by Seth Hunter
Nathan regarded him warily. He seemed remarkably hot under the collar, even for a man in his present situation. ‘Not Mr Scrope?’
‘Not Mr Scrope, no. But I am given to understand that you have cause for, for some resentment where this gentleman is concerned. And that—Well, he has told me to tell you that if you do not desire his company, then he will understand perfectly.’
Nathan strove to recall some of the people who had tried to kill him, or who had subjected him to torture, or given him some other cause for resentment. But the list was endless. ‘He is not a Frenchman? Or a Venetian?’
O’Hara gave an awkward laugh. ‘No. Neither of those things. He is an American.’
An American.
A swift stab of alarm. But no – it could not be possible. Not again.
The Governor was still talking.
‘He has come directly from England and with the full approval of the Admiralty.’ He paused for a moment. ‘His name is Imlay. Gilbert Imlay.’ He reached for the bell-pull. ‘Shall we invite him to join us?’
Chapter Eight
The American Agent
Gilbert Imlay. A few more lines at the corners, a little greyer at the edges, but still the same old Imlay with his raffish air of the American frontiersman wandered into my lady’s chamber.
‘Bonsoir, mon capitaine,’ he addressed Nathan with a smile and a bow that was somewhat between sheepish and sardonic.
‘I think you are in the wrong camp, Imlay,’ Nathan remarked more coolly than he was feeling. ‘We are the British. I suppose in your profession it is easy to become confused.’
Imlay’s smile faltered a little.
‘I gather the last time you met was in Lincoln’s Inn Fields,’ said O’Hara, doing his best to jolly things along a bit. ‘Pistols at dawn, was it not? Ha ha. And I think a lady was involved.’
‘That was the time before,’ Nathan corrected him. ‘The last time was in a crypt. And had it not been for Mr Imlay, I had very likely remained there, among the dead.’
Nathan advanced to meet him, extending his hand, and saw a look of relief cross the other man’s face.
‘I am glad we are still friends,’ said Imlay.
‘I would not go so far as to say that,’ replied Nathan. ‘It is as well to ensure there is not a pistol in your hand.’
They had known each other for a little less than four years, but it seemed like a lifetime. Several lifetimes. And yet Nathan was no closer to knowing the real Imlay than when they had first met. It was quite possible that the real Imlay did not exist, just a series of counterfeits.
‘I am a man of many parts,’ he had informed Nathan once, in what for him was a rare display of candour.
What Nathan knew of him came from many different sources, none of them reliable, least of all Imlay’s own account. But it seemed reasonable to assume that at one time or another, and possibly simultaneously, he had been a spy for the Americans, the French, the Spanish and the British.
Their first encounter was in Paris during the Terror – in the Street of Arse-Scratchers, where Nathan was hanging from a lamppost. He had forgotten to wear the obligatory tricolour in his hat, and a mob of vigilantes had been trying to string him up for it, until Imlay persuaded them he was an American and too stupid to know any better.
This had been the high point of their relationship. The lows had come thick and fast. If Imlay had preserved Nathan from a hanging, it seemed at times that it was only to save his neck for the guillotine. But you could never be sure it was Imlay’s fault, or merely a series of unfortunate events in which he was inextricably, inexplicably involved.
And now here he was again. Apparently in the employ of the British Admiralty, or at least enjoying their confidence.
‘Captain Peake and I have had our differences in the past,’ Imlay was informing the Governor, as he accepted a glass of wine. ‘But we have had some very pleasant times too, along the way, have we not?’ he appealed to Nathan archly.
‘So, I take it we may now dine together like old friends.’ The Governor beamed, though the look he threw towards Nathan was uncertain.
‘By your leave, I should first like to hear what is the latest madcap scheme I am expected to find agreeable,’ Nathan cautioned him, ‘before I am too much under the weather.’
Imlay chuckled good-naturedly, with a glance towards their host as if to say, See what I have to put up with?
‘We are going to rescue a beautiful damsel from pirates,’ he told Nathan. ‘What could be more agreeable than that?’
