A Stormy Peace Page 17

  Both men were completely taken aback and Anson’s ‘Good grief!’ said it all.

  *

  Within the hour, with Parkin’s ready agreement, Anson summoned all to a conference in the drawing room, where Dodman served coffee.

  Parkin and his niece sat near the fireplace and Armstrong stood opposite them beside Elizabeth’s chair.

  Anson waited for silence and looked to their host. Nodding, Parkin told his butler: ‘Kindly make yourself scarce and ask Mister Bell and Emily to join us.’

  Not knowing what was afoot, Armstrong and the two ladies exchanged puzzled looks.

  Nat Bell and Emily entered, looking equally mystified, and Anson got straight to the point. ‘Mister Parkin and I have had a brief discussion regarding our expedition to Paris and with his permission I will update you all.’

  Parkin nodded. ‘Please go ahead.’

  ‘We were, of course, all going to Paris together, but Captain Armstrong has just received news that his father is, er, unwell.’

  Armstrong interjected: ‘Dying, I fear.’

  ‘So he must go home to Northumberland by the swiftest means.’

  ‘And I mean to go with him,’ Elizabeth added, insistently.

  Armstrong looked sheepish but happy and Cassandra gave Anson an amused glance.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m happy to face determined Frenchman on the high seas any day of the week, but we mere sailors are quite lost when ashore and positively crumble before a determined lady — and my sister is a very determined lady.’

  This produced an amused titter and lightened the mood.

  Anson waited for a moment before continuing: ‘In the absence of our father I consider myself to be acting in his stead and have given Elizabeth my blessing. I find that, like me, Armstrong here is putty in her hands and is only too keen for her to accompany him.’

  Cassandra clapped her hands. ‘How romantic!’

  Armstrong warned: ‘I fear Elizabeth won’t find Northumberland quite as romantic as Paris.’

  But Cassandra countered: ‘Romance, I believe, sir, is far more to do with who you are with, rather than where you are!’

  Anson smiled in agreement and paused before continuing: ‘But all this does leave us in some disarray vis-a-vis Paris. And of course Elizabeth will require a chaperone. So, having discussed this with Mister Parkin, our solution is this: we would like Emily, here, to accompany Captain Armstrong and Elizabeth to Northumberland both as maid and guardian angel.’

  He turned to Emily. ‘I fear you will miss out on the fleshpots of Paris.’

  Emily snorted: ‘Shan’t miss them, whatever they are, and at least I’ll be fed proper, won’t I, Cap’n Armstrong?’

  ‘Certainly! They eat good beef and fresh fish — and the odd haggis, of course, when one escapes across the Scottish border.’

  Not being entirely sure what a haggis was, but guessing it must be some kind of sheep, Emily nodded contentedly.

  Anson summed up. ‘Good, then that’s settled. Now the rest of us, Cassandra, Mister Parkin, Hurel — my apologies, Mister Tunbridge — Nat Bell and myself will still go to Paris. It will mean persuading one of the Ludden Hall maids, Annie or Bessie, to accompany Cassandra, but that shouldn’t be too difficult if we offer her double wages and assure her that she won’t be force-fed snails or guillotined the moment she steps ashore!’

  *

  Amid last-minute preparations, hugs and handshakes, the luggage and a hamper of provisions provided at Parkin’s insistence by the cook was loaded on board his coach and Armstrong and a tearful but excited Elizabeth, fussed over by the bossy Emily, departed for London.

  Armstrong had confided that his intention was to stay in the capital overnight and seek passage north the following day, quipping: ‘At the very least there’ll be colliers returning to Newcastle!’

  As soon as the coach turned out of the gates heading for the London road, Anson retreated to his room to compose the letter he knew he must write.

  Dear Father

  I write to inform you that Elizabeth is well, is much enjoying her stay here at Ludden Hall, and has become firm friends with Mister Josiah Parkin’s niece, Cassandra.

  It was intended that we would all take advantage of this temporary peace to visit Paris along with my friend Amos Armstrong, who you will remember meeting when he stayed at the rectory at the time of the Brax Hall ball. I am happy to say that since then he has been promoted to captain, although the coming of peace means that we are both currently — in sea officers’ parlance — ‘on the beach’.

