by David McDine
They had passed through the middle of town unmolested and were heading through the northern outskirts when a group of young men swigging from bottles emerged from a side street, spotted them and approached jeering and laughing.
Anson decided the best thing to do was to take the initiative. ‘Prenez garde garçons! Mon ami est ivre … tres, tres ivre – et fou. Derangé!’ Drunk and mad should keep them at a distance. To emphasise, he put his finger to his forehead in what he hoped was the international sign for having a very large screw loose.
Fagg, arms and legs hanging akimbo over the sides of the barrow, had caught on fast and did his best to imitate a drunken madman, tongue lolling out and eyes rolling. He had seen enough cases during his naval service to be convincing.
The revellers made to gather round, maybe to have a little fun, but Anson casually revealed the dirk in his belt and Hoover approached hefting his stick. Scar-face with a blade, a soldierly-looking man with a cudgel and a drunken maniac were clearly somewhat off-putting and the youths drew back, shouting insults from a safe distance. Anson took the barrow handles and set off again, flanked by Hoover, stick now over his shoulder.
Once out of earshot, Anson muttered: ‘A close run thing, that … and they may yet follow, or report us, so let’s get the hell out of here before they attract the watchmen.’
They made it to the northern outskirts without further incident and as they descended towards the marshes the moonlight picked out the silvery thread of a watercourse.
‘Thank Gawd,’ Fagg murmured, ‘water, at bleedin’ last.’
Anson recalled the map he had studied back at the auberge. This, he deduced, must be a branch of the River Aa, navigable at least for large barges all the way to Gravelines.
‘Is that the river we want, sir?’
‘Yes, it’s the Aa …’
‘The what?’ Fagg queried.
‘The River Aa. It’s spelt with a double ‘a’...’
‘Daft name for a river. ’Ow d’you say it, Ay Ah or Arrh?’
‘No, I think they pronounce it Ah-ah.’
‘Well I’ll be buggered! Funny lot these Frogs.’
However it was pronounced, Anson felt an enormous sense of relief at being so close to the element they were most comfortable with – water – and, beside it, a rickety wooden jetty.
They hid up in a clump of trees near the water’s edge where they could keep an eye on it, and, exhausted from the journey and lack of food, they dozed for some hours until Hoover woke to the sound of approaching voices. He gave the other two a shake and pointed to the jetty.
There was just enough moonlight for them to pick out an approaching boat. This, Anson knew, was a flat-bottomed craft known as a bacôve used by the people who farmed around the Audomarois marshes to move their produce.
It was being propelled punt-like towards the jetty by a man with a pole and, as it touched, his companion stepped ashore clutching the painter and tied it up to a post.
Anson couldn’t help himself mouthing: ‘So there is a God!’ and pulled a wry face as he thought how disapproving his father would have been to hear him say it.
He put his finger to his lips, whispering: ‘No tongue: all eyes: be silent!’ Neither of his companions was familiar with Shakespeare’s Tempest, but they got the message nevertheless.
The boat was loaded with sacks of fresh vegetables. The watchers could see cauliflowers, carrots, artichokes and endives spilling out – most likely being brought in for the coming day’s market.
With clearly no idea that they were being watched, the two Frenchmen set off up the hill into the town, no doubt to seek an early-morning drink before returning to unload their produce.
Anson picked up a piece of chalk from the river bank, whispered: ‘Right, let’s go,’ and they emerged from their hiding place and clambered onto the jetty. There was not much room in the boat, so they man-handled most of the sacks ashore.
He paused for a moment to chalk something on the barrow and placed a tied-up piece of rag from his tattered shirt in it before stepping aboard. Last in, first out. Then he untied the rope and Hoover took up the pole and pushed off.
Looking back, they could see the piled sacks of vegetables and the abandoned wheelbarrow, standing forlorn beside them. As the jetty faded from sight, Fagg observed: ‘Thank Gawd we’ve seen the last of that bleedin’ squeaky fing. Them Frogs is going to get a terrible surprise when they find their boat’s turned into a barrer!’
