by David McDine
‘I suppose they could well have believed that in Phryne—’
‘Not only in Phryne, my boy, your family too.’ He picked up the Gazette. ‘Here’s a report of your memorial service!’
Anson was again taken aback. ‘Memorial?’
The captain guffawed. ‘It’ll be like reading about your own funeral, what!’
He passed Anson the newspaper. Too startled to take it all in, he registered the key phrases of the report. ‘… son of the rector … killed in raid on French coast … memorial service in his father’s parish church in the absence of a body to bury …’
Anson, nonplussed, could only mutter: ‘Good grief!’
‘Rich, ain’t it?’ the captain chortled. ‘They’ve even unveiled a plaque in your memory – but here you are, large as life! You’ll give ’em quite a shock when you turn up on your father’s doorstep!’
‘I must get home and set matters to rights, sir.’
‘Of course, of course, my dear fellow. But there are a few formalities to observe first. Paperwork you know, the curse of the landlocked seaman. And I’ve sent for a surgeon-wallah to give you and your men the once-over. Wouldn’t do to send you off unsound of wind or limb, would it?’
Anson could not disguise a sigh, but submitted without argument. Truth be told, he was too dog-weary to protest.
As an afterthought the captain asked: ‘By the by, are you by any chance related to the Anson?’
Anson shrugged. It was a question he had answered so many times since he joined the navy. ‘Merely a distant kinsman, I’m afraid, sir, many times removed.’
A surgeon’s mate, breathing rum fumes that could have put a passing fly to sleep, examined the three. Good food and rest would cure their coughs, he said, but he expressed concern at the state of Fagg’s ankle. ‘Otherwise, I’m of the opinion that your wounds are mending surprisingly well considering the lack of professional treatment.’
Anson had smiled at that. He would far rather have been treated by Madame Thérèse than by some half-drunken, jumped-up loblolly boy, any day.
However, despite the intake of alcohol that had turned his pitted nose a shade of purple, the man seemed to know what he was doing and advised that they should be sent to the naval hospital along the coast at Deal for treatment and recuperation.
But Anson was adamant that he would not go himself. The port captain agreed that as his home was near he must go forthwith and show them that the report of his death was premature. ‘In any event, sir, I’ll surely receive better treatment in a parsonage infested by a parcel of female relatives with time on their hands than I would in any hospital.’
The captain acknowledged the sense of that, said he would write directly informing the Admiralty of all the circumstances, and added: ‘Phryne was in Chatham just recently, did you know?’ Then after a moment’s thought, ‘No, of course you wouldn’t have known, would you? Anyway, I’ll let your captain know the glad tidings, although no doubt you will have been replaced by now, being presumed dead and all …’
That had not occurred to Anson before, and if he had thought about it at all he would have assumed that he would be reinstated automatically. Whatever, he was too bone weary to worry about that now.
Once dismissed, he divided up the remainder of the money advanced by the purser between his two companions, who, although reluctant, accepted with gratitude. And he embarrassed both by shaking them warmly by the hand and wishing them Godspeed to hospital and full recovery.
‘If we don’t go back to the old Phryne, will you send fer us when you get yer own ship, sir?’ Fagg asked, almost shyly.
‘That I will, never fear.’
*
Within the hour Anson was in a carrier’s cart, drawn by a fit young gelding, trundling along the flinty track, gradually ascending the hill and passing the castle as it left the coast.
Twice a week, Hezekiah Dale served the villages along the old Roman road from Dover to Canterbury and back, changing course as required to outlying villages along the way, carrying mail, packages and occasional passengers.
But Hezekiah, perched up front wearing his tall, pointed, home-made felt hat, had seldom carried a more unusual passenger – a bedraggled, hatless naval man with a clearly recent livid v-shaped scar on his forehead.
The carrier had agreed to divert off the main road for a few miles to take his passenger to Hardres Minnis.
A mile or two out of Dover, he turned to look at his dozing passenger and observed: ‘You look like you bin in the wars, squire.’
