The Man in the Green Coat Read online

  She knelt beside him. “I’m not Betsy,” she said in English. “Is there anything I can do for you? Where are you hurt?”

  The man opened his eyes, but they had an unfocussed look and she thought he could not see her.

  “Who is it? Who’s there? I heered an English voice.” Gabrielle took his cold hand. “I’m English. How can I help?”

  “I’m done for, miss. Bain’t nowt you can do for me. But if’n you love yer country, go to the King’s Head, at Dover. Ask mine host for the man in the green coat.” The man paused for breath, shifted a little and moaned again. “Water, Betsy, I’m devilish thirsty. Give us a drink, love.”

  Gabrielle hurried to the horse and took a water bottle from the saddlebag. She held it to the man’s lips and he sipped a little. He coughed, and a froth of pink bubbles ran down his chin.

  “Ta, love.” He made a vain effort to sit up. “Where was I?”

  “Dover. The King’s Head. The man in the green coat?” prompted Gabrielle.

  “Tell him . . . tell him Le Hibou says, de la Touche is Fouché’s man. Can you remember that? I cain’t see you.

  “‘Le Hibou says de la Touche is Fouché’s man.’ I have it. Is that all?”

  “Ask him to look after Betsy for me. He’ll do that. He’s a good man, a real gentleman. Always done right by me. Tell Betsy I love her an’ I’m right sorry I been such a bad husban’. Duty first, that’s me, but it’s hard on a woman.” His voice was fading. Another fit of coughing shook him, and the dark stains on his coat spread a little wider.

  Gabrielle wet her handkerchief and gently wiped his face. His eyes were closed and he lay still. She sat beside him, holding his hand, until she heard her brothers return.

  “Gerard?” she called softly.

  He came to her. “What the deuce?” he demanded.

  “Hush! It’s the English spy. He’s dead, the poor brave man.”

  “Poor fellow. We’d best go at once, then. I’d hoped to hide out here till nightfall, but they’ll be on his trail.”

  “I think he must be Le Hibou, the man Papa mentioned--”

  “I daresay,” Gerard interrupted, “but come on, Gab, there’s a good girl. It is already dusk, so at least they won’t spot us from a distance. I’ll tell you what, my horse is tired and yours is rested, so you had best come up behind me on yours, and we’ll leave mine here. One will be less conspicuous than two, and we’ve not far to go.”

  “You found Willem?” Gabrielle asked as he hauled her up behind him. She put her arms round his waist and held on tight as he kicked the horse into a trot.

  “Yes, easily. It’s a smallish town and everyone knows him.”

  “But not his unpatriotic activities, I hope.”

  “If they do, they sympathise. There are a lot of Flemings here, and they don’t care for the French. They directed me to his house and he was there. He’s going fishing tonight, and he says there will be no difficulty about landing us in England. All we have to do is get aboard his boat, and we’ll have help for that.”

  “You know where to find it?”

  “Of course!” Gerard’s voice was full of scorn. “You need not think you are the only practical one in the family!”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Gabrielle meekly, and then in alarm, “What is that noise?”

  Gerard reined their mount to a halt and swung round to look back. Through the gathering dusk they could see a group of horsemen riding up to the barn, several hundred yards back. Without a word he turned and urged the horse to a canter.

  “Should we not cut across country?” asked Gabrielle, raising her voice to be heard above the drumming of hooves.

  “No, we’d only get lost or lame the horse, then we’d really be in the suds.” He continued down the farm track towards the road.

  Peering back, she saw several soldiers run out of the barn, shouting and pointing in their direction.

  “I think we are, anyway. Here they come!”

  Gerard kicked the horse into a gallop. Unused to having such a pace demanded of it, it snorted indignantly, then settled into a steady gait. It was carrying two, but neither was heavy, and it had rested for several hours while the troopers had been out quartering the countryside. Gradually it pulled away.

  They turned onto the road and saw the lights of Dunkerque, seeming near enough to touch. Closer and closer they came, and then shots rang out behind them.

  “They cut across!” shouted Gerard. “We were getting away from them. This paltry beast cannot run any faster but we’re nearly there.”