11
Hoover’s shoulder was beginning to ache, so Anson took over at the pole. The going was easy. Through trial and error, he found that all he had to do was stand with one foot forward on the thwarts and plunge the pole into the water ahead.
Leaning forward provided enough pressure to send the bacôve surging ahead and by pulling the pole out and repeating the manoeuvre their progress was rapid. It was the perfect craft for the canalised river – and the surrounding water-logged marshland.
Dawn saw them already some miles down-river. All they had seen so far was a horse-drawn barge heading to St Omer. The man plodding beside the horse took no notice of them, but Anson was becoming concerned. During the day they could easily come across others who might recognise the bacôve, but not its crew, so it was necessary to keep a low profile.
A few miles ahead a minor tributary branched off to the left and a little way down it they could see a large tree overhanging the water. It was an ideal place to harbour up and Anson poled the bacôve towards it. They used the low branches to pull the boat against the bank and made fast to a partly exposed root. Here, there was a good chance that they would not be spotted from passing craft and they could rest up for the day.
Ravenous, they breakfasted on the last remains of the food the farmer had given them: bread, now rock hard, a lump of cheese that they carefully split into three, and raw cauliflower and carrots from the vegetable sacks left on board.
Anson tried an artichoke heart and offered the others endives, but Fagg pulled a face and declined. ‘More French muck! Never ’eard of a hendive and ain’t gonna try one now …’
As the morning wore on they heard more river traffic but their leafy canopy made it near impossible to see – or be seen. Anson lay back on a sack and through a gap in the branches could see a pair of buzzards circling high overhead, mewing as they hunted.
A commotion nearby alarmed them but it turned out to be a few head of cattle coming down the bank to drink from the steam. Dragonflies hovered over the water and a sudden splash made them start in time to see the dazzle of a kingfisher emerging with a small silvery fish in its beak.
During the afternoon Hoover crept ashore to reconnoitre, returning to report seeing nothing but a few grazing sheep on the tussocks of grass in the higher areas of the marshes – and very little traffic on the main waterway.
There was a fishing line in the bacôve and Fagg borrowed the dirk to fashion a crude rod from a branch of the tree, but, despite baiting with worms dug out of the bank, he caught nothing in the sluggish stream.
Finally, by early evening, Anson judged it safe enough to venture out from their hiding place. He poled the boat back down to the main waterway and set off north, now expertly plunging the pole in and propelling the bacôve forward in powerful surges.
Herons fished from the banks and all was peaceful apart from the croaking of frogs, provoking Fagg to mutter: ‘Them bleedin’ creatures are gonna give me nightmares fer years to come …’
As it grew dark they passed the ruins of an abbey but saw no signs of life, and the watery moonlight was enough to enable Anson to avoid steering into the banks.
After a few hours of uninterrupted progress, with Hoover, his shoulder now rested, taking turns with the pole, the marshes began to give way to sand dunes and they saw lights ahead: Gravelines.
They pulled in to the bank, abandoned the boat, and pushed it out to drift in the waterway where it was sure to be found and hopefully returned to its owner.
And, looking
like scarecrows in their torn and filthy clothes, they approached the massive star-shaped fortifications dominating the small town at the mouth of the Aa where it flowed into the North Sea.
*
For the escapers, the first priority was to go to ground until they could reconnoitre the port.
The darkness was both friend and enemy. They could move around without making themselves too conspicuous, but it was going to be difficult to find somewhere safe to hole up.
They entered the town via a narrow lane and, approaching the harbour, came upon what appeared to be an open-fronted building smelling strongly of fish. Was this where the local fishermen brought their catches to sell?
There was just enough moonlight for Anson to make out a pile of wooden crates and casks at the back of the building and he shepherded the other two behind them, throwing off his naval jacket and whispering: ‘Stay put while I look around.’
