The Trojan Horse

by Christopher C Tubbs

  At two in the morning, Marty’s eyes opened, he stayed still and listened for several minutes. The guards breathing was steady and deep from the chair he sat in near the fire that had burnt down to embers. Marty fiddled with his cuffs and after a few seconds, they were placed on the carpet without a clink.

  The guard died, his jugular expertly severed, and any noise stifled by a pillow held over his face. Marty assumed there would be at least one more guard outside the door, so he ignored that.

  The window was unlocked, and he climbed out and down onto the stable roof, finding finger and toe holds between the bricks where the mortar had crumbled. He crept along to the far end of the stables where there was a hoist sticking out with a rope attached that he used to slip into the hay loft.

  He checked the horses and decided against them, it would be too conspicuous to be seen riding a horse with French tack. However, he needed to delay the pursuit, so he went through their tack cutting girth straps and reins. He removed the stirrups and bits, dropping them down the well in the yard as he passed it on his way out.

  A good night for a walk, he thought and headed Northwest steering by the stars towards, he hoped, the coast and the Hague. After just a mile, he came upon a river, rivers flow to the sea, he thought and followed its banks.

  At dawn, he found a large weeping willow whose branches hung down to the water and settled down under it to rest. He had plenty of water and the remnants of the supper they had served him the night before to eat.

  He removed his coat and looked regretfully at the pinholes where his honours were taken by the French lieutenant, who also took his gold buttons and buckles from his shoes. He would settle accounts with him if they ever met again.

  Fed and relatively comfortable, he settled down for the day. He had lived on meagre rations before, so the prospect of going short didn’t bother him. What would have been better was a fire. As it was, he just wrapped himself in his coat and slept.

  He was awoken by the sound of voices. He could just see the sun through the leaves of the willow surrounding him, and he guessed it was mid-afternoon. He crawled carefully forward.

  There coming down the bank, were the French, and they were searching every nook and cranny. He had to move and find a better hiding place. He slipped out from the cover of the tree, being careful to keep it between him and the soldiers. He scurried across the field and down into a deep drainage ditch that ran perpendicular to the river. There was a network of these ditches crisscrossing the fields, which made good, if muddy, cover.

  He followed the ditch and could hear the French calling to each other.

  They were getting closer.

  He continued along the ditch, trying hard not to make unnecessary noise or leave footprints that could give him away until he came upon a culvert. These occurred wherever the farmers needed to bridge the drainage ditch from one field to the next and rather go to the expense of building a bridge they built a low tunnel out of brick and filled in above it with earth to create a crossing point.

  He decided he had no choice and crawled in, it was tight he only just fit, luckily the water was only a couple of inches deep.

  He could hear hoofbeats coming closer, a soldier was following the ditch.

  He held his breath.

  The hoofbeats crossed above him and stopped.

  He waited, his pistol would be useless, the priming and charge would be sodden. If the soldier stepped down, he would be done.

  There was a scrabbling noise as the Frenchman slid down the steep bank of the ditch and a splash as he hit the water.

  “Shit! Fucking Dutch and their fucking ditches!” he shouted. There was a laugh from further away.

  “My boots are full of water!”

  Marty kept his face lowered and winced as a spear tip narrowly missed impaling his arm as the soldier shoved it into the culvert. The spear was withdrawn, and Marty braced himself for another thrust but with more swearing and shouts at his horse to back up, the Frenchman climbed out of the ditch.

  Marty waited for another hour, getting colder and colder. His limbs would hardly move when he decided it was safe to come out. He tried to go forward but discovered that the culvert got narrower, he had to go out backwards.

  He had gotten his legs clear when someone grabbed his ankles and roughly dragged him out. He was exhausted but tried to turn himself to defend against the attack he was sure was coming.

  As he rolled on his back, he looked up into the smiling face of a Dutch farmer and the curious face of a Dutch Shepherd dog.

