The Admiral’s grim gaze swung heavily round, and he sat. ‘An extraordinary meeting. I’ve never seen anything like it, Roscarrock. Anger – and fear. And that old man, staking the nation on his last throw of the dice.’ He looked up at the silent man in front of him, and the old cold professionalism was back in the voice. ‘Here it is, then. The Admiralty can do little more to stiffen our resistance to Napoleon. But they will do everything possible to weaken the attack, and at the very least to understand it. You are to go—’
‘What do the documents from Joseph Dax say about their plans?’
Bellamy’s face flashed irritation. ‘They say really very little that we did not already know. A few data on dispositions and numbers of the various fleets. Detailed suggestions of Napoleon’s plans for their movements, but our own men could have guessed most of that.’
‘The Sharks?’
‘Nothing, Roscarrock. The documents say nothing. You must look on yesterday’s excitements as an irrelevance. The man Fannion has escaped to France, where he will no doubt be plotting precisely the kind of Irish distraction that will bring trouble to half the ports in England and neutralize our resistance. And despite your little servant we still know nothing about the single most potent threat to our command of the Channel.’
Roscarrock’s eyes were set hard. That vital dossier, brought out of France at such desperate cost, said nothing about the Emperor’s most significant fleet? He felt the fog muffling his ship again, wondered at the shadows of rocks in the murk. I am in a world of darkness and mirrors. Facts and truths are as insubstantial as identities and loyalties.
Bellamy settled back stiff against his chair. ‘The Admiralty are looking to the Comptrollerate-General. We are the last hope of England. Every one of our irregular ships – and you never saw a wilder mix of heroes and cut-throats, Roscarrock – is putting to sea, with the most precious cargo. Every spy and spy-runner we have is going into France, and our irregulars will deliver them.’ His fingers drummed once on the desk. ‘And gold.’ The word came out harsh. ‘The Admiralty have signed over an unprecedented sum to us. Sealed and guarded wagons are rushing it to the coast to be loaded and shipped. Our agents will pay for every useful fact, every beat of a Royalist heart, every doubt in a wavering official’s loyalty. We’re buying time, Roscarrock, that’s what it is, and the Comptrollerate-General will pay ready cash for every precious minute of it.’ The eyes widened and hardened over the desk. ‘The single largest shipment is to go to the leader of the Royalist resistance in northern France. Have you heard of General Metz, Roscarrock?’
A name, an idea, repeated in the salons. ‘A little.’
‘An old Royalist hero, who took the remarkable decision to live in hiding in France rather than escape while he could. Extraordinary figure, by all accounts. His military reputation was remarkable, and the myth that’s built up around him has only multiplied his influence. It’s a measure of our desperation, but the gold will convince him we are committed to his support, and with luck it will buy us a rising in the north.’
‘You have an optimistic view of the affordability of French loyalty, My Lord.’
A grim smile crossed the Admiral’s face. ‘Oh, the price of trouble is down these days, and a hundred thousand pounds should buy enough of it.’ He noted the rare flicker of respect in Roscarrock’s eyes. ‘Unrest in the countryside around Amiens, perhaps with a couple of French regiments starting to waver when they hear that the General is back in action, might distract the Emperor’s army enough to hamper the invasion.’
‘That’s an expensive might, Admiral.’
Bellamy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Any alternative suggestions from you would as usual be welcome, Roscarrock. In the meantime, Lord Barham has approved this last chance, and he has approved the man to escort the gold. You, Roscarrock.’
The Admiral waited for a reaction, but there was none. ‘Your responsibility is two-fold. Firstly, you will make contact with General Metz, and deliver the gold to him – if he accepts contact and accepts our proposal. Second, you will scour our network in France for every grain of detail on the Emperor’s secret fleet: we must know location; we must know intent.’
Now Roscarrock spoke, quiet and earnest: ‘I’d take any excuse to get out of London. But I have no experience of this foreign work, I don’t have good French, and I don’t know the spy networks.’
