The French Emperor's Woman

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The French Emperor's Woman Page 13

by David Bissenden


  After some cursory introductions Gordon outlined to the blacksmith, who was a stout fellow – whose name coincidentally was Smith – what was required. Without much ado Smith agreed to his request and set about creating some fool’s gold. Our meeting had concluded, and Gordon returned to his office.

  I then went in search of Asif. Usually he was very noticeable, being the only lascar who worked at the fort. After some searching I detected some cigar smoke coming from behind a wall. I looked over it and there was Asif on his own, puffing away on a hand-rolled cheroot. He looked at me with fear.

  ‘Please, Mr Reeves do not tell the General about this. Strict man. Too many explosives here, very bad to smoke.’

  I smiled. ‘It’s alright Asif, I think you’re safe here.’ I breathed in the tobacco smoke. ‘I used to smoke myself but gave it up when it started to affect my breathing. Still enjoy the odd cigar though.’

  He seemed relieved. ‘Thing is Asif I need your help. I am taking a cartload of gold up the London road on Sunday, to exchange it for Pierre. Will you be my second man?’

  ‘I would be most pleased to assist you,’ he beamed.

  ‘But I must warn you that this is an extremely dangerous mission, both our lives will be in jeopardy. Do you still want to be part of it?’

  ‘Yes sir, most definitely.’

  ‘Good. Now that cheroot you are smoking has given me an idea. If we can put some fireworks on the cart, hidden away of course, they might come in handy. Any spot of bother and you can light the touch paper with your cheroot and start a small explosion. Might be a useful diversion. I will be bringing my handgun as well, that will be kept out of sight. Do not mention any of this to Gordon. Agreed?’

  He was like a kid at his first day at school. ‘Yes, sir.’

  I reached into my pocket. ‘Here is a guinea, go into town and find a shop that sells fireworks. Make sure you get a good mix. The more noise and colour the better.’ At that he scuttled off. I was pleased; a plan was coming together. Now roll on Sunday night. We were ready for action. I left the fort and went back to the hotel to rest awhile.

  As Sunday evening grew nearer I was besieged by doubts and fear. Should I try and contact Marie to let her know about it? How could we grab Pierre and whisk him away before our enemies discovered the gold bars were just burnished brass? What lay in store for us? Anything could happen between Gravesend and Dartford. Would we be held up by some latter-day Dick Turpin, or taken to some secret location? I really had no idea. The only thing I was sure of was that telling Marie would be a mistake. Raising her hopes might just be a precursor to a crushing disappointment. Better to keep her in the dark. What else had we to go on? The timing was interesting, an 8 p.m. start, so we would be doing much of the journey in twilight. Might it aid our cause if it was dark? Perhaps the gold bars might look more realistic by moonlight, and buy us some precious time?

  Should we be equipped with guns? That would be illegal, and in any case I had not fired one since my time in Crimea. However, after my experience at Strood, maybe it was a good idea.

  Time moved on towards the Sunday. The advert appeared in the Kent Messenger, as requested. All was set.

  So, come Sunday evening we took charge of a pair and a sturdy cart, all provided by Gordon. Now it had come to the time for action, I was feeling a cold lump in the pit of my stomach. I turned to my loyal friend Asif.

  ‘You do realise that we may not come out of this alive?’

  Asif’s face did not flinch. ‘I have great faith in you Master Reeves. It is written in the stars that we will succeed. I am sure of that.’ At that the conversation was at an end and we set about the business in hand. Both myself and Asif were capable drivers, so as long as the horses behaved, I was confident of making a steady pace.

  We found a good place inside the fort – but out of sight, and loaded the gold and fireworks on board, and covered them with heavy-duty canvas. Asif was a godsend; he seemed unperturbed by this whole affair. Perhaps being on board a sailing ship with Lynch as captain, you were used to taking on difficult tasks and risking your life every day? Certainly, he had become a very trusted companion, clever, resourceful, and utterly loyal.

