The Blighted Cliffs (31 page)

I
pushed my way to the upper edge of the beach, where the slope of the
pebbles kept those in front of me from blocking my view. It was a
precarious position, for the crowd behind me jostled for a similar
advantage, but I managed, through unscrupulous use of my elbows, to
maintain my place.

'Careful,'
said a voice beside me.

I
tried to ignore it, lest an exchange with the man turn violent, but
as a hand grabbed my arm I instinctively turned to see who had
reproached me. To my great surprise, it was the postman from the
French frigate, Nevell.

'Carrying
a letter for me, are you?' I asked, unsure where I stood with him.

He
grinned. 'No letters, I'm afraid. Actually, I'm due to return to
London this afternoon on the mail coach. But I heard that the
invasion was happening, and thought it would be a shame to miss it.'

I
wondered if I'd heard him right, but following his arm, and the gaze
of the assembled throng, I saw his meaning. Half a league or so out
to sea, her sails taut in the snapping breeze, a small coastal lugger
was tacking her way towards us. Doubtless a dozen such vessels beat
the same path every day, but few of them, I'd have wagered, would
have had a French tricouleur jacked to their mastheads. No wonder the
crowds were out in force.

'If
it's an invasion, he's hidden the rest of his fleet well,' Nevell
observed.

'She'll
be under our guns soon enough, too.'

In
fact, she was probably in range already, for the Dover shoreline had
batteries every few hundred yards between the bluffs, as well as the
guns in the castle and on the heights to the west.

But
that was merely the introduction to the spectacle, for now, from
behind the headland, there slowly emerged the bow of a man of-war,
her sails set to the royals and all her guns run out. Water foamed
against her prow; above it the gilded sword and shield of her
figurehead shone even at this distance.
Lancelot
.

A
cheer went up from the crowd as they recognized their champion, the
hero of a hundred battles and the scourge of the French.

'Is
this genuine?' I asked Nevell, more confused than ever. 'Or does
Davenant intend to re-enact his triumph over the perfidious French
for the entertainment of he people of Dover?'

'I've
a notion he's not come to fight this time,' replied Nevell.

As
if in confirmation, the next act of the drama now presented itself:
the lugger's tricouleur fell to the deck, and a plain white pennant
was run up in its place.

'A
surrender?' I asked, mesmerized by the scene.

'A
parley, I think.'

Whichever
it was, Davenant responded almost immediately – so immediately,
in fact, that it seemed he must have anticipated it. Tiny figures
could be seen racing along
Lancelot's
yards; with admirable precision her sails were hauled in and furled
until her sticks were bare and her headway ceased. There was a plume
of spray by the cathcad as her anchor plunged into the waves.

'We
are fortunate to have Captain Davenant, really,' said Nevell, his
face as straight as a beam. 'Who knows what peril he rescues us from?
And now it seems he prepares to board.'

An
enterprising hawker was, for a penny, offering a half-minute's gaze
through his telescope, but I could see well enough with my naked eye.
Lancelot's
pinnace had come out from under her far side and was pulling for the
French ship, which had followed suit in striking her canvas. She
bobbed in the swell while
Lancelot's
boat approached. I fancied I could see Davenant's cocked hat in her
stern.

'The
intrepid captain takes his hard-won prize.'

Nevell
intoned it solemnly, but I could see the mischief in his face. Though
no doubt the caption would appear as fact in the papers tomorrow, for
Davenant, if he it was, had climbed the ladder now and disappeared
into the blur of the lugger's deck.

'Perhaps
he's defecting to the French,' I said hopefully. That would be
something for the
Gazette
to explain, and for Crawley to cheer.

'If
he's passing on our secrets, he could certainly do it with greater
subtlety.'

Nevell
had a broad grin on his face as though it amused him tremendously. I
too found the whole scene so improbable that I could not but enjoy
it, and wait to see its outcome.

Davenant
did not stay long aboard the lugger: within minutes, while the
attention of the crowd was still rapt, he could be seen descending
back into his boat. A large chest was hoisted down after him.

'Replenishing
his wardrobe with the latest French fashions?' offered Nevell.

'He'll
have to pay duty on them then when he comes ashore. Maybe it's a gift
from Buonaparte - a crate of champagne for the King, with his
respects, and apologies for being an impertinent tyrant.'

'And
a notice of surrender, and his solemn declaration to present himself
at Newgate in a month?'

'Unless,
of course, it's a decoration from an admiring French nation, to the
gallant captain who has so marvellously and single handedly thwarted
them.'

'Or
maybe,' said Nevell, more soberly now, 'it has more to do with having
a peacemonger in the government now. With Pitt out and Fox in, I'll
wager a great deal more than you can afford that that lugger is
passing on correspondence to negotiate a truce, maybe an end to the
war.'

I
looked at him. 'For a man who's spent the last fortnight in a French
gaol, Nevell, you've a remarkable knowledge of what the new
ministry's up to.'

