by Sara Fraser
The three merchants produced from sack-wrapped bundles, great golden-crusted pasties and several black-glassed bottles of gin. Nothing would satisfy their good nature but that the remainder of the party should share in their provisions.
‘I insist, good sir! If you don’t accept, you will mortally offend me.’
The fattest of the three would not hear Henri’s polite refusal and pressed him until the young man took from him a huge chunk of rich meat-filled pasty and a crock tumbler full of the heady gin. The touch of food on his lips caused Henri’s stomach to rumble in acknowledgement of its emptiness, and he bit deeply, savouring the delicious taste.
The merchant watched the enemy soldier chewing eagerly at the food, and his heart held pity as he thought of where this fine young man was destined for. As soon as the chunk of pasty had disappeared, he pressed more on Henri.
‘Go on, boy . . . eat hearty,’ he smiled kindly. ‘I’ll warrant there’s a good many of your countrymen now in Russia who would give a year of their life at this time for a pasty like this.’
Henri felt a sense of foreboding. News of Napoleon’s invasion of that country had reached Bishops Castle, but he had heard nothing more for some time.
‘In Russia?’ he queried, and swallowed the half-chewed piece of meat in his mouth. ‘But I thought that the Grande Armée had defeated the Tsar’s troops and were in winter quarters around Moscow.’
The merchant shook his head. ‘No, my friend, not any longer. Your Emperor is in full retreat, and, according to the latest despatches received in London, the Russians are everywhere attacking your troops and causing the deaths of many many thousands.’
The young man’s appetite abruptly left him. ‘Le Bon Dieu!’ he breathed . . . ‘And it is now full winter there . . . Bon Dieu!’
‘Yes, young sir,’ another of the merchants joined in the conversation. ‘It is said that the sufferings of the French soldiers are hideous. Whole regiments are said to be dying from the effects of the frost and snow, and the army is starving because the Muscovites have destroyed all food-stocks and shelter in its path.’
‘And Spain?’ Henri questioned. ‘What is happening in Spain?’
The fat merchant smiled ruefully. ‘Well, my friend, unhappy as I am to tell you, our Duke of Wellington is once more falling back to Portugal. The siege of Burgos has failed . . . The Frogs are . . . I beg your pardon! The French are in hot pursuit. Also, it grieves me to add, our General Hill has been forced to abandon Madrid . . . so you see, the war is still undecided . . .’
‘Oh no, sir! Dammee! Not at sea it ain’t undecided,’ the major of marines interjected forcefully. ‘No matter that the Yankee frigates have taken a few prizes, the Royal Navy still rules the oceans of the world and will never cease to do so, I might add, sir! Not while there’s an Englishman can still lay a cannon and swing a cutlass.’
‘Bravo! I concur with that sentiment wholeheartedly, sir,’ the fat merchant applauded. ‘And while not wishing to be offensive to this unfortunate young man here, I am honour-bound to say that I do not think the nation has been seen yet as could beat old England, once the blood is up.’
‘Here, here!’
‘Well said, sir! Well said!’
His companions agreed vociferously, and began to toast each other’s health in large gulps of gin.
Henri stared unseeingly at the rich grazing country the coach was passing through, and dwelt miserably on what he had been told. He could not accept it . . . The Grande Armée under the personal command of the Empereur himself, in full retreat? The conquerors of Europe running from the inefficient, ill-equipped armies of the Tsar? The heroic victors of Marengo, Wagram, Jena, Austerlitz and a hundred other fields of glory being beaten by the crowd, knout-driven slaves of a barbaric tyrant? . . . And yet, in spite of all his emotional rejection of the news, his logic told him that it was the truth.
It took twelve hours for the crack Celerity to make the ninety-six-mile journey from Bristol to Portsmouth, and it was a few minutes before four o’clock in the afternoon when the horses toiled at a walking pace over the crown of the Portsdown Hill; and the driver halted them to rest for a while before beginning the descent to the sea.
‘Does you gennulmen wish to stretch your legs?’ The guard opened the coach door and let down the folding steps.
Only Henri and the marine major took advantage of the offer. The others, gin-fuddled and sleepy, burrowed deeper into the high collars of their greatcoats and stayed in their seats.
