by Chris Durbin
They were travelling light. There was no need for packs, but they each carried a sword or cutlass and a single pistol. Serviteur, ever mindful of other people’s comfort, took some bread and beef in his pocket, wrapped in a napkin. Holbrooke carried a small telescope on a sling over his shoulder. It wasn’t as good as his new glass, but his four feet long Dolland would have been a ridiculous impediment when scrambling among dunes.
They kept low as they hurried up the few hundred yards of the beach. They could see the small squat church tower of La Houle over to the right, and the vague shapes of the fishing boats below the houses. The sand became softer as they moved upwards, and they were soon pushing their way up low dunes with coarse grasses growing in tussocks. Their feet slipped as the sand gave way beneath them and ran in rivulets down the sides of the dunes. This was what they had come to see, the land beyond the high-tide mark.
Holbrooke held up his hand for a pause. They crouched down between two tall tussocks. There was no need to talk, nothing had yet changed to require an alteration to the plan. After two minutes to catch their breath, Holbrooke motioned off the right and led the way along the line of dunes, keeping just below the crests. Still there were no lights, and soon the church tower rose in the dark sky in front of them. They angled slightly inland, aiming to determine how far back from the sea the houses spread. Holbrooke counted his paces. After fifty he signalled for another turn to the right, to probe the limits of the village. Still, not a light showed, the world was in darkness.
Holbrooke heard Jackson hiss. A warning. The bosun pointed ahead of them, and there was the shape of a building.
‘A barn, sir,’ he whispered, and Serviteur nodded his agreement.
That was as far as Holbrooke wanted to go. He knew that the village buildings on this southern side extended about fifty yards past the church and perhaps eighty yards behind. At a quick calculation that would make maybe twenty houses if they each had land for chickens and net drying. Come to think of it, he could smell the sharp odour of drying fish; perhaps each family preserved a portion of its catch for the winter when the weather would make fishing difficult.
The wind was from the nor’west now, so their own smell was unlikely to carry to the dogs of the village. However, the veering wind would bring clear weather. God send cloud for another four hours, Holbrooke prayed in silence.
With a motion of his hand the little band turned their backs on the village and started to move south, following the line of the beach but now on the inland side of the dunes. After a hundred yards, when they reached one of the narrow cuts in the range of dunes, Holbrooke called a halt and again they took advantage of the tussock grass.
‘We can speak now, so long as we keep our voices low,’ he said.
‘The sky’s clearing,’ said Jackson. ‘I saw a few stars a moment ago.’
It was true, there was a definite lightening of the sky, and now that he thought about it, Holbrooke could see the outline of the dunes.
‘Jump up to the crest and let me know what you can see of the bay.’
Jackson only had to crawl about twenty yards, and he was lost in the darkness before he’d reached the top of the dunes. He was only gone a minute, but it was still a surprise when he came sliding back down into their refuge between the tussocks.
‘It’s still black over the bay, sir. No chance of seeing the sloop, let alone the longboat. Not unless this cloud completely disappears,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Good, then let’s press on, but keep below the summit, just in case.’
They scrambled down into the cut between the dunes and then up the other side. It was more difficult than Holbrooke had imagined, with the sand giving way beneath their feet, the tough grasses obstructing them and the need to bend almost double to keep low.
They crept another hundred yards, down another cut and then up the other side.
Serviteur was the first to the top; he seemed to have inexhaustible stamina that made nothing of the difficult conditions. Holbrooke was behind him when suddenly he felt a strong arm pushing against his shoulder.
‘Ssss,’ hissed Serviteur. Nothing could be seen of his features, but the soft sibilant carried a clear warning. All three slid quietly back down the dune and crouched in a small dell, sheltered by the grasses and a single, bent tree. There was enough breeze to allow for speech without the fear of being heard.
‘What did you see?’ asked Holbrooke.
‘A soldier,’ he replied.
Holbrooke nodded, trying to look as though this happened to him every day. He hadn’t expected to see French soldiers in this out-of-the-way place, and certainly not French soldiers roaming around at night. Militia, almost certainly. The French army would hardly deploy its regular battalions to such an obscure, unimportant place, unless they’d had warning…
‘What else?’
‘He’s carrying a rifle slung over his shoulder,’ Serviteur replied, ‘and he was just standing there. I couldn’t see anything else, no camp, nothing.’
‘Was he looking out to sea?’
‘No, sir, he was below the crest of the dune.’
‘Then we must know more. Jackson, climb back up there and see what he’s up to. No soldier would be out on the dunes at night without some purpose. Take your time but stay this side of him. I don’t want us to be split up.’
‘Aye-aye sir,’ Jackson whispered.
Holbrooke and Serviteur saw his figure slip out of the dell and then he was gone.
The seconds passed like hours, but Jackson had probably been gone no more than five minutes. Serviteur saw him first, sliding back down the side of the dune; the sky had cleared that much.
‘There are four or five of them, sir. They’ve pitched two tents about thirty yards back from the top of the dune and there’s some sort of wooden ramp that they must have been working on in the day. I can see the glow of a fire from behind the tents. It looks like they’re building artillery emplacements, but I can’t see any sign of their guns.’
