The Emperor's Gold

by Robert Wilton

  ‘I am only a man!’ The voice pierced his brain and seemed to drive down to his gut. It was high and slow, every vowel somehow forced and painful, and there was no doubt that it was ringing across the meadow to the outermost stragglers of the crowd. ‘But one man may contain all the freedom of a better world; one man may share all the dreams of a better world; and one man may achieve the better world.’

  This was the Reverend Forster’s prophet, the man to show the way to the promised land. And Roscarrock could do nothing about him. Meanwhile, Fannion was disappearing into the darkness.

  Still the voice sang into the night. ‘This better world exists, and it is ours. It is the world promised to us by God, and it is the world to be found in the pure heart of every one of us. All that we need is the path to reach what is in us, and the courage to follow that path.’

  The crowd was silent. Glancing around, Roscarrock saw the attention on every face, men of business and men without work, farmers and carpenters and weavers and shopkeepers and labourers from miles around staring equally dumb into the torchlight. It had to be Fannion. Jessel would see that Chance was talking; Jessel would be able to pick him up as the crowd dispersed. Fannion was leaving now, and Roscarrock was the only man able to follow him.

  ‘Every man here knows the obstacles to his true freedom: the child crying for food; the mother sick with fever; the loaf that cannot be bought; the men with the votes and the men with the muskets. If we bow before these obstacles, we shall remain forever slaves, building bricks without straw in Egypt.’

  But he couldn’t follow Fannion on foot; even if he could track him through the crowd, one dark head among a thousand, the Irishman would be out of the press and away long before he could get to him. Even if he could get to him, what then?

  ‘I know my path. I follow it, though I do not know what obstacles I will find nor how I will overcome them. But I am certain that in overcoming those obstacles I am beating a path to the Lord. I am doing his work. He has not prepared a better world for us merely to taunt us or deceive us. He has prepared a better world for us because it is our birthright, and we shame him if we do not devote our lives – if we do not offer our lives – to make that journey.’

  He had to get to a horse, and he had to guess where the Irishman would head. Roscarrock skirted round the cart, took care to avoid Hodge, and checked that Fannion was no longer in the immediate group staring up at the haunted music of Gabriel Chance. Then he pushed into the crowd, regardless of where Fannion was, driving for the outside as fast as he could.

  The voice of Chance followed him into the darkness: ‘Liberty is not something to be awarded to us by our betters; it burns within us, and we must choose to fuel its fire. I will give my life to this glory, because without it my life is nothing. I recognize these Kings and Magistrates and laws not at all, because they are obstacles in the Lord’s path. The Lord has told us himself: all nations before him are as nothing. He bringeth the princes to nothing; he maketh the judges of the earth as vanity. He raised up the righteous man, and gave the nations before him, and made him rule over kings. To them that have no might he increaseth strength. They that wait upon the Lord shall mount up, with wings, as eagles.’

  A storeroom in a barracks in Colchester, rarely used, a few wooden boxes and barrels gathered in the darkness, forgotten picture frames and other indistinct shapes hiding against the walls. The feet of four men in soldier’s boots had brushed through the dust; four improvised stools had been pulled close; a bottle was being passed round between the half-uniformed shadows, and the sparkle when it caught a freak of moonlight through one cobwebbed grille was the only illumination.

  ‘I don’t fancy being flogged to death.’

  ‘You fancy dying in a ditch?’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘It’s a fact of your life, mate, is what it is. We’re all in this, now, and once you’re in you’re in for good, one way or t’other.’

  ‘The officers is too scared to push us any further now.’

  ‘They’re not scared, but they don’t know what to do.’

  ‘They’re trying to find out what happened.’

  ‘No one’s stupid enough to go for that cheap reward and get the same treatment Franks got.’

  ‘So we should lie low.’

