The Trojan Horse

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The Trojan Horse Page 20

by Christopher C Tubbs


  “Mr. Trenchard, you will come with me along with Mr. Hart. Mr. Longstaff, you stay here with Mr. Ackermann.”

  He was missing his third lieutenant and youngest mid as they were on the Belle with a prize crew. He could have made use of the extra hands, but he would manage with what he had.

  “The Fore was in a fight and was victorious. The Formidiable is her prize. The Marines will act the part of English prisoners.”

  “Not many of us to do that,” Marine Captain Paul la Pierre commented.

  “Oh, I’m sure you can run around and look like a crowd,” Marty smiled.

  “We will sail into La Possession victorious! Our Captain is dead but I, a humble third lieutenant, have led our brave men to an unusual victory and captured the Roast beef frigate.”

  Now he was looking at a crowd of grinning faces and could hear the crew passing on what they overheard like a wave along the ship. Laughter and banter rippled down the deck as men teased each other over how they would look in French clothes.

  The services of one of the men, who was a former tailor, were needed to get Marty into a third lieutenant’s uniform and Trenchard into a fourth’s. Stanley Hart was dressed as a mid along with one of the larger ship’s boys. The crew sorted out their own disguises. Bandages would be applied to make them look as if they had taken wounds.

  The next morning, the two ships set sail. The tricolour streamed from the Fore, and the Formidiable had the tricolour flying over the British flag.

  They approached La Possession, and Marty studied the signal books the ‘brave lieutenant’ forgot to throw overboard. Marty hoped his men wouldn’t ever be that foolish. He found the recognition signal for the day and took it up to the quarterdeck so Stanley could raise it in answer to the inevitable challenge.

  They were met by a pilot who guided them to anchor not far from where they had burnt the frigates a few years before. There was only one other ship in port and that was a twenty-eight-gun corvette.

  Marty had a boat pulled around and, along with Matai and Antton, went to visit the port authority. He was directed to a building further down the port when he asked the pilot where he should report to.

  The building was the only one that stood out as being ‘official’. It hadn’t been there, as far as Marty could remember, last time he had been there. It was stone built and had two stories where most of the other buildings were single- or two-story wooden structures. It was clearly built to impress.

  He entered the portico, which had Doric columns on either side as well as elaborate carving around the frieze. Why build something as fancy as this, he wondered. The cost of shipping the stone alone must be enormous.

  There was a pair of blue uniformed guards on the door, who snapped to attention as they passed through. Inside, it was noticeably cooler and dimmer. Once their eyes became accustomed to the light, they saw that they were in a large reception room with several doors leading off and a man sat at a desk in the middle.

  “Lieutenant Bouvier of the Fore,” he introduced himself.

  “Where is your captain,” the official asked, managing to look down his nose at him even though seated.

  “Dead as are the first and second lieutenants. Killed early in the fight with the British frigate,” Marty told him and added with a show of pride, “I assumed command and completed the victory.”

  “So you say. Do you have a report?” the official asked, completely unimpressed.

  “Certainly,” Marty said, but didn’t hand anything over.

  The official looked at him, and Marty looked back. He was used to dealing with officialdom. The official cracked first,

  “The Port Director’s office is the second door from the left.”

  “Thank you,” Marty said with a smile as he walked over to the door and knocked.

  “Enter,” came a brusque voice.

  Marty looked at the boys.

  “You had better stay here. Keep an eye out for any signs of Sam.”

  He opened the door and stepped inside a well-appointed office with a large, dark wood desk in the centre. Sitting behind it was a portly man dressed in a lightweight suit studying some papers. Marty scanned the walls as he walked forward and saw a door to the right in the rear wall and another that presumably led to another office to the left.

  He stopped in front of the desk and waited. After a minute, the man grunted, closed the folder, and placed it in a tray to his left.

  “Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “Bouvier of the Fore, acting commander,” Marty barked in his best military manner.

  “And what of Captain St. Just?” the director asked.

  “Killed in the line of duty, sir.” Marty held out a packet that contained a written report (he had carefully copied the style of a report he had found in the captain’s cabin), making sure his hand shook ever so slightly.

  The director took it and his look softened as he took the shaking as strain.

  “Forgive me. I have had a bad day. Please take a seat. My name is Director Livarot.”

  Marty sat and pasted a grateful look on his face.

  “Your former captain dropped a problem in my lap.”

  Marty looked surprised.

  “That British black man he brought here for the Department of Internal Security is refusing to tell us anything except that someone called,” he checked a note. “‘Troy is coming and will bite our balls off,’ whatever that means.”

  Marty had to cough to cover a laugh.

  “The captain of the ship we captured had a dog called Troy. Maybe that is what he means,” he offered.

  “Well, he will now face interrogation by Dupreeh from Internal Security,”

  There was a knock on the door to the rear of the office. Livarot sighed and looked tired before calling out,

  “Enter.”

  A man dressed in a black suit standing at about five feet, six stepped into the room. He had long, lank hair that surrounded a completely bald pate, which made him look like a monk. The bland face and dead eyes of the professional intelligence officer are what stood out the most.

