The French Emperor's Woman

by David Bissenden

  ‘It is very humid tonight, perhaps we will get rain soon?’

  ‘Perhaps we will. Shall we walk up the high street to get a vantage point of the festivities?’

  At that I took her arm again and we walked along the riverside to the Three Daws inn, at the junction with the high street. We then walked up the high street and noted how busy the town was tonight. There were a few inns along this thoroughfare and every one of them appeared to be full of sailors and townspeople. There was a party atmosphere in town with much raucous shouting and laughter, and drinkers spilling out into the street. We continued up the street taking this atmosphere in and near the top, just past the market entrance, we noticed that sailors were manoeuvring barrels into position. They were in no great hurry. Waiting, I presume, for the dusk and darkness before starting the barrel rolling.

  I gently manoeuvred Marie over to the side of the street, where we were partially hidden by a projecting wall. I did not want us to be seen by anyone we knew, particularly Lynch himself. There was time to talk before the event started so I broached the subject of Marie’s past.

  ‘Marie, can I ask a little more about yourself? If that is not too forward.’

  ‘Of course, William, ask me anything you like.’

  ‘Tell me about the war, the siege of Paris, anything to give me a better idea of what you’ve been through.’ She spoke openly to me; it seemed as if being away from the stuffy pomposity of the Clarendon, some weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

  ‘I can only tell you what I know. I have been a member of Emperor Napoleon’s court for almost fifteen years. Both before and after I had Pierre. Louis was exceedingly kind to me. As you know France was a powerful nation with a great empire. Colonies all over the world, great riches, everything. Louis rebuilt Paris, you know. Made it into a fine modern city. Then things went wrong, maybe he had – what you say – too many fingers in too many pies? Finally, we went to war with Prussia and he was betrayed at the battle at Sedan by his cowardly men. We knew then that our days in the Tuileries in Paris were over. The Prussians took Louis as a prisoner and moved him into house arrest in Cassel. I later joined him there, along with some of the loyalist people in his court. We were all virtually imprisoned, so could not travel back to France. We spent the whole winter as prisoners in Prussia. Then this March we were released, and Louis came to England bringing his loyal courtiers with him. Including myself. Louis’ wife, Eugenie, had escaped Paris in September, just after Sedan, and was already in exile in England. Since we arrived in Chislehurst I have been making enquiries as to what happened to my son, and that is where Gordon and you come into it. That is my story.’

  I sucked in the warm humid air and responded with as much confidence as I could muster.

  ‘Somehow, in some way, we will find Pierre and bring him back to you. I promise that.’

  She smiled, and tears began welling up in her eyes.

  ‘Thank you, William, you are a good man.’

  We looked at each other in the half light of dusk. I knew I had to get back to business and leave my feelings for Marie until the drama was over. I looked down the street. There were people everywhere and the inns and shops facing onto the narrow street now had their gaslights on, and there were faces pressed up against the windows staring out. The people were clearly waiting to see the festivities begin and there was a buzz of excitement. The street was now even narrower than usual because of the throngs of spectators on either side and darkness was now overtaking the last rays of sunlight. This was a dead straight thoroughfare running downhill to the riverside – and probably only ten feet clearance had been left in the centre of the road, presumably to allow the barrels through. All in all, it felt quite theatrical: the excitement before the curtain rises.

  Then I saw him.

  John Lynch.

  The grey-haired old sea dog with an entourage in tow.

  He was striding up from the pier where his boat was still moored. I gently tapped Marie on the shoulder.

  ‘Look, that’s him.’

  She looked over and was clearly taking him in. He was wearing his captain’s uniform and by his actions, and the demeanour of those around him, you could see he was the man very much in charge. The other officers in his group were clearly there just to do his bidding. Gently taking Marie’s hand, I stepped her back into a nearby alleyway entrance, so that we could not be seen so easily. Now closer to her, I could smell her perfume. It smelt of roses, of summer, of woman. I smiled at her. Our eyes met for a brief moment but then she switched off and returned to the business in hand. She scrutinised Lynch and his gang.