A sharp wind whistled in from the sea and brought the strong tang of ozone to Henri’s nostrils. The sky was clear of clouds and the sunlight glinted upon the wide expanse of foam-flecked blue-grey waters. The major came to stand by Henri’s side. His tone was jocular, as he asked,
‘Admiring your new home are you, my Gallic cock?’
The young man remained silent, gazing down at the flat peninsula below them. It was cut off from the mainland by marshy creeks which at high tide filled with the sea to create a moat. This moat was spanned by a causeway which on the island side cut through the earthworks of the Hilsea defence lines, with its garrison of square huts lying half a mile beyond the fortifications. Henri judged the peninsula to be five miles in length and perhaps three and a half in width at its widest point, the seaward end. On either side, were great natural harbours and the town and dockyard lay on the west side of the island. While, separated by a five-mile channel, the gently rising, green wooded hills of the Isle of Wight acted as a shield to the harbours, protecting them from the full fury of the English Channel gales.
‘Look there, my fine fellow,’ the marine pointed to the dockyard, filled with great black- and yellow-banded ships, made toylike by distance. ‘Look beyond them men o’ war, look farther out.’
Henri’s gaze followed the line indicated by the scarlet-clothed arm with its elaborate blue and silver laced cuff. A line of dark humps sunk low in the water, with wisps of smoke rising from them which curled and dispersed in the sea breezes was all he could see. Another line of humps lay at right angles a little distance from the first, and between the two lines tiny specks of light craft moved to and fro.
‘There’s your new quarters . . . Those are the hulks!’ the marine told him. ‘And over there,’ the scarlet and blue arm swung eastwards, and Henri saw at the end of a curving spit of land that jutted from the eastern extremity of the island, a star-shaped structure, ‘is Butcher’s Fort.’ The major’s voice grew strained. ‘Or to give it its proper title, Fort Cumberland . . . See there, moored close inshore to it?’
Henri made out two low humps.
‘They’re my command.’ The strain in the major’s voice was now so marked that Henri looked sideways at him in surprise. The man’s face was twisted in torment and he burst out, ‘There they lie! The Ceres and the Fortune, and I curse God for taking my damned right arm from me that day at the Nile, and leaving me with my life, so that I was only half a man! No longer considered to be fit for battle!’
He glared at the distant hulks and lifting his remaining arm he shook his fist furiously.
‘I curse the God who brought me down to acting as a filthy gaoler on those stinking hell-holes!’ Swinging on his heels, he stumped back to the waiting coach.
Henri drew a deep breath. ‘You poor devil, Major!’ he thought. ‘You are a soul in purgatory!’
*
The long oars creaked in the brass rowlocks and the boat crept past the towering yellow and black walls of the men o’ war anchored close to the dockyard. Seamen working on board the warships came to look over the taffrails and through the open gunports. Their tarred pigtails hung to the sides of their weather-beaten, ear-ringed faces as they peered down. Their expressions were neither friendly, nor hostile, merely curious.
Henry Chanteur sat in the waist of the longboat with a small party of other Frenchmen all facing the stern, where a minute midshipman sat by the side of the helmsman and squeaked the rate of stroke in his high childish treble. The men o’
war fell behind and once out of their shelter the wind hit the boat on its starboard beam, causing it to wallow and roll over the foam-flecked waters. Henri’s blond hair ruffled wildly and his fair skin was reddened and wetted by the spray blown off the dripping oars before the longboat came into the lee of the nearer line of prison hulks. The Frenchmen stared with interest at their first close view of their new quarters.
They saw a long line of black-tarred hulls, tied bow to stern, seven in number. The once-tall masts had been cut to stumps and on the top decks wooden housing had been built fore and aft. Some of the housing was raised above the rest by thick wooden stilts, and from the forrard end, tin chimneys jutted out of the roofs of the stilt housing, each one belching clouds of dark smoke. Dangling from the stern of each hulk, a huge red or blue ensign flapped in the wind, as if giving the time to the festoons of drying clothing whipping backwards and forwards on lines slung across every available space. While, adding to the rhythm, the hulks themselves rose and fell, their water-logged timbers straining and complaining to the swell that constantly shifted them.