Holbrooke thought for a moment. It was hard to keep his mind on the subject when both of other men were waiting expectantly for him to declare a plan. There was nothing to be gained from loitering here now. It was too risky to skirt around the embryonic battery and in any case the next tiny village, even smaller than La Houle, was only half a mile further south. The French must have decided to place a small battery here between the two villages, to cover a gap in the defences. He wished he could see his watch, but it was still too dark. He’d expected to be able to judge the passing of time without the help of his timepiece, but he was starting to understand that his perception of the hours was contextual, and this unfamiliar situation – creeping around on a hostile shore – was giving him few clues. Nevertheless, they must have been ashore for an hour and a half at least, and it would do no harm to wait in shelter at the place where he expected his boat, rather than blunder around and risk detection. And yet…
‘I want another look at this camp,’ he declared in a whisper. He looked up at the sky. It was becoming perceptibly lighter, but still dark enough for three stealthy men to remain undiscovered.
‘Jackson on my left, Serviteur on my right,’ he whispered. ‘No more than a head above the crest, keep close to a clump of grass and when I move back you follow me. Understood?’
Jackson and Serviteur nodded but kept silent.
Holbrooke crawled up the side of the dune. It was like his childhood games, but now it was deadly serious. He’d brought his commission, but he wasn’t sure that it would do any good if they were caught. There was a fine line between legitimate scouting and the deadly sin of spying, and a French military court may draw the line in a different place, to his disadvantage.
Slowly now, moving stealthily as they came near to the top. He selected a clump of grass for cover and brought his head carefully over the rim to look down on the scene. He could see Jackson and Serviteur being equally cautious a few yards either side of him.
As Jackson had said,
there were two conical tents thirty yards to the right. They could only be seen because they were silhouetted by a fire behind them, or rather the remains of a fire that was being allowed to burn itself out. But there was something else, perhaps the light had grown better since Jackson looked. Three platforms were being built and they were in an advanced state of completion. Already there were gabions in place to protect the guns, for this was undoubtedly an artillery emplacement. The man that Serviteur had seen – how close they were to stumbling upon him in the dark! – was evidently a sentry. He looked alert enough, but he didn’t expect any intruders; the way his musket was slung over his shoulder proved that. He could hear voices now and saw a bulky shape detach itself from the nearer tent. It moved towards the sentry and stopped. Perhaps this was a sergeant or an officer checking on security before turning in. The language was French, and the new arrival spoke loudly, the common questions of a superior to a man in a lonely post, just waiting for the hour of his relief.
But there was something about the voice of that man. French wasn’t his native tongue and he spoke it with a thick, guttural accent. The starlight was strong enough now for Holbrooke to see some more details. He wasn’t wearing the Bourbon white, but then the French artillery and the militia wore dark blue, mostly. Nevertheless, this uniform looked even darker than that. Then the man gave a loud laugh at something the sentry had said. All three watchers glanced at each other to confirm their own suspicions. They knew that laugh, they knew that dark uniform and that guttural accent. Unless Major Albach, of the Austrian Imperial Artillery had a twin brother, he was standing before them now!
Holbrooke signalled back over his shoulder and all three men slid carefully down the dune and back to the relative safety of their dell
‘We’ve seen all we need to see, and some things we didn’t expect to see,’ he whispered. This was no time to discuss the sighting of their old friend Albach.
‘Serviteur, you lead the way. Jackson, bring up the rear and we’ll go back to where we came ashore.’
They followed the line of the cut; confident that they couldn’t be seen in the deep gloom between the dunes and paused before coming out onto the seaward side. Serviteur touched Holbrooke’s arm and pointed back at the place where they had spied upon the camp. Major Albach’s profile was distinctive in the growing light. He was standing on the crest precisely at the spot where Holbrooke had lain. He appeared to be looking out to the north, but his posture was again unmistakable. He was relieving himself before bed, and had they not retreated, he would have been doing so over the hidden form of Commander George Holbrooke!
◆◆◆
They made slow progress, scrambling back along the base of the dunes, trying to keep close to the tussocks that so effectively broke up their outlines. When they reached the point – as far as Holbrooke could judge – where they had first entered the dunes, he again looked to seaward, but there was no sign of the longboat. It was just past high water and if the boat had been there, they would have seen it only tens of yards from their position. Holbrooke had to accept that he’d badly misjudged the time and they were far too early at the rendezvous.
The three men huddled deep under a tussock and prepared to wait. There was no doubt now that the sky was lightening as the clouds swept away westward.
The minutes passed.
Holbrooke felt his arm clutched by Jackson.
‘Someone is moving out there,’ he whispered.
Holbrooke could hear nothing. Then as he filtered out the sounds of the sea, he heard it. Someone out there was trudging through the dry powdery sand, but he was making heavy work of it. It sounded as though he was dragging something substantial. Now they could hear him cursing as he slipped and pulled himself back on his feet. There was no doubt, this unknown person was dragging a hefty weight along the base of the dunes. He would certainly stumble across the trio, and there was no escape. They’d be discovered as soon as they moved, and they’d be trodden upon if they didn’t.