  However, our Paris plans were thrown awry when Captain Armstrong received news that his father is gravely ill, requiring him to return to the family estate in Northumberland with the utmost despatch.

  I must tell you that, although they have known one another for a relatively short time, an understanding has developed between Armstrong and my sister, and that with my approval, acting as it were ‘in loco parentis’, she has insisted on accompanying him, chaperoned by an extremely fierce maid from Ludden, a formidable woman of middle years. Normally you would have of course been consulted, but there was no time.

  Please accept my assurance that Armstrong is an honourable man and, should the relationship develop, there is no-one I would choose above him as a brother-in-law. I hope therefore that you will feel able to write to Elizabeth care of the Armstrong estate address, below, giving your blessing to what has occurred and your consent to her marriage to Captain Armstrong, should that happy circumstance arise while they are in Northumberland. Such a letter from you would delight them both, and me.

  I am leaving shortly for Paris with Mister Parkin and his niece, but before we go, I also wanted to assure you that the rift which has occurred in our family was not of my choosing and that I have no quarrel with you in particular. Although I cannot envisage ever being able to forget the position taken by my mother and brother over the Brax affair, it is my dearest wish to be reconciled with you personally. Perhaps the two of us could meet on ‘neutral ground’ at Ludden Hall following my return from France.

  Meanwhile I trust you have received the allowance money I have returned and very much hope that you will use at least some of it for the good of the poor of your parish.

  Yours most sincerely

  Oliver

  30

  The Deserted Village

  With Tom Hoover riding Anson’s horse Ebony and Sam Fagg lording it in Tom Marsh’s pony and trap, they made their way into the Wealden village of Woodhurst.

  They passed what they correctly assumed was the Baptist chapel that the smugglers had threatened to burn down, and halted in front of an inn with a creaking sign announcing it as the Rose and Crown. A young potboy emerged from the pub and asked: ‘What can I do for you, gents?’

  Hoover dismounted, massaged his backside and asked the boy: ‘D’you know Mister Finch, son?’

  ‘Depends who wants him. Are you blokes smugglers?’

  ‘No, tell him two friends of Phineas Shrubb are here and would like a word.’

  The boy touched his forehead and disappeared down a nearby alley.

  Sam Fagg got down awkwardly from the cart. His ankle, broken during the Normandy raid, was still troubling him. He observed: ‘Ain’t much of a welcome, is it? Place is deserted, like what you might call a ghost village. No-one abaht.’

  Hoover shrugged. ‘I guess after what’s happened here, they must be pretty wary of strangers.’

  After a while the potboy returned with a perspiring soberly-dressed man who introduced himself as John Finch. ‘And you must be Lieutenant Anson’s men?’

  ‘That’s right, Tom Hoover and Sam Fagg at your service. Now, we’ll need somewhere to stay. The pub here will do — and we’ll need to talk to the rest of your men.’

  ‘The elders?’

  ‘That’s right, and as soon as you like.’

  Finch pondered. ‘Normally we’d meet in the chapel, but we’d best not attract too much attention. So it’ll have to be my ba
rn. Young Ned here will fetch you once you’ve settled in. Shall we say in about an hour? And, by the way, the landlord’s expecting you and your rooms and everything else will be paid for by our congregation.’

  Hoover shook his head. ‘Kind of you, but no, we’ll pay our own way, won’t we Sam? And, by the by, tell the men to bring any firearms and other weapons they have.’

  Finch gave them what Fagg called a sideways look, but nodded at the inevitability of it, warning: ‘I will, but if I were you I wouldn’t expect too much.’

  *

  Sam Fagg glanced uneasily at Hoover, and although the American clearly shared his misgivings, he remained deadpan. They were sitting on boxes and other makeshift seats in a circle of soberly-dressed men in Finch’s barn. True, the Woodhurst men did not look remotely soldierly. But then the Seagate Sea Fencibles had not impressed on first meeting yet had gone on to take the Normandy privateer and showed great courage during Nelson’s attack on Boulogne.