  ‘So that is Captain Lynch is it? He looks like a very mean man. I would happily kill him with my hatpin. Just like that.’ She made a stabbing movement with her clenched hand. ‘But that wouldn’t get my son back, I know that – so, I will wait.’

  It was now getting closer to the time of the lighting of the barrels. Perhaps thirty feet away from us a powerful fire had been lit in a brazier, placed in the middle of the street. It glowed red and orange in the darkness, lighting the faces of those around it. I noticed half a dozen young sailors holding unlit torches, then they excitedly, but meticulously, took turns to put their long torches into the flames of the brazier. With the torches alight I could now see the sailors more clearly and noticed that one of the sailors was Asif. He and the others then turned their attention to the tar barrels. Asif’s job seemed to be to hold the barrel in place to prevent it rolling away. Then another sailor lit ragged cloths at either end of the keg, with the blazing torch. The barrels started to burn, first from one end, then from both. There were now in total four barrels all alight, lined up ready to be rolled down the street – clearly they were getting ridiculously hot, but Asif and the other sailors still held them firm, waiting for the signal. I could see then that it was Lynch who would be doing that. He seemed to take pleasure in getting his boys to hold onto the barrels forever, even though their hands must be burning.

  Finally, he dropped a handkerchief – and the barrels were pushed away and started rolling down the street. Asif’s job was now to run alongside one of the barrels and keep patting it to keep it going straight, but not too fast too soon. For the first chain or so, everything went fine, the crowd were cheering, all was well. Then, I could see the barrel beginning to escape his grasp. The weight and speed of it was too much for him to control! Thus, the inevitable happened – he had to let the barrel go. The flaming keg had escaped his grasp and was now gaining speed, and quickly, as it trundled down the steeply sloping street. The spectators shrank back from the flaming barrel as it raced past them. The other three-barrel gangs stopped moving and despite the heat, held the barrels firm against the slope. Asif’s barrel was now hurtling down the street out of control. This created both uproarious shouting from onlookers, mixed with fear that it might head towards them! After about sixty yards, it was all over. The barrel veered to the right, hit a projecting wall, and stopped dead. The local innkeepers, who had clearly seen all this before, ran out with buckets of water and quickly smothered it. I could see immediately that Asif was mortified, and I soon realised why. Lynch, seeing this failure to roll the barrel straight, strode out across the street and gave him a massive kick between his legs. Asif doubled up in pain.

  ‘You useless lascar, you can’t even do what your told.’ Asif stumbled back onto the side of the street apologising profusely. As he did so Lynch calmly walked back across the street to his vantage point. The festivities continued with the three remaining barrels walked down the street surrounded by the torchlit sailors. There was much applause for this. The crowds then followed the procession.

  Marie and I could see there was safety and anonymity in numbers, so also joined the throng and followed them.

  About fifty yards short of the end of the street the tar barrels were allowed to roll away. Whether this was pre-planned, or a spur of the moment decision, I do not
know. They rolled fairly straight, following the street direction, though worryingly gaining speed as they went. Finally, inevitably, they crashed into the wall at the bottom. Just in front of the Three Daws. The tar was ablaze, but nobody seemed particularly concerned. Soon the local people and sailors, armed with buckets of water, extinguished the flames, and brought the light show to an end. There was much shouting and some applause. Despite the presence of Lynch, I had also been impressed and excited by the spectacle. So, I smiled at Marie, she smiled back at me. Then something strange happened.

  I was suddenly aware that the spectators alongside the high street were now looking beyond the tar barrel cremation and the Three Daws, to the river beyond. The Thames at this time of night should have been just a velvet black backdrop, but instead I could see a distinct fire out in the river, on one of the dark silhouettes floating in the humid stillness. A cry went up from the crowd.

  ‘It’s the Spirit of Rochester, she’s on fire!’