  We set off from the fort through Gravesend, the horses were easy to handle. Asif sat up top beside me. It was another warm, sultry night. We trotted through the quiet Gravesend streets, heading west towards the old London road. It was now 8 p.m. We had no idea if we were being watched; I kept looking up at the lace curtained first-floor windows of the houses we passed, looking for movement from prying eyes, but saw nothing suspicious. In any case we were following instructions and sticking to the agreed timings.

  I wanted it to be dark when we met our kidnappers, so I had already decided on a little bit of theatre to buy us time and get us closer to sunset, and the cloak of darkness. Just a few hundred yards along the London road, I stopped the horses quickly and yelled at Asif to look at the wheels. It was pure theatre, but I had no idea if we were being watched, certainly there was no sign of us being followed. Asif took a long look at the wheel axle and then got some tools, a hammer, and pliers, from the toolkit that lived on the back of the cart. He then banged away on the axle for a few minutes on the pretext that there was some misalignment of the wheels. I shouted various words of annoyance to add to this bizarre show. All the while I kept a lookout along the road, there was little traffic – Sunday evening was a quiet time. Finally, with much faux relief, Asif finished his banging about and put the tools away and resumed his seat alongside me. The ‘repair’ had taken us a good twenty minutes, whether this time would be crucial, I had no idea. We carried on our way.

  To our right, looking north, we could see the upcoming port area of Northfleet and to our left the start of the chalk hillsides, which I knew stretched most of the way to Dartford. This had not that long ago been virgin landscape, now it bore the scars of chalk quarrying and the spread of industry.

  We kept up an even, slow pace. I felt an awareness of the great history of this Roman road which was the main route from Dover to London. For centuries it had been used by pilgrims going to Canterbury. Some years ago, it had featured in Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities – back then it was all about the stagecoaches hammering down the highway on their way to Paris; now the train was king, and the road was quieter. The horses trotted on at an even pace.

  We had by now reached Swanscombe, which was still not even halfway to Dartford, and there had been absolutely no sign of anything suspicious. Looking to my right again I could see the River Thames very clearly. It was a fine scene as the sun was setting in the west casting long shadows behind us. Even though it was a busy commercial waterway, the Thames still had a kind of magic and I allowed myself a few moments of relief, just watching the fading sunlight reflect off its meandering course. Then an unexpected sight broke into my reverie. Just off the riverside, moored alongside a jetty and probably a mile distant, was a China clipper. I looked hard, yes, there was no doubt, it was the Spirit of Rochester! Clearly the fire damage repairs had been completed, and it was ready to get back to work. I pointed her out to Asif. He looked backed excitedly. There was no doubt it was his ship. Was this some bizarre coincidence, or was it in some way involved in this ransom demand? Surely it was just too unlikely. I turned to Asif.

  ‘What do you think? Why is it moored over there?’

  He shook his head. Thoughts were already rattling around in my mind.

  ‘You know what I think – it’s moored up there waiting for a cargo of chalk or flint from the workings near here. Could be taking them anywhere. Probably flint going up to Liverpool, then on to the potteries by canal.’

  Asif nodded. We rode on.

  It was now about nine thirty and dusk was gathering. To our left we could see the rising hillsides, just shapes now in the twilight, and the white of the exposed chalk workings, slightly reddened by the last rays of sunlight, standing out against
the darkening sky.

  Our pair were now struggling slightly as we pushed on up an incline in the road. This caused us to slow slightly, and the horses’ strides shortened. It looked as if the incline was caused by a small railway, probably a tramway, going under the main London road. This area was full of tramways, which ran the excavated chalk and flint down to the river jetties. At its top was a gentle humpback bridge. Thinking nothing of this, I reached down for my pocket watch to check the time. It was nine thirty-five precisely.