  ‘I’m Sergeant Hoover of the Marines, and this here’s Bosun Sam Fagg. Perhaps you’d introduce yourselves?’

  Finch answered for them. ‘This is Brother Stephen Clark. He’s the village grocer. Brother John Cooper here is the apothecary. It’s through him, and the Baptist connection of course, that we know Phineas Shrubb.’

  ‘A good man, Phin, and a right ’andsome daughter, too,’ Fagg interjected, only to provoke a disapproving look from Hoover.

  ‘Brother James Morris, here, is the baker.’

  Fagg could not help himself muttering: ‘We’ll not be short o’ vittles, then.’

  But again Hoover browbeat him to silence and the last two men were introduced as Brothers Moses Lade, the village blacksmith, and George Attwood, a farmer.

  Finch explained: ‘We’re all members of the Baptist congregation. There may be a couple of others who’re willing to join us but they couldn’t make it tonight.’

  ‘Prayin’, I ’spect,’ Fagg offered, but yet again Hoover spoke over him.

  ‘Any of you got any military experience?’

  There was a general shaking of heads.

  ‘Weapons? You were asked to bring weapons.’

  The farmer produced a flintlock shotgun and handed it to Hoover.

  The marine checked it over. ‘Hmm, not bad. William Parker of Rochester’s a good maker. It’ll do fine. What else?’

  The farmer pointed to a pitchfork leaning against an upright. ‘I can bring several more.’

  Fagg snorted dismissively, but Hoover stayed him. ‘These’ll be fine, too. I’m a military man but I’ll tell you, I wouldn’t want to rush a bunch of determined men armed with pitchforks.’

  But, he wondered, did these men have the guts to stand against a ruthless gang of smugglers led by a maniac like Black Mac?

  Almost shyly, as if expecting to be ridiculed, the baker handed over a rusty sword that looked to be of English Civil War vintage. Hoover ran his thumb along the blade and pronounced it serviceable but blunt.

  ‘I can sort that easily,’ the blacksmith offered. ‘And I’ll put an edge on anything else as needs it.’

  ‘Good. So let our friend Moses here have any axes, slashers and billhooks you have so that he can sharpen them up. Anything like that’s a formidable weapon in the right hands and even if you don’t get to use them at least they’ll make you look the part. Sam and I will do our best to train you, but there ain’t much time and it’s vital that you look as if you mean business.’

  The only other firearm produced was an old flintlock pistol missing its trigger. Hoover handed it to the blacksmith. ‘Can you fix that, too?’

  Lade shook his head, but, eager to please, offered to take it to a Maidstone gunsmith to be repaired.

  ‘Do that, and as soon as possible. So, we’ve got a couple of firearms, a sword and a bunch of tools that can serve as weapons.’

  ‘Ploughshares into swords,’ Cooper pronounced. ‘Isaiah chapter two, verse four: “They shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks.” But, sadly, we’ll be doing it the other way around.’

  Hoover searched his memory and his Baptist upbringing gave him the answer. ‘That’s right, but doesn’t it say in the psalms: “Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, my fingers to fight”?’

  Finch nodded approvingly. ‘Well said, Brother Hoover. We don’t want to fight, but we must defend our church and our flock against evil. So let’s not shilly-shally. If we do, evil will triumph.’

  ‘Right men, let’s get to it. I’d prefer to be called Sergeant Hoover, by the by. From this moment on this here’s the Woodhurst Militia and I’ll expect you all to act in a soldierly fashion. So are you all with us?’

  The elders looked from one to another and answered with conviction: ‘We are!’

  *

  Over the following days Hoover did a careful reconnaissance of the village noting all approaches and possible strong points, such as they were.

  The chapel was constructed mainly of wood and would be useless for defensive purposes. Use of any of the more substantial village houses would similarly be a bad idea. It was important to keep even those against standing up to the smugglers on side and any private dwelling they selected would surely become a magnet for the enemy.

  It quickly became clear to the American that, as Lieutenant Anson had suggested, the church, with its stone-built tower within the walled graveyard was the obvious place to use as a stronghold when attack threatened. It offered an all-round view and was crenelated like a castle keep — ideal for marksmen to use for protection while reloading. But he wondered how good or otherwise the Baptists’ relationship was with the established church hereabouts. It would not do to risk sparking a religious hoo-ha by using the churchyard or the building itself without full cooperation from the local vicar.