The rest of the story had to wait upon dinner – ‘lest it spoil’, as O’Hara chided them and he was put to the trouble of finding a new cook.
This might not have been quite the disaster he anticipated.
‘I must apologise for the limitations of our cuisine,’ he confided as they entered the dining room, ‘but at a time of siege we are obliged to make do with what little scraps as are available to us.’
Nathan declined to mention that after several months in the Governor’s prison, a few scraps at a rich man’s table would be something of a treat.
They began with a fish soup – with ingredients caught off the New Mole only this morning, the Governor assured them. Its chief ingredients appeared to be crab and bonito – and had it been a little warmer and flavoured with a few herbs, it might have been excellent. This was followed by one of the Governor’s hens, a little older and stringier than the Christmas capon, and a salted ham with a mess of potatoes and pickled cabbage – very like the fare dished out in the wardroom of a ship-of-war. For dessert there was a cake of dried fruits and a custard that tasted rather more like a cheese. But whatever the deficiencies of the Governor’s larder, or his cook, his cellar was well stocked with Portuguese and Spanish wines, the whites still cool from the ice and straw into which they had been packed in the dark depths of Governor House.
It was, Nathan declared in all honesty, an excellent meal – ‘the best I have had for some time,’ he added, with a straight face.
Imlay’s story was almost as good. For all the flaws of his character, you could never fault Imlay as a storyteller. The question was, of course, how much of it was true.
‘I am told that since our last meeting, you have had the pleasure of visiting Venice,’ he began, when the servants had cleared away the last of the dishes and left them to their own devices and a decanter of port wine.
Nathan tried not to show his concern. His mission to Venice, as the letter from Nelson had so recently reminded him, was Most Secret. He flicked a glance at the Governor, who nodded wisely. ‘Mr Imlay enjoys the complete confidence of their lordships,’ he murmured complacently.
‘Indeed?’ Nathan inclined his head in appreciation of this jest. In fact, his own confidence in their lordships of the Admiralty had never been high and had sunk considerably lower during his months of confinement on the Rock of Gibraltar. The First Lord, Earl Spencer, was probably an improvement on the Earl of Chatham, who had preceded him, but that was not saying a great deal. Chatham had been a soldier; Spencer was a politician. One day, perhaps, they would appoint a sailor to the job, but being in the gift of government it would have been foolish to count on it.
‘Well, I would not say their lordships and I agree on everything,’ Imlay confessed indulgently, ‘but in this matter, I think I may safely say we are in accord.’
‘And what does Venice have to do with it?’ Nathan enquired, longing, as he often did, to kick him.
‘While you were there … if you were there,’ Imlay corrected himself with a small smile, ‘you may have had the honour of meeting the American Consul, a Mr Devereux.’
Nathan frowned as if he was trying to recall. In fact, he remembered Mr Devereux perfectly well, though they had only had the pleasure of one brief encounter. It was shortly after his arrival in Venice in the guise of the New York merchant and ship-owner, Mr Nathaniel Turner, and he had gone to pay his respects at the American Consulate on the Grand Canal. But he had no inten
tion of telling Imlay any of this.
‘Well, be that as it may,’ Imlay continued, ‘Mr Devereux has a daughter, Louisa. His only child and the apple of his eye. Aged seventeen.’
Nathan had a sudden vivid memory of a face peering over a balustrade, just as he was leaving. He had glanced back up the stairs and seen her there, a vision of blonde loveliness in muslin and lace, hastily withdrawn.
‘She was packed off to England shortly before the French arrived in Venice,’ Imlay continued. ‘There was a great deal of disorder in the city at the time, verging on civil war, as you probably know. The Consul’s wife had recently died and he was concerned for his daughter’s safety. Unfortunately, the ship she sailed in – an American vessel called the Saratoga – was taken by pirates off Sicily. I should more properly say corsairs, though there is very little difference in my view. However, they carried a letter of marque from the Pasha of Tripoli licensing them to seize the vessel of any country with which the Pasha considers himself to be at war. Or, at least, not at peace.’
