So Near So Far (15 page)

In Rehearsal
and meant to be speedily attempted
a
Farce
in one Act
called

Principal Buffo
MR BUONAPARTE
being his FIRST
(and most likely his last)
appearance on the stage

“There are a score of these handbills and a great many patriotic songs roared out every evening, some with words which no lady should hear. The officers' great rendezvous is the Hoop and Griffin Inn, near the landing place in Beach Street. Very senior officers stay at the Three Kings and there are numerous taverns for the seamen and soldiers. We have our Assembly
Rooms and even a small theatre in High Street. The troops are here in great strength, both regular and militia. The militiamen are all very warlike and few of them realise that the Navy is our true means of defence. The Admiral is sometimes quite vexed to hear how the soldiers talk, just as if their bayonets were all we had to depend upon. What a nice man your husband is, Mrs Delancey, and very much the gentleman if I may say so. That once went almost without saying in the Navy but there have been great changes in time of war. Some officers are a very good sort of people but not at their best in a drawing room. I should suppose that Captain Delancey has been much at Court and that you yourself have moved in the highest circles. Here in Deal we have to amuse ourselves as well as we can, our highest ambition being to have an occasional invitation to Walmer Castle. Mr Pitt is much in residence there, you know, and is very active with the Volunteers. It was his notion, I believe, to have the cavalry barracks built between here and Walmer.”

With creaking springs and behind a weary horse, the old carriage made its way up the hill. Passing it on the way down came a column of infantry, singing a version of the popular song “Britons strike home” followed a little afterwards by the tune of “Brighton Camp” or “The girl I left behind me.”

“Fine fellows, I'll allow,” said Mrs Knight, “but where would they be without the
Antelope
and the
Vengeance?”
Fiona had to agree that Britain's wooden walls were the country's only sure defence.

It was early evening when Mrs Knight showed Fiona to her room which was small but which offered a splendid view over the sea, a prospect which showed literally hundreds of ships at anchor, lit by the setting sun. The house was on the crest of
the hills which overlook Lower Deal and afforded a view over Sandwich Flats towards the North Foreland.

“It is difficult to realise,” said Mrs Knight, “that all these ships, both merchantmen and men-of-war, are in a sort of harbour. They are protected on the seaward side by the Goodwin Sands, some part of which are even above water at low tide, but which form a breakwater, whether visible or not. The main entrance at the Downs is from the north by Gull Stream opposite Ramsgate. The tradespeople of Lower Deal do a great business in supplying ships with provisions and will be much the poorer, I think, when the war ends. I do hope that you will be comfortable here.”

“I could ask nothing better, Mrs Knight, but could wish that the house would cease its motion as the waves pass under it!”

“I know that feeling so well! It will have ceased, I promise you, by morning.”

Delancey dined on board the flagship on the following day, his fellow guests being Captain Harding of the frigate
Lizard
(28), Captain Miller of the sloop
Plover,
and Captain Wallingford of the sloop
Cynthia.
For Delancey's benefit, the Admiral explained that active service for the year was not entirely finished.

“The French build many of their gunboats and similar craft at places like Dieppe, Calais, or Le Havre but it is their plan, it would seem, to collect them at Boulogne, perhaps because they are more easily protected there. When they attempt any such movement we try to intercept them. The French have lost several craft in this way, usually driven on shore and wrecked. It may serve to lower their morale or even convince them that the invasion of England is not really possible.”

“Do we know, Admiral,” asked Delancey, “what types of craft the French are building?”

”We have identified gunboats and gun-brigs, some of considerable size, able to embark a hundred soldiers, we are told, or fifty horses. There are smaller craft, each mounting a single gun and there are, finally, large flat-bottomed rowing boats. We assume that those last-mentioned craft will embark the bulk of their infantry. They can be built, of course, in the smaller ports or fishing villages. Nor need their construction take more than a week or two. There must be a thousand of them at Boulogne by now.”

“But we have captured none?”