  “Aah Dupreeh, I was just telling the good lieutenant about you,” Livarot stated.

  “Really,” Dupreeh responded in a flat voice then turned his attention to Marty. “And you are responsible for bringing that English ship in as a prize?”

  “Yes sir, I had that honour,” Marty replied.

  “The heroic Captain St. Just didn’t survive the exchange then,” Dupreeh commented without a hint of sarcasm in his voice, and before Marty could say another word,

  “Did you capture the British captain alive?”

  “I am afraid not. He died when our carronade targeted his quarterdeck,” Marty lied.

  “That is a shame. Do you still have the body?” Dupreeh asked.

  “We buried him at sea as is the usual practice,” Marty answered, sounding confused.

  “Well, never mind. I am sure you will still be able to claim the twenty thousand Louis reward for his head.”

  “My God! How much?” Livarot squawked.

  “That ship was captained by non-other than the infamous Sir Martin Stockley. My department has been at odds with him since the end of the revolution. He has been a thorn in the Emperor’s side since before he came to power.”

  Marty and Livarot made amazed/surprised noises.

  “If you have, indeed, eliminated him, then you have done Napoleon himself a great service.”

  “Then the captive was one of his crew?” Livarot asked.

  “I would believe so. The attack on Grande Baye is typical of the way the man works,” Dupreeh replied. “We think he was behind an attack here several years ago when he was active in India.”

  “Well, thank God he is finished,” Livarot shuddered.

  “I would like you to come with me to see the captive, Lieutenant. The news that his captain is dead may persuade him to be more cooperative.”

  Oh shit, Marty thought, if Sam reacts in the wrong way, we could all be
up shit creek. But he followed the two men and surreptitiously loosened his stilettoes in their forearm sheaths.

  Chapter 19: Extraction

  “I have to give Sam his due. He never batted an eyelid when I walked into the room, and when I told him I was dead, he reacted just as you would expect. Dupreeh was completely fooled,” Marty told the gathered Shadows and officers.

  “No chance of getting him out then?” Wolfgang asked.

  “Not on my own. There were too many guards and they have him in a slave collar, which has been riveted shut and chained to a ringbolt in the wall that has also been forge closed. Dupreeh knows how we work and assumed that Sam could pick locks.”

  “Well how do we get him out? Guards, we can deal with, locks are no problem, but breaking a chain is going to make a lot of noise,” Wilson commented.

  “That is where our friends over there in the Corvette come in,” Marty grinned.

  “He’s ‘ad one of ‘is ideas,” John Smith whispered into Chin’s ear and sat back.

  “We can’t wait to get Sam out because the longer we stay here, the more chance there will be that someone from either the corvette or the ministry building will want to come and see where the famous Captain Stockley and his evil minions met their doom,” That caused a ripple of laughter.

  “So, my idea is that we pay a visit to the corvette. We have captured a fine prize and want to boast a bit and share some of our joy with our fellow warriors of the sea.”

  The room waited. They knew there was much more to come and there would be plenty of time for questions and suggestions later.

  “There will be a shore team who will go get Sam, a second team that will neutralise the battery, and a third, mine by the way, that will go party on the corvette.” That caused a round of banter and some good-natured accusations that he was getting too old to do the real work.

  “Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Marty called and restored order.

  The corvette team needs to be all French speaking, so it will be me, Antton, and Matai. Garai, Chin, John, and Wilson will get Sam. Paul and Phillip will lead the third team made up of marines to spike the guns in the batteries.”

  “Can I suggest they take marine Rigglesworth with them to get Sam? He was a smith’s apprentice before he joined the marines and will be useful to get him free,” Paul offered.

  “Perfect, are you alright with that Garai?” Marty asked and got a thumbs up in reply.

  “Right, then let’s work out the timing,” Marty said, and they all gathered around a large sheet of paper spread out on the dining table.

  Marty sent a note to the corvette’s captain telling him that they would be visiting and bringing some loot from the Formidiable that they would like to share. At 8 PM, they loaded up a boat and were rowed over.

  They had a couple of cases of wine from Marty’s private stock and a very large keg of rum, which were hoisted aboard after Marty, Antton, and Matai had climbed the side and introduced themselves.

  The captain, a young lieutenant, was delighted by the excellent Bordeaux and insisted on sampling the rum. He took one sip and almost collapsed in a fit of coughing,

  “Holy mother of Christ!” he exclaimed, “The British sailors really drink that stuff?”

  “A pint a day,” Marty laughed, “but they dilute it four to one with water and lime juice. Keeps away the scurvy apparently.”

  The lieutenant insisted they join him in his cabin with his officers where they broached a few bottles and ate some reasonably good food. It was a slightly worse for wear trio that returned to the Fore.

  Marty was drinking his eighth coffee when the watchman rang eight bells. He put down his cup and waited. There was a loud explosion, he got up to go on deck.

  Matai and Antton met him at the entry port, all three were armed to the teeth. They led Marty down into the waiting boat and were rowed to the dock. As soon as they were ashore, they slipped away into the darkness heading towards the ministry building. The corvette was burning and there were a number of secondary explosions as barrels of oil or brandy detonated.

