Treason's Spring

by Robert Wilton

  It is a most peculiar performance. Participants, some ten or twenty devotees or persons afflicted with all degrees of sickness – my companions included among divers others a lady much troubled with headaches, a lad who has not walked since birth, two lunatics, and a quack I know to be in the pay of one of Mesmer’s rivals – sit in a circle in Mesmer’s parlour, around a curious wood and brass and glass vessel some three hands high. This Mesmer calls the ‘baquet’ – we would say the pot, or the tub – and from it protrude a number of metal rods which the participants are obliged to hold against their persons, specifically against the most afflicted portion. Thereafter a rope is run from the device to one of the party, and thence to the next person, and so on round, until the circle is completed and the rope returns to its source.

  I append a sketch of the device, and am endeavouring to obtain closer technical specifications.

  This experience itself is felt by some to have perceptible effects upon the fluxions within their organism, and the impact is greater when Mesmer himself approaches, and, without actually touching, moves his hand nearer to the subject. Witnesses have reported the most remarkable shocks and even convulsions at the mere proximity of the man.

  Such, he proposes, is his animal magnetism, which he elaborates as being the power exerted by one human body of more potent motion upon a weaker, transferring by magnetic force its electric currents into and then through the fluids that pervade all organisms.

  I confess, Sir, that I departed his salon with more of a headache than when I arrived, but happily there is a more robust review of its effects. His Majesty, concerned by the popular enthusiasm for the phenomenon as much as by its questionable implications for natural philosophy and for religion, has now decreed that a Royal Commission of Enquiry be established to consider the existence and true operation of the hypothesized magnetic fluid. His Majesty is also, I understand, acutely concerned at the implications of such a phenomenon as a means of perverting the normal function of authority and deference in society.

  The Commission will comprise several medical men, natural philosophers including BAILLY the astronomer and LAVOISIER the chemist, and the American representative, FRANKLIN. Sensible of the various complications and potentialities that that name involves, I shall endeavour to remain au courant with their deliberations and determinations.

  E. E.

  [SS F/24/38 (DECYPHERED)]

  These are the days of Keith Kinnaird, a fugitive free in France.

  In Chateau-Thierry, a conversation with two farmers and, later, a grain merchant about what the eastward campaign of the volunteer army has meant to them.

  In Coulommiers, supper with a schoolmaster. Too much of the local cheese, and discussion of mathematics, and the power of reason, and its relation to government and loyalty.

  In Montereau, half a day watching the movements of the barges on the Seine.

  In Montargis, with the saffron sweet in the air, a coffee with a retired merchant and the sale of a copy of Montesquieu’s Lettres Persanes.

  In the outskirts of Orleans, icon of resistance to the English invader, a discussion in an inn on the Dutch republic and the importance of Britain’s Asian territories, following the loss of some of her American colonies.

  If anyone asks, he is a merchant. He makes no pretence to be French. If asked, he is Irish – in these strange days the least controversial of the British islands. He says that he is trading in the wake of Custine’s Army of the Vosges. This doesn’t always endear him to the farmers or his potential competitors, but it explains him satisfactorily to those he meets – especially those in uniform. In his bundle, across the back of his horse, he brings a few books which he can offer for sale, by way of introduction to certain sorts of men.

  But I am a merchant.

  I used to be a merchant.

  Keith Kinnaird is no longer resisting. He is moving in France, with France. He is learning her currents: of trade; of people; of information.

  He is making a tour of northern France, keeping his distance from Paris. He is not yet ready to risk returning to the capital; but he knows that time must come.

  He is not ready to leave. Kinnaird has unfinished business in France.

  Guilbert had got used to waiting while Fouché finished reading something. Reading had never been Guilbert’s way into the world – writing was a dead, deceptive kind of communication. But some men were needed to read. The Monsieur made good use of it, and to be fair to him he was prodigious fast and on occasion would read while listening, and hold each clear in his head.