Thanks to his years of travel, Hezikiah regarded himself as being far more worldly wise than his country cousins. Why, unlike all those who never strayed more than a few miles from their native village, he’d been pretty well everywhere. That is, everywhere from Dover to Canterbury and back, and just about every village and hamlet either side of Watling Street.
Anson came to with a start, imagining for a moment that he was back in Normandy and a prisoner in the wagon heading for Arras. But no, he reassured himself, he was home – in the North Downs.
‘In the wars? That I have,’ he acknowledged. ‘And I’ll be obliged if you’ll make a small diversion to the rectory when you get to Hardres Minnis.’
Hezekiah could tell an ‘orficer’ from a common sailor when he heard one. ‘Gladly, yer worship. I s’pose a gennelman like you ’as got the wherewithal t’pay?’
‘I haven’t a sou, nor a penny piece. Nothing but what I stand up in. But I’m sure that my father the rector will be only too happy to stump up the necessary for me.’
The carter nodded knowingly. ‘Ah, I’ve heard about you – s’posed t’be dead ain’t yer? Cash on delivery’s fair enough for a churchman’s son.’
Hezekiah liked a yarn. It helped to pass the all-too-familiar miles. ‘So ’ow did yer come by that there battered ’ead?’ he ventured. ‘Battle at sea, were it?’
But Anson was not in the mood. ‘Something of the sort,’ was all he’d say, stretching back against a pile of sacks and ending the conversation by closing his eyes.
He well knew that news such as his, imparted to a carrier, would spread like pox from a bum-boat harpy. And, having learned at Dover that he had been reported dead, he wanted his family to hear of his resurrection from Lazarus himself, as it were, before the whole countryside knew.
Now that he was on home soil, the exhausted Anson at last allowed himself to relax his guard and drift into dream-filled sleep, shaking himself awake from time to time and only relaxing again on confirming this was England, and Kent – not France.
*
He was oblivious to the change of direction when Hezekiah turned off at the finger post that led after a few miles to the series of upland commons that stretched to Hardres Minnis and the rectory.
Anson awoke from confused dreams that had seemed real but escaped memory the moment he opened his eyes. All around now were the North Downs’ heathlands, divided by historic ownership into this, that or the other Minnis, an old Kentish name for largely infertile land that the Lord – of the local manor rather than the Almighty – did not want.
These manorial commons were left for the local small-holders and peasants to graze their sheep, cattle, pigs and geese, and gather firewood, furze and bracken for animal bedding, by ancient right. But the soil remained firmly in the ownership of the lord of the manor, in this case the local squire.
Fully awake now, Anson looked about him with interest and affection. It was on these commons that he had played as a boy, making camps in the bracken and stalking, or being stalked, by the village urchins.
In his newly-published history of Kent, Edward Hasted had described it as ‘a wild hilly country, mostly situated on high ground and exceedingly healthy. The soil is but barren, consisting of an unfertile red earth, intermixed with quantities of flints. On the north and east sides it is covered with woods … along the whole length of it interspersed with houses and cottages, many of which are built on the middle of it, with fields and orchard
s taken out of it and inclosed around them, which form altogether a not uncommon and not unpleasant scene … The inhabitants of them,’ he had asserted, were ‘as rude and wild as the country they live in’.
It was a description, had they been aware of it, that the commoners could not honestly have disputed.
Over the home straight, Anson became aware that his appearance was creating intense interest among the handful of graziers and yokels they encountered, shy and insular though they were.
Nothing more than a startled look and a touched forelock in his direction or an ‘Arternoon Zac’ was passed. But Anson knew that although he had been home so infrequently that his was not a well-known face, the local peasantry were wily enough to put two and two together.
One, bolder than the rest called: ‘What y’got there, carter? A drunk what’s lost ’is way ’ome?’
Hezikiah was offended, and tugged on the reins. ‘T’ain’t no drunk, ’tis the parson’s son, ’ome from the wars.’ The incredulous smallholder shook his head. ‘Well I’m flummuxed. He’s dead, ain’t he? Leastways, they ’eld a great big service fer ’im not a week since.’
