by David McDine
The thought of that uncouth bucolic dandy making free with her stung Anson’s pride that had been bolstered by their own feverish coupling. ‘Surely you are not encouraging him?’
She hesitated, giving him an arch look. ‘A spinster like me has to keep all the, shall we say, balls in the air. If I’m not married soon, everyone will assume I’m on the shelf – and Chitters’ father does own an awful lot of land. Not to mention that he’s been sniffing around me as if I were a prize bitch on heat!’
‘Good grief! After what’s just happened you can’t possibly be thinking—’
‘Of marrying the dreaded Chitters? He wouldn’t be my first choice, but don’t you sailors say any port will do in a storm?’
‘But—’ Anson spluttered.
‘But all the buts you like. You’ve just sampled the goods but I haven’t heard a declaration of love or a proposal of marriage from you … yet, Master Anson.’
Mouth open, Anson recoiled as if he had been slapped around the face with a wet fish. The confounded woman was trying to force him into an instant proposal.
‘I, er, er …’
She gazed at him expectantly, lips parted in a half smile, but before he could say something he might well live to regret, the dining room door swung open and Fagg limped noisily in, coming to something passing for attention and knuckling his forehead.
‘Beg pardin, sir, ma’am.’ His eyes swivelled and plunged down her cleavage. ‘’Umble apologies fer interrupting yer dinner, but somefink’s come up. There’s a dragoon arrived all ’ot an’ bovvered, carryin’ a henvelope and he won’t see no-one else but you, sir. Sorry sir.’
Charlotte’s face clouded over, but Anson, hugely relieved at this last-ditch reprieve, leapt to his feet, apologised profusely to her for the interruption, and instructed Fagg to escort her back to her sisters shopping in the town while he dashed off to receive his messenger, muttering: ‘Duty calls. I’ll be in touch …’
But even as he said it he knew he would be in no hurry to resume where they had just left off.
41
Once alone, he broke the seal and read the note:
Mon Vieux
Were you to pay an official (and social) call on the Officer Commanding Fairlight Semaphore Station you might learn intelligence to your advantage, and oblige your Ship and Shovel friend with the only civilised company he is likely to enjoy this whole year.
A Armstrong
Commander, Royal Navy.’
The mention of intelligence could be of great importance, and it would be fun to see Armstrong again. Not least, the timely arrival of the messenger had enabled him to escape the clutches of Charlotte Brax.
Much later, in bed – alone – that night, Anson could not get the smell and feel of her out of his mind. Back in France there had been a genuine fondness between him and Thérèse, but this was different. This was pure lust.
He could not in all honesty say that he even liked Charlotte Brax. Yet he was still overwhelmed with desire for her. What man would not be? But now that he knew that the unspeakable Chitterling was also involved with her, he realised that he was in incredibly dangerous waters, and that a continuing affair possibly leading to marriage was certain to end in tears.
*
A dawn start and a day’s ride in Tom Marsh’s pony and trap cleared his mind and brought Anson to Fairlight on the Downs above the small fishing port of Hastings.
The port was familiar to him from his school books as one of the Cinque Ports that had for centuries provided ships and men to fight the French, and had spawned the Royal Navy itself.
The semaphore station nearby was much as Armstrong had described it when they met at the Ship and Shovel in London the night before both were due at the Admiralty to plead in vain for sea-going appointments.
It was a small wooden building, with two main rooms and a newly added extension, that could have been taken for a poor cottage were it not for an 80-foot mast for running up flags and signal balls.
With some relief, once more the naval officer out of his natural element, he dismounted stiffly from the trap.
The captain of this land-locked ship greeted him with the warmth of a man starved of clubbable company. Pouring Anson a glass of undoubtedly smuggled claret, he asked with more than passing interest after Elizabeth and Anne, ‘such charming girls, quite charming!’ And Armstrong’s face shone with delight when Anson produced a scented letter from Elizabeth that he had promised to safeguard for her ’til he next met his friend.