  Guilbert wondered at that head.

  When the head came up it was smiling faintly, lost in something.

  Eventually it focused. ‘What do you have today, Guilbert?’ Fouché hadn’t noticed that he was adopting something of Lavoisier’s treatment of guests.

  Guilbert shrugged. ‘As usual, Monsieur, military success means folk are more impatient at home: more fights; more robberies. The police are stretched; the Paris Sections are grumpy. The investigation into the royal diamonds is blocked completely. No one’s talking about who was really behind it, and no one’s interested to push. No word on the British fugitives. We’ve turned over the lodgings of Benjamin, who hasn’t showed up yet, and Pinsent, who was sprung from La Force. Nothing. They met other foreigners frequently, but no one knows anything. They were close with Greene, but we knew that anyway. We’ve questioned a few other British – keep ’em worried, yes, Monsieur? – and they’re frightened enough to talk but they’ve nothing to tell. There’s a watch on all the city gates, of course; on every city gate in France; but ten sous’ll buy new papers, and ten francs’d buy the guard himself.’

  ‘And . . . the other man?’

  ‘The mystery. The Kinnaird. He galloped out of St-Denis and disappeared from the earth. We don’t know who rode with him, and we don’t know who’s helping him. Every district in France is watching for him; no one’s seen anything.’

  Fouché was gazing into the distance. Guilbert had expected more irritation.

  ‘You were reading something . . . pleasant, Monsieur?’

  The faint smile came back to Fouché’s face. ‘Fascinating, Guilbert. Not the subject, but the process. Several years ago Louis commissioned a circle of great philosophers to review the claims of Mesmer. Have you heard of him, Guilbert? – the physician – remarkable cures by the use of magnetic power.’

  Guilbert nodded. ‘Him and a few like him. Holds his hands on young women’s bellies, or thereabouts, does it a powerful long time and claims he’s a wizard when they start to feel funny. Might set up as a physician myself, Monsieur. He makes money at it too. They made a good thing of him in the music halls.’

  It was a distraction to Fouché. ‘The Royal Commission was quite a group, Guilbert: Lavoisier, whose letter we had, and Mayor Bailly who’s fled, and – ’

  ‘Nantes.’

  ‘Yes, and Lagrange the mathematician, and the American ambassador, and others like them. I have been reading some of their reports. They showed that Mesmer’s theories were nonsense, of course. Magnetized trees, Guilbert. Magnetic water. But they way they did it!’ He was pacing, and turned back, and his hand was gripping the idea in the air. ‘Their method: experiments – comparisons – brilliantly devised to show the truth. They conducted sixteen different tests, and in each they had some subjects apparently supporting the hypothesis and some not. Multiple subjects, to remove the possibility of error. Testing the hypothesis positively and negatively, so there could be no doubt about their conclusions. They didn’t destroy Mesmer with philosophy, but logic.’ Fouché’s predator eyes were bright. ‘Logic, Guilbert!’

  Guilbert nodded. Most of what he heard in these buildings was magnetized trees.

  From the front window of the Ship Hotel in Chartres, Kinnaird was watching the traffic outside. He’d never been able to see a wagon without wondering what it contained and where it was going. Now that habit had become a purpose: the currents of France – her blood – were
her trade. Chartres was on the main road between Paris and Nantes, on the Atlantic coast, and Nantes was rich with the trade in sugar and coffee from the Americas. Kinnaird measured the character and strength of France by the wagons that flowed along these arteries.

  The Ship was prosperous, but quiet this morning. His only company was a man of about his own age, dressed as prosperous and quiet as the establishment and sitting discreetly in the gloom away from the window. And a young man, flamboyantly dressed and with a sword at his side, had been in the room when Kinnaird arrived, had left shortly afterwards, and come and gone twice since then.

