The Trojan Horse

by Christopher C Tubbs

  Once inside and settled with a coffee and a piece of cake, Marty recited a sentence he’d memorized for some time now in the hope he would be able to use it.

  “I want to find a mate for Blaez, he needs to make some puppies before he gets too old.”

  Mrs. Jongeline’s face lit up and started to speak in rapid fire Dutch. When Marty looked at her blankly, she waved at him to stay where he was and disappeared out of the back door.

  She came back thirty minutes later with a middle-aged man in tow.

  “Hello, I am Kees Jongbloed. Mevrouw Jongeline says you want to find a mate for your dog,” he said in heavily accented English. He looked at Blaez then knelt beside him. He offered his hand to the dog to smell then ran his hands over his body. He got him to stand and checked his testicles, causing Blaez to give Marty a ‘what the hell?’ look, then went over his teeth and eyes.

  “He is a fine dog. I know his background and bloodline. I have a bitch coming into season that would be a good match and would be happy to have him as the father of her next nest.”

  “I want one of the puppies, a male like him,” Marty said.

  “It is tradition that the owner of the dog gets first choice of the puppies. Can you leave him with me?”

  “I can leave him if Matai here stays with him. If one of us doesn’t stay, he won’t either,” Marty replied.

  “My bitch is almost ready, but he should stay here a week,” Kees told them.

  Marty did some sums in his head, “The earliest we can return is in six days. After that, it won’t be for another week.”

  “Do not worry; we will look after your friend and dog until you get back. They will stay with Mevrouw Jongeline until you can collect them both. The puppies will be ready for you to choose one at twelve weeks and to collect sixteen weeks after the mating.”

  They arrived off Texel at dawn the next day and hove to at the entrance to Heldar. They flew British colours and waited for a pilot.

  After a couple of hours, a boat approached and pulled alongside. Marty had the side ropes already mounted and a red faced, jolly looking man appeared at the entry port. He stomped over to Marty, who was in full uniform, and thrust out his hand, “Guus van Meppel, Captain. I am to show you the way into Amsterdam.” He looked around at the Formidiable. “Spanish built with English rigging. She was a prize, no? Draws about 4 meters.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but went straight up onto the quarter deck and stood next to the helm. Marty exchanged an amused look with Ackermann and followed him up.

  “Right, Captain, we need to head due West from here and take it slowly, no more than five knots please.”

  Van Meppel navigated them into the Zuyderzee and South down the navigable channel. Mr. Grey was taking bearings from landmarks and marking them on his charts, which made van Meppel laugh.

  “Mark away, my friend, the next storm will make that chart useless when all the sandbars shift,” he boomed in a voice that could probably be heard on shore.

  They entered the port of Amsterdam and Marty was surprised at how busy it was.

  “You should have seen it in the old days when the Dutch East India Company was at its height!” van Meppel told them, “you could walk from one side to the other, there were so many ships.”

  A mixture of mismanagement, corruption, and changing world dynamics all contributed to the fall of the company, which was now a shadow of its former self.

  They dropped anchor where they were directed, and Ackermann went about making sure she was shipshape and Navy fashion. He wasn’t going to give any Dutchman an excuse to criticize his ship.

  Marty went to call his barge around but van Meppel stopped him.

  “Sorry, Captain, but you must wait until they send over a boat for you. You do not have permission to debark yet, and none of your crew may go ashore.”

  A boat came and collected the pilot, and he waved as he was rowed ashore. Marty scowled after him and wondered how long they would keep him waiting.

  He knew they would be watching and wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him pace the deck, so he went to his cabin. His paperwork was, for once, up to date, so he settled down to read the latest edition of the Times he bought while in London.

  An article caught his eye. It was about a chap called Trevithick, who was a Cornishman that had built a high-pressure steam engine. That was fairly revolutionary in itself, but he made it small enough to power a land carriage! Apparently, the development and refinement of the means to bore an accurate gun barrel enabled him to create an accurate enough cylinder and piston to take steam at one-hundred and fifty pounds per square inch.

  Marty had read about the beam engines of Bolton and Watt used to pump water, but they were static and only used around twenty-five pounds of pressure. This was a major development!

  The article continued with a rather sarcastic account of how the inventor and friends had driven the land carriage along a public road and were so pleased with the performance of the engine that they had stopped at a pub for lunch. Unfortunately, they neglected the engine, which ran dry and caught fire. He had now built another engine that ran on rails, but it was too heavy for the wooden rails at the mine and they crowed about another of Trevithick’s follies.

  But if that could power a land carriage, surely it could power a boat or even a ship! Marty thought but before he could take the idea any further, there was a knock at the door.

  “Midshipman Hart, Sir,” announced the sentry.

  “Enter!” Marty called.

  “Please, Sir, Mr. Ackermann’s complements, but there is a boat with some kind of official heading this way.”

  “Have him brought down to my cabin when he boards, please,” Marty instructed and called his steward to help him dress in his best uniform and honours.

