The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  Juliette had offered to stay at the camp of Prince Josias, if that was at all in her power and send back whatever intelligence she could glean. Simple code words, the names of flowers, herbs and root vegetables would tell of the movements of infantry, cavalry and artillery, Austrian and British as well as a dozen important locations, chosen for their importance by Ferrand, across Flanders. A fragmented key to the code was contained within letters secreted in her trunk but much had already been committed to memory. Such horticultural correspondence would occur with the fictional gardener of a property in Dunkirk that she had purchased with what remained of the money from Marboré. The letters would have some added colour as two neighbours squabbled over portions of the land that now belonged to the exiled Countess.

  Juliette had made one condition.

  Her conduit for these letters was to be Arnaud Mahieu. Her new gardener. And so that she knew that the letters came from Mahieu alone, each would contain a code word. It was a simple bargain. Juliette needed to ensure that Mahieu was alive, free. If he remained vital to the plans of Carnot, he would stay out of the clutches of Genet.

  Ferrand had suggested the fiction of the land dispute. Juliette had confessed her involvement to Caillat and despite the young investigator’s adulation, Ferrand had calculated that the moment Caillat returned to Paris, any talk of a pardon would be crushed by Genet. So, inside the seemingly tedious chat of bedding arrangements for a small formal garden and vegetables for a herb garden which would detail the movements of armies, citizens G__, C__ and B__ would feature: Genet, Caillat and Beauvais. A code within a code. Her only hope was that Mahieu would grasp the importance of what she wanted. A diamond had been included in her letter to the smuggler, offered to her as both payment and compensation by Genet in the days before Dumouriez’ defection. The irony of using the gem against Genet was delicious.

  Mahieu had understood.

  Her new gardener was planning to discuss the rights of their good friend Citizen B__ with Citizen C__ and impress upon him that matters must be resolved amicably and swiftly.

  Juliette put down the letter and drained the contents of the wine glass. The balance of the bottle cooled in a wooden bucket that usually served for swabbing artillery pieces. Perhaps the shortage of a bucket was hindering a cannon from firing into Quesnoy. Right now, that was her only contribution to hindering the Austrian war effort. Standing up, she felt her shirt, heavy with sweat, stick to her back. In the trunk stored safely away, was her dragoon’s outfit. The new Austrian one was exquisitely tailored to accentuate hips taut from months in the saddle. The simple act of wearing this most unofficial of uniforms allowed her the freedom to travel the length of the allied lines. She was not a prisoner and as far as Juliette could tell, the message from Dunkirk had been unopened. Such privilege might not last if the campaign turned against Austria.

  Another rumbling barrage began. Her mind was made up, she would ride, find a deep pool somewhere along the Rhonelle and bathe. When she returned, there would be dinner invitations, one of which she would accept.

  Tomorrow, September would dawn. When it did, she wanted to have some instructions to send to her gardener.

  London: 31st August 1793

  The carriage had turned in Berkley Square and in the warmth of the cabin Sir Henry Dundas could feel himself fighting against sleep. He slid the window down and the sights and sounds of the evening flooded in. London was alive with ordinary people going about their own lives, little concerned by the sacrifices that public officials made to keep the country functioning at a time of such peril. His club, Bradshaw's, was a few more minutes away and he would be grateful of the chance of a change of dress before drinks and dinner.

  There had been an opportunity to return home to his country retreat for the weekend but the national situation would not allow it. Only by his tireless efforts and those of his staff, had the siege pieces been finally loaded and ships found to escort them. More than that, a mortar ship, HMS Thunder, would be ready to sail within a few days to conduct the bombardment of Dunkirk. With Admiral McBride sent to assess the situation and draw up a co-ordinated plan with the Duke of York, victory was more certain than ever.

  The minister stared out of the window, seeing men perfect for life in the armed services that had eluded the grasp of crimper and press-gang. A victory like Dunkirk would draw men to the Colours, solve the chronic manpower shortage and give the Ministry a far greater strength in demanding more money from those penny-pinching scum at the Treasury. Then scores could be settled. A new chief of staff would be found; Murray and his constant whining were a constant source of irritation and caused friction between the King and his most humble Minister of War. Dundas had contemplated taking the role himself, once Dunkirk was settled. After all, how hard could it really be? Dundas was running the Empire; all Murray had to do was advise the Prince on how best to carry out a task with the copious troops given to him.

  Tomorrow, September would dawn. Dunkirk would fall and Dundas’ troubles would ease once it did. He pushed the window back up, shutting out the outside world and suddenly feeling refreshed and ready for a well-earned meal.

  Dunkirk: 31st August 1793

  The note lay partially folded on the desk in the small room that Caillat had taken as his office. A single door opened to an adjoining bedroom, neither encumbered with many possessions. Caillat had travelled from Paris with a calf-skin pack of personal items, in ten days’ time he would make the return journey.

  More important to him was the security of the rooms. Each was served by a single key, of which the patrons, an elderly couple, had given him his own and their spare. Across the table were other documents, dispatches from Souham to Houchard and Carnot, copies of which were now required to be scrutinised by the Representative en Mission. Next to that, the beginnings of a report to Genet, the wording of which was troubling the young man from the province of Bergerac.