Nathan knew the form, for he had served for well over a year in the Mediterranean before his visit to Venice. ‘I had thought the United States had signed a peace treaty with the corsairs,’ he ventured. ‘The last I heard, they were paying an annual subsidy – which more or less kept their ships free of attack.’
‘Rather less than more,’ countered Imlay. ‘And we had neglected to pay the required bribe to the Pasha of Tripoli – Yusuf Karamanli. You have heard of him, perhaps?’
Nathan confessed that he had not.
‘The Karamanli dynasty has been in power for three generations,’ Imlay informed him. ‘They are the sons of slaves, originally taken from Georgia, in the Caucasus. The present ruler – Yusuf – became Pasha two years ago after murdering his elder brother – in front of their mother, I believe – which is what passes for a typical family fracas in Tripoli. His mother is Georgian, and they still favour Georgian women as their brides. Blonde, blue-eyed, milky-white com plexion. I am not sure if Yusuf takes after her in appearance, but I would not be surprised if he favoured the same colouring in his women.’
‘You are saying that he kidnapped the Devereux girl for his harem?’
‘No. No, I am not saying that at all – though from what I have heard, he would not spurn the opportunity. His chief concern is money. Having recently seized power and being obliged to bribe many of his followers, he is extremely low on funds, so he has taken to pirating. He uses the usual old claptrap with which I am sure you are all too familiar …’
‘ “A permanent state of war exists between the followers of the Prophet and all infidels”,’ put in the Governor dryly. ‘Unless they have had the foresight to make a peace treaty – involving a substantial bribe, of course.’
‘It has become a convenient means of raising revenue,’ Imlay confirmed. ‘When Prince Yusuf came to power, he demanded new treaties with all those nations whose shipping might be said to be “vulnerable”. Eight of them complied – for a total sum, I am told, of three hundred thousand piastres. That is to say, about twenty-five thousand English pounds. To be paid annually.’
The Governor gave it as his opinion that this was cheap at half the price.
‘Regrettably, President Adams was not of that opinion,’ Imlay told him.
‘Hence the attack on the Saratoga.’
‘Was she not armed?’ Nathan put in, for he was aware that the corsairs had a greater respect for a decent broadside than for a decent bribe. And they were wary of offending the major maritime powers. Attacks on the shipping of Britain, France and Spain were rare – though this might change now that the British fleet had pulled out of the Mediterranean.
‘She was armed – but insufficiently it appears. The ship that took her was the Meshuda, of twenty-eight guns and three hundred and sixty men, commanded by a former British seaman – a Scot by the name of Lisle, who jumped ship at Tripoli and turned renegade. He now calls himself Murad Reis and the Pasha has appointed him Capudan Pasha, his Admiral of the Fleet. I thought you would like that,’ he added, noting the expression on Nathan’s face.
‘How do you know all this?’ Nathan asked, for Imlay had not previously impressed him with his knowledge of the Barbary Coast.
‘I have my sources,’ Imlay replied with a sly look.
‘The British Consulate in Tripoli has become involved in the business,’ O’Hara affirmed, though with some reluctance, Nathan thought. ‘You might say certain … negotiations have been entered into.’
‘They have asked for half a million dollars in ransom,’ Imlay explained. He acknowledged Nathan’s expression with a grim smile. ‘It amounts to about a tenth of the entire Federal budget for a year, I am told – and has caused considerably more outrage in Congress than the news of the original capture. But, unhappily, the Federal government lacks the means of redress. President Adams has authorised the building of a small Navy to protect our trade, in both the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, but the first ships are still under construction. In my view, they are not likely to be at sea until the end of the century. And in the meantime, the poor wretches from the Saratoga are being held in the Red Castle in Tripoli. Apparently they are being reasonably well treated, but this could change at any moment. The Pasha is notoriously unpredictable, I am told, and while his general demeanour is not without charm, he is given to sudden violent rages. If their ransom is not paid, they are likely to be sold on the slave-market and their future would then be very bleak. Very bleak indeed – as I imagine you are aware.’