  There was another knock, and the sentry announced,

  “Mr. Trenchard and a Dutch gentleman, Sir!”

  “Enter!” Marty called and his second lieutenant and a tall, well dressed gentleman with a sash of office entered his cabin.

  “Captain, may I present Mr. van Rijen, who is the secretary to the Foreign Minister of the Dutch Government. Mr. van Rijen, Captain Sir Martin Stockley.”

  “Welcome, please take a seat and kindly mind you don’t bang your head.” Marty smiled at him as the man had to stoop to avoid the deck beams.

  Once they were both seated and Marty had ordered coffee for them both, van Rijen opened the conversation.

  “I have seen your name before, Captain. I remember seeing it on the bottom of a treaty with the islands of Curaçao and Bonaire, to stop their trading with privateers in return for the British leaving them alone and not attacking Dutch ships.”

  Marty smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “That was me,” Marty admitted, still proud of what he had achieved. “Did the Burgermeister of Bonaire get over the disappointment?”

  “Alas, no. He still writes complaining about the loss of revenue and that a British Frigate will turn up unannounced to make sure they are honouring it.”

  Marty grinned at that, and van Rijen continued,

  “he made a formal complaint about you blowing him across his boat.”

  “He should have moved faster. I told him what we were going to do,” Marty replied then continued, “but we are not here to revisit old treaties are we.”

  “Indeed not, we understand that you have an offer from your government.”

  “Which I would like to make to the King and his ministers in person,” Marty interrupted.

  Van Rijen looked down his nose at him in what Marty thought was typical civil servant fashion, so he sat back in his chair and waited.

  “I need to know what the offer is to be able to persuade the Minister to take this to the King,” van Rijen stated after the silence had lasted a minute or two.

  “The fact that it comes from my King and his government should be enough to get me a meeting,” Marty replied.

  Van Rijen
looked at him and saw no sign of his giving an inch, and irritated, stood to take his leave, cracking his head on the deck beam directly above him.

  Marty winced for him as he saw the pain on his face. He stood and took him by the arm to guide him to the door.

  “You are too tall for a ship, my friend,” he consoled him, “and oak is harder than heads. Let’s hope the next time we meet its somewhere the ceilings are higher.”

  They heard nothing for the rest of the day, and Marty ordered a double watch set that night as being in an enemy harbour with so many ships in it made him nervous.

  The next day around midmorning, another boat approached, this time with a uniformed man next to van Rijen who was introduced as Flag Captain Maurice Den Helder.

  “Captain, we are here to escort you to a meeting with the Foreign Minister and Minister of War,” van Rijen announced.

  “Will the King attend?” Marty asked.

  “Captain, your reputation precedes you and we are not about to give you access to our King, who also happens to be Napoleons brother!”

  “You think I would try and kill him?” Marty asked bluntly.

  “Frankly yes, we believe you capable of that,” Captain Den Helder replied.

  “I may be an enemy of the French, but I have never done the Dutch any harm. In fact, I believe you to be natural allies to the British.” He looked them both in the eye and stood very straight. “I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman that I mean your King no harm and am only here to convey the offer from my Government.”

  Den Helder took van Rijen by the elbow and led him several steps away for a whispered conversation. When they returned he asked,

  “If we grant you access, will you submit to being searched for weapons?”

  Marty bristled and was about to say something about them doubting his word, but he swallowed his anger.

  “If that is what it takes, then I will, but take note, this is an offence to my honour!”

  “We apologize for that but when faced with someone who we have been warned directly about by Paris, then we have to take all precautions.”

  Back in his cabin, Marty changed into his dress uniform and made sure he had all his honours, including the Tiger from India on display. He removed all his weapons, except a dress sword, and left them on his desk. He didn’t even wear his special boots and instead wore shoes with gold buckles.

  He returned to the deck and followed the two officials into their boat. They rowed across to the town and from there to a large ornate brick building, which den Helder told him used to be the Staadhuis but was now the palace.

  Once inside, they were joined by two soldiers with swords held at the port, who fell into step behind Marty. They’re serious about not taking any chances, he thought as he glimpsed them in a mirror.

  They came to a large ornate door guarded by another two soldiers armed with halberds. However, van Rijen led them to a smaller door to one side which led into an anteroom.

  “I am afraid I must ask you to surrender your sword and allow yourself to be searched,” he said in a voice meant to brook no argument.

  Marty gave him a hard look and removed his sword belt, placing it on a table to the side. He also removed his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, held out his arms, and allowed den Helder to search him. He wasn’t as thorough as Sam but was good enough.

  He was allowed a moment to replace his coat, which was also patted down, straighten his clothes, then was led through another door into a large expensively decorated room with a large table as the centre piece.

  At the head of the table sat a man who could only be King Lodwijk. Another six men sat at the table, three to a side. Must be the ministers, Marty concluded.

  “Sir Martin Stockley, Baron of Candor and emissary for the British Government,” van Rijen announced.

  “I understand you have an offer for me,” the King stated bluntly.