‘It’s ’im awlright, but ’e’s only harf dead.’
‘Course they didn’t bury ’im,’ the yokel recalled. ‘Well, ye can’t ’ave a fun’ral wivout a body, like, so they just memorialised ’im.’
Hezikiah nodded sagely. ‘What they calls a memorium service, weren’t it?’
‘That’s roight. Such hexpense, wiv ’arf the county there – and harchbishops, gen’rals, hadmirals and whatnot. An’ they stuck a notice up in the church, writ in marble.’
‘So what did that say? I mean they couldn’t say ’ere lies wot’s-’is-name, could they?’
Anson’s eyebrows rose heavenwards, but he kept his peace.
The smallholder grinned. ‘I seen it and I can read orlright, though not to understand it loik. It give ’is name an’ all, wiv carved ships and stuff. Such a hexpence. They’ll be a suckin’ o’ teef up the rect’ry when you shows up wiv ’im, aloive-loik. Wouldn’t surprise me if parson didn’t put the tythe up ter pay fer it all.’
Hezekiah snorted dismissively. ‘More likely parson’ll give me a guinea fer bringin’ his boy back from the dead.’
Spurred on by the thought, he touched his horse’s rump with his whip and the Lazurus journey continued.
It was inevitable that by the time the cart turned out of Lymingham Street – a hamlet of some two dozen cottages and an alehouse half a mile from home – some unseen miracle of local communication had occurred.
Figures were to be seen in the carriageway leading from the rough highway up to the rectory. A parcel of females, Anson surmised.
Then a mounted figure detached itself from the others and approached at a canter. In a moment Anson, still sprawled weak and exhausted on the sacks, was gazing up into the eyes of the Reverend Thomas Anson, rector of Hardres Minnis.
‘The Lord be praised! Oliver, is it really you?’
14
Several days passed before Anson felt up to joining the family at breakfast. At first, physically and mentally exhausted, he had kept to his room, enduring daily calls by genial Doctor Hambrook and too-frequent visits from his parents and excited sisters, answering their many questions in monosyllables.
Away from those who had shared his ordeal, and away from the familiar brotherhood of the navy, he was, according to his mother’s concerned comment to the rector ‘Too quiet – quite mumchance’.
At least the medical man’s recommendation of lots of thick chicken soup and plenty of rest seemed to be doing the trick as far as his general health was concerned. But for some time he remained almost in a reverie, his thoughts constantly going back to the raid, the sojourn at the Auberge du Marin and the escape.
Consulting with his sisters, his mother decided the very thing to shake him out of his brown study was a dinner party. ‘But,’ she warned, ‘we must wait for the right moment to propose it.’
*
Today he woke feeling refreshed and a little more like his normal self than he had since the boats pulled away from Phryne off the Normandy coast. He felt well enough to go through his sea chest that the ship had forwarded from Chatham following his reported death.
All the clothing had gone – sold on board to his brother officers, as was the custom in such cases. But his sextant, telescope and a few personal items and papers, including his commission, were there – as was his red leather-bound diary.
He had kept this personal log ever since his early days as a midshipman and, seeing it now, he realised that during the escape he had missed the daily routine of recording location, weather and any significant events. No flowery prose – just brief notes.
Opening it, he read the last entry:
‘At sea, Normandy coast in sight. Weather fair, sea calm. Preparing for cutting out expedition against privateer, St Valery-en-Caux.’
That note had been written a mere few weeks ago, yet so much had gone unrecorded since then, so he wrote:
‘Raid failed. Wounded, captured, escaped, returned to England.’
Anson dated and blotted it, satisfied that his log was now up to date.
At Dover, he had learned of the great sea battle that had brought a sudden end to the sojourn at the Auberge du Marin. After a four-month sea hunt Nelson had trapped the French fleet in Aboukir Bay off the coast of Alexandria and inflicted a crushing defeat, destroying or capturing nearly all the French ships.
