The Blighted Cliffs

1

MOST
MEN WILL TELL YOU - IN LATER LIFE, AT LEAST; WITH infirmity upon them
- that what they truly regret is the drink. But looking back, what I
regret most about that night is not having drunk more. Of course I'd
had plenty: more than the ration, as they say, and enough to put me
to bed, but not enough to knock me out until dawn. Which is a pity,
because if I'd stayed in the tavern for a few more measures, I
probably wouldn't have woken in the early hours with an artillery
duel pounding in my head. And that would have saved me no end of
trouble.

The
first thing I noticed - after my head - was that I was not alone in
my cot: something was huddled under the covers with me. This did not
tally with any recollections I had of the night before, so I prodded
it experimentally. My method was sound: the shape stirred, and a
raven-haired girl appeared, the blanket held to her chest in curious
propriety. I was relieved to see that from the neck up, at least, my
judgment had not wholly deserted me.

'What
the devil are you doing here?' I asked, rubbing my head. It was a
largely rhetorical question - although I remembered nothing of her, I
could certainly guess her trade - but it can be awkward starting
these conversations.

'Don't
you remember?' she asked flatly. 'The Crown an' Anchor?'

'Of
course,' I replied, a white lie in the cause of gallantry. 'But did I
engage you to stay the night?'

Her
face hardened, and she stared with granite eyes. 'Nah,' she spat, 'I
stayed cos it was warm.'

'Pity,'
I said, although in truth I was in no state to discharge any
outstanding obligations. 'Well, you've done your job, my little
warming
pan.
Now you can go. Get your clothes on.'

She
made no movement, but inclined her eyes downwards. Her cheeks
darkened.

'Good
God, girl,' I laughed. 'Nothing I haven't seen before - I can
remember that much, certainly. You'll not get far in your profession
if you come over all nunnish in the morning.' Still she did not move.

'Very
well. I shall avert my sinful eyes. But don't go stealing anything,
or I'll see you punished.'

I
rolled over and burrowed my face in the pillow; it seemed to calm the
pain slightly. I half hoped I would fall asleep again, but neither my
head nor my churning stomach would allow that. I waited for what
seemed a decent interval, then looked up. The room
was
empty.

'Silly
whore,' I muttered, realizing I hadn't even taken her name.

Still,
I could presumably seek her at the tavern - the Crown and ...
something, she had said - if I needed her again. I anticipated a
long, freezing winter in that godforsaken corner of Kent, and would
need all the diversions I could find to survive it.

Left
to myself, though, I could reflect on my immediate situation. I was
in Dover, at the inn: I recognized the white-washed walls and the
steep ceiling above me. This was certainly where the porter had
brought me the previous evening. I was due to meet the
Orestes
,
and place myself under the command of Captain Crawley. I was to be on
my best behaviour, on this my uncle at the Admiralty had been very
clear. 'This is your last chance, Martin,' he had thundered. 'I have
little hope of your distinguishing yourself, but you will regret
bringing any further shame upon the family.' By family, of course, he
meant himself, although without relations in high places to embarrass
I'd have been on the boat to India long ago, so I could hardly take
exception. If I was not to lose the patronage of my uncle, I needed
to work hard; I needed to behave; I needed to stay out of trouble.
But what I needed most at that moment was a good, long piss.

I
swung out of bed, alert enough not to crack my head on the steep
roof, and fumbled around in search of a chamber pot. There did not
appear to be one; perhaps the girl had stolen it in spite, or more
likely it eluded my fuddled eyes in the dark. I looked to the window,
but it was too high to be of use, so I pulled on my shoes it seemed I
had never removed my shirt and breeches – and descended to the
privy in the stable yard. The morning air hit me as I opened the
front door, and I flinched, but after a few seconds I started to find
it agreeable. Whether it cleared my head or numbed it I could not
tell, but at any rate the pain lessened and my belly seemed less
mutinous. My slanting, stuffy garret lost its appeal, and having
relieved my need I resolved to take a turn about the town. Borrowing
a cloak from the hook in the stable, I let myself out by the gate.

I
had seen little of Dover when I arrived, and saw little now: there
would be at least another hour before sunrise, I guessed, and no
lights showed anywhere (to avoid giving our enemies in the Channel a
beacon, or a target, I later discovered). The streets were narrow and
the houses crooked, but other than shadows I could see nothing save
the line of the road, which I followed faithfully through the dark.
It brought me presently to the shore; stars appeared, and although
there was no moon I could see the shapes of masts and spars filling
the sky to my right. The docks, I thought, and immediately turned
left. I wanted to delay my reunion with the navy for as long as
possible, and did not relish the thought of encountering Captain
Crawley at this hour, dressed as I was and, I suspected, not wholly
sober.