“None so far.”

“A pity. What I mean, Admiral, is this. If and when the invasion is attempted, it would be useful to infiltrate one of our own craft, unrecognised, among theirs.”

“But is Boney really going to attempt this invasion?” asked Harding. “He must see by now that it is suicidal.”

“In the words of the ballad,” said Miller:

‘When and O when does this little Boney come?

Perhaps he'll come in August! Perhaps he'll stay at home.'

My guess is that he will cancel the invasion plan as something too hazardous to attempt. Yes, as something quite impossible.”

“Well, gentlemen,” replied Delancey. “I beg to differ from you. He will not think it impossible because he has already done it. He invaded Egypt with an army of thirty-six thousand men embarked in four hundred transports, and Nelson failed to intercept him—he could have ended the war had he been successful. There is a difference, I grant you, between thirty-six thousand men and, say, one hundred thirty thousand but pray consider the comparative distances involved. How far is
it from Toulon to Alexandria? Over fifteen hundred miles, I should guess. From Calais to Dover is about twenty and other crossings about thirty. When Bonaparte's admirals say ‘Impossible!' he can reply ‘Fiddlesticks! I did it over a much greater distance and avoided one of Britain's best admirals on the way!'”

“But consider the difficulty of embarking such a vast army!” said Harding.

“I know more about the difficulties than he does but he could easily shout me down in argument. I think he may make the attempt next summer and I hope, for my part, that he does. I should like to meet him in mid-Channel!”

“Amen to that!” said the Admiral. “Better that he should tangle with us than with the Sussex Militia. But where does your captured gunboat come into the plot?”

“To come near Boney himself without him seeing the danger.”

“It's a good idea, Delancey, I grant you that, and I'll give it some thought. But these craft of theirs are seldom beyond the cover of their own batteries. When would you make the attempt? Next year?”

“No, sir, in October; after they are snugged down for the winter.”

“I see what you mean. Yes, that would be the time. Put your proposals in writing and I'll study them.”

The conversation became more general and there were frequent references to dinners attended ashore. The troops were numerous, both regular and militia, the volunteers were all in arms and local patriotism found vent in numerous banquets at which loyal toasts were drunk and belligerent choruses were thundered. Delancey gained an impression that Knight's squadron was too often at anchor and his captains too often ashore
with their wives. He found next day that Fiona had come to the same conclusion.

“There is a regular society here of naval officers' wives, who play whist and drink tea together. They are nice people and Mrs Knight has been kindness itself. But it is not the sort of life I care to lead. I think I shall do better to make a home and garden for you at Anneville. I would rather do something useful, and while it is delightful to see you from time to time, I have a guilty feeling that I am distracting your attention from the war. If you will agree, dearest, I shall go back to Guernsey now.”

“After spending one more night with me aboard the
Vengeance.”

“That goes without saying! But I hope that you will see what I mean—that you will not think that I am deserting you?”

“I know exactly what you mean but could never have made the same proposal myself. You are perfectly right about the squadron. We spend our time between the North and South Foreland, with an occasional glance at Dieppe. But it is all wrong. We should be constantly at sea between Calais and Le Havre, we should know the French coast better than they do themselves. We should patrol up to the high tide mark. Should the French attempt an invasion next year we should be the men who know every inch of the battlefield. You are right, dearest. The moment has come to part.”

On board the frigate and sharing a double cot, Richard and Fiona were very close together.

“You are not the wild girl I married.”

“I know and I have been wondering why. I now have a part to play as a post-captain's wife, junior to Mrs Knight, senior to Mrs Wallingford. There is a naval society here into which I have to fit. But, apart from that, we are at war and I have been and
am still a part of it. I have heard gunfire in the distance, I have seen wounded men, and I have tried to say kind and useless words to women whose husbands have been buried at sea. I met Mrs Travers—but you met her too—it was only three weeks after her wedding, poor woman. Lives are being lost each month, each week. I have grown older since I came to Deal.”