The French flagship L’Orient, pride of their navy, had blown up and many men had been lost – including the aristocratic fleet commander Vice Admiral Francois Paul, Compte de Brueys d’Aigailliers.
And Napoleon was marooned ashore in Egypt, his army cut off from all communication with France, and now without hope of being able to dominate the region.
There was still elation in England, where the invasion threat had receded as a result of the victory that was being called the Battle of the Nile, but Anson was dejected that he had missed such an action. The fact that his old ship had not been involved at Aboukir was no comfort.
His father attempted to cheer him. ‘It may have been on a smaller stage, but you were involved in an honourable operation against the French.’
But Anson was not to be consoled. ‘There’s precious little honour in grovelling after privateers and getting myself captured while our navy was engaged in the greatest fleet action since Copenhagen. Now I know what Shakespeare meant when he put those words into Henry V’s mouth before Agincourt – that gentlemen abed in England would feel themselves accursed that they were not with the band of brothers for the battle. And now I could be stuck ashore for the foreseeable future.’
The rector suggested soothingly: ‘Can you not do some lobbying at the Admiralty?’
‘I’ll be going as soon as I’m fit enough, but I’ve no friends there, no interest, and I fear I’ll be lucky to be re-appointed to Phryne, or to get any sort of sea-going appointment. Even if I do it’ll doubtless be something like a storeship.’
He was on his second tack round the shrubbery after breakfast when the crunch of hooves and the grate of iron-shod wheels on the gravel driveway heralded a visitor.
A chaise pulled by a pair of smart black geldings hove into sight and halted a few yards from him. From the back of the house young Alfred the stable lad came running and held the horses as the black-clad arrival climbed down.
The newcomer stared long and hard at Anson. ‘Good God, so it really is you! He that was lost is found again. Surely a miracle …’
Heavy sarcasm was a speciality of Augustine Anson, minor canon at Canterbury Cathedral, particularly – as it had always been – when addressing his younger brother Oliver, their father’s favourite son.
Before the younger Anson could think of a suitable response, Augustine added, ‘Delivered by the carrier like a sack of coals I hear. And I thought we’d laid you to rest with that extremely costly memorial tablet.’
‘My time had
obviously not come, Gussie.’
Augustine winced. He had never been able to hide how much he hated that nickname, convinced that it was used only to provoke him.
Unable to disguise his annoyance at the turn of events, and smarting, as ever, from the knowledge that Oliver received a £100 a year from their father to supplement his naval pay, he could not resist further sarcasm. ‘So life really does imitate art! The return of the prodigal. I’ll tell cook to fetch another fatted calf …’
Oliver ignored him. As far as he was concerned Gussie was a self-righteous prig who observed rules to the letter but in reality was mostly concerned with his own image, social standing – and getting more than his share of everything that was going.
But he had to smile when Augustine remonstrated with him for returning alive. ‘You really have placed me in an extremely embarrassing situation. I organised a memorial service worthy of an admiral. For goodness’ sake, the archdeacon himself was there – and half the incumbents for miles around. How am I going to tell them you weren’t dead at all, and are walking round large as life? It’s outrageous!’
‘Remiss of me I’m sure, Gussie. Another time I’ll ask the French to send a special messenger to let you know I’m temporarily detained and unable to travel – so there’s no need to go to the trouble of organising a wake.’
Ever one to get the last word, Augustine retorted sharply: ‘I’ve told you a thousand times not to call me by that childish nickname. You do it on purpose to annoy me and after your miraculous reappearance all I will say is that I now accept that it’s true – the devil really does look after his own!’
*
Later, alone with Augustine, the rector raised a delicate issue. ‘We must remove the memorial tablet.’
‘More expense! Why not cover it with a curtain and alter the date of death when the time comes?’
‘Augustine! Your cynicism is not even faintly amusing. If your mother had heard you … and do not forget that you pressured his brother officers to foot most of the bill, did you not?’