  ‘So we should cut their throats.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I tell you, mate, I’m sick of lying low. My whole life I’ve been starved and chased and bullied by one bastard or another. One little mistake and I’m stuck in the fucking army, and they’re still starving and chasing and bullying. I’ve had enough, see? If I don’t break the habit, it’s going to be me that gets crippled or hanged or shot one of these days, right or wrong.’

  ‘I’m all for changing the system, but what’s cutting the Colonel’s throat going to achieve?’

  ‘It might take the smile off his face.’

  Ahead, ghostly as they flickered between the trees under the chilly moon, two riders were moving at a walk towards the town. The intermittent glimpses between the black bars of tree trunks showed that one wore an odd, loose hat.

  Roscarrock’s eyes hardened in the darkness. He’d guessed right. The Irishman didn’t want to disappear into unknown countryside and risk a race with trained horsemen over open ground. He was heading for the town, comfortable in the calculation that in the event of trouble he could disappear into the crowd that would head the same way, or duck into one of a dozen inns, alleys or open doorways. Roscarrock eased his horse to an equal walk and charted a convergent course against the two riders, glancing at the ground to avoid noisier leaves or stone.

  He was forty yards behind them. Should he just follow? Was that the Kinnaird way, the Comptrollerate way – to trace the net, to illuminate the bigger picture? But by all accounts, the Irishman was a uniquely valuable prize, an essential link in treason’s chain. The Admiral had expressly sought his capture.

  But how? Roscarrock looked around him again – for Jessel, for any of the dragoons, any one man to help him, at least to take the Irishman’s companion out of the calculation. But he was alone on the slope, Jessel on the other side of the field, probably struggling to restrain the soldiers from relieving the boredom with a bit of a charge.

  So it was him, him alone, with the night air in his nose and the rhythm of the horse’s tread against his thighs, and still he didn’t know how he was going to tackle two riders. Instinctively, somehow, he had nudged the horse into the bouncing staccato beat of a trot – to follow or to attack? – and then behind him came the faint, foolish cry of a bugle, then shouts, and then chaos.

  The madness was immediate. Roscarrock’s isolation in the darkness, and in his utter concentration on the movement of his horse and the path of the men ahead, was shattered by the metallic call to the charge, by the distant animal cries of the dragoons spurring their horses and themselves to the attack and then, rippling towards him, the calls of fear and anger from the crowd, rising as a wave of alarm and confusion and then frantic movement. God knew what had prompted the dragoons – what the hell was Jessel doing? Had it been boredom, had someone thrown a stone or just a word? – but it didn’t matter because now he could hear the soldiers thundering into the crowd behind him, and as he swore and looked forwards again, he saw the Irishman’s attention drawn inevitably by the noise, saw the looks from the two men, saw the exchanged glance, the sudden wrenching at the reins, saw the horses leap forwards towards the town. Pursuit it must be, and Roscarrock kicked his horse to the gallop, pursuit if he wasn’t swallowed up by the frightened mob surging behind him. The trees began to blur beside him, the light of the town flashing between them, and he prayed for even ground for the charging horse he could no longer control, because the slightest drop would take the beast’s leg away and send him diving into one of the great trunks.

  The Irishman was halfway to the town – he wasn’t even galloping now – and somewhere in Roscarrock’s brain there was admiration that the man
had the daring and the self-control to ease his horse and draw less attention to himself. Roscarrock tried to match him, pulled the horse back to a canter, again tried to find space for calculation, and then from off to his right there was a single, high-pitched scream.

  He turned instinctively, and the horse slowed and pulled around with him. There’d been only one woman in his mind today, and some wilful trick of his brain said that the scream came from Virginia Strong. He stared into the evening, horse shifting urgent beneath him, saw the graceful figure, the golden hair, the white throat that had reached out to him. Damn the woman! Why the hell did her foolish dalliance with excitement bring her here? To the right, on the outskirts of the town, a group of women had been standing, watching the meeting from a distance with who knew what interest or scorn. Now they were a broken group, shifting and nervy as they watched their menfolk scattered by the dragoons. Close by them was that single figure, and the same glance that showed Roscarrock the height and hair that just had to be the lady showed him the tension between the group and the individual, the taller figure frozen and unnatural like an animal at bay, the mob of women edgy and restive. Damn her! Roscarrock pulled the horse to the right, and kicked it angrily into the gallop again.