  “U verbergt zich van die Franse Bastards. Nou, ze zijn verdwenen en je ziet eruit alsof je wat hulp nodig hebt,” the man said.

  Marty caught, ‘French bastards,’ and, ‘hulp.’ He smiled up at the man and sat.

  “Yes, I am running from the French bastards. I am English.”

  “Oh, ho ho. Kom met me mee, we zullen je droog en gevoed krijgen.”

  Marty heard ‘droog,’ which he knew meant dry, so he took the hand that was held out and let himself be pulled to his feet.

  The farmer, who introduced himself as Joss, helped him up the bank and out of the ditch. Marty noticed he wore wooden shoes with thick socks that squelched now they were waterlogged. They walked across the fields to a farmhouse, where they were greeted by the farmer’s wife, Thea, who fussed over him as the farmer told her how he had found him.

  “Guus must have heard him in the culvert and stood there with his ears up and his front leg raised like when he sees something he isn’t sure of,” he told Thea. “Then these legs appeared, and I pulled our fugitive out of the pipe.”

  “He is the one the French have been looking for?” she asked as she handed Marty a blanket and a bucket of warm water to wash with.

  “Neem al je kleren uit!” she instructed him and signed he should take all his clothes off.

  “He must be. He is English and looks like a sailor,” he replied then stopped and looked in surprise at the small pile of metal implements Marty piled on the table with the useless pistol and knife.

  Marty stepped outside, stripped, and washed himself all over, even undoing his cue to rinse his hair. Clean, he wrapped himself in the blanket and went back into the kitchen.

  There was a bowl of rabbit stew with dumplings steaming on the table and a loaf of fresh bread. Joss pointed to it and said, “Eten!” He poured a liquor from a stone bottle, and Marty immediately identified it as Corenwijn the lethal Dutch drink that was cross between gin and whiskey.

  He sipped it and said, “Corenwijn. It’s good!”

  Joss laughed and reached forward to slap him on the shoulder.

  “See, he knows some Dutch!”

  Thea disappeared to the room, where Marty knew from Mrs. Jongeline’s house, they slept. She returned with a pair of trousers, a shirt, socks, and wooden shoes, which Marty put on once he finished his meal.

  He sat by the fire, warming himself and sipping his drink.

  “I must get to den Hague,” he told them, “I have friends there who can help me.”

  “He wants to go where?” Thea asked and made a sign that said she didn’t understand.

  Marty thought he heard Mrs. Jongeline call it something else. His memory coughed it up.

  “Grawenhage!”

  The two of them smiled as they understood.

  “I will go and talk to Hogenboom in the morning and see what he suggests,” Joss told his wife.

  Marty stayed the night and made moves to leave first thing in the morning, but Thea made him understand he had to stay. Joss left before dawn and when he returned told her,

  “Gerard has a cart leaving for Gouda with a cargo of cheese, he can take him as far as there. He has a little English from trading with them as well.”

  He took Marty to the farm of Peter Hogenboom. It was a walk of around a mile and a half and Marty was surprised at how comfortable the wooden shoes were. He learned they were called klompen.

  Peter was a small man and ran a dairy farm of the typi
cal red and tan cows the Dutch preferred. He made cheese with the milk and sold it in the cheese market in Gouda. He looked Marty over and judged that with his hair loose and the clothes from Joss and Thea, he could pass for a farmhand, as long as he kept his mouth shut.

  Marty was grateful for any help he could get; the alternative being trying to stay away from the French and a visit with madam guillotine.

  They set off; Marty sat beside Hogenboom on the driver’s seat. After an hour, the taciturn man handed Marty the reins and let him drive while he nodded off to sleep.

  The horse plodded along and seemed to know where it was going, so Marty let it set its own pace. Around mid-morning, it stopped and no matter what Marty did, it wouldn’t move. He was just getting cross with it when he heard a chuckle from beside him.