‘There you are, messieurs,’ the tiny midshipman smiled mockingly at the French prisoners. ‘There’s the Prothee, Crown, San Damaso, Vigilant, Guildford, San Antonio, and the Vengeance. You should feel at home on them, because every one of them once carried the colours of France and her friends, and there’s plenty more of such-like vessels in the harbour as well . . . It don’t pay to challenge the Royal Navy, do it?’
‘With all respect, mon petit enfant, the American frigates seem to make a profit from it,’ a grey-mustachioed Corsican naval lieutenant said aloud.
The child flushed and for a moment made no reply, then said triumphantly, ‘Perhaps, monsieur, your old Boney should have employed Americans to man his fleet. You might then have been able to put to sea.’
The rowing British sailors roared with laughter and the middle-aged Corsican acknowledged his verbal defeat with a rueful grin.
Henri gazed at the blue-uniformed boy who carried the dirk of his rank at his belt, and marvelled that from such children as this came the redoubtable British admirals and sea-captains who ruled the oceans of the world.
The boat changed course and headed towards the second hulk in the line. Around its sides just above the waterline ran a gallery with a guardrail and openwork flooring from which two gangways rose up to the top deck. At the head of each gangway Henri could see marine sentries, distinctive in their girdled, cockaded top hats. While on the gallery itself, more red-coated, white-breeched, cross-belted marines tramped round and round the hull with muskets at the shoulder.
‘Ahoy the Crown?’ the midshipman squeaked.
A scarlet-sashed sergeant of marines came to look over the fo’c’sle rail, then bellowed, ‘Prepare to receive prisoners aboard,’ and came clattering down the gangway to the gallery. He stood at rigid attention, a rattan cane held horizontally under his left arm, and brought his right hand to the brim of his hat in salute.
‘Only one body for here, Sergeant,’ the midshipman squeaked and ordered the rowers to ship oars. The blades flashed upwards and the longboat bumped gently against the gallery entry port. ‘Hey! You there, in the green rig.’ The child tried to frown ferociously. ‘Get inboard! And jump to it smartly, ye French lubber!’
With a nod of farewell to his fellow prisoners, Henri stepped on to the gallery and the longboat drew away. Immediately he was conscious of an almost overpowering stench. A compound of rotted wood, putrid offal, human rancidness and excreta. The burly marine sergeant grinned as he saw the young Frenchman’s nose wrinkle in disgust.
‘Not to worry, Frenchie,’ he said jovially. ‘You’ll get used to the stink . . . It’s a bit raunchy at first, ain’t it, but you’ll soon think it to be the smell o’ roses . . . Come on, follow me.’
He led the way up the gangway and Henri’s heart momentarily sank within him as the black-gaitered legs moved upwards on a level with his eyes.
On the poop deck a dozen marines with bayoneted muskets lounged about in various attitudes, trying to get what shelter they could from the cutting wind, while scattered about the top deck half a dozen barefoot, tarpaulin-jacketed sailors busied themselves at different tasks, with a rope-end-wielding boatswain’s mate stalking amongst them to make sure they didn’t shirk their work.
‘You’m in luck, Frenchie . . . Cap’n Redmond ain’t aboard at the moment,’ the sergeant grinned. ‘’E likes to greet all the new prisoners in person and to gi’ ’um half a score o’ strokes wi’ a cane to make ’um feel welcome . . . You’ll still ha’ to take a bath though, afore we gis you your slops and shows yer y’ new berth . . . that’s unless you got some rhino wi’ you. Iffen you ’as, and you’m inclined to part wi’ some on it, we might be able to forget the bath.’
Henri shook his head. ‘I’ve no money,’ he answered, and cast about in his mind for some means of hiding his few remaining coins from the greedy eyes of the guards.
The sergeant’s beefy face scowled and his jovial manner changed abruptly.
‘Get stripped off!’ he shouted, and swished the rattan cane through the air a bare inch from Henri’s head. ‘And look smart about it, ye damned swab! You, Wilkins! Get some slops for this Frog.’
‘Aye aye, Sarn’t!’ The marine jumped to his feet and ran to obey.
Henri let slip his warm cloak and while removing his uniform and underclothing managed to slip his money into his mouth unseen. He tucked it underneath his tongue with a facility born of long practice. Without clothing his smooth skin goose-fleshed and he began to shiver. The sergeant pointed to a huge wooden tub which was placed by the taffrail at the stern end of the poop.