  Moving now at a trot and able to keep a regular glance over his shoulder, James Fannion saw the unknown rider haring away and risked pulling up for a moment to assess the unexpected movement. He’d seen it all – the sudden trembling of the crowd’s fringe even as he heard the bugle, the disintegration of the group, individuals stepping away, whirling and staring like startled deer, like all the crowds he’d seen over the years; as the shouts rose and the first stones were thrown back at the horsemen, he’d seen more and more of the fringe first stagger and then run, seen the whole cauldron suddenly boiling with movement. The moonlight made the dusty mob wild and ghostly, and for a moment he fancied himself alone and pursued by a weird grey army, thundering towards him with unearthly wails. But he knew that the chaos was his cover, that his horse gave him distance and respectability, and that the town was near.

  Now there was this new movement, a rider where there should have been none. A curious townsman? A stray dragoon? Now the stranger was away, riding like the wind towards a restive gaggle of people near the poorer end of town – but he wasn’t riding for the gaggle, he was riding for a lone figure near them. Fannion stared at the inexplicable tableau: the small crowd, the solitary figure nearby, the horseman riding headlong towards… towards her; for it was a woman, no doubt of it – the group were women – and now one was throwing something, a few were moving towards the outcast… God, what was she doing there? Then with thunderous steps the rider was on her and she reached up as he reached down, swung lithely up onto the horse, and away into the darkness.

  Fannion gave the odd incident another second, and then at a word from his companion turned away and resumed his brisk journey into town, the storm of shouting following him as he rode.

  His stolen horse and the surge of blood to his head had carried Roscarrock through the crazed gallop, had brought him to the lady’s side in a frenzy of hooves and shouts and swooped her up behind him, and had taken them thundering away over the shadowed and broken ground. In less than a minute they were on a flat track, then a road into town, buildings growing up around them and a civilizing light beaming from windows and slowing them to a trot. Roscarrock was too hot and angry to feel the press of Virginia Strong’s body against his back, and the firm hold of her arms around his waist and chest.

  Suddenly her lips were at his ear, her words blowing across his cheek. ‘I should get off here, I think. People will start to talk.’ He could hear the smile in the words, and it riled him.

  He helped her down, and slipped down beside her.

  ‘I’m most grateful.’ She held out a fine hand, which Roscarrock gripped on instinct and then dropped. ‘It’s Mr Roscarrock, isn’t it? Tom. I’m Lady Virginia—’

  ‘I know who you are, My Lady. What the hell were you doing out there?’

  ‘I… I’m sorry.’ She didn’t seem very sorry. ‘I wanted to see—’

  ‘You wanted to see a bit of radicalism close up. You thought that a dark cloak would keep you anonymous.’

  ‘Those women—’

  ‘Are not stupid. They also have hungry children, and husbands who’ve just been charged by the dragoons, and when they see a rich stranger obviously out of place, they’re suspicious and hostile and I don’t blame them.’ He was detached from his own viciousness. Fannion was getting away. ‘God’s sake, woman!’ She blinked at the unfamiliar brutality. ‘Don’t you people realize that out here – away from your damned salons and champagne – it’s real? The suffering and the sedition and the violence – it’s actually happening to real people.’

  She was exulted rather than cowed by her escape, but Lady Virginia Strong didn’t like being scolded. ‘I suppose it’s natural that an habitué of Seldon House should have sympathies with the radicals.’ The blue eyes were bright and high. ‘I approve.’

  Roscarrock glanced around them. The first skirmishers of the crowd were starting to straggle into town, out of breath and wild-eyed. Somewhere, a pane of glass smashed. ‘The more I see of the gentry,’ he said, ‘the more I trust the mob.’