  Over at the blacksmith’s forge, Fagg spent time with Moses Lade examining the weapons that had been handed in. They were laid out on a workbench, the axes, handbills, bill hooks and the ancient sword now with razor sharp edges. Even the pitchforks had freshly-sharpened prongs.

  The bosun picked one up and tested its points, announcing: ‘Good job, blacksmith. I wouldn’t want one o’ them stuck up me...’ He stopped himself saying ‘arse’ just in time, telling himself that these here devil-dodging country bumpkins wouldn’t appreciate sailor-like forthrightness.

  Tom Hoover hove to, and together they walked back to the pub. Over a mug of ale he filled Fagg in on his thoughts about defending the village. ‘We need to get the nod to be able to use the church tower, even if it’s only for stationing a look-out there.’

  ‘They couldn’t say no t’that, could they?’

  ‘It’s a bit tricky. The people who’ve asked for our help are Baptists — non-conformists — and the church is Anglican.’

  ‘Strewth, there’s only one Gawd, ain’t there?’

  Not wishing to get into a lower deck philosophical discussion, Hoover ignored him. ‘Anyways, that’ll need sorting out. I’d dearly love to use the tower for placing marksmen, too. If we can get permission for that we’ll be fine and dandy.’

  ‘Marksmen? You got to be joking. I don’t fink these blokes’ll be able to ’it a bleedin’ barn door right in front of ’em, let alone a bunch of cutthroats what’s runnin’ abaht firin’ back at ’em!’

  ‘They’ll learn and meanwhile I’ll train the youngest and fittest men as a kind of mobile force to attack the smugglers whichever way they approach.’

  ‘So, like Mister Anson said, nuffink could possibly go wrong?’

  Hoover grinned. ‘That’s right!’

  31

  Dover

  On arrival in Dover, Parkin’s party checked into the Ship Inn and before dinner he, Hurel, Cassandra and Anson took a stroll along the front and on one of the piers from which they had an excellent view of the castle — and out to sea.

  Cassandra had taken Parkin’s arm and before Anson could make a move, the Frenchman had latched on to her l
eft. Miffed, he fell in with Nat Bell who was sheep-dogging behind, his eyes ever alert for signs of ne’er-do-wells. Bessie, the maid who had been persuaded to join the party, had chosen to remain at the inn.

  Halfway along the pier Parkin, that mine of miscellaneous information, broke ranks to sit on a bollard and take a breather, remarking: ‘This pier reminds me of a sad tale, you know.’

  ‘Of a lover’s farewell, uncle?’

  ‘No, well, not exactly. Many years ago the harbour commissioners were quite taken aback when a fellow called Henry Matson died, leaving all his estates to Dover Harbour.’

  ‘What’s sad about that?’ Anson asked.

  ‘There was a condition, you see, that once a year the wooden decking was to be inspected for holes which were to be plugged immediately to prevent gentlemen’s walking sticks falling through—’

  ‘An odd bequest,’ Cassandra observed. ‘What was behind it?’

  ‘Ah, well, he was a substantial local landowner and wanted to marry a young lady called Elizabeth Stokes. She was the daughter of a master mariner who was six times mayor of Dover—’

  ‘But do we take it that Henry and Elizabeth didn’t marry?’

  ‘You’re there before me! William was taking his customary walk on the pier one day when his gold-topped cane slipped through a hole in the decking and vanished into the sea. And although he was a churchwarden, he was so cross he swore loudly and was overheard by Elizabeth and her mother—’

  ‘Oh dear, so that put her off him?’

  ‘Apparently. At any rate she married someone else and poor Henry remained a bachelor. After he died and left his estate to the commissioners, they carried out the inspections he had stipulated for a good few years and the annual feast held afterwards went on even longer.’

  Cassandra pouted. ‘What a sad tale, but I have to say that if the minx was put off by a few swearwords she didn’t deserve him, poor man. Fancy condemning a man to a lifetime of unrequited love over such a trivial thing!’