  Kinnaird was making himself consider the people that passed as well. Their currents were also significant: the movement of uniforms told of military campaigns, and of police bureaucracy. Everyone else was moving – just as people always moved – out of hope or out of fear. He was becoming interested in the hopes – whether a deal, or a job, or a dream of liberty in radical Paris – and the fears.

  Just outside the hotel’s window was the barrier at the city’s western entrance, where the National Guard could monitor goods coming in and out, and monitor people. A bare pole between trestles, four or five uniforms guarding it and checking everyone who wanted to pass. If someone wanted to go westwards, to the sea, or turn northwards into Normandy and towards the English Channel, they had to pass this barrier.

  The young man rattled into the room again, his sword catching against a chair-back. He strode to the window, near Kinnaird, and looked out. Dark hair, dark eyes, good bones. And hellish impatient. He glared into the street, the dark eyes cursing whatever was not yet there, glanced at Kinnaird and then sat down uncomfortably, wrestling the sword into place between chair and table.

  Kinnaird took a sip of wine, and resumed his consideration of the wagons and people outside.

  He had been a week on the road himself. He was making himself more comfortable in his strange, shadowed life. He had found a way to travel, to exist, to find company and stimulation, without fully being himself, and without apparently drawing unnecessary attention to himself. He had to assume that the name of Kinnaird was still dangerous, but the Kinnaird who had jumped out of a window and galloped in panic away from the National Guard now seemed a figure of history.

  The young man stood up again, with a clatter, and pressed his forehead against the window as if the glass against his skin might cool his fervour. He turned, glanced at Kinnaird, and sat down again.

  Kinnaird considered himself a sensible man, but knew himself stubborn with it. He had never expected anything in life, he had worked for everything he had gained, and he had tolerated the unfortunate losses and the unripe deals; but whenever he found resistance, he set himself to overcome it. France had resisted Kinnaird, and Kinnaird would not turn and run.

  And still he did not know why he was hunted.

  Another clatter broke his thoughts. The young man was looking about himself with the usual disregard for his sword.

  ‘You’re not a trading man,’ Kinnaird said politely, quietly. ‘I guess you wait for someone, and they must be someone special.’

  The young man glared at him; the dark eyes – sad eyes – considered him from boots to brows. Then the glance softened. ‘You are not French, I think.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘English, from your accent?’

  ‘Irish.’

  Now the face brightened in a smile. ‘Ah, my Celtic cousins! We are fellow romantic souls, my dear sir.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  The young man had switched into fluent and elaborate English. ‘Myself, I am Espanish. That is to say, a citizen of the Basque lands of the north, hence my consanguinity with you and your people. You would honour me by allowing me to present myself. I am Don Francisco de Borja de Lasheras, caballero, and diplomat of the Embassy of the Kingdom of Espain.’ He stood, clattered, bowed elaborately, and sat again.

  Kinnaird contrived a bow from where he sat. ‘You honour me by your introduction, sir.’

  ‘And may I presume to seek your name, sir?’

  Kinnaird said quietly, ‘I’d rather give an honest man silence than a lie.’

  The face darkened, and then glowed in the smile again. ‘Ah! I knew it – a mystery! A romance!’

  ‘Like your own, perhaps.’

  The young man swooped down into the chair next to him. Over his shoulder, Kinnaird saw the clatter re-attract the attention of the man in the corner.

  ‘There is a lady,’ the young man whispered.

  ‘I thought there might be.’

  ‘Mademoiselle de Charette. A lady loyal to her faith and to her crown. She escapes by this road. I have esworn to protect her, and have ridden as her invisible escort these two days.’

  ‘She’s a lucky girl.’

  ‘Mine is the good fortune to be able to serve her. I have killed two men already in her cause.’

  ‘Oh.’ For the first time in weeks, Kinnaird was starting to feel that he wasn’t the most disreputable man in the room. ‘Er . . . congratulations.’

  ‘But now, this barrier will be a test. I fear this may be the crisis.’

  ‘The young lady is . . . disguised?’