  The desk was not cluttered enough; there should have been a dozen reports from Houchard, copies of the correspondence from the Army of the North, but there had been nothing. General Souham had urged caution and delay reporting the matter to Paris; now was not the time to challenge the giant Sans Culottes general. In five days, a council of war was planned. Caillat would be present, his rank and office ensured such a place around Houchard’s table; the Committee would know the General’s plans then.

  In Paris, the guillotine had claimed another life, tying an ever-growing weight around the post of commander of the Army of the North.

  Genet had made another successful prosecution. Adam Philippe, Comte de Custine had been found guilty of failing the French people by allowing Valenciennes to fall. Houchard would surely know too, his mood was volatile enough. Caillat had heeded the words of Souham but finding the words to present this vacuum of information to the watchful eyes of the Committee was a risk to his own life.

  Turning the matter over in his own mind in the confines of the room had not brought resolution, so Caillat determined that a walk through the evening streets of Dunkirk might clear his head. The air was warm, there was no need for a jacket, so he merely slipped the pair of keys into the pocket of a faded pale blue nankeen jacket and prepared to quit the room, pausing briefly on whether to wear the tricolour sash of office which spoke of his rank and then deciding against the matter. This evening, for an hour at least, he wished anonymity to consider his course of action. Checking the locks on both doors, Maurice Caillat descended a small flight of wooden stairs into a squat parlour where his hosts sat engaged in a discussion of some matter regarding the running of the house and out into a gentle stream of citizens moving towards the inns around the port, intent on enjoying the last of the August evening sunlight.

  Suspicion had always been part of Caillat’s instinct: after five minutes of walking, he knew he was being followed. On reaching the Liars Tower, he paused, chatted briefly to a bored militia sentry who guarded the door to the tower’s entrance and took the opportunity to check the road behind hi
m. A figure hid in a doorway, perhaps fifty yards distant, smoke billowing from a thin pipe. After a few moments, an ancient mariner in his late sixties shuffled from the shadows, crossed the street onto the other side of the road from Caillat and headed off into the evening. Chiding himself, the young man bid a good evening to the sentry and resumed his walk, returning to work on the formation of the words that would make the draft of the report to Paris.

  But a few minutes later, as the crowds thinned, and Caillat walked towards the harbour, full of dozens of boats anchored for the evening, the sense of being stalked returned. Footsteps rang across the cobbles behind him, which quickened as Caillat increased his own pace. He had been used to such actions himself, as an investigator pursuing his quarry, but now he was the quarry and it was a feeling that was sickening. Across the harbour, silhouettes could be seen working on tasks on the dozens of moored boats, but what good would shouting for help do? If the person who was following Caillat meant to do him ill, then any help would be too late. Worst still, if the footsteps belonged to a man from the port, no help would be forthcoming at all. He knew the code of a town like Dunkirk; a blind eye would be turned to an attack on an outsider. He fought to control his emotion and the desire to run.

  His heart jumped in relief as he saw two men climb the steps of the port wall from a small rowing boat and begin to walk down the narrow street that flanked the port wall. To Caillat’s left the sea; to his right a row of darkened merchant’s buildings closed for the night. Between these ran a narrow passageway leading into the streets of a town to which Caillat was unfamiliar.

  The best option was the two sailors. He wished now he had worn that sash; its rank of office would mean that any citizen would have to follow his direct order. Still, he would have time to explain but even before the words had formed in his mind and with the two seamen just a dozen yards away, he watched in horror as a cudgel slipped from the sleeve of a tall, tanned man, the left of the two men who approached him. The other, stockier and of North African appearance smiled broadly.

  Caillat knew that then that it was a trap. For the briefest moment he stopped, took in as much detail of the two men as he could, in the vain attempt to convince himself he would hunt them in the morning, once he had given the pair and his hidden pursuer the slip. With just the briefest of smiles and a nod to the fast approaching fishermen, Maurice Caillat ran like the devil himself was pursuing him.

  His sprint had caught his pursuers by surprise and he made the narrow passage way and continued his way past the high walled sides of the merchant’s yard. Left and right, behind the yard, another alleyway led to the rear of the premises. Ahead an empty street, its mean narrow houses with doors closed. Caillat resolved to run until he could find one that was open and throw himself at the mercy of the occupants.

  He had escaped by quick wits and even quicker feet!

  From the passageway at the rear of the building a fourth figure loomed, followed by an explosion of pain as a giant fist drove hard into his stomach. In a gasp of agony Caillat collapsed like a wounded animal, sprawling onto the cobbles. There were footsteps behind him, a searing pain as his head collided with the stone floor and then darkness.

  Consciousness returned with a sickening jolt as Caillat struggled to breathe, a rough sack cloth covered his head, in attempting to move his hands to shift it, he realised that these were bound tightly behind the back of a chair that he had been placed in. The room smelled of gutted fish and through the gauze of the sackcloth he could see the faint outline of shapes in the darkness silhouetted by torchlight. The glow of the torch moved closer, within inches of the cloth and Caillat jerked his head in an uncontrolled reaction, afraid that whoever held the torch intended to set the cloth alight.