‘Believe me, Roscarrock, I would be delighted to send anyone else. I consider your attitudes unco-operative and your loyalties suspect. But the First Lord of the Admiralty himself commands it. You are his epitome of Comptrollerate-General reliability. Besides, our best chance of finding the secret fleet will be Kinnaird’s network in France – if he hasn’t already sold it to Paris. The key to Kinnaird’s network is De Boeldieu. And De Boeldieu now trusts you.’
Roscarrock didn’t bother trying to disabuse him. After a moment’s reflection he said, ‘I’ll need to see all the reporting that’s come out of France.’
‘As long as it does not delay your departure.’
‘You intend that De Boeldieu comes with me?’
‘I suspect he will be crucial to reaching the most useful intelligence. You should have little difficulty convincing him of the importance of this journey. He will be pleased that he and not a substitute is trying to contact his agents, and at this most crucial time.’
Roscarrock said nothing. De Boeldieu would have to be a lunatic to want anything to do with this last, desperate foray by a dying Empire, but there was no point arguing the point with the Admiral. Besides, whatever De Boeldieu’s attitude to him, there was an independence and a seriousness to the Frenchman that would be welcome. Though was there any more proof for De Boeldieu’s claim to be Kinnaird’s gatekeeper than for his previous pretence, beyond Joseph Dax’s dramatic but futile journey and the sheer implausibility of someone making the claim falsely?
He stopped in the doorway. ‘You said every possible spy-runner.’ The Admiral looked up. ‘I assume that means Lady Virginia Strong.’
A grave nod. ‘She should even now be in France. She too is hunting Napoleon’s secret fleet, and she’s tracking your Irish friend, Fannion. We must learn whether he makes contact with the French Government, and what he plans. Fannion – General Metz – and the Emperor’s Sharks: our future is in the balance.’
Roscarrock shook his head in distaste.
‘Roscarrock, I cannot make it a distraction from your other tasks. But she may well be moving in the same districts as you. Keep watch for her, you hear me? And bring her safe out if you possibly can.’ Roscarrock nodded. Bellamy’s lips soured. ‘She too asked, most particularly, for you.’
RECEIVED BY THE OFFICE OF MR MORRISON COPE AT THE ADMIRALTY, FORWARDED FROM HACKNEY.
My dear Gabriel,
I got your letter and was so mighty pleased at it. Your hand is so familiar to me and when I see it I think always of us sitting together and you teaching me the letters and when I see it I see your face and your mind and your smile. It worries me when I hear that you are followed by the Government men, and I know you are not as carefree as you pretend. I care nothing for the trickeries and the secret friendly hands you tell of, for you always taught us that deceit is deceit and an offence against the great pure truth and it is like the scorpion that stings itself. I am glad you have found men who have received the light from you and who hearten you. I hope that they are good and trusty men, and I pray that together you may go forwards to glory like you say.
Here we are well and life goes on.
It made me cry to hear from you and I wish you here. You seem so far away and I know you have further to go before I might see you again. I pray that the good Lord keep you safe until we meet.
Your loving wife,
Flora Chance
[SS M/1108/3]
Ten years before, the ancient port of Newhaven had endured the indignity of capture – by rioting militiamen from Oxfordshire. The town still showed the scars: cracked and pocked walls, and mysterious furr
ows on the green where the artillery had dispersed the rebels. The place was oddly quiet today, meditating sullenly on the past.
Roscarrock and De Boeldieu, tramping side by side in discontented silence, found the sloop Jane at the end of an old jetty away from the centre of the port. As he looked up from the stones at his feet to the two soaring masts, something in Roscarrock started to breathe again after a long stifling. The seawater nuzzled like a faithful dog at the ship’s side, and the air had the thrilling emptiness of smell that promised freedom and the pure, uncompromised challenge of man against nature. Roscarrock suddenly felt his weeks of absence from the sea – the longest he had been on dry land since he learnt to walk, and the longest he had been out of sight of that vast expanse of truth.