  A pair of soldiers were running towards the Ministry building and suddenly fell to the ground, bolts embedded in the middle of their backs. No one would be able to say for sure the next day, but the evidence was that they had been shot in the back by something like a crossbow.

  A group of men left the ministry building. One was helped by two of his mates who acted as human crutches. They made their way towards the dock, the burning corvette lighting their way like day. Anybody who approached them died, cut down before they got within twenty feet, most killed from behind, knives or bolts protruding from back or neck. The trail of corpses would be used the next day to work out the route they had taken.

  At the dock, there was a boat waiting for them and they were helping their wounded mate into it when a man dressed in a black suit came out of the shadows by a warehouse and pointed a pair of pistols at them.

  “Zat is far enough. You will return to ze dock,” Dupreeh said with a thick French accent.

  The men stopped and just looked at him. They appeared to be waiting for something or, it suddenly occurred to him, somebody. The thought had just registered when he felt a sharp blade against the side of his neck,

  “Now you never told me you spoke English. That was very rude,” a soft but familiar voice said from behind him. “I would be obliged if you would lower the pistols and hand them to my friend here.”

  A figure appeared beside him and held out his hands, the blade dug a little deeper, and he felt a trickle of blood, he handed over the pistols. The blade was removed from his neck and moved around in front of his eyes. He was fascinated by it; it was about thirty centimetres long, eight wide, with a wicked double edged clip point. The steel had a pattern in it that seemed to shift in the flickering light of the burning ship. It looked beautiful and as sharp as it had felt.

  He followed the blade back to a hand, then an arm to a face he knew,

  “I think I can conclude you are not Lieutenant Bouvier,”

  “Bravo, you are quite right.”

  “Captain Stockley?”

  “Bravo again. You are one of the few members of your department to have seen my face and still be alive.”

  “Let me guess, the ones who have seen you do not know it was you.”

  “You are doing very well, but that is not true. They know me well enough to put a price on my head. Why didn’t you torture Sam?” Marty asked suddenly, curious.

  “Is that his name? Torture only gets you what you want to hear. There are more sophisticated ways of getting the information that you need,” Dupreeh replied. Marty agreed although he had found that a little ‘persuasion’ was handy to start people talking and save time.

  “They should promote you; you are wasted on this rock,” Marty told him.

  “I am going to die.” It was a statement not a question.

  “I’m afraid so. I thought about bringing my dog, Troy, to do it since Sam promised you he would bite off your balls, but we don’t have time for that.”

  “Get on with it then,” he said, suddenly angry at Marty’s urbane manner.

  It was the last time he saw Marty or the team as sharp tap from a blackjack knocked him out.

  “Get this ship underway. That corvette is likely to blow up at any minute,” Marty ordered as soon as they were back on board the Fore. The Formidiable was already on its way out of the harbour, pausing only to pick up the marines who had been spiking the guns in the battery.

  The crew was ready, the anchor straight up and down. It took just a single command to get the ship under way. They were just in time because as they passed through the harbour mouth, the corvette’s magazine went up with an enormous explosion, the shock wave pushing them out into the night.

  Marty had a moment’s regret as he thought of the fine wine that went up with it but shrugged as he figured Sam was worth it. He asked himself why he didn’t kill Dupreeh and concluded that the world needed more m
en inclined to use their minds rather than force then he chuckled at the irony of that particular thought.

  Chapter 19: Recall

  They returned to Grande Porte, and Marty reported to Commodore Rowley,

  “Well, Sir Martin, you seem to have been busy,” he commented as he finished reading Marty’s report. “Your man is recovering well, I hope?”

  “He is, Sir. He will be up and around in no time now our physician is caring for him,” Marty replied.

  “Tell me, in your opinion can Reunion be taken?” Rowley asked, looking at him intently.

  “They will beef up the defences and probably bring in extra troops at La Possession, but they are still making the same mistakes they made last time I was here. They only have a minimal guard on the fishing port to the west. It’s got no depth of water for a large ship to get in but with ships boats full of soldiers you could make a landing there and take La Possession from behind,” Marty replied.

  “And Grande Baye?”

  “The fortifications and defensive battery are strong enough to hold off any kind of attempt from the sea. As you know, they have a large number of troops concentrated on the coastal plain behind Grande Baye, including infantry, cavalry, and artillery. So, any invasion will need a significant number of troops. You could land them at Poste de Flac.”

  Rowley called his steward,

  “May I offer you some refreshment? I have an excellent Madera or a Bordeaux I acquired in Madras.”

  Imported by Candor shipping, Marty chuckled to himself and accepted a glass of Madera.

  “I have mail for you that came in on the packet yesterday. I believe there is something from the Admiralty in there. Would you like my clerk to bring it in?”

  Curious, are you? Marty thought but replied,

  “If that would be no trouble, thank you.”

  The clerk, a small man with round glasses perched on his nose, thin wispy hair, and a rounded back caused by the hours spent pouring over documents, came in with a bag and a separate packet of oiled paper sealed with the fouled anchor of the Admiralty.

 

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