‘Don’t get many missives here, apart from official demands for returns of all sorts.’ He sniffed the letter with an expression bordering on ecstasy, murmuring: ‘I’ll savour it later.’
Anson smiled knowingly. He had helped his sister draft it, conveying maidenly interest rather than the keen infatuation that had struck her when Armstrong danced with her at the Brax ball.
Sipping his wine, his friend confided: ‘I did so enjoy that interlude – the ball and all. It’s dire here, mon vieux – day after day with naught but a whining midshipman, oafish signalmen, a couple of extremely regimental dragoons who are no fun at all, and the odd dog-walker and idle gawper for company.’
‘Where do you sleep?’ asked Anson.
‘I paid out of my own pocket to have this extra room built on. It’s my private retreat.’
Dinner was what Armstrong called a ragamuffin affair – rough and ready but nevertheless wholesome mutton and potatoes, liberally washed down with more of the smuggled claret. The meal was rounded off with cheese, apparently weevil-free ship’s biscuit, and a good brandy, again undoubtedly of recent French origin.
Anson, enjoying his brother officer’s hospitality and the opportunity, rare since leaving his Phryne friends so abruptly, of sharing naval gossip with a near equal, was content to wait for Armstrong to impart his promised intelligence.
When the moment came, Armstrong was direct. ‘Obviously I have received the request for information regarding our visiting French privateer.’
Anson nodded. ‘I take it that’s the reason for your summons, although I’d have rated it a pleasure to partake of your hospitality whether or not.’
Armstrong shouted for his midshipman, dozing in the corner, to double away and fetch the log, and the lad returned with a battered, leather-bound volume.
‘When I read your letter, well, signed by Captain Hoare but I’ve no doubt drafted by you, I thought your privateer might be the one that took a coaster off Hastings at about that time. Didn’t see it myself, so I couldn’t be sure.’
Anson had heard about that incident. ‘Yes, that was reported to me and it could well have been my Frenchman. But I’ve heard nothing since.’
‘There’s been no further sighting down the coast here since then, maybe because he went back to base for repairs, re-victualling or whatever. But a few days ago a gun brig with an oval sail patch was reported as having taken a merchantman off Chichester.’
Anson leaned forward expectantly. ‘And have you seen her here?’
‘No, not yet.’ Armstrong opened the log at pages marked with slips of paper. ‘But look, your letter asked about sightings of a brig with a patched sail and at the time I doubt anyone thought of looking backwards. I certainly didn’t, and if I had there wouldn’t have been any references to the patch because that only came about after your escapade off Folkestone.’
‘So where does this lead?’
‘Well, mon vieux, when I heard about this latest Chichester sighting, I went right back through my log and find that in the past we have recorded sightings of a similar vessel, minus patched sail.’ He turned to the marked pages of the log. ‘Look here, here and here.’
‘You can be so exact?’
‘Of course. The role here is to observe and report any enemy ship activity, semaphore it to Admiralty, and send a dragoon galloper off to report to the soldiery if a French landing is threatened.’
He tapped the book. ‘As you will know, the only way to keep intelligence
in any sort of order is to keep a seaman-like log. Everything we see is recorded here, and I can tell you with near certainty that your privateer passed this way heading east at least three times before your tussle with her.’
‘Good grief! So how does this Chichester sighting fit in?’
‘Well, I’ve been in contact with my wingers in the signal stations to the west – we’re a sad breed with plenty of time on our hands for such whimsy – and their logs match mine.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean that each time the privateer passed here he had first been reported off Chichester and so on. So, if I judge it correctly, and if the Frenchman is the creature of habit I believe him to be, he will pass this way again, beating easterly, sometime next week – Thursday or Friday, if I calculate correctly, picking up any small undefended coastal craft he chances upon.’
‘Really?’ Anson could not hide his astonishment.
‘That’s right. His beat appears to be from around about Chichester in the west through eastward, maybe as far as the North Foreland. He stays out of range of shore batteries, leaves anything that looks as if it could bite back well alone, and goes for the minnows.’