Their last few steps along the jetty were beside the Jane. Roscarrock liked the look of her, for speed: she was sleek and sharp, and the long bowsprit projecting out towards the empty sea only accentuated this. He didn’t, though, much fancy the thought of a heavy Atlantic swell in her. One step up and he swung smoothly over the rail and onto the deck, De Boeldieu scrambling behind him.
A small dark man crossed the deck. Roscarrock said, ‘The life of a sailor must be lonely.’
‘But the life of a sailor is free.’
‘God save the King.’
‘God save the King. Roscarrock?’
‘Yes. Captain Miles Froy?’ A nod. ‘Permission to come aboard, Captain?’
‘Aye. Are we waiting for anything more? I’ve got the wind and not much more of the tide.’
‘Has our cargo arrived?’
Froy nodded once. ‘In the hold this half hour.’ His words and movements came soft and economic, and Roscarrock was reassured by it.
‘Then as you judge.’ His attention caught, Roscarrock knocked thoughtfully at the ship’s rail.
The Captain saw the movement. ‘Cedar.’
Roscarrock looked up with interest. ‘Bermuda?’
‘Yes. You know ships, then.’
Careful. A shrug. ‘Book learning mostly. Helps in this trade.’
A grunt, and the Captain was off giving quiet orders for departure. Roscarrock scanned the deck: compact, and very tidy. Lashed down near the tiny raised quarterdeck were two irregular canvas-covered lumps. Cannon: nine- or perhaps twelve-pounders – enough to make a noise and get out of trouble. In the hold, he found an unhappy-looking Marine trying to stand to attention by a pile of wooden boxes. He probably wouldn’t know what was in the boxes, but he’d know enough to be intimidated, and Roscarrock wondered if the crew had been goading him a bit. They were too professional for real mischief, but to the Marine they probably looked rough enough to knock him on the head without losing any sleep about it. Roscarrock thanked and dismissed him; they wouldn’t be needing a uniformed Marine, and the young man hurried off gratefully. Roscarrock was left with the pile of boxes that had now become his responsibility, and wondering at the madness.
They were at sea less than half an hour later, and it was only that long because of the two figures who came hurrying along the jetty as the crew were getting ready to cast off. The first of them waved his presence to the Jane when he was still fifty yards away.
It was Jessel. He reached the sloop, greeted a wary Froy, and climbed aboard. Behind him, a burly soldier came up with a chest in his arms. Jessel pulled the chest from the soldier, and sent him away down the jetty.
For a moment Roscarrock thought that Jessel was coming with them. His colleague grinned at him and disappeared into the ship, staggering ungainly behind the Captain with the chest in his arms. But he was back a few minutes later, without either Froy or the chest. He grabbed at Roscarrock’s arm.
Roscarrock was unsettled, and didn’t know why. He realized that the reappearance of Jessel, and the urban confusion that he represented, was tarnishing the freshness of the sea. ‘Final orders for the Captain,’ Jessel said, and added cheerfully, ‘Thrown up yet?’
‘Not until I saw you.’
‘Can’t stand boats. Hate it every time I have to get on one. How’s your Frenchy friend?’
‘Trusts me even less than I trust him.’
‘It’ll be a lovely voyage, then.’ Jessel looked into Roscarrock’s face, and suddenly he was serious. ‘Take care, you hear, Tom? Whatever you are, you’re not ready for that slab yet.’
‘You too. Make sure England’s still here when I get back.’
Then Jessel was away across the deck. He made for one of the crew – the First Mate, tall, bearded and watchful – and spoke privately with him for a minute. Then he was away over the rail with a final, pleasant wave, and the jetty was moving away from the sloop’s side, and then Newhaven began to shrink, and soon they were clear of the headland and Roscarrock felt the force of the sea and the breeze plucking at the ship.
‘You look unhappy, Mr Roscarrock.’ His head snapped round: De Boeldieu. He hadn’t heard the Frenchman coming up behind him, and it hurt his pride. ‘Are you not well?’
