The Emperor's Gold
Page 6
Fannion stretched himself out on the blanket. After the weeks of barns and stairwells and ten-to-a-room labourers’ squats, an attic to himself was splendid privilege, and a blanket and mattress luxury. The roof didn’t seem to leak much, either. The shopkeeper had invested here; he was spending to stay. Fannion stopped himself and tried to examine dispassionately the mixture of resentment and scorn that had risen in his throat. Resentment was not healthy; no, he should be spurning these trivial comforts and plotting their destruction, and he could not afford to yearn for them, not with his lifestyle. But a blanket and a mattress and the hidden, west of Ireland wildness of a shopkeeper’s wife, now…
There was something like pity, too, for the small tidy tradesman who’d come across the Irish Sea to find stability and respectability. For when the violence started he would find that the best timbers only burnt better, and that his neighbours and their Magistrates would attack his Irishness long before they defended his civility.
The Minister of Police was always out of his office on business in the late mornings, and it was the natural time for the Minister’s servant to step out into the filth of the Paris streets and run such errands and make such purchases as the Minister’s frugal domestic habits required. It was likewise natural that at the end of his round of the markets and merchants, the Minister’s servant should step into the inn at the sign of the Sun to refresh himself. The more curious observer would find nothing surprising in a servant visiting such an undistinguished establishment. The more curious observer might wonder slyly whether the servant took purely nutritional relief in the place. The more curious observer would have no interest in the servant’s conversation with the landlord, two uninspired men at the dead hour of the day, and would have no idea of what really passed between them.
Joseph found that he rather liked Minister Fouché, and he felt uneasy about it. A man of consistency, and even temper, and polite manners. A most terrible and brutal person, he had been told, who had done unspeakable horrors to thousands of citizens in Lyons and other towns. But to the man who swept his rooms, the man who poured his wine, the man who shaved his naked proffered throat at a disciplined hour every morning, the Minister was unfailingly correct. To Joseph’s simple calculation, both men knew that the Revolution was supposed to have promised a world without servants, and both knew that any civilized man – certainly one with the Minister’s responsibilities – needed a servant. So they had come to an unspoken understanding about their relationship.
His regular visits to the inn were natural, but Joseph walked them naked and sweating. This was the itching icy nightmare: the certainty that every eye in every street was staring at him; the certainty that at the end of the nauseating, tortured steps that took him unavoidably to the sign of the Sun, its dirty yellow beam advertising his shame, he would step into the inn and find the Minister staring up at him; he knew that his journey was leading him towards death, and not the noble public death of the martyrs like his poor Master, but something lonely and painful and cheap; he knew that the Minister’s civility was coldness, and that his coldness was a lethal indifference to the distinction between life and death.
Taking down his recollection of the Minister’s conversations, the landlord was ponderous and pedantic. He had to be – it was essential – the young Master had said so. But the seconds thumped past as soldiers’ boots marching to the door, the minutes opening out in front of Joseph like a screaming mob.
He wished that Lady Sybille could see him now. He’d always been so uncomfortable around the family, so clumsy and out of place, but only now he realized how safe it had been. Now he was on his own – his own decisions, his own risks. The inexplicable Revolution had liberated him to an utter loneliness.
He hurried back towards the Marais district. He was desperate to leave the inn behind him, and the Minister expected no variation in the timing of his midday refreshment.
Half an hour reflecting the sour, flat stare of the river had been no kind of substitute for the sharp clarity of the sea, and the attempt only made Roscarrock aware, for the first time in more than a week, of how much he missed his element.
It had been the disappearance of his former life, more than the Scotsman’s veiled threats, that had sent him to London. His ship was blasted on the Cornish rocks, the few companions of his life lost to the sea, and for now that world only offered beggary and cheap drunkenness. Without a ship, he was nothing.
There was no way backwards, and the only positive way forwards was through the Scotsman’s madness to London, and hopefully through London to something else. One day at a time; one meal at a time.
The Scotsman’s words he remembered as fragments of a dream, hallucinations that suddenly leapt back at him from the apparent normality of the city. Secret societies and French invasions: sour mouthfuls that he’d swallowed in his delirium and that now lurched in his uneasy gut. Then this Admiral, with his grim fatalism and desperate hopes.
They seemed like nothing to him, these fantasies of politics; but he must live the life in which he found himself. One day at a time; one meal at a time.
For now, that meant bread and cheese and milk in a room off The Strand, waiting for Jessel. But the man who entered and recognized him was not Jessel.
A thin man, strands of black hair trickling down over his skull like spilt ink, a glance at Roscarrock, and a look of such shock as to stagger its recipient.
Roscarrock’s thoughts, storm-tossed in this furtive room in this furtive life: he didn’t know the man; surely he didn’t know the man; but the man recognized him, that was startlingly clear, so did he know the man? What was wrong, in this twisted fugitive life, with knowing a man or being known?
What was wrong was screamed from the expression in front of him: utter surprise, a grasp at self-restraint, a glance around the room, and then satisfied resolution. The ink seemed to trickle further down the forehead, and the face beneath it settled into something like hunger as he looked at Roscarrock.