In his scruffy state Anson reckoned he could pass for a common sailor without much problem. He completed his disguise with a hat – similar to the woollen caps many French boatmen wore – fashioned from one of his own holey stockings during the wagon journey.
‘Will I do?’
Fagg could not hide his amusement. ‘You don’t look much like a navy orficer in that ’at, sir. More like a dog’s brekfust.’
The least favourite possibility, now, was to steal a boat and sail or row it to England. To Anson the hazards were self-evident. If the French were worth their salt, security would be tight. Oars and sails might well have been removed from boats overnight and there could be military patrols in the harbour area.
But this was Gravelines and there was another possibility. Anson, like any naval officer who had seen service at the North Sea corner of the English Channel, was well aware of the port’s reputation. He knew it suited the French to treat it almost as a free port.
Gold was needed to pay neutral countries for war material, so a blind eye was turned to English smugglers bringing them guineas in exchange for contraband wines and spirits. It was well known that the smugglers even brought over the latest English newspapers, an invaluable source of intelligence for the French.
He kept to the shadows, stopping every few steps to look and listen. Fifty yards further down the quayside a buzz of noise was coming from a building with a pool of light showing at its open door. A fishermen’s drinking den?
From the lane behind him came marching feet and a swinging lantern. A patrol. Suppose they stopped and questioned him?
There was no time to consider. Anson strode out towards the pool of light and ducked through the open door as nonchalantly as he could for someone whose heart was thumping wildly and who felt as conspicuous as a bishop in a bordello.
The patrol carried on past, no doubt assuming he was just another fisherman going for a nightcap or two. And, to Anson’s relief, no-one in the crowded, ill-lit drinking hole appeared to take any notice of his entry.
Guttering candles revealed a crowd of drinkers through the pipe-smoke fug. Drinks were being dispensed by a heavily-tattooed, scar-faced, broken-nosed man who looked as if he had spent most of his life fishing and brawling, which indeed he had. Providing assistance and a lady’s touch, was a blowsy female – his wife perhaps – who matched him for ill looks, lacking only the broken nose, illustrated skin and scars.
Anson realised to his annoyance that he had no money on him. He had left what remained in his jacket with the others – and in any event presenting a gold coin for cheap wine or beer in a den like this would have been a certain give-away, drawing unwelcome attention to him. A Flemish sailor with gold? Never happen …
But being without a drink in a drinking den would also look suspicious.
While Anson was wondering what to do one of the drinkers went outside, presumably to urinate into the harbour.
Anson turned, snatched up the man’s abandoned pot and moved quickly to the back of the room where he found a free end of a wooden bench, sat down and hunched himself over his drink.
He saw the urinator return, look around for his drink and mouth curses at those around him before giving up the hunt and going up to the patron for a fresh one.
Then, through the buzz of noise, Anson heard the unmistakeable tones of an Englishman – and a Man of Kent at that – speaking excruciatingly bad French.
*
Back in the fish hall, Fagg and Hoover were lying low. They had heard the patrol march past and silently willed Anson to evade capture.
Fagg whispered: ‘Gawd knows what’ll ’appen if ’e gets caught. There’s no way I can make a run for it with this blasted ankle.’
Hoover was optimistic. ‘He won’t get caught. He’s too fly for that. Anyways, he can speak some Frog, and dressed like he is, well, he looks pretty much like a fisherman.’
‘Smells like one an’ all.’
The American turned up his nose, ‘And he ain’t the only one. Must be about time for that monthly bath of yourn?’
Fagg gave him a disdainful stare and felt in his pocket for the stub that remained of his clay pipe. ‘S’pose we gotta sit tight an’ hope he comes back for us. I’m dying for a smoke.’
‘And you probably will die if you light up that pipe, so let’s button our lips and keep quiet like he told us ’til he comes back.’
*
The Englishman was clearly totally at ease among the French maritime flotsam congregated in the quayside drinking den. He was tall and wiry with a sharp, handy look about him.