  She seemed to breathe him in, to a face shining with life. ‘Lord Hugo tells me he doesn’t know whether to trust you.’

  ‘My respects to you both, but I don’t give a damn.’ He swung up onto the horse. Then he looked back down at the exquisite figure standing mud-flecked in the street; the wind had blown her hood off again, and strands of golden hair trailed away into the darkness. An argument had started among a group of men nearby, and another window shattered the night, much closer now. ‘Will you be—’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Roscarrock.’ She smiled, and nodded graciously. ‘I shall be fine. My horse is close by.’ She was pulling her hair into order, and reached back to lift the hood. ‘Thank you for a most invigorating ride and discussion.’ The beautiful features, framed by the darkness of the hood, shone for a moment and then turned away.

  Roscarrock shook his head, and kicked the horse to a canter.

  FIELD REPORT, TAKEN THE 30TH DAY OF JULY 1805

  Joseph McNamara: the rich all parasites; the poor victims the world over; the King a weak and foolish old man powerless and unwilling to stop the abuses of his Ministers; Parliament a corrupt theatre; the price of bread used as a weapon for oppression.

  Henry Hodge: practical wrongs of the unreformed Parliament; theoretical wrongs of the unreformed Parliament; the American colonies won rights still not granted to British working men; the French revolutionaries secured rights ditto; the few disproportionately represented in Parliament, the majority unrepresented. A people’s march in London, and a petition to the King.

  James Fannion: the great brotherhood of man across countries; the equality of suffering – Irish and English labouring men; Irish sympathy for English workers; French ditto; all the Irish ask is fellow-feeling; only Government deception forestalls rebellion.

  Gabriel Chance: the better world promised by God; the essence of man, and his inherent relationship with God; Government and Governors barriers between man and God; paradise to be gained only by breaking through the bonds of oppression.

  [SS O/162/227]

  Bury St Edmunds was burning. From two points over the rooftops smoke was coughing up into the night, and a bright crown of flames visible high up to his left indicated a roof that had caught. As Roscarrock passed entrances to particular streets or alleys, the stench of burning billowed out at him. Now, as he hurried the horse through the chaos of the roaming angry and the hurrying scared, he passed a group of a dozen men hacking at the timbers of a barn with axes, and dragging sacks out into the street. They didn’t want to destroy the whole town, but selected merchants would suffer for their high prices and unpopularity. There was a shout behind him, a sudden hammering of hooves on the roadway, and he turned to see three dragoons charging down
towards the looters. The men scattered, dropping sacks and tools and bolting for doorways and alleys, all except for one who stood his ground and tried to face down the charge with axe ready. But he mistimed his strike and his movements, and the massive barrelling shoulder of the lead horse smashed him back into a wall before the sabre wheeling above could do worse damage. Roscarrock hurried on.

  He raced to the entrance to the town that Fannion would have used because he could do nothing else; but he knew it was futile. The Irishman would have escaped by now or, if he was sensible, buried himself in the chaos. Roscarrock wasted time asking after two riders and a hat at the nearest inns and sentries, and finally allowed sense to catch up with him. From a pair of patrolling dragoons he found out where Major Royce had stationed himself, and from the Major – sitting tall and still on his horse amid the mayhem, glass of wine in hand, directing his men with a nicely judged mixture of incitement and restraint and all the time conducting a conversation with two local officials – he found out where Jessel had headed.

  The town would not suffer badly. This was not a co-ordinated protest. This was confused groups of men in the darkness, dealing with the anger and shame of being poor and being attacked by taking it out on whatever symbols of authority or unhappiness they passed. The skirmishes between the groups and the roving dragoons would continue until tiredness and cold took over and everyone’s blood had settled. Then it would be up to the Magistrates to decide whether to make some examples or to let the evening pass as a regrettable explosion of tempers.