  Just then, my eyes were suddenly aware of movement. Two mounted horsemen had emerged out of the hedgerow beside the road and reined their mounts to block our path. I had no choice but to bring our horses to a grinding halt. The two men were mounted on rough-looking steeds, probably gypsy horses. They had working men’s caps on and their faces were masked, they were both dressed in dirty working clothes with heavy boots. Both had rifles, which were pointed directly at us. One shouted ‘Stop.’ Followed by ‘This way.’ He gestured towards a narrow side road which branched off the carriageway. I put my hand up to show my agreement with this and then manoeuvred the carriage down into the side road, which was in fact little more than a bumpy earthen track. I had to move gingerly at first, as the carriage gradually descended down to the level of the railway line that came under London road. The two men followed at a distance with their rifles still pointed at us. At the bottom of the slope the land flattened out somewhat and I noted the tramway was on a slight incline climbing away from the road, and the river beyond, towards more chalk works. The track then followed alongside the railway, which was a narrow-gauge affair. Usually this meant two railway lines running side by side, probably run on a drum pulley system with no engine – just the weight of the loads taking the bogies downhill to the river being used to drag the empty bogies back up the hill.

  I looked at Asif; he was still calm, unlike myself. This was getting scary. It was also making sense, any load from the chalk pit could be run down to a ship moored on the jetty, and what better ship for these thugs than the Spirit, which was berthed there. Things were becoming clearer. It was not just coincidence that Lynch’s boat was here, it had work to do, ferrying the gold bars away!

  The two horsemen kept their distance. So, it felt like we were on our own. I looked around. It was past sunset now, and the light was going. We were in a massive chalk pit. A man-made valley. I remembered from Crimea the infamous Charge of the Light Brigade. ‘Into the valley of death’. Could this be our valley of death, our fate now?

  The chalk escarpments rose steeply to both sides of the tramway. They were sheer cliffs of chalk. I remembered reading somewhere that miners would hang on the cliffsides, and hit the chalk with picks and shovels, then watch the chalk drop straight into the open trucks on the tramway below – a precarious living.

  Our horse and cart carried on along the track, it was slightly uphill, and worse, very poorly laid with innumerable bumps and hollows to negotiate. Finally, in the dusky light ahead, we could see a group of open wagons, or bogies, parked up on the tramway. So presumably this was the end of the line. I counted them, there were six in all. Just visible, beyond the line of bogies, was a tunnel into which the tramway had been laid, probably going on to another pit. Standing at the entrance to the tunnel were two figures silhouetted in the half light. The men were both stoutly built with one a little taller than the other. Beyond that there was little clue as to their identity, as both had their faces covered by scarves. We could both sense that this was our destiny. The waiting was over.

  I slowly brought the wagon to a halt about ten yards in front of them, making sure that the horses and cart were facing directly onto the tunnel entrance. Also, Asif without hesitation lit up a cheroot and puffed away.

  I noted that the two men were rough-looking, and both holding rifles, which were pointed directly at us. I glanced up at the cliffside, where I could see small beacons lit up. There were some more men above us, standing on the cliffs, also presumably with guns pointing at us. This was not looking good.

  The taller of the men spoke first.

  ‘Have you got the gold?’

  I answered in the affirmative, he continued.

  ‘Take it off the cart and carry it over to the open wagon. Do it slowly.’

  Following instructions to the letter, we got down off the carriage. Such was the tension; I had put both my hands above my head in a sign of surrender. The man spoke again, more brusquely.

  ‘Get on with it.’

  I walked to the back of the cart, pulled back the canvas and picked up one of the gold bars, Asif did likewise. We then carried the bars to the wagons. For some reason I decided that the first wagon was the right place to put them. This being at the front, and lowest point, of the six coupled bogies. This would be the first to leave if the wagons headed towards the riverside. We then repeated the process several times, so had all the bars deposited as requested in the instructions. The second masked man came over to the wagon and luckily – barely glancing at the gold – covered it with flints. All the time the guns remained pointed at us. I was now standing by the tramway; I looked at the main man.

  ‘That is it then, gold bars to the value of ten thousand guineas. We have kept our side of the bargain. Now where is the boy, Pierre?’

  The man laughed.

  ‘Idiots, there is no boy. There is nothing for you here.’

  At that, the second man picked up a large pickaxe handle that had been resting against the side of the tunnel. I noted that the handle had massive six-inch nails at its working end. The main man spoke tersely but coldly to him.