“You look no older, my love.”

“I could wish that were true. I hate to leave you but I do no good here. Some day we shall be together with no frigate to come between us. Now there are too many nightmares.”

“Dream, love, of better times to come when the French have been beaten and Napoleon locked up in the Tower of London.”

“Sharing the lions' cage … I am glad to see that Teesdale looks after you. The new curtains do something for your day cabin, don't they?”

“Not as much as you do for my night cabin. No, they are stately and luxurious. I believe the Rear-Admiral is envious!”

“He does envy you, in fact, but for a different reason. You have seen more active service than he has. In everything but rank you are his superior and he knows it. All things considered, he has been nice to you—more so than some flag officers I could name—and Mrs Knight could not have been kinder to me.”

“I do better than that. I adore you.”

“Do you, love? Tell me about it!” He told her and resumed the tale at daybreak when it was almost time for her to go ashore.

As the gig disappeared shorewards Richard stared sadly after it wondering how he could combine such happiness and such grief. She was a grown woman now and with the airs, on occasion, of a great lady. But then he remembered her actual age.
If she was a child when he met her first—when little more than a child himself—she was no longer a girl when he saw her at Drury Lane. The fact was that she was playing a young girl's part and played it even when off the stage. She had been as full of vitality and fun as a kitten. Then they had become lovers and there was still so much of childhood about her—the teasing, the laughter, the mischief. Had he been wrong to bring her to Deal, to the fringes of war? No, she could not, in any event, have avoided the distant rumble of the cannon, nor the bloodstained bandages nor the widow's grief. She had to grow up but he could have wished, all the same, to see her innocent expression for a little longer. It is man's fate to destroy what he values most. He was glad, in a way, that she was not with child. Or was that a selfish thought? Would she not be happier if expecting her firstborn? Would he not himself risk his life more willingly in the belief that he had transmitted something of himself to the next generation? No, he wanted to keep her as she was, the girl who had scampered about the stage and laughed at him. In short, he wanted the impossible…. He gradually became aware that someone was trying to attract his attention and might indeed have been doing so for several minutes. It was Wetherall, with a touch of anxiety in his voice.

“Sir … Sir … A signal, sir, from the flagship!”

It was high time for him to turn to the matter in hand. Fiona had set off for London, Southampton, and Guernsey, and Richard, for his part, was still at war. More than that he was presently allowed to make a close inspection of the French coast, never turning seaward until he had drawn the fire of every battery. Where was the weakness? His interest finally centred upon Epineville and St Valery-en-Caux, neither a place of much importance but both with a few fishing boats to be
seen. He dared not linger over these places for fear of attracting attention but he noted that the reaction to his appearance was belated, the gunfire sporadic and inaccurate. Returning afterwards to the squadron's anchorage in the Downs, Delancey was cheered up by the appearance of Mather and his other followers who now joined him at last. He was thus able to say goodbye to Atkinson, who had done his best, and look forward to having a well-trained crew again. He noticed a change of atmosphere when Mather came aboard and he was almost as glad to welcome the young gentlemen, Northmore, Topley, and Stock; Luke Tanner, his coxswain and—not least—John Teesdale, his steward. He would make something of the
Vengeance
yet.

Delancey had decided by now that the capture of a French gunboat or landing craft would involve an indirect approach. He must capture a French fishing boat first and use that for his attempt on the gunboat, convincing the French at the same time that the fishing boat had been destroyed. His first move, with the Admiral's approval, was to acquire an old and worthless fishing craft which lay on the beach near Walmer. His carpenter undertook to make the vessel more or less seaworthy for a single short voyage. She was then equipped with an old mast and a lug sail. When
Vengeance
sailed for Epineville the old fishing vessel was taken in tow; an odd procedure but the rumour ashore was that she was to be used as target in a gunnery exercise. The approach to the French coast was in darkness and Delancey gave Northmore his orders after the frigate had sailed, all officers being present so that all would know the plan in detail.