  I looked down the street and saw John Lynch suddenly convulsed into action. He was shouting at his men to get back to the ship immediately. His lackeys were soon running hell for leather, back towards the pier whilst he bellowed out his orders.

  We, along with what seemed half the population of Gravesend, watched on. The spirit was a timber clipper, so a fire, any fire, could be lethal. The ship’s crew seemed to get back on board quickly and we could see them beating back the flames with brooms and dowsing them with buckets of water dredged out of the Thames.

  Things still looked serious. Such a blaze on a timber vessel could easily prove terminal. Then, a remarkable thing occurred. We saw a blazing white lightning bolt, which illuminated the street like a thousand limelight’s. This was almost immediately followed by a fierce clap of thunder. Within seconds torrential rain was cascading down on us. Whether this was a sign from God, or just luck, the heavy rain, along with the frantic crew, were putting out the main fire on the boat fairly quickly. Seeing the excitement was over, and getting more drenched by the second, we took shelter outside the Three Daws under the building’s overhanging eaves. I looked at Marie to see if she was alright. Outside, in the darkness, she seemed somehow smaller, more vulnerable. She smiled. It was a pleasure to feel Marie alongside me. I knew I had feelings for her but didn’t really know yet if they would be reciprocated. She smiled again.

  ‘Well this a strange turn of events, William. Lynch’s boat on fire. Perhaps it is God’s work?’ I looked at her. Did she know something I did not?

  Just as I was musing as to what to do next, my thoughts were disturbed by a familiar voice nearby. Standing not twenty feet away from us, but out of sight by the inn entrance, was Jack Carter. He was showing his age and inebriation by pissing into the gutter and talking very loudly to some other old lag.

  ‘Call that a fire, I could put that out with my own piss. I remember when this place was full of timber schooners. When they went up, they went up, not like that. It’s already pretty much been put out. You know who I blame for it – the French, they have got their spies here in Gravesend. Did you know that? People working for Napoleon III. He is living in England, believe it or not. Fancy giving a bloody Napoleon sanctuary! His whore is staying at the Clarendon – not a lot of people know that. You can bet your life that she is behind it.’

  At that I could feel Marie lunge forward, I grabbed her and put my hand over her mouth. She was clearly, and rightly, infuriated. Carter continued.

  ‘Still that’s what the country is coming to. This government’s too soft. I know all about the French, my father was at Trafalgar, that is when we had real men at sea. Now it’s just a bunch of unskilled chancers running the Navy. Come on, let us get another drink.’ At that he and his companion, having completed their ablutions, returned back inside the bar. I looked at Marie questioningly; she was incandescent with rage, so any further questioning was out of the question. She barked at me.

  ‘Take me back to the hotel, I’ve had enough of this hellhole for one night.’ I meekly submitted to her request. Things had now gone a little frosty, the romance of hiding from the torrential rain was long gone. We walked back to her hotel in silence. The rain bucketed down, but she did not seem to care about getting wet.

  Just before we got back to the Clarendon I got a good sight of the Spirit over the riverside green. The fire was now out, though some damage had been done. I ventured to comment.

  ‘If somebody was trying to burn down the boat, they didn’t make much of a job of it. They set the fire at the wrong end. If they had set it against the prevailing westerly wind the boat would be a burnt-out wreck by now.’

  She said nothing: we got to the porch of the hotel and finally found shelter from the rain. She was clearly still upset.

  ‘Thank you William, I’m sorry that our night was spoilt, but I’m nobody’s whore. I only respect a man who would die for my reputation. I bid you goodnight.’

  At that she was gone, and I stood alone; a chance had been presented to me to show my true feelings and I had missed it and missed it by a mile. I trudged home to the Eagle feeling deflated.

  I did not sleep well that night. There is nothing worse than knowing you had something precious in the palm of your hand, only to let it fly away due to your own stupidity and indecision. My mind raced through ways I could repair the damage to our friendship, but I knew in my heart that the only thing that might win her back was if I rescued her son. Frankly, I did not have a clue how to achieve that either.