Anson took the proffered logbook and examined the marked entries.
‘This is remarkable! Your observations are of the utmost interest to me. Although we have never learned her name, this is almost certainly the privateer that we tackled off Folkestone, and I agree that your predictions are the most likely – if our Frenchman follows his normal pattern.’
Armstrong was pleased with his friend’s reaction. ‘Yes, we can safely assume that unless something occurs to change the Frogs’ habits, the Égalité will be here snapping up English coasters again towards the back end of next week.
Anson was stunned. ‘Did you say Égalité?’
Armstrong nodded. ‘That’s our privateer sure enough. According to my Chichester opposite number she carries her name on her prow in red paint. The name can quite clearly be read with a good glass, and excellent examples are provided to us glorified look-outs by a grateful Admiralty. I suppose the red paint and the name are some kind of revolutionary statement.’
For a moment, Anson was distracted. His mind went back to the mole at St Valery-en-Caux and the failed attempt to cut out this very same privateer.
Armstrong noted his reaction. ‘Clearly the name means something to you?’
‘It does indeed. Now that you have confirmed the name, I find I have two scores to settle with this Frenchman – one in Normandy and another off Folkestone.’
‘Well,’ said Armstrong, recharging the glasses with slugs of brandy, ‘let’s drink to third time lucky.’
*
Back at the detachment building, Anson, still suffering from the vestiges of a hangover resulting from a convivial night at Fairlight, conferred with Fagg and Hoover. ‘We three have had two unfinished encounters on account of this Égalité – in Normandy and now here. If we can engineer a third match, I am resolved to take her by whatever means.’
Fagg was doubtful. ‘But, beggin’ your pardin, sir, if we row out in them gunboats, won’t the Froggie just duff us up? He won’t come in range of one of the batteries again – not if he’s got any sense.’
Hoover agreed. ‘And without cover from the battery we’d be sitting ducks for sure.’
Anson agreed. ‘Quite so, and that’s why we’ll be ready waiting for him next time. But we’ll be looking like toothless minnows ripe for snapping up for a pike’s breakfast.’ He frowned at his own extravagant metaphor, wondering if he had got it quite right, but Fagg and Hoover appeared to have caught his drift.
He outlined the plan he had hatched up with Armstrong over a good many brandies at Fairlight, and gave his orders.
For once the shambolic nature of his Sea Fencibles would be a positive advantage, as would their normal callings – as fishermen, boatmen and harbour rats of all persuasions.
This would not be a time for immaculately turned-out and well-drilled man-of-war’s men. Apparent sloppiness and slovenly seamanship, would, Anson hoped, lure the Frenchmen on – and into a trap.
42
His dreams were interrupted by a shake from the publican bearing a flickering candle. ‘Are you awake, sir?’
A dazed nod.
‘There’s a galloper come for you!’
Now he was wide awake, well aware of what this must mean. ‘Show him up, Mr Griggs, show him up – and leave the candle if you will.’
Griggs touched his forehead and disappeared down the creaking stairs, returning after a few minutes with a lantern and followed closely by an intelligent-looking, blue-jacketed, booted and spurred dragoon.
Throwing up a salute, he announced: ‘Dragoon Dillon, sorr, ’ttached to the Fairlight station as galloper.’ He handed Anson a sealed paper. ‘From Commander Armstrong, sorr.’
‘Landlord, I’d be obliged if you would forage your kitchens and feed Dillon here and get your ostler lad to look after his horse while I study this message. I’ll be down shortly with a reply.’
When the pair had clattered off downstairs, no doubt waking the rest of the house, Anson broke the wax seal. Holding the paper close to the candle flame he read the short message, clearly written in a hurry:
‘Personal for Lieutenant Anson, Royal Navy
Greetings mon vieux. The fun begins. Égalité expected off Hastings Thursday early forenoon. Suggest you initiate proceedings as planned.