  Gabrielle was wondering just what good it would do them to reach the town, with the cavalry on their tail, when she felt a burning pain in her side and a throbbing ache that spread throughout her body. Dizzy, she slumped against her brother’s back and concentrated on holding on with every last scrap of strength.

  In a dream, she heard hooves ring on cobbles, felt the horse swing left and strong arms pluck her from the saddle. She could make no sense of the hushed gabble of voices, quickly cut off. There was a sensation of being carried down steps, then Gerard’s anguished voice came to her clearly.

  “It must be bound before we take her any further!”

  “He’s right. La petite will bleed to death. But first, a drop of eau de vie against infection.”

  The smouldering in her side suddenly burst into flame, and she lost consciousness.

  When she came to, the first thing Gabrielle was aware of was a foul stench of ancient fish. It made it hard to breathe, and breathing was painful anyway, so she vaguely considered stopping. At least until she could get out from under the suffocating pile of whatever it was she was under. She moved feebly.

  She hurt even more.

  One deep breath to shout for help, she decided. She opened her mouth, gagged on the fetid air, and closed it again, fast.

  She had remembered why she hurt.

  If she was hidden under a heap of fishnets, it must be for a good reason. She lay still and listened.

  A light gleamed through the chinks in the net. “0hé! You on board!” someone cried.

  Hollow footsteps sounded. Gabrielle realised that the surface beneath her was rocking gently. “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” came a different voice, surly, slightly accented.

  “This is your boat? We are looking for an espion anglais. Or rather, two of them now. Have you seen any strangers?”

  “No.”

  “We’d better come aboard and search, or the lieutenant will have our livers. Faugh, don’t you fishermen ever clean your nets? What a stink! Who are these in the cabin?”

  “My partner, Jan, and my sister’s boy. A useless fellow, but what can one do when all the stout young men are in the army? It takes two to haul a net, clean or dirty. And the tide is on the turn, so I’ll thank you to move along.”

  “Leclerc, look in those barrels! If that’s where you keep the fish, I hope they are cleaner than your nets! Nothing? Eh bien, en avant! Good fishing, citoyen.”

  “To fill your bellies, you parasites!” muttered the second voice, just loud enough for Gabrielle to hear.

  The flickering torchlight passed over her hiding place again, bright enough to illuminate the red, white and blue cockades in the soldiers’ brass helmets, not bright enough to reveal the trail of dark, sticky spots on the deck, leading straight to the pile of nets.

  The motion of the deck became more pronounced, and Gabrielle heard the creaking of ropes, the lapping of water against the hull. How long would it be before they judged it safe to let her out, she wondered? She would never eat fish again for the rest of her life!

  At last footsteps approached, and the clear, solid light of a ship’s lantern. The nets above her shifted.

  “Gerard?”

  “Gabrielle! Are you all right? How long have you been conscious?” Gerard’s voice sounded very young and scared.

  “Long enough to be heartily sick of this nauseating odour! I never knew fishing nets stank so!”

  “In general
they do not, mademoiselle. Naturally, they are washed daily as we cast them into la mer. I have hidden a piece of rotten fish underneath, to dissuade the salauds from searching too closely.”

  “This is Willem Snieders, Gabrielle. Oh, there you are.”

  The last of the concealing nets was hauled off. “You look terrible!”

  Painfully, Gabrielle sat up. “Enchanté, monsieur, and thank you very much for rescuing us.”

  The stocky fisherman, clad in blue homespun, bowed over her hand.

  “You are welcome, mademoiselle. We of Flanders have little love of the French. How do you find yourself?”

  “Stiff and sore, but most of the smell seems to have departed with your rotten fish, Dieu merci! However, a bath would not come amiss. How long will the crossing take?”

  “The wind has changed, mademoiselle, and we are in for a rough sail. If we miss the tide at Dover, it may be a full day before you can go ashore.”

  At that moment, the boat left the shelter of the harbour for the open sea. Gabrielle shivered as a stiff breeze from the west filled the sails.

  “Will you come into the cabin, mademoiselle?” asked Willem anxiously. “It is a little warmer there.”