‘Most of the men would end up in the galleys, chained to an oar for the rest of their lives,’ the Governor supplied helpfully. ‘Or humping stones on a building site. And the women, of course, would be sold into the harems, either as servants or concubines.’
‘Or in Miss Devereux’s case, I imagine, kept for the Pasha’s private enjoyment,’ Imlay added, looking at Nathan as if he had a personal interest in the matter. Nathan was puzzled. Was it possible that Imlay believed there had been some intrigue between them while he was in Venice?
And what did he expect Nathan to do about it?
He was not long in doubt.
‘As I have already informed the Governor, I have been authorised by the Federal government to negotiate the release of the captives,’ Imlay informed him.
‘You are going to Tripoli?’ Nathan’s suspicions increased.
‘I am. And to add weight to my powers of persuasion, I am to proceed in a ship-of-war suitably equipped to exact retribution if negotiations break down and the captives are subjected to further torment.’
‘An American ship-of-war?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
‘But I thought you said the ships were still on the stocks.’
‘I did. I meant a private ship-of-war, hired for this particular purpose.’
‘And you possess such a vessel?’
‘I do. At least, for the duration of hostilities, as it were. It is presently moored in the harbour here in Gibraltar, but in want of a proper crew, I am afraid – and, more particularly, a Captain.’
Nathan’s wits had been dulled by his recent incarceration or he would have realised where this was going. But he had been living with his own company – and a map of the cosmos – for far too long.
‘You had been better hiring a privateer in Malta,’ he advised. ‘The Knights of Saint John are very well used to dealing with the corsairs of the Barbary Coast – they have been fighting them for centuries. Indeed, most of them are corsairs themselves – and a sight more predatory than the Moors, from what I have heard. I am assured you would have no difficulty in hiring a fully equipped vessel with both Captain and crew, if you were prepared to make it worth their while. And do not mind working with rogues,’ he could not help adding.
Imlay acknowledged this contribution with a tolerant smile. ‘I had hoped that you might be interested,’ he said.
Nathan stared at him for a moment. Then he flicked a glance at O’Hara.
The latter’s expression was carefully neutral.
‘But I am an officer in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy,’ Nathan pointed out. ‘I cannot go harum-scarum about the Barbary Coast in a private ship-of-war, putting the fear of God into the natives.’ He glanced at the Governor again. ‘Not unless I have been dismissed the service and no one has thought to inform me of it.’
‘There is no question of that,’ O’Hara hastened to assure him. ‘But if the offer is of interest to you, I am informed their lordships will put no impediment in your way.’
Nathan was unimpressed. What was that supposed to mean? He was not dismissed the service, but he might go to hell in a handcart and serve the Devil, so far as their lordships were concerned, so long as he did not knock at their door for employment.
‘No, it will not do,’ he insisted. ‘I would have to resign my commission. And that is out of the question. If their lordships wish to get rid of me, they must do it in the proper manner – with a court martial.’
‘My dear sir, I assure you there is no question of a court martial, nor of anyone wishing to “get rid of you”.’ The Governor’s voice rose in irritation, as if Nathan’s imprisonment had been a slight misunderstanding, an inconvenience which a true gentleman would tolerably overlook. ‘The fact is that this mission, if you were to undertake it, would be of considerable service to their lordships. And, of course, to His Majesty’s Government.’
‘In what way?’ Nathan raised a brow. ‘There are no British subjects involved.’
‘No, but there are British interests involved. Very much so. How can I put this to you?’ O’Hara replenished his glass in the hope of inspiration. ‘We cannot send the fleet back into the Mediterranean,’ he went on, ‘or even a solitary ship-of-war, not without a single base east of Gibraltar and the fleets of France and Spain – and Venice, for that matter – combined against us.’
This was a soldier speaking, Nathan reflected. He could never imagine Nelson saying that, or even St Vincent. They would happily take the lot on.