A
beach ran along the sea-front, hugging the edge of the bay, and I let
myself down the embankment onto it. I've never felt much love for the
sea, my career notwithstanding, but it was good to get out of the
cramped town and feel some space around me before boarding the tiny
cutter that was to be my future. Besides, the air was sweeter here,
the wind stronger; I could feel it blowing the evil vapours out of me
as I tramped across the pebbles. I'm by no means a solitary man - I'd
far rather the saloon with company than prayers in the attic - but
there was something soothing in the silence, the emptiness of the
shore that night. So much did I know.

Before
I left, my uncle had commended me to introspection. 'Consider your
wretched life,' he had roared, 'and see how base, how abandoned you
are become.' Now his words returned to me, and I began to think on
them. He certainly had a point. Not many men survived Trafalgar with
no distinction whatsoever - it was one of those 'any man, be he ne'er
so vile' occasions - but somehow I managed it. It was the drink, of
course: while England was expecting every man to do his duty, I was
buried in the
Téméraire's
hold sleeping off a stinking hangover. How I got there, and why I
hadn't, as was my habit, collapsed into my bunk, where someone could
have roused me, I still don't know, but there I was. I didn't sleep
through the battle of course - that much drink would have seen me
dead without a shot being fired - but I knew nothing until I heard
the first broadside thundering through the hull. If I'd gone on deck
then, I might still have redeemed myself, for there was plenty of
honour about that day, but the bastard French had upended a cannon
onto the hatch above me, and there was no way of opening it. I spent
the entire battle locked in the dark stench, terrified that at any
moment a cannonball would come crashing through and finish it. Or
worse, take my legs off and condemn me to the life of a crippled
coward, beneath pity.

Obviously,
my drunken luck saw off the French, and when the crew finally prised
the gun off the hatch, I emerged as sound as my mother bore me. The
midshipman who'd taken my place, meanwhile, was dead - a heroic
death, apparently, sliced in half by French iron. He was given a
hammock with two cannonballs sewn into the feet, the irony lost on
the navy; I should have been court-martialled. But Trafalgar was a
national triumph, sanctified by the good Lord Nelson's death, and
trying officers for gross dereliction would have spoiled the mood.
Much easier to send me to fight smugglers, far away from anyone of
importance, and hope that a knife in the dark on a lonely beach would
see justice done.

It
was with this apposite thought that I noticed I had covered more
ground than expected: I had come around the headland, and into the
next bay. The stars were beginning to fade, and I thought I could see
the horizon lightening. I was also aware that the breeze, which had
done so much to restore me, now left me cold, even under the thick
riding cloak. I decided to turn back.

Suddenly,
a light flared at the head of the cliffs. A sentry, I thought, or
perhaps someone from the castle hurrying home after a tumble with the
farmer's daughter. But then a second light flashed, as if in answer,
only this one from the beach, a few dozen yards ahead of me.

I
froze. It could be soldiers, or fishermen, or any number of harmless
possibilities, but the Kentish coast after dark was not renowned for
its legitimate enterprise; that, after all, was what had brought me
there. But I was supposed to face danger with a well-armed crew, not
stumble upon it by accident. And I could hardly be more exposed,
standing in the middle of open ground waiting for the sun to come up.
I looked desperately for cover, but the beach was quite flat; only
the broken rocks and shadows at the base of the cliff seemed to hold
any safety. I glanced back in the direction of the light. It had gone
out, or been hidden; at any rate, I couldn't see it, nor whoever had
held it. But they must be there. I tiptoed to the cliff, holding my
cloak against my body to keep it from flapping, and crouched in the
dark.

And
just as well: a moment later I heard footsteps crunching along the
shingle. Not from where the lantern had been, though, but from Dover,
from the same direction I had come. Had I been followed? The rock
gouged into my back as I squeezed myself still tighter against it. I
was thankful for the dark cloak over my light clothes, though it
would be little enough protection if they had already seen me. But
what were they doing? I lifted my head an inch and risked a quick
look.

If
I aspired to become an authority on the habits of the English
smuggler - as, by my unclc's command, I suppose I did - then the
scene before me could have been the frontispiece of my primer. A wide
boat piled high with casks was drawn up on the beach, the tide
coursing about its hull. It was extraordinary: I would swear it had
not been there when I arrived a minute earlier, yet now there were a
dozen men in action about her. Two held the bow, another pair stood
on the bulwark rolling off great barrels, and the remainder
manhandled them onto a bizarre contraption I can only describe as a
long sled, for although harnessed to a pony, it sat on runners. A
tall man in a dark coat, his hat pulled low over his face, supervised
the action with what appeared to be a squat teapot, though from the
thin beam of light it cast I guessed it to be some form of lantern.
It was more reminiscent of a thriving dock than the actions of a gang
of desperadoes, though they worked with an industry our tars would
have struggled to match. Every so often I caught some impenetrable
word - 'geneva', 'tubman', 'nanky' - but otherwise they worked in
complete silence.