‘I’m fine,’ Roscarrock said tersely. De Boeldieu nodded indifferently.
He stood next to Roscarrock at the rail, and looked towards the disappearing coast. After a moment he said, ‘You say you learnt about sailing from books. But you jumped onto the ship – and you move around it – like a dancer.’
Roscarrock glanced at him. What did it matter anymore? ‘I’ve sailed some.’
De Boeldieu didn’t press the point. ‘I thought you were seasick, perhaps.’
‘I’m at last feeling a little less landsick.’
‘Your mouth was open like a dumb donkey.’
Roscarrock smiled. ‘I was thinking. Doesn’t come easily. Or just a sailor’s superstition, perhaps: last-minute disruptions never bode well.’
‘Surely the more experienced a sailor you are, the less you have need of superstitions.’
‘The opposite.’ Roscarrock heard his own earnestness, and hesitated. The Frenchman was watching him.
Kinnaird knew everything about him, and De Boeldieu was Kinnaird’s man. ‘I was born in a community that was more sea than land. And when your livelihood and your life depend on the sea, you develop every kind of crazy belief to keep the sea on your side. I could tell you a dozen things that you mustn’t bring on a boat, say on a boat, or see on a boat.’
De Boeldieu smiled, and put a hand on his shoulder. It was the first suggestion of pleasantry between them. ‘My friend, you are a spy, trusted by no one, in charge of a cargo that most men would kill for, with a crew that I would fear more than most men, travelling to a country where they will hang you simply for your nationality. What can possibly go wrong?’
All around the coast of south-eastern England, from the Thames Estuary to the Isle of Wight, the irregular ships of the Comptrollerate-General for Scrutiny and Survey were putting to sea. They left by quiet jetties and forgotten inlets; they left by dawn and by dusk. They carried brave and desperate men – men as varied, as eccentric or disreputable, as the crews that ferried them. They carried gold, and the last hopes of an Empire.
It was a small crew, and Roscarrock did not warm to them. They were good enough at their work – excellent, indeed. But there was no spirit in them. He had a fair suspicion what they got up to when they weren’t running errands for the British Government, and he’d hauled more than a few illicit cargoes over moonlit Cornish sands himself. But even among the most debased men, there’d been a comradeship, a mutual dependency in the face of constant threats to life. Too much business had hardened and frozen the men of the Jane.
Froy, the Captain, he liked the look of as a seaman, but the man was too quiet and distant from his crew. Aloofness worked in a man-of-war with hundreds of men aboard, but not in a sloop with a dozen. Men needed to respect and even fear their Captain in a little ship as much as on a large, but they also needed to feel he was one of them. On the Jane, orders and reports all passed through the sour and acerbic Mate, Griffiths. He wondered if crew and Captain had not been long together.
Roscarr
ock dropped into the hold and had another look at the boxes. There were exactly twenty of them. For what they carried, they seemed small and insubstantial – no more than a foot square, thin panels of wood, and without fancy metalwork or indeed any marking. Each was sealed, so any attempt to tamper with it would show, but otherwise they were only nailed shut. He scrambled the full length of the hold; this was the only cargo.
He wondered what Jessel had told the Captain about the boxes, and what the crew knew. Crews didn’t like transporting things they didn’t know about, and you could usually reckon on someone having a peek in the small hours to assuage curiosity and calm superstition. The boxes were obviously important, and even if they didn’t know exactly what was in them, the men would know that it was very valuable to someone. They’d have to be getting a fat wage for the voyage, and the promise that they’d be hunted to the ends of the earth and given all the tortures of hell if they tried to borrow their cargo. At no stage did Roscarrock imagine they’d be doing it out of sheer patriotism.
He hauled himself up out of the hold, murmured a greeting to two of the crew he passed near the hatch – it would do them good to know he was keeping an eye on the cargo, but there was still little to stop them dropping him over the side if the fancy took them – and went to find De Boeldieu.
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