  “Thank you, I will. Perhaps you can provide some water to wash with? Even cold seawater would be better than nothing. And I should like to change my clothes. Our saddlebags are within?”

  "Je regrette, mademoiselle, that the saddlebags were lost in your flight from the soldiers.”

  “So I shall after all arrive in England in breeches! Well, it can’t be helped.”

  “There is some bread and sausage in the cabin if you are hungry.” The fisherman seemed anxious to make amends for the missing saddlebags.

  “I am indeed! Gerard, help me up, if you please. Gerard? What is the matter?”

  Even by lantern light, Gerard’s face was greenish. One hand to stomach, one to mouth, he rushed to the rail and leaned over.

  Willem laughed. “Le mal de mer! Never fear, mademoiselle, no one dies of seasickness, though one may wish to. Permit that I assist you.”

  He helped her up, and leaning on his strong arm, she stumbled painfully to the cabin.

  Chapter 3

  The last light of the setting sun shone golden on the whitewashed walls of the King’s Head at Dover; after the storm, the sea air was fresh and clean-smelling.

  The Honourable Lucius Everett lounged in the doorway of the inn, half-listening to the buzz of conversation in the coffee room behind him. A high-pitched voice rang out complainingly above the hubbub.

  “‘Pon rep, my lord, I was forced to leave half my gowns behind in Paris, such was our hurry. All the latest French modes! Do not tell me I shall find anything to equal them in London.”

  Mr Everett’s lip curled. It was not the first time he had heard that lament. England at war again, and all the silly chit cared about was her Parisian fashions! Not that she differed in that from the majority of her class, both male and female, he thought with scorn.

  Much my lady would have cared for his opinion! A single glance in the passageway had classified Mr Everett as a nobody.

  He was a gentleman of some thirty summers, slightly above the average in height and well built, but plainly dressed in a slate-coloured frock coat. Though his thick brown hair was cut short and unpowdered, it was brushed back from his forehead in a far from modish manner. His features were nothing out of the ordinary; certainly no one would have described him as handsome. Yet a perceptive observer might have noticed a clear lucidity to his gaze, an unusual, almost piercing quality, and the stern line of his mouth spoke of determination and purpose.

  The innkeeper stepped out for a breath of air, wiping his round, shiny red face with a spotted handkerchief.

  “Whew!” he exclaimed. “It’s right glad I am the high quality generally patronises the Ship, for we ain’t set up to cope with their whims and crotchets and it’s no good pretending we are. Still, that’s the last of ‘em running from Boney. We’ll soon be back to business as usual, for they’ll be on their way to London soon as I can get enough carriages to take ‘em. You’ve dined, Mr Everett?”

  “Not yet, Colby. I’ll wait till the crush is gone.”

  “Right you are, sir. I’ll warn the wife to set aside some mutton pasties and a dish of mushrooms, for we don’t want our regulars complaining of poor service.”

  “In that case, send Baxter to bring me a mug of ale!”

  “Mr Baxter is a guest here just like you are sir. I’ll fetch it myself.”

  The stout landlord hurried away. His place was taken by three fashionable bucks. Mr Everett moved aside to give them space, and they stood there on the threshold, blocking the doorway, discussing the shocking lack of entertainment to be found in Dover.

  They had just decided that a game of hazard in their private parlour offered the best chance of amusement, when a hackney pulled through the archway into the courtyard. As it drew to a halt, a pale-faced youth jumped out, steadied himself against the carriage, and addressed the group at the door.

  “Sirs, pray tell me, is there a room available here?”

  The dandies turned to stare. One of them raised a quizzing glass to examine the lad’s scruffy clothing. None deigned answer; they resumed their conversation.

  Mr Everett stepped out of the shadow.

  “I fear the inn is full,” he said. “Have you tried elsewhere?”

  “Yes, everywhere.” The boy sounded exhausted and desperate. “My sister is hurt. She can go no further. What am I to do?”

  From the carriage came a low, sweet voice. “Gerard, perhaps there is a corner where I might sit for a while. Let us go in and ask.” A wavering figure appeared, dressed in grey breeches, white shirt and blue jacket. “Help me down, I can walk.”