Roscarrock wondered then at his own face – who was this man? Had he seen him somewhere on the road? Somewhere in a previous past? – and he realized that he was half out of his chair in instinctive animal reaction to that first stunned stare of recognition from the doorway.
With the suggestion of a smile, the thin man stepped backwards and out through the door. Roscarrock followed.
Why am I following? Who am I following? But the ideas were lost in the waves of adrenalin and anger. Out of the door, left, nothing, right, a back in a brown jacket and the man turning and standing, still, gazing at him. The rest of the movement and noise of the world shrank and faded around them: two men gazing at each other; and the thin man smiled.
I have not seen this man! The face was neutral, the face glanced at the people moving around them to and from the shop, and then it settled into that grim smile. Have I seen this man?
Silently, the man turned away and disappeared down an alley beside the shop.
Hot, frustrated, Roscarrock followed.
The alley was short, and it was empty. No brown back. No doorway. A small dusty yard opening up at its end; odd lengths of wood stacked or lying; rubbish.
I am following this man because he knows me, and I want to know how. Forwards into the alley. I am following this man because he knows me, and there are no men who know me anymore.
The yard looming, empty; the scattered wood.
There is no possibility here that is not dangerous.
A short beam of wood swung across the alley end like a gybeing boom, and half a second later and half an inch higher it would have crushed his throat. An explosion of noise as it smashed into the corner of the building, somehow dulling the scream of pain that roared through Roscarrock’s shoulder. His height, his hesitation, had saved his life, but now he ducked and pushed himself forwards into the yard.
Safety was behind him, safety was the tight defensible confine of the alley and the busy, normal street beyond. Instinctively Roscarrock was back against the si
de of the yard, up fast, half-standing, feet braced, hands finding a solid surface and ready to propel him any how. A shadow in front of him, a looming body – how many slippery dockside alleys? How many sweating heaving decks? – and Roscarrock launched himself forwards into the body. They went down hard together, the thin man crying out as back and head rattled the scattered planks, then rolling, scrabbling, a knee in Roscarrock’s chest and fingers clawing for his eyes then clambering up and off from him. Roscarrock rolled away, came up to the crouch, found his man, and now his man had a knife.
Too many clumsy bitter sailors; too many harbour pimps. Moving swiftly in the dust, Roscarrock’s fingers found a stout length of wood.
A knife is a close-quarters weapon; a ready, crouching man is a hard target for it. First he needs me off balance; first he’ll try to kick my head off – and Roscarrock swung the timber in a swift arc that caught the swooping ankle and sent the thin man hopping back. Now up, up, a hand at each end of the makeshift club to block, but still the other man’s off balance, so swing again at the knife hand, fast and vicious and a scream and the knife clattered across the yard. Forwards – hard – two hands on the timber again and feet pumping against the deck and drive the timber into the bastard’s throat.
The thin man lying sprawled back in the dirt, turning red, Roscarrock over him, the pain in his left shoulder burning now as he pushed down with both hands, hard edge of timber cutting into the scrawny throat. A gristly choking, the face purpling, eyes squeezing larger and pleading, the lank strands of hair spilling into the dust.
Who are you? What do you want of me? What am I doing? I need answers!
Roscarrock clenched his shoulders, the timber plunged a last brutal inch, and the goggling rosy face died with a hiss.
A scratch of boots in the dust behind. ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’
Roscarrock spun round. It was Jessel, the Government agent, now looking down at him with something between interest and amusement.
‘He was trying—’ Was he, really, trying to kill me? ‘I didn’t—’ Didn’t I know him? Didn’t I want to kill him?
Jessel had stepped forwards. With the toe of a boot he lifted the length of wood off the crushed throat, and then he examined the face with bored distaste.
‘On the whole,’ he said, ‘I should think they’ll say that you did.’
He stooped, Roscarrock crouching back stiff against the yard wall with his blood still fierce in his head, and rummaged deftly through the pockets of the brown coat.
‘Calling himself Tyler.’ He straightened the dead man’s coat, and glanced at Roscarrock. ‘But not anymore. Come on.’ He led them a different way out of the yard.
Somewhere under Whitehall, Roscarrock was introduced to a room and a man. The room was metal-lined, both to protect it from fire and to ensure that if necessary its contents would burn very quickly. It did not officially exist. The man was called Morrison Cope, Clerk to the Admiralty, and all reports were sent to him. Mr Morrison Cope did not exist either.
Nothing about this world is real. No more real than the stranger who’d known me; no more real than his bloodshot dying eyes.
PROCEEDINGS OF THE ADMIRALTY BOARD, FIRST LORD, ADMIRAL LORD BARHAM, PRESIDING, THE 22ND DAY OF JULY 1805
[PROCEEDINGS OF THE ADMIRALTY BOARD, VOLUME XXIV]
‘You were seen at Seldon House last night, I think, Bellamy.’ Lord Barham, a sharp seventy-nine in an age when most men were dead at sixty.
‘Your Lordship has informants better even than my own.’
‘Seldon, was it, Bellamy? Hedging our bets are we? Keeping in with the radicals so they don’t cut your throat when the great day comes?’
‘Perhaps, George, they think they’re keeping in with me.’