Holbrooke tapped Serviteur on the shoulder and pointed towards the sounds.
Serviteur slid quietly away and disappeared into the gloom. Holbrooke and Jackson waited in apprehension.
In no time, they heard voices. Serviteur was talking to someone, who was replying. The voices started quietly, then Serviteur’s voice rose. He was berating the unknown man, not quite shouting but certainly making his point. They heard the man retreating towards La Houle, no longer dragging whatever his load had been.
After a minute, Serviteur slid back into their space below the tussock.
‘It was a thief, sir. Stealing an anchor from a fishing boat. He came from the village over there,’ he pointed south. ‘I sent him on his way, telling him that the Seigneur of Cancale was engaged in private activity in the dunes, and he’d be best to make himself scarce.’
‘Do you believe he’s convinced?’
‘Oh yes, sir. He’s terrified. There’s a rough sort of justice in these parts and his life’s forfeit if he’s found stealing. He’s convinced that he’s had a lucky escape. He’ll say nothing to anyone, I’m sure of that.’
◆◆◆
They ate the bread and meat that Serviteur had brought. Holbrooke guessed that another fifteen minutes had passed when they saw a dark shape moving stealthily across the silvery-black sea. It nudged up onto the beach just over to their left. It was only minutes past high water, and they had no more than fifty yards to cover. They did that at a jog, glad to be leaving the place. Edney met them with a smile and pointed to the sky. The cloud was rolling away to the east, exposing the stars and they could see the faintest hint of a glow in the east where the moon would soon be rising.
In ten minutes, they were back aboard Kestrel and before the moon had shown its face above the horizon, they were far to the north of Cancale Point and heading for the rendezvous off Alderney.
◆◆◆
9: The Duke
Saturday, Third of June 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. Off Alderney.
Serviteur had resisted all attempts by the gunroom steward to serve breakfast to the captain and his guests. The cabin was his domain and besides, he had no faith in the abilities of the old, worn-out seaman who looked after the officers.
‘Coffee, sir?’ he asked, just as though he hadn’t shared the dangers of a night on enemy territory with this same captain and with this same bosun.
‘Thank you, Serviteur,’ Holbrooke replied. He was feeling refreshed after three hours of sleep but had not yet managed to put the events of the night into a proper order, nor to draw conclusions from them. His clerk, Pritchard, was poised, quill in hand and inkhorn wedged between a salt-pot and the table’s fiddle, ready to record the key points.
‘Let’s get down what we do know, Mister Jackson. First, La Houle appears to have no garrison at all, otherwise we’d have seen some sign of it, some lights or a sentry.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ replied Jackson, eating a piece of toast from the last of the fresh loaves out of the Portsmouth bakeries. ‘A tiny place,’ he added, ‘just a little fishing village with enough people to work those half-dozen boats we saw.’
‘And then the empty beach stretching to the south for a quarter mile or more.’
‘There was a good old rise-and-fall there,’ said Jackson. ‘Maybe three-quarters of a mile of sand at low water.’
Holbrooke nodded.
‘What did you make of that camp, Jackson?’
‘A small battery, sir, for certain. At the second look I saw three platforms started but there may be more. There’s a deal of work to be done before they mount any guns, and then there are the guns themselves. They’ll have to build a road for them, there’ll be no dragging them over that soft sand, not even with campaign carriages.’
Lynton was looking over the chart, stepping off distances with his fingers.
‘It’s a good spot for a small battery. We know there are already a few guns in Cancale, and there’s maybe a mile-and-a-half between them.
That’s about right for twenty-four pounders.’
‘Then there’s the strange encounter,’ said Holbrooke. ‘It was Major Albach, wasn’t it?’
‘As sure as anything, sir,’ replied Jackson. ‘I shared a mess with him for long enough, I wouldn’t mistake that laugh anywhere, and the accent. He could never remember that we didn’t speak French in the mess and was always starting a conversation in that back-of-the-throat way of speaking, then he’d stop when he remembered that nobody understood him and bark out that laugh. It was him alright.’
‘Serviteur,’ Holbrooke called into the pantry, ‘what do you think? Was that the major?’
‘It was sir. He spoke to me many times, as we shared a language, and Mister Jackson’s right, I couldn’t mistake that accent.’
‘His build was right, even his way of walking,’ said Jackson.
‘But what’s he doing here?’ asked Lynton, frustrated at being absent from the expedition. The tale was so fantastic that he was hardly able to believe the eye-witness accounts.
‘He’s an artillery officer, so that part of it makes sense, and Austria is allied to the French, even if they’re officially at peace with us.’
Chalmers had remained silent so far. He had nothing to say about the ranges of guns or the height of tides, but he understood people better than most, and he’d made the naval and military mind his particular study.
‘I’m merely hypothesising now, but our friend Hans was concerned about how he would be welcomed back to the Austrian Army. He’d been away long time on a politically controversial posting. I assume he made it back to the Austrian Netherlands; if so, there’s been plenty of time for him to feel the chill wind of official antipathy.’ He tapped gently on the table, marshalling his thoughts.