The dozing dogs stirred, rattled their chains and set up a desultory token barking as the farmer tacked up the horse and harnessed it to the cart.
Exploring the ramshackle outbuildings, Anson came upon an old tarpaulin sheet and gestured that they should take it as a makeshift shelter for the cart. The farmer shrugged his agreement and helped throw it over and prop it up with an old wooden saw bench. Anson pointed to the well-head beside the barn door and the farmer nodded. He produced a large cask and, while he worked the handle pulling up bucketfuls of water, Anson filled the barrel – and several more stone bottles he found beside the back door.
The Englishman led the way back down the track on foot and, when they reached the main road, he called softly: ‘Your carriage awaits.’
Fagg and Hoover emerged from the gloom and soon, much to their relief, all three were in the cart making themselves as comfortable as possible on a rough bed of straw under the tarpaulin – and heading north.
Anson whispered: ‘We’re supposed to be Flemish, so just keep your mouths shut, pretend to sleep and leave any talking to me.’ For the exhausted pair it was an easy order to obey. Pretence was not necessary. And it was not long before he himself succumbed to the rhythmic swaying of the cart.
*
He awoke to daylight – the heavy horse still plodding steadily along an empty road. Anson reflected that a lot of water had passed under the bridge since the failed cutting-out raid not much more than a fortnight since, but it seemed far longer.