'Of
course,' he said simply. 'I'm the one who delivers their letters.'

Lancelot's
boat had disappeared into her lee now, while the lugger had hoisted
her sails and put about, the blank pennant still streaming above her.
The spectators, concluding that the entertainment was over, thinned;
the man with the telescope now advertised the meat pies he had in his
satchel.

Nevell
clapped me on the shoulder.

'Goodbye,'
he said, genuine warmth in his voice. 'And good luck. I shall follow
your story with interest, especially if it does prove to bear on my
own concerns.'

'Which
reminds me,' I said. 'I paid a visit to Mr Mazard this morning, the
banker.' I pointed Neveil's attention to the brick building across
the harbour. With the sun reflected off the dazzling glass turret, it
was impossible to know if Mazard was still within, but I suddenly had
the uncomfortable feeling that he must be up there, watching. 'He was
kind enough to show me his ledger. Naturally everything was most
discreet, but I think I can tell you, without infringing a
confidence, that he may well know a great deal about large sums of
money passing through Dover. I believe that was your concern.'

Nevell
frowned. 'Indeed it was. Although a small bank in Dover oughtn't to
have the capital...' He shook his head. 'You may well have served me
a useful turn, Jerrold, and I shall enquire further. Much further,
perhaps. But now I must be making for London, and I fear I may
already be delaying the coach. I should be glad to hear of anything
further you apprehend on the matter, though.'

'I
shall write if I discover anything. I assume the post will find you?'

He
laughed. 'Indeed. Though be careful what you write – you never
know who might be reading it.'

He
shook my hand, then slipped into the crowd and vanished.

I
crossed back to where
Orestes
was berthed. Crawley was standing on a bollard, a telescope still
trained on
Lancelot
and I had to cough several times before he opened his free eye and
noticed me.

'Back,
are you?' he grunted. 'Well, I suppose there is a limit to the
mischief you can do now.' A shining new mainmast had been stepped
aboard
Orestes
,
its novelty all the more obvious in the absence of any rigging to
clutter it. 'I had thought to send you with the boat to examine the
beach where the riding officer claims to have seen the smugglers,' he
continued, 'but I fear there is now not the time before nightfall,
before this assembly.' His voice managed to imply that its
organization was somehow my doing. 'However, you may be of some use
on board. There's still work enough to be done. Such as we may
complete before Davenant's little triumph.'

13

THE
ASSEMBLY, TO WHICH CRAWLEY INSISTED I GO, MAY HAVE BEEN IN honour of
Davenant - 'and those intrepid men who aided him', as the handbill
said - but the noble fellow had graciously agreed that the proceeds
from the evening should be donated to the Soup Society who, in
anticipation of a good night's takings, had requisitioned rooms at
the Bull, an inn not far from my own.

'Course
they would,' sniffed Isaac, when I told him where I was bound.

I
was dressed in my full regalia, white cuffs and lapels gleaming with
pipeclay, and a ridiculous hanger by my side. I was not sure whether
taking it into a room with Sir Lawrence would be a good idea, but I
held out hope that it would look heroic enough for the company to
stand me a few drinks. Isaac certainly seemed impressed, but he had
an adolescent's fascination with all things violent and dangerous and
was not to be relied on. Though he was more critical of my
destination.

'Bull's
owned by that Mr Mazard, ain't it,' he explained when I quizzed him.
'An' 'e's the one what's in charge of the Soup Society.'

It
seemed I was fated to cross paths with Mazard again that day. Still,
for all Isaac's cynicism, the rooms seemed to suit well enough when I
arrived - late. They backed on to the house's public bar, but there
was a private door for those whose gentility would quaver at the
prospect of walking through a tavern, and from the cut of the ladies'
gowns I surmised there were few problems with the draught.

The
decorations were less to my taste: several suits of armour had been
hauled out of some dungeon, possibly the castle's, and the
refreshments were laid out on a round table with a large red shield
painted on it. A miniature of a man-of-war floated in a silver bowl,
heeling over against its rim; it looked as though it was shipping
soup through its gunports, and might soon sink. Scores of candles
lined the walls and hung in the chandeliers, but nothing gleamed so
bright as Davenant's twin epaulettes in the middle of the room,
surrounded by a lesser constellation of admiring diamonds, pearls,
jewels and gold. I avoided him, and made instead for the card room in
the far corner. No-one brought me a drink.

Although
the green-topped tables were all in place, the card room was empty
when I looked in. The whist players were still loitering around the
dim edges of the ballroom, trying to make up their rubbers without
allowing in any of the sharpers who were doubtless present. I've
never had much of a hand for cards myself- my luck generally
disallows it - so it's always been one vice I've kept free of (pace
my uncle, who maintains nay disreputation is complete). And I was in
little mood for conversation, which I feared would inevitably draw
itself to the hero of the hour.