  “He’s awake…” a heavy voice thick with the local accent spoke.

  Caillat attempted to regain his thoughts, tried to claw at the fear which threatened to overwhelm. Did these men know who he was? Caillat drew deep breaths, inhaling the stench of whatever the sacking had held before and tried to clear his mind. Play the victim, agree to whatever these men wanted and listen for something that might help him live through this ordeal.

  “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.” Caillat whimpered, as much in terror as to try and begin a dialogue and talk his way out of the situation.

  These men faced death for harming a Representative en Mission, although now was not the moment to play that card.

  “Maurice Caillat, if I wanted you dead, you would already be dead. This is Dunkirk. A man dies. His body is never found and no-one ever asks questions.”

  A new voice from behind him spoke.

  Caillat attempted to turn his head but the shock of pain in his temple prevented it. He wanted to see the outline of the speaker, gauge his height. Another local accent, of that he was sure.

  “You know my name? Then you know what I am?” Caillat spoke almost involuntarily.

  “Who you are; where you are staying; you are watched all of the time, my friend.” The voice from behind him replied.

  “Then you know the penalty for what you are doing?” Caillat did not want to force the line of questioning too early, fearful of the answer he might get but the seconds seemed like minutes and his mind was racing to form a path that might lead to him leaving this place alive.

  “Yes, I do. As I said before if I wanted you dead, you would already be. So, you will live, but ask another question without my permission and that decision could change. Just nod if you understand.”

  Caillat nodded and put his effort into his captor’s demands while trying to place the voice. He was sure he had heard it recently. At the same time, he pressed his left bicep close in against his chest. Under the lining of his jacket he could feel the outline of the pair of keys. The motive wasn’t robbery either, unless he had been unconscious for a long time, the pain in his temple suggested that wasn’t the case.

  “You know of a man called Julian Beauvais? Captain Beauvais of the Third Dragoons? He rots in some shit- hole of cell in the Conciergerie. You made a promise to a lady to have this man freed?”

  “Yes but…” Caillat started to explain and felt another jolt of pain to his temple as an open hand struck the very spot that was already bleeding and bruised. He felt a warm trickle seep down the side of his face and soak into the collar of his jacket.

  “I told you to listen. I’m not interested in your excuses. You are not dealing with a lady any more. Beauvais is a friend of mine and now you will make an agreement with me.”

  Caillat felt a rough hand thrust something into his jacket and recoiled instantly fearing another blow.

  “Beauvais must live and you will see to it. We too have friends in Paris. We have delayed his trial, improved his lot but it will take someone who knows the prosecutor and the judges to complete our work. That scum Genet cannot be bought but you will ensure that Beauvais is freed. Inside your jacket, I have placed the necessary means. You will work out who to bribe when the time comes.” The voice spoke slowly, with measured calmness.

  Caillat nodded, trying to comprehend the words; he whispered Juliette’s name before reason could stop him.

  “That’s right, the Countess. Her intercessions alone have kept me from killing you. Do you understand? Now you will find a way to free Beauvais, I’m not interested in the detail or the problems, just the solution. No doubt you are wondering what will happen if you fail? Let us just agree that yours will not be a quick death.”

  Caillat felt the long cold edge of a blade under his throat, through the rough sack cloth.

  “You will beg for this blade hours before you finally die.”

  Around him the silhouettes began to move, the light becoming a faint glow as if it had been taken into another room.

  “You will be found by the workers here in the morning. Pray to whatever God you believe in, that you and I do not meet again.”

  A rough hand pushed Caillat’s head forward just as the blade was jerked away and footsteps receded,
leaving Maurice Caillat alone in the darkness.

  There were no means by which the investigator could span the length of time until the torch lights returned but this time there were a great deal more and voices were raised in triumph and concern. Hands worked at the knots which bound his hands and the sacking around his head. Caillat, weary through tortured sleep and exhaustion, blinked heavily, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brilliance of half a dozen torches which lit up the warehouse room in which he had been held.

  “Citizen Caillat, are you harmed? Who did this to you? That such an insult to France should happen in my town. Sir, you are bleeding. Can you stand?” A barrage of questions reeled from the lips of Jean-Francois Grison, Mayor of Dunkirk.

  “Monsieur Martin, your landlord, reported you absent an hour ago, it being after midnight and out of character for you to stay out so late. There were reports of a man being chased along the dock. Forgive me, Monsieur but there is trouble from time to time between sailors and I thought little of it. You know I have patrolled the port diligently since the English arrived. That such a thing could happen here. I will turn every house upside down until I find the answers. I…”

  Caillat held his freed hands up to calm Grison.

  “Monsieur Mayor, I bear you and the citizens of Dunkirk no ill will. No harm has been done.” Caillat spoke as he patted the right pocket of his jacket, tucked down the envelope and its contents, away from prying eyes, wondering himself what might be contained within.

  “That is very gracious of you to say, Citizen Caillat, but the law must be upheld. An investigation must be carried out.” Grison interjected.