Armstrong.’
*
Little negotiation was required to obtain the agreement of the master for the use of his coaster, the Kentish Trader.
If William Gray himself had been unwilling, which he was not, his wife would certainly have persuaded him. She alone knew how close she had come to being raped and perhaps then murdered, or at least abducted to endure a worse fate at the hands of the French privateersmen. And in her eyes Anson and his fencibles could do no wrong.
As soon as Anson broached borrowing their vessel ‘to strike a blow against privateers’ the Grays agreed immediately.
The couple and their crew were all keen to remain on board for whatever was in store, but Anson declined. He asked only that the most experienced of their crewmen – a grizzled veteran named Josh Crowe, who knew the coaster and her ways backwards – came along to act as sailing master.
Anson had taken immense pains with his plan, rehearsed with Armstrong during his visit to Fairlight and later with Lieutenant Coney, the impress officer at Folkestone.
It had to work. Failure could mean death for many of his men, the loss of a vessel he had borrowed without authority, and possibly both gunboats, leading to an inevitable court martial and disgrace. It was too painful to contemplate.
Crucial to the plan’s success was Armstrong. By now he would have consulted his opposite numbers in the stations to the west and set up a reliable means of communication so that he would learn of Égalité’s approach well before the privateer appeared off Hastings.
The Kentish Trader was to lurk off Fairlight, watching for signals from the semaphore station announcing the Frenchman’s imminent arrival.
Timing would be critical. Anson had to have precise notification of the privateer’s approach and then flee, enticing Égalité to follow. They needed to arrive off Seagate with the coaster losing sea room to the privateer but still sufficiently far ahead to avoid capture.
Then, just when Égalité was close enough to pounce, Anson’s trap would be sprung. Yes, it would be a close-run thing and, not least, would require careful briefing if his fencibles were to get it right.
After the earlier brush with the privateer, he knew the men would do their duty, but would they remember their orders when the shot began to fly?
*
All preparations made, Anson and those selected to sail in the coaster slipped aboard singly so as to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.
Idle observers might well have taken him for the real skipper, dressed as he was in Gray’s normal s
ea-going rig, a loose canvas smock jacket hiding his uniform and wearing a scruffy sou’wester instead of his naval fore-and-aft hat.
Crowe jocularly chivvied the four fencibles who were replacing the normal crew. In their everyday work clothing they were indistinguishable from the real thing.
Presumably out of mischievous humour, Fagg had allotted the role of female bait aboard the coaster to Handsome Smith, so nicknamed owing to his extreme ugliness.
Already he was tiring of being told: ‘Your turn in the barrel tonight then, eh ’andsome?’ – rising as he always did to such bawdy attempts at humour at his expense.
Anson, ever tolerant of badinage among the men, reflected that pox-pitted, whiskery, broken-nosed, cauliflower-eared, snaggle-toothed Smith was the very last man one wanted to meet in a barrel, even if that way inclined.
He only passed muster as a female with any on-lookers by keeping his back firmly seaward, hoping that the borrowed dress and bonnet would fool watchers.
The coaster’s deck was littered with barrels, bales and crates that Anson hoped would appear, through a glass, to be the overflow of a sizeable, and perhaps valuable, cargo stowed below.
It was a relief to all on board when Crowe at last adjudged the tide was right, and the Kentish Trader was able to slip out of the harbour and tack westward against a light westerly breeze.
Off Dymchurch, they rendezvoused with a fishing smack, sailing close together until a graunch transfer was possible and a dozen fencibles carrying muskets, cutlasses, half pikes and boarding axes clambered aboard.
They were briefly welcomed by Anson, and immediately made their way down the hatch into the bowels of the coaster. So far, so good.
By late afternoon, the Kentish Trader was off the East Sussex coast and through his telescope Anson could clearly see Fairlight signal station some hundreds of feet above.
There was no activity other than a horse, most likely the mount of one of the dragoon messengers, grazing on the cliffs beside the station.