Unfortunately, it was a dead man walking on the Downs.
On his second night of flight Prisoner-to-be took over an isolated cottage, murdering its inhabitants down to the last sheepdog for the sake of a bath and change of clothes. It was a pity to kill mere shepherds and their families, who were workers after all; but History was a cruel mistress to those who served her, taking no account of individuals. Everyone knew that.
Once he’d cleared up, Prisoner-to-be consoled himself with the thought that there were plenty more where the deceased shepherd came from. The dictates of History would impel them to step up and fill the gap. Meanwhile, the humble lives sacrificed would, in their modest way, inch forward the glorious day, meaning they had not lived—or died—in vain. And, in any case, the cause of an agent in the field outweighed a shepherd’s need for a natural span of years.
Tough measures for tough times. Even now, when far away from the scene of his original ‘crime,’ Prisoner-to-be would not have it easy. Far from it. True, there were pre-planned escape routes and agents in place, but by now the hue and cry would be truly up. The English Channel was well patrolled at the best of times, with Lord Nelson’s flotillas criss-crossing like sharks, but even before them there were manifest dangers. England’s face had been slapped whilst sitting in its own back-garden: all eyes would be extra-peeled, looking out for vengeance.
The now silent shepherd’s cottage provided opportunity for reflection. After Prisoner-to-be had dressed his wound and driven the bothersome sheep over a cliff, there was silence in which to reflect on what had passed.
Theirs had been a brave try, founded on strictly rational thought. Mere assassination of the Arch-Traitor by wayside ambush or sniper’s shot, would not have sufficed. Outright attack in force passed the clearest message to all traitors in Reaction’s employ—or it might have had it succeeded.
There is no safety from the Republic’s displeasure, it would have demonstrated, no appeal against History’s condemnation! No distance, no guards, no snuggling deep into a tyrant’s bosom was protection enough. The Republic struck when and where and how it wanted, and not via some furtive assassin’s blow but with style! Massed infantry attack deep in the black heart of the enemy! Loseley was to have burned and Talleyrand with it.
But it and he hadn’t. So that was that. No good crying over spilt milk or unspilt blood. Prisoner-to-be still had one more duty to fulfil.
He had faith, of the strictly secular kind. He knew he would make it home, somehow. He would report to the Republic. He would demand his due punishment for failure.
If a wounded French agent could extricate himself from England the same should have been child’s play for Julius and Ada, who had their health (if not life, in one case), plus funds, plus every right to be in the country.
Not so. At the exact moment said Frenchman was murdering Melchizedek the shepherd’s family on the Downs above them, down in Lewes town beside the River Ouse the couple were being rudely rebuffed.
‘N-K-D,’ said the quaymaster, and made to turn away. Julius’ hand on his shoulder restrained him—and earned a black look.
‘Explain yourself, sir!’ Julius cried. ‘I demand a degree of courtesy!’
The quaymaster reached up and politely but firmly disengaged the delaying hand. There were scowling dockhands and mariners around who looked willing to give him support.
‘I’ll explain, but I’ll not alter, mister furriner—and I’ll thank you to keep your paws to yourself. N-K-D I said and say again: ‘tis local dialect for ‘no-can-do’: our little rustic joke, only it ain’t no joke. No one here will take you, not for love nor money.’
‘But why not, man?’ said Frankenstein. ‘We can afford to be lavish, nor shall we haggle.’
Quaymaster’s expression indicated he never doubted it.
‘Nor shall I, mister. Neither shall I be druv—as we say here in Sussex’
Julius looked to Ada for interpretation. She supplied, purse lipped.
‘The motto of the county, mein herr.’ She adopted a rustic accent: ‘‘We wunt be druv.’ In plain English, they sometimes oblige but cannot be forced.’
‘Just so, ladyship,’ confirmed Quaymaster. ‘And there’s an end to it.’
‘But in the name of God why not?’ cried Frankenstein, throwing up his arms. ‘You have craft galore: why cannot we be conveyed to the coast?’
Quaymaster was amused. Lady Lovelace sniffed, even though she now had no need for breath. The man knew.
‘But it don’t stop there, does it, mister?’ he said. ‘I misdoubt your path ends at Newhaven and England’s shore…’
He had them there, though naturally Julius couldn’t admit it. Quaymaster pressed his advantage in the intervening silence.
‘I dare say you might get one of the gentlemen to take you…’
‘He means smugglers,’ interjected Ada helpfully.
‘…but we’re law-abiders here. And besides, Lewes is a pious Protestant place. I don’t speak for all, but many don’t hold with all this … reviving business.’
He looked at Lady Lovelace with frank distaste. Foxglove bristled.
‘We load occasional Lazaran regiments for the war,’ said the master of this little world, ‘out of duty and love of country. But shipping deaders abroad without a licence? Oh no, matey, that’s a hanging offence!’
It was the same story in Rye when they got there, via many tedious short journeys and changes of train. At the Mermaid Inn, whilst Ada waited in the rain outside, Julius enquired after local vessels plying for hire. Subtle questions (or so he deluded himself) ascertained which of their masters were the liveliest lads.
Passing by the port’s gallows en route to the harbour should have prepared them for disappointment. There, strung up and rotting, were all those free traders who’d run foul of the coastal blockade squadron. Their former colleagues passed by them twice a day—a salutary lesson.
Rye mariners weren’t so restrained as those of Lewes. After their first ‘no’ to Frankenstein wasn’t heeded, they threw fishheads.
Lady Lovelace had to bear-hug Julius in an icy embrace to keep his pistol in his pocket.
They struck lucky on their way back along the coast. Though first impressions suggested quite the contrary. Life served them up a lemon, only for it to spontaneously turn into lemonade.
A militia-constable boarded the train at Cooden Beach and started checking tickets, so they were obliged to disembark at the next stop, far earlier than intended. However, that ‘choice’ of station might have been their downfall just as effectively as surrendering themselves. ‘Norman’s Bay Halt’ was the epitome of insignificance set in a sea of desolation. Anyone alighting there merited a curious glance.
Julius and Ada got them aplenty but, as luck would have it, not from the constable. An incautious flash of ankle meant he was all agog at a jaunty young lady passenger at the time. Then the loco chugged away and he never knew about the certain promotion just missed.
Which meant he retired, decades later, still a constable, rather than the Inspector that might have been. Taking the long view from then, he would have said the glimpse of stocking was good, as far as it went (½ inch up the calve), but all in all wasn’t fair exchange. But he didn’t know and so didn’t say so, and remained content as he was. Thus things worked out well for everyone.
Back at Norman’s Bay, the pancake flat Pevensey Levels spread from the distant Downs right to the pebbly beach, and the wind swept over all. It spoke of rain soon. Only a few cottages, doubtless the abode of sluice-keepers and the like, relieved the uniformly grey scene.