The First Lord, with Lord G. Garlies, Admiral J. Gambier, Admiral Lord H. Bellamy and Sir E. Nepean being present, the Board convened at eleven of the clock.
Adm. Gambier described the general movements of our fleets: Adm. Lord Keith blockading off the Netherlands; Adm. Cornwallis patrolling the entrance to the English Channel; Adm. Cotton blockading Brest; Rear-Adm. Orde blockading off Cadiz.
‘Blockade and blockade and blockade. All the Frenchies safely trapped in harbour. Very prettily done, and not a single British sailor has killed a Frenchman or eaten a proper meal these three months. This cannot endure for eternity, Gambier.’
‘We must trust to our superior seamanship, My Lord. It has endured successfully until now.’
‘The frogs can fail and fail again, and our men continue sick and hungry sailing back and forth on blockade duty. If we fail but once, we will be damned by history as the men who gave London to Napoleon. God’s sake, gentlemen, this Board has absolute control of all that is left of Britain’s defence. We can’t just sit on our fundaments wondering at the weather-glass. What of Calder?’
‘Little yet, My Lord. We have had no further sighting of the French fleet of Admiral Villeneuve since the Curious reported it, and we must hope Admiral Calder finds it. He has now been reinforced, My Lord, and we look for an engagement at any moment.’
‘Fleets, Bellamy?’
‘Rear-Admiral Calder will likely be outnumbered four to three or five to three, My Lord.’
‘Satisfactory odds, My Lord.’
‘If he takes them, Gambier. If he misses, the enemy fleet is loose in the Channel.’
Adm. Gambier described the orders lately given to Vice-Adm. R. Calder, and reported Vice-Adm. H. Nelson returning from the West Indies.
‘Have we no word of Nelson?’
‘Not lately, My Lord.’
‘Ten weeks that man has been amusing himself in the Indies, and for nothing. We persuade ourselves that our solitary hope is to keep the French bottled up in their ports so that their invasion barges cannot sail, and then we allow their senior Admiral to escape into the open sea. Nelson wastes a month in the Mediterranean, then scurries off to the Indies in pursuit. We keep promoting that man because he’s supposed to be a fighter. But rather than bringing a decisive action, he’s been led astray like a first-year lad in a Portsmouth tavern dance. He’s now missed Villeneuve again, giving the frog free run of the Atlantic and the chance to slip up the Channel and deliver Napoleon to our doorstep.’
Their Lordships re-approved the existing orders to the fleets on blockade and to Vice-Admirals R. Calder and H. Nelson. Their Lordships a pproved regular expenditures to the pay account, to the shipyard account, to repair and maintenance of Admiralty property, and to Scrutiny and Survey.
There being no further formal business, the Secretaries withdrew.
‘No doubt, gentlemen, after all that good news, we may expect something special from Lord Hugo. Where’s your mystery fleet, Bellamy?’
‘I regret, My Lord, that we still do not know. It remains the firm indication from our agents in France that there is some new and additional naval force outside the regular formations. Its base is unknown; its command is unknown. The combined resources of France and Spain are more than enough to have supplied the necessary boats and men, stiffened by officers of quality from other fleets and those old officers not murdered by the Revolution.’
‘And the implications of this fleet?’
‘Our latest report from France – from somewhere close to Fouché, Napoleon’s Minister of Police – shows him confident that they have a way to neutralize the obstacle presented by our navy. He does not give details, but we must speculate that he refers to this fleet. I would defer to my sea-going colleagues on the implications, My Lord. But if it’s loose, this fleet could appear at any moment to challenge one of our blockading squadrons, or to support the invasion itself.’
‘Bellamy, you begin to depress me. What are you doing about this?’
‘We continue to scour France for information, My Lord. But you will understand that they are the most testing conditions in which to operate.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Have you the resources to buy the information, and to disrupt where you can?’
‘Anything else?’
‘There was concern that Admiral Villeneuve might attempt to land troops in Ireland, but we have had no word on that.’
‘You’ve had no word? How do you propose I find out, Bellamy? When some Catholic assassin knocks at my door? A French landing in Ireland would be a disaster. Nepean? You governed there.’
‘My Lord. When they tried their landing in ’96 we were only saved by a storm. Otherwise we’d have lost Ireland quickly and completely, no doubt of it. Every French naval movement is greeted with excitement in Ireland. A rowing-boat of Frenchmen would be taken as liberation.’
‘Liberation? God save us from Ireland: it is an infernal place and an intolerable burden. If I could give it up without it filling with Frenchies, I would do so this afternoon. To conclude: we have not yet heard whether the French have invaded Ireland, and can only hope that they have not. We have not yet heard of a mob marching on London, and we can only hope that they do not. We have not yet heard whether Robert Calder has intercepted Admiral Villeneuve, and can only hope that he does or else they’ll be sailing up the Thames within the week. Most of all we can only hope that we find this new French fleet, or else the game’s up and we all start learning the “Marseillaise”. Hope, gentlemen, is all we have, yes?’
In five hours Roscarrock was introduced to five people in five parts of London. At no point was his name asked, nor – with one exception – did he learn the name of any of those he met.