  ‘Finish the job.’

  At that the man raised the handle above his head and moved in my direction. I pulled my revolver from its holster, which was secreted under my clothes. ‘Stop right there!’ I shouted. He paused.

  Asif seemed to read my mind and quietly took his cheroot from his mouth and touched its flaming end onto the fuse. This movement seemed unnoticed by our enemies. I was expecting to be shot, there and then. They had men in front of us, above us and behind us. But no, there was some hesitation. Of course! They did not want the sound of gunshots! The sound would reverberate around this valley, carry too far, and raise suspicions. They wanted to kill us quietly. For a few moments we were all frozen. The main man had to make a decision – could he risk the sound of gunfire? Then the decision was made for him. All hell broke loose! The fireworks on the cart exploded with some force. Rockets whizzed over our heads, jumping jacks and roman candles were going off in all directions. Our horses bolted, and, as I had hoped, reared up, then galloped straight ahead towards the men in the tunnel. The two horsemen, who had been loitering behind us, fared no better. One of the horses bolted, throwing the rider off. The other horse was inconsolable and galloped around in circles with the rider hanging on for dear life. Despite this confusion, I could sense we were still vulnerable to an onslaught of bullets from the gunmen on the cliffs above, so grabbed Asif and ran swiftly to the tramway. We took shelter behind the first iron wagon, which had the fool’s gold in it. We were just in time. Bullets thudded into the ground around us and pinged against the iron of the bogie above our heads, too close for comfort. The tall man seemed to be out of it, having been knocked over by the maddened horses, and was lying on the ground clearly in pain. Despite this, we were still just sitting ducks. Trapped in a quarry with who knows how many gunmen above us.

  An idea came to me; what if the wagons were just held by brakes? If I could release them then the bogies might roll of their own accord. I could see an iron handle which seemed connected to the bogie’s axle. I grabbed it and wrenched it open. For a few seconds nothing changed then, almost imperceptibly, our wagon started to move away from the others. We grabbed on to the side holding on by our fingertips. Bullets rained down. Then the wagon picked up speed. We were clinging on for grim death, but we were moving out of the gunshot range of the killers above us.
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  With every yard we went the gunmen’s bullets were less accurate in the gathering darkness. Soon we were out of range of the guns. The bogie by now was careering downhill. We had no way of controlling it, or regulating its speed, without braking. As it gathered pace, we both managed to somehow clamber on top of it and lie on the flint load. We had somehow escaped with our lives but had not seen any sign of Pierre. So, the whole escapade had been a failure. For the time being our priority was just self-preservation.

  I was in two minds as to what to do next, should we stay on the wagon till it careered into the sleepers at the jetty? Or get off as soon as possible? We both seemed to have the same answer, to get out with our skins still intact. I could see us now approaching the short tunnel that went under the London road. I reached down and with my boot, feathered the brake. Slowly, imperceptibly, we started to slow. I exerted more pressure and we came to a grinding halt. We were now under the bridge. Aware that the two masked horsemen might have recovered their horses and followed us, we slid off the wagon and stealthily climbed out of the tunnel and up the bank onto the main road. We were clearly exposed here, but so would be armed horsemen.

  I could now hear the rattling of the bogies below us. Without my restraint, it had gathered speed and was rolling out of the tunnel down towards the river. Presumably, it would not stop until it hit the buffers at the jetty. That would be a nice mess for Lynch to clear up! And they would only worthless bars of brass to show for their intrigue. That would not even pay for the smashed-up wagon and buffers!

  I looked up and down the road. Even on a Sunday night there would be some horse and carriages passing this way. It was all quiet. By now dusk had turned to night. I decided on the simplest course of action.

  ‘Asif, let us see if we can retrace our tracks and walk back to Gravesend. If we hear anything on the road then slip off it into the hedgerows and let them pass.’

  And that we did. It was probably about three or four miles to Gravesend. Walking briskly, we made it in under an hour. Nobody followed us and we met no passing traffic, which could have provided us with a lift back into town.

 

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