  Hogenboom reached under the seat and pulled out a sack with bread, cheese, and sausage. He divided it up and passed a portion over to Marty. It was lunchtime. The horse got a nose bag of oats and was happy.

  They entered Gouda in the middle of the afternoon, and Marty helped unload the cheeses onto a strange sled-like contraption. He was surprised when two men dressed in some kind of uniform and straw hats picked up the sled by looping the straps that were attached to either end over their shoulders and slinging it between them.

  In that fashion, the entire cargo was unloaded quickly and efficiently. Hogenboom talked to some other farmers and eventually came back to Marty with another man.

  “This is Mijneer van Stavast. He will take you to Grawenhage. Can you find your own way from there?”

  “Yes, I know where to go once I get to the edge of town,” Marty assured him.

  “You English must beat the French; Napoleon and his Empire must go. Whatever our so-called King says, the Dutch people would be pleased to help!” he told Marty in parting and shook his hand.

  The next leg of his trip was uneventful. There was no sign of the French and Marty doubted they would recognize him if they did encounter them.

  He left his ride on the edge of the town, skirted around to the North, and headed to Mrs. Jongeline’s home.

  He approached it cautiously from the back of the house across the fields. There was smoke coming from the chimney and all seemed peaceful.

  He climbed the wall surrounding the orchard behind the house and his feet had just hit the ground when a brown and black brindled blur shot out of the house and headed straight for him.

  Blaez hit him in the chest with his front paws at a dead run, knocking him on his back. His face was washed by a long-wet tongue as the big dog pinned him to the ground, absolutely ecstatic he was back.

  He finally got Blaez to let him sit up and looked around to see all the Shadows standing around him, grinning.

  “I think he’s gorn native,” John Smith observed, “he’s even wearin’ them wooden shoes!”

  “Suits him though,” Wilson chipped in, “He always said he came from humble stock.

  More comments followed; Marty knew it was just an expression of their relief that he was back with them.

  Matai finally brought the banter to a halt when he said, “Mrs. Jongeline was told by a friend of hers that there is a squad of French cavalry out looking for someone and is patrolling up and down the coast. They are getting help from local Dutch army units.”

  Marty frowned, “I’m not surprised they guessed I would head for the sea. We need to deal with them; their lieutenant has some things that are very dear to me.”

  They’d brought a spare set of clothes for Marty, including his weapons harness and calf-length lace up boots.

  Blaez, Marty decided, had developed a cocky strut to his walk. He stood taller, chest out, and had a ‘I’m the man!’ attitude about him. He mentioned it to Matai.

  “Yes, he thinks he’s the top dog since he mated with that bitch a couple of weeks ago. He’s even more aggressive to other male dogs and struts around the place like he owns it.”

  “Was it successful?” Marty asked hopefully.

  “So I was told. They did it four or five times, and they locked together every time. It was really funny watching him try and walk after he got loose with all his bits in the wrong place. Now she is behaving differently and won’t let him near her.”

  “Sounds good then.” Marty grinned happily.

  “Oh, by the way, we heard the French have put a reward on your head,” Matai chipped in.

  “Really?” Marty exclaimed in surprise, “how much?”

  “Ten thousand Louis,” Matai grinned.

  “Phew!” Marty breathed.

  They left Mrs. Jongeline with a promise to return for the puppy in around fourteen weeks and made their way towards Scheveningen. The French had guessed that the fishing port or a part of the coast near it would be an ideal place for Marty to try and leave Holland. They enlisted the help of some local mounted troops and there were patrols running along the coast day and night.

  The boys told Marty that the Hornfleur and Eagle were patrolling along the coast from Scheveningen to Noordwijk ready to pick them up. They’d designated pickup points and times and all they needed to do was be in the right place at the right time and they were home free.

  Marty, however, wanted the French lieutenant, and even more, he wanted his stuff back. So, they hatched a plan to turn the hunters into the hunted using Marty as bait.