He was dressed in similar fashion to the French fishermen – a drooping woollen hat, faded and stained jacket that might once have been blue, and baggy trousers tucked into calf-high boots that looked to have seen plenty of sea service. His left ear sported a gold earring – as was the custom with fishermen – to fund his funeral should he one day be washed up dead on some foreign shore.
That small part of his face that was not hidden by a gingery full set beard was heavily tanned.
Anson sat, head down, nursing his stolen drink and biding his time.
The English fisherman was in deep discussion with a Frenchman, a landsman by his dress. Over the hubbub of the drinking hole, Anson could just about make out talk of a cargo to be loaded aboard the Englishman’s lugger – and what he thought was some haggling over a price. A smuggler arranging a run, no doubt.
Agreement apparently having been reached, the Frenchman called for more drinks and the smuggler patted his shoulder in a familiar way, muttered something in his ear and went outside, evidently to relieve himself.
Anson waited for a few moments, then slipped out after him as unobtrusively as possible and crept up behind the man as he urinated into the harbour.
‘When are you sailing friend?’
The smuggler started, spun round and stared at Anson. ‘Who’s arsking?’
‘Just a fellow countryman who’s looking for a berth home.’
The man pulled back his coat to reveal the butt of a pistol tucked into his wide leather belt.
Anson raised his left leg slightly and tapped the hilt of the dirk partly hidden in his boot. ‘No need to worry, friend. I mean no harm. Just looking for a passage home – and I can pay my way.’
The smuggler looked Anson over. ‘Can you now? What wiv, fish?’ The disguise had clearly worked.
‘No, with gold.’
He had the stranger’s full attention. ‘Let’s see it.’
‘It’s with my two …’ He had been about to say men, but hesitated and said, ‘… my two friends.’
The man’s hand went to his pistol butt and he looked around suspiciously. Reassured that they were alone on the quayside, he demanded: ‘Who are yer and where’s these friends o’ yourn?’
‘They’re waiting, nearby.’
‘And who are you?’ the man insisted.
‘I told you, a fellow countryman seeking a passage home, and I can pay with gold. You don’t need to know more. And since when were smugglers so particular who or what they carry?’
/> The stranger did not argue the case. ‘I’m a fisherman and what if I does a bit of free tradin’ on the side? Everybody does. And in my line of business you ’as to be careful.’
Anson wanted to close the deal before anyone else appeared. ‘Your business is your business friend, and will be forgotten as soon as we step ashore in Kent. I’ll give you two guineas when we’re aboard your boat and four more when we reach England safely.’
‘Each?’ The fisherman-smuggler had the confidence of a gambler convinced he was holding all the cards.
‘I’ll not haggle. You’ll get two when we’re on board and clear of the harbour. Four more when we’re safely ashore the other side. That’s final, there’s no more.’
‘And supposin’ I says no, ’tis not enough for the risk involved? You may smell like one but you don’t talk like no fishin’ man and if you’re escapers like I think ye are then the Frenchies’ll be grateful to get yer back—’
In a flash Anson stooped, drew the dirk from its scabbard in his boot and pricked the smuggler’s Adam’s apple with it. And with his left hand he grabbed the pistol from the astonished man’s belt.
‘This,’ he whispered menacingly, twisting the dirk to draw a spot of blood, ‘is what I’ll do if you choose not to cooperate, you traitorous dog. I’ll rip your throat out. Then I’ll push you in the harbour so you can bleed to death and drown at the same time. And then I’ll take your miserable boat anyway and sail it back to England myself, for free.’
It was a bluff. Anson had no idea which was the smuggler’s boat, nor where it was berthed. But the pressure of the dirk on the man’s throat was enough.
‘Awright mate. Steady now, steady. I was only ’aving a little joke. I wouldn’t turn yer in.’
‘You don’t make jokes with me, friend. I’ve killed men for less. Now, take me to your boat.’
The smuggler protested. ‘They’re expectin’ me back in there.’ He nodded nervously towards the drinking den. ‘I’ll take yer right enough, but I’ve got to go back in and clinch a deal furst.’