  Part 2

  The Emperor’s Woman

  Seventeen

  Another Day

  I must have fallen off to sleep very late but was woken again by the sound of the brewery dray horses clattering along the road. I reluctantly got out of bed and looked out the window. There was John Bennett walking down the street again, his walking stick tapping the ground as he went to the King’s Arms. Every day he did this. Did they give him a bacon sandwich or something? Surely the last thing a publican wants is to be civil first thing in the morning.

  I decided to go out for a walk along the riverside. The remains of the tar barrels were still in the street by the Three Daws. I walked on down to the promenade from where I could get a good sight of the Spirit of Rochester. I could see much activity on board. You could still smell the remains of last night’s fire and charring and damage to the brow of the ship was evident. A small iron-sided steam tugboat was now in situ and a hawser had been attached to the old timber clipper. I watched for a while and finally both boats departed with the tug pulling the Spirit in her wake. She was heading due east down the river and I can only assume that some emergency repairs were to be undertaken. How this would affect the kidnap situation was anyone’s guess. As the boats passed me I caught sight of Lynch pacing the decks, barking out orders. So at least I knew where he would be today.

  I found a bench and sat for a while staring out over the water towards Tilbury Fort on the north bank. What was I to do now? Go to the Clarendon and beg forgiveness? Go back to the Eagle and hide under the bedclothes? Finally, I decided to visit Gordon, perhaps he might have some sage advice for me.

  I arrived at the fort a few minutes later and asked for him. Unusually, I was asked to wait. It was a long wait and a full half hour before I was escorted into his sparse office. His greeting was a little dry today.

  ‘Hello, Reeves, sorry you had to wait. What can I do for you?’

  I hesitated to speak; he gestured for me to sit down.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me sir. I noticed that there had been a fire on board the Spirit of Rochester, I wondered whether you had any more information on what occurred?’

  He stood up and paced the room.

  ‘Yes, indeed, a bit of a rum do. Appears the boat caught fire about ten o’clock last night. No serious damage but it has been towed to a dockyard on the Medway, near Strood, for repairs. Likely to only be out of action for a few days. Could have
been a lot worse.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, indeed the whole boat could easily have gone up. Any idea if it was an accident or arson?’

  Gordon seemed a little awkward at this point and failed to look me in the eyes.

  ‘We have no idea Reeves what happened. However, very unfortunately, a rumour is now racing around the town that it was caused by French agents working for Napoleon.’

  ‘Surely not, that is ridiculous. How could such a rumour have got around?’

  Gordon sighed. ‘It does not matter if it is true or not, the problem is that this rumour is gaining traction. It even includes the information that Napoleon’s lady-in-waiting is staying at the Clarendon – and is behind all of it.’

  I was dumbfounded. I had heard what Jack Carter had said to his sidekick but could not understand why people believed it.

  ‘So, what do we do about this rumour?’

  ‘Action has already been taken, Reeves. I telegrammed Napoleon himself, to make him aware of the situation. He has responded by taking Marie-Anne back to Chislehurst – she left the Clarendon half an hour ago. Sorry about that but it was the only way to quash the rumour before things got out of hand. You understand?’

  I was still struggling for words.

  ‘But where does that leave the kidnap investigation? What am I supposed to do now?’

  Gordon tried his best to give me a fatherly smile. ‘I really don’t know Reeves. Perhaps you need to go away and think about your next moves.’ At that he sat back down at his desk and started looking at his large pile of papers that covered it. This was clearly an indication that my time was up. I bade him farewell and walked out back into the clear blue skies of Gravesend.

  It was a beautiful day, but I felt devastated. Had I lost Marie for good? Would she never leave Chislehurst again? Would I ever see her again? It was so painful. This sense of loss, though in truth she had only been in my life but a few days. I walked back down West Street feeling very downcast. Then as I passed the Three Daws I saw a familiar face; it was Asif, sweeping up the remains of last night’s tar barrels.