  “Gabrielle, no!”

  “Your sister, you said?”

  “Yes sir. We thought it safer for her to dress so.”

  Mr Everett noticed a red stain on the jacket. He sprang forward as the girl crumpled, and caught her in his arms. Her brother seemed dazed, and looked to be in not much better case.

  “Gabrielle. . . Sir, let me take her.

  “Hoy!” interrupted the jarvey. “What about me fare?”

  “Do you pay the driver,” directed Mr Everett, “and I shall carry her in. You have money?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, but Gabrielle . . . I . . . oh, very well. Thank you.”

  Mr Everett, his face expressing none of the curiosity he felt, shifted his burden into a more comfortable position and turned to find the landlord awaiting him, a mug of ale in one hand, the other planted on his solid hip.

  “We haven’t got room, Mr Everett, and well you knows it. Partickly not for the likes o’ these.”

  “They may have my chamber, Colby, and I shall answer for them. If I am not mistaken, they are just escaped from France like most of your other guests.”

  “Oh, in that case, sir, if you say so. You’ll want your dinner sent up?”

  “We may need a doctor, not dinner. This child is injured and I do not know how badly.”

  “I am not a child,” said Gabrielle, faintly but indignantly. “Pray put me down, sir. I am quite able to walk.”

  “No, you are not, Gaby. I am scarce able to walk myself and I have no bullet hole in the ribs.” Gerard’s gait as he approached the group was as unsteady as if the deck still heaved beneath his feet.

  “That is because you were so stupidly seasick. And don’t call me Gaby!”

  “A bullet hole, is it? No wonder you are bleeding all over my coat,” said Mr Everett grimly, and strode into the inn, the girl in his arms. “You’ll do no more walking till it’s been seen to, if then. Colby, send for the surgeon at once, and have Baxter come to my room, if you please.”

  Dimly lit by a single candle, the low-ceilinged chamber to which he carried Gabrielle was nearly filled by a huge, old-fashioned fourposter bed of dark oak. He laid her gently on the patchwork counterpane, and placed a pillow under her shou
lder so that she lay half on her uninjured side. Gerard sank into a chair.

  “Why do I feel as bad on dry land as I did on the boat?” he groaned.

  “It is often so, I believe,” said Mr Everett unsympathetically. “I suppose you are too ill to aid your sister. I must cut away her clothing around the wound, for the blood is drying and it will stick. At least you can act as chaperon.”

  A small, balding man, neatly dressed in black, slipped into the room.

  “Sir?”

  “Baxter, I need plenty of light and a pair of scissors.”

  “Sir.”

  The servant lit a branch of candles on the mantelpiece and another on the dressing-table crammed into a corner between bed and tiny window. The light revealed his lugubrious face, jowled like a bloodhound. He opened a leather box on the dressing-table and offered it to his master.

  “Scissors, sir.”

  “Thank you. That is not enough light. Is there no lamp in here?”

  Baxter bent down and pulled an oil lamp from beneath Gerard’s chair. He lit the wick at a candle flame and moved to hold it over the bed. As he looked down at Gabrielle, his face grew gloomier.

  Gerard stood up and leaned against the nearest bedpost. Mr Everett had pulled back Gabrielle’s jacket and was cutting away the shirt, revealing a huge purple bruise. He looked up at her brother, saw his sweat-beaded forehead and white lips.

  “Sit down, lad,” he said. “It will not help Miss Gabrielle if you pass out on us. Baxter, I need warm water and a clean cloth.”

  “Sir.” The servant departed as silently as he had come.

  Mr Everett sat on the edge of the bed and studied Gabrielle’s face. Beneath the unladylike tan it was pallid, and a tiny frown of pain contracted her eyebrows. Her hacked-off curls were draggled and stiff from the salt sea air. He leaned forward to loosen her none-too-clean neck-cloth, and she opened her eyes and smiled at him.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything. You are very kind to come to the rescue of perfect strangers.”

  For a moment he gazed at her unsmiling, then his stern mouth softened, giving his expression a curious vulnerability.