  He looks like his brother, Marty thought and said,

  “indeed, I do, your Majesty, and I would like to say it is made with the best will towards the Dutch people and their government.”

  “But not to me, I imagine, being brother to the hated Napoleon,” the King replied.

  “Aux contraire!” Marty replied, “We have been told that you have the best interests of the Dutch at heart as well.”

  Lodwijk half smiled at that and motioned him to continue.

  “My government is aware that the trade blockade that Napoleon has imposed on the Dutch is causing great hardship to its economy and people and would like to make an offer of economic assistance, a trade agreement, and financial support in return for staying as neutral as you can.”

  He took another deep breath.

  “Dutch ships would be able to trade with England and her allies under the protection of the Royal Navy. Essential goods would be sent to alleviate the suffering of the people and ongoing financial assistance to help rebuild the economy given on very favourable terms.”

  The six ministers looked at first surprised, then interested, then expectant as they looked to their King.

  “And how does the British government mean to protect us when my brother takes steps to prevent this and punish the Dutch for contemplating such an - - agreement?”

  He stood and paced around the table until he was face to face with Marty.

  “I will tell you. Nothing. Napoleon will walk in here with an army like he has with Portugal and Spain and just take over, and the British will be powerless to prevent it.”

  He was angry now.

  “The Dutch, who have suffered enough, will be caught in the middle and squeezed until they are bled dry! The answer is NO!”

  Marty wasn’t surprised and kept a straight face throughout. What did surprise him was what came next.

  “You, my dear Captain, are wanted for the murder of both an ambassador and a minister, the burning of at least one embassy, and many acts of piracy against the French State!”

  “Your ship will be released to carry our refusal back to England, but you will remain here under arrest and be sent to my brother as a gesture of good will.”

  Marty was taken aback! This went in the face of any diplomatic protocol he had ever read about, but he didn’t have time to protest as he was seized and dragged away through the large door by the two soldiers with swords.

  Behind him, he heard the ministers protesting to the King, their voices fading as he was dragged down the corridor to a small room and pushed inside.

  The room was only ten feet to a side and had a small window high up on one wall. Like all the rooms he had seen the ceiling was high and it was furnished with a chair, a cot, a washstand with a jug and bowl and a chamber pot. The door had no lock but bolts on the outside at the top, middle, and bottom.

  He sat on the cot and waited to see what would happen next. He didn’t have to wait long when there was the sound of the bolts being drawn and the door opened.

  Den Helder stepped in with a guard behind him, armed with a pistol. Two more guards were visible outside.

  “I want you to know this is not the doing of the ministers or the rest of us. It is purely the action of the King. Is there a message you want given to your ship?”

  He paused, looking embarrassed.

  “Please tell them to sail immediately, not to try a rescue here and not to forget to look after my dog and his puppies,” Marty asked of him.

  Den Helder assured him he would, and the door closed behind him.

  On the Formidiable, they received the message with anger, but Ackermann read something into it that the others missed. He smiled as they set sail and the pilot started guiding them out. A Dutch frigate fell into line behind them, they were taking no chances.

  Chapter 5: Escape and Evade

  Marty unpinned the gold tiger and fiddled with the pin. A sliver of steel came loose with a click and fell into the palm of his hand. He then took off his star of the Order of the Garter, and another slightly wider sliver with a ninety-degree bend
at one end came loose. Last, he undid the ribbon that tied his hair back in a navy cue, unwrapped a thin wire from around it, then dug into the cue with his fingers and removed a two-inch-long section of razor that had resin along the sharp edge to protect it. All of which were stowed about his person where they could be reached at a moment’s notice. He expected someone to steal his honours at some time but now he was armed and equipped with the means to escape.

  A week passed during which he was treated well enough, but now the door opened, and the blue uniforms of French soldiers could be seen outside. One entered the room and put a pair of manacles on his wrists, locking them with a key, which he handed to a cavalry officer.

  They marched him outside into bright sunlight, which dazzled him after the gloom of his room. A carriage was waiting, and he was pushed inside, the officer entering behind him.

  The coach set off and Marty could hear that there were at least four horses behind them. The officer sat comfortably across from him with a pistol cocked and pointing straight at him.

  “You don’t look like your reputation,” he observed.

  “And what am I supposed to look like?” Marty asked.

  “Some sort of superman, if I were to believe the Department, an ogre who eats children and assassinates ministers and ambassadors.”

  “That would be the Department for Internal Affairs,” Marty stated with a sneer, “They have always been prone to exaggeration. Little grey men with little grey matter.”

  The lieutenant laughed and relaxed a little.

  “They mean to guillotine you in front of Notre Damme,” he taunted.

  “Well, it’s a picturesque spot. There are worse places to lose your head,” Marty quipped then snuggled down to get some sleep.

  They stopped at a hotel in Vianen just South of Utrecht where they left Marty shackled to a bedpost in a third-floor room with the youngest of his escort as guard. He had gotten the short straw and had to stay in the room as his companions ate and drank in the bar all evening.