  They let it be known, through their local contacts, that Marty made it to the coast and was seen heading for the beach North of Scheveningen at Wassenaar. That was close enough to attract the French but not so close as to make it easy.

  They wanted to isolate the French troops, so they let it be known to the troops patrolling further North that Marty was heading for Zandvoort. The reward did the rest.

  Two nights later, a lonely figure exited the dunes from the direction of Wassenaar and waved a lantern back and forth, which could be seen for miles along the beach as well as out to sea.

  The French saw it and raced along the beach to intercept Marty before he could be picked up. He let them get to about half a mile and ran for the dunes, getting there just before they did.

  Marty dodged down between two dunes, the drum of the horse’s hooves loud in his ears, at the end, he turned almost ninety degrees left and carried on running. His breathing was getting laboured and his muscles were burning as he threw himself over a discoloured patch of sand in front of him. The French whooped as they saw him on the ground and spurred forward.

  A shout went up and two poles were hauled up from where they lay across the path, pulling up a fishing net between them and Marty. The horses skidded to a stop, confronted with what looked like an impenetrable barrier.

  The riders, knowing it was a trap, spun their mounts and spurred them back the way they came only to find that blocked as well. Shots rang out, and men fell, panicked horses reared and crashed into each other, spilling their riders and trampling them under their hooves.

  In the end, one man was left standing, holding his sabre as the barriers dropped, allowing the horses to get away.

  Marty faced the French lieutenant, who looked around at the remnants of his command, who were bleeding out into the sand.

  “I believe you have some things that belong to me,” he said as he walked forward sword in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  The Lieutenant looked at him and sneered in the absolute conviction that no sailor could match a chasseur with a sword, “Why don’t you came and take them, sailor boy.”

  Marty gave him his wolf grin,

  “Off your dead body or alive- makes no difference to me.”

  “For the record, my name is Francis du Bastille, and I am going to claim the ten thousand by presenting your severed head to Napoleon himself.”

  “You talk too much!” said Marty and shot him right through the heart.

  Matai returned with the lieutenant’s horse. They were well trained and stopped running once they got to a quieter place. The reins were knotted, and the saddle had no stirrups, a quick search
recovered Marty’s things from the saddlebags.

  They were waiting at the designated pickup point

  “I was tired, alright!” Marty snapped in exasperation at yet another joke about his shooting the lieutenant.

  “Typical French, though,” said John Smith, “Only one of them would bring a sword to a gunfight.”

  Marty bit his lip and resisted the temptation to say anything more.

  Chapter 6: I am a mole and I live in . . .

  “It was a complete setup,” Marty swore as he paced angrily back and forth across Hood’s office. “The offer was never going to be accepted and I was sent to put me in the hands of the French.”

  “Are you accusing George Canning?” Hood asked, looking shocked.

  “No, not him, but someone close to him. He suspected there was a leak, didn’t he?” Marty replied after a pause.

  “Yes, he was worried the French would hear that you were going to make the offer.”

  Marty paced and thought, his face a mask of concentration.

  “We need to know who came up with the idea and if he put it to Canning himself or got someone else to,” Marty concluded and plopped himself down into one of the chairs.

  “Then we need to ……”

  As far as the Foreign Office were concerned, Marty and his ship were on their way back to Gibraltar. The Formidiable was indeed on her way back but with Ackermann in charge, Marty and the Shadows stayed in London.

  Marty launched an investigation without informing Canning, with Hood’s blessing, as they concluded that whoever the mole was, he had to be close to him. They had identified several people who could be in a position to leak information to the French but only three of them were privy to the Dutch mission, so they concentrated on them.

  Antton and Chin Lee were following their target as he walked down Drury Lane towards a notorious, high-class brothel. He was a well-dressed man, in fact, a little foppish, dressed fashionably and carrying a silver topped cane that Antton suspected concealed a blade.