‘Theer’s your bath,’ he barked. ‘Get in it and make sure you scrubs yourself proper, Froggy. We doon’t want any dirt or vermin brought on to our nice clean ship.’
The marines laughed at the N.C.O.’s joke, and watched with mocking, cruel anticipation as Henri went to the tub. It was almost full of a turgid mess of greenish-black scummed liquid that erupted constantly with tiny, foul-smelling gas bubbles.
‘Gerron wi’ it!’ The rattan cane swished and a thin streak of living fire burned across Henri’s shoulders. He took a deep breath and stepped into the icy-cold tub. The disturbance caused the gas to rise in a froth and he gagged uncontrollably.
‘Get your head under, Froggy!’ the sergeant bawled, and the cane swished once more. Henri’s fury at this treatment overcame all his apprehension. He stepped out of the tub and boldly faced the N.C.O.
‘I am an officer, not some criminal. If you continue to abuse me in this manner, I shall lay complaint before your superiors.’
The beefy face in front of him lit with glee. ‘Oh, will you now, Froggy? Well, if that’s the case, I’ll gi’ ye summat to complain about.’ He stepped forward and swung one meaty fist.
Henri was a practised exponent of ‘La Savate’ in which the French use the feet instead of fist. He easily ducked the ponderous blow and jumping high, lashed out with his feet. The side of his foot sank deeply into the sergeant’s plexus, doubling him over. In the next instant, the Frenchman slipped to the sergeant’s rear and, placing one foot on the tight-breeched rump, he pushed gently. The marine, already unbalanced, fell forwards and went head-first into the tub. His top hat floated, cockade upmost on the layer of scum and his black-gaitered legs somersaulted over and disappeared beneath the surface with the rest of his body.
The faces of the marine privates were momentarily blank with shock, then the quicker-witted men howled with laughter, and the others followed suit. Some rolling across the deck helpless with merriment, while others leant against the taffrails weeping tears of joy. The uproar brought other marines and sailors running, and as the sergeant surfaced, spluttering water from his mouth with his regimentals plastered with green scum, they too burst out with shouts of enjoyment.
The sergeant used both hands to rub the filthy mess from his eyes and blinked furiously, his face purple with temper.
Henri stood waiting, his arms held loosely in front of him and his body poised in perfect balance upon the balls of his feet.
‘I’ll take three to one on Johnny Crapaud!’ a sailor shouted, and was instantly bellowed down by the marines.
‘Goo to it, sarn’t!’
‘Gie it to the barstard, sarn’t!’
‘Ten to one on the bootneck!’
‘Show ’im how the old Jollies can fight, sarn’t!’
The burly N.C.O., streaming water on to the deck, tore at his cross-belts and stripped off his sodden scarlet waist sash and tunic. He lifted his shirt over his head and threw it aside.
‘Now then, Johnny Crapaud,’ he grunted. ‘I’se ’eard about you Frog bastards a boxin’ wi’ your feet. Let’s see ’ow you makes out agen English fists.’
A cry went up . . . ‘Form a ring. Form a ring!’ And sailors and marines jostled and pushed into a rough square. The sergeant moved forward, left arm held high and extended, the right tucked against the chest. His pasty body carried a roll of fat about the midriff, but his shoulders and arms were thick and heavy with muscle. He prodded out his left and as Henri started to duck under it, the sergeant swung grunting with his right. His fist caught the young Frenchman on the shoulder. Henri let his body ride with the blow, then, like an acrobat, he spun and fell forward on to his hands, jack-knifed his body and kicked back with both legs as a mule would. His heels thudded up and under the sergeant’s rib-cage and sent the man hurtling back into the packed bodies forming the ring. A dozen hands propelled the marine forward and Henri went to meet him, throwing his agile torso horizontal. Scissoring his legs to front and rear of the black gaiters, Henri twisted his body with them. His opponent went thudding head first and his face crunched against the oak planking. The Frenchman disentangled his legs and sprang upright. The sergeant pushed himself off the deck and struggled to his feet. He faced his elusive enemy once more, blood oozing from a cut on his forehead and dribbling from his broken mouth. He again blinked furiously to clear his sight, then lumbered towards Henri, his breath snorting from his flattened nose.