  ‘With her father, yes. But those soldiers, they check everyone most assiduously, you observe? She is not . . . But no matter! Now that I am here, if she is suspected I may deal with those ruffians myself and allow her to escape to esafety.’

  The two of them were silent for a moment, contemplating the barrier outside, the blurred figures of the men guarding it, and the rather ominous prospect of the young man’s proposal. Kinnaird was wondering if it mightn’t be wise to leave sooner rather than later.

  ‘I’m wondering,’ Kinnaird said mildly, ‘whether you might be of more service to the lady making your distraction just before she gets to the barrier. Distract attention away from her, rather than drawing it.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘More subtle, perhaps.’

  Again the smile. ‘You are right, dear sir! Esubtlety . . . That is the thing, is it not? It shall be so.’ He stood violently. ‘I bid you adieu! If I ever have the chance to thank you . . . ’

  ‘If you survive the next hour, young man, and return safe to your embassy, and if a man with no name should ever write to you seeking your co-operation in some matter of advantage to our two countries, then you would have the chance to show gratitude in a way that would benefit all of us, including the young lady.’

  A grand bow from the young man – nod from Kinnaird – and he clattered out.

  Kinnaird breathed out slowly, and returned to his consideration of the street outside. His mind began to fill again with the men and women tramping backwards and forwards in front of him, the intermittent flow of carriages and carts through the barrier, the habits of the guards as they checked those who passed.

  Somehow, in the midst of it all, the lunatic was the most congenial and humane company he’d met.

  He sensed someone moving near him.

  He didn’t turn.

  It was the other man in the room, sitting down silently and beginning his own scrutiny of the road.

  Neither looked at the other.

  Fifteen minutes later, a cart appeared to the left of Kinnaird’s vision, coming from the direction of Paris towards the barrier. A driver sitting up front, and what looked like a lad in rough clothes among a dozen barrels at the back.

  Still the ebb and flow of traffic through the barrier.

  Kinnaird had seen his silent companion’s hands clench into fists.

  Then a wild shout and the thunder of hooves and for a moment the window was filled with darkness as a horse charged past, making for the barrier at mad speed, the rider swirling a sword around his head and clutching a pistol along with the reins in his other hand. As they reached the barrier the sword swung down near one horrified guard, the pistol fired at another, and the horse took the barrier in one mighty leap, the rider soaring above and held on by ankles and momentum only, and the hooves sent another guard sprawling and in
an explosion of shouts and dust the horseman was through and racing for the trees in the distance, and the guards were grabbing each other and pointing and some were running after the rider and at least one was running back into the town, and in the Ship two men watched wide-eyed.

  ‘Merciful Christ . . . ’ Kinnaird’s companion had his hand over his eyes.

  The dust began to disperse.

  There was only one guard at the barrier. A horseman coming in from the countryside had been waiting when the Spaniard had executed his rampage. Now he yelled something to the guard, and the guard hesitated, and then let him into Chartres.

  The horseman passed the cart of barrels coming in the other direction; the noise of the wheels grew more distinct, and the cart pulled to a halt at the barrier.

  Kinnaird’s companion was staring through the window.

  The guard hesitated. The driver – an old man, he seemed – said something. The guard said something back, and the driver pointed to the barrels and said something else. The guard looked around himself, hurried to the back of the cart, and thumped the nearest barrel with his fist.

  The fists of the watcher were white.

  Apparently satisfied, the guard hurried back to the barrier and raised it. The cart began to move forwards into open country.

  Now Kinnaird’s companion turned to him.

  ‘Should I be grateful to you for that spectacle?’

  Kinnaird shrugged slightly. ‘Not as spectacular as it might have been.’

  The man nodded. The cart was clear now.

  Kinnaird considered the man again – his clothes, his face – and said: ‘You’re a trading man, I think, sir. And of some success, I fancy.’ The man did not answer. ‘Unusual for a man such as you to pay such attention to a single load of barrels. Whatever it was.’