by Seth Hunter
“And yet I would not wish the charges against me to be overlooked,” Nathan replied, “when I believe I have a very good case to have them dismissed entirely. In all instances.”
All but one. The instance of the Conquest firing upon the crowd of women and children on the Beach of the White Sands. For it weighed heavily upon his conscience and there was a price to be paid for it, even in blood.
Spencer shook his head wearily. “My dear sir, if the First Lord of the Treasury and the First Lord of the Admiralty are both satisfied with your conduct—indeed, if they approve it on all counts—then they will most certainly be dismissed. If you wish to counter them however, to call for a full investigation, perhaps, then, so be it. But I must advise you that it will take a great deal of your time—and money—and that in the meantime I will be obliged to suspend you from command.”
So there it was. Blackmail, pure and simple.
Nathan made a slight, but not unappreciative bow.
“Very well, my lord, I am not at all averse to the proposal.”
The First Lord returned the courtesy.
“Very good,” he said, “then there is someone I wish you to meet.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
the Madonna and the Rose
M R. BICKNELL CONEY was introduced to Nathan as a banker—a director of the Bank of England, no less—though he looked to Nathan very like one of those exponents of Three-card Monte at the Epsom Derby who invite you to find the Dirty Lady and depart the proceedings very much to their advantage. An ill-favoured fellow with something of the ferret or the fox about him, his most notable feature was a long, sharp nose that listed visibly to starboard, possibly from the constant tapping upon it of a lean and prescient forefinger. His beady eyes betrayed a lively concern for his own interest and he carried about him a great air of secret knowledge.
“Mr. Coney is a man of singular ability,” Earl Spencer informed Nathan with apparent sincerity, “upon whose insights His Majesty’s Government have come very much to rely.”
Which was possibly why it was so very much out of pocket, Nathan reflected privately.
Mr. Coney’s insights, in this particular instance, were more political than financial, and concerned the present composition of the government in France.
“Since the demise of Robespierre, it has been dominated by two men, Tallien and Barras” he began, “both of whom are, I believe, known to the captain.”
The captain demurred. He had met them but once, he insisted, and that only briefly, on the day of Robespierre’s overthrow. “Imlay knows them rather better,” he assured the First Lord meaningfully.
“Indeed,” acknowledged the banker, before his lordship could comment, “but before we move on to Mr. Imlay, let me say that behind these two gentlemen stand, or perhaps one should say, lie …” his smirk did nothing to improve the beauty of his appearance, “… two very interesting women. You will have heard, perhaps, of Thérésa Cabarrus?”
“Our Lady of Thermidor,” Nathan murmured.
“Quite. The new Madonna—at least in the eyes of her admirers. It is widely believed that she played a significant part in the coup against Robespierre during the month of Thermidor, as the Revolutionists insist upon calling the high months of summer. The story goes that she persuaded her lover, Tallien, to speak out against him in the Convention and even provided him with the knife with which he was to stab the tyrant, threatening to stab herself if he failed in the venture; though as she was in prison at the time, awaiting execution, I think this is another example of the French passion for dramatics.”
Again that horrible smirk, though his lordship smiled with what appeared to be genuine enjoyment. It occurred to Nathan that despite the large gulf in their station, the peer was somewhat in thrall to the banker, but perhaps this was not so very remarkable. He was doubtless in his debt for a few house improvements.
“Be that as it may,” Coney continued, “it served to convert the condemned prisoner into Our Lady of Thermidor, the heroine of the hour, the saviour of France who brought an end to the Terror. And so she has remained, despite the charges of corruption and dissidence levelled against the current regime. Married now to her lover and more correctly addressed as Madame Tallien, the paramount leader of French society whose influence over her husband and his partner Barras—who is very much the senior partner, by the by—is considerable. In another age I would say she was the power behind the throne.”
“I think you said there were two women,” Nathan reminded him, for his informant had sunk into reflection.
“Ah yes. Thank you for reminding me. The other—somewhat in her shadow but no less important for our purposes—is Josephine de Beauharnais, known as Rose to her intimates, of which there are not a few. Interestingly, she is a Creole: the daughter of a sugar planter from the French colony of Martinique and the widow of General de Beauharnais, who was beheaded during the Terror. As his wife, she was condemned to suffer the same fate and was incarcerated for many months in what had, until the time of the Terror, been a convent of the Carmelite Order. During which time she became the good friend of Thérésa Cabarrus and the lover, by the by, of General Hoche, with whom you very nearly became acquainted on the shores of Quiberon.” The knowing smirk crept out, once more, from beneath the long, sharp nose. “Now she is the lover of Barras, though it is said he would willingly exchange her for her great friend Thérésa, the wife of his junior partner. So there you have it, the Madonna and the Rose. ‘A fine pair of tarts,’ as they would say in Wapping, though a less vulgar term would be ‘courtesans.’ These two women have, in a very short time, re-established Paris as the capital of fashion, indulgence and scandal—and themselves as its reigning deities. They are rather more interested in their amusements than they are in politics, but their paramount interest, I can confidently assure you, is in money. And money, as usual, is at the heart of what I am about to tell you. I can, of course, count on your absolute discretion?”
“The captain’s discretion is legendary,” murmured his lordship, with a return to his customary humour.
“Rose, if I may call her that, is practically a pauper, though you would never know it from her style of living, while Thérésa is the daughter of Count François Cabarrus, financial adviser to the King of Spain and a man of considerable wealth. But both women are ever in need of the means to finance the daily grind, as it were. And both are known to take bribes from those who think it may buy them an advantage with the current government of France.” The small pause that followed might have been for effect or from a natural revulsion to such alien practices, as might be expected of a director of the Bank of England. “And more to the point, both have invested heavily in the speculations of one Gilbert Imlay. A gentleman with whom, I understand, you are well acquainted.”
So, here it comes, Nathan thought: another of Imlay’s intrigues. And the way the conversation was going, he was destined to become as involved in this one as he had been in the last, though it had come close to killing him on occasion. That, too, he recalled, had begun with a conversation at the Admiralty.
“You knew him in Paris, I believe, and then in the Caribbean?” The banker did not wait for Nathan’s reply. “And he may have told you of his investments in the western territories of the United States.”
Now he did wait, his head inclined to an angle and his eyes sharp, like a blackbird, Nathan thought, following the underground burrowing of a worm.
“He once told me he had purchased 18,000 acres of virgin land in Kentucky and wished to become a farmer,” Nathan confirmed. “I was inclined to be sceptical.”
“Well, that is certainly a portion of his holdings, though I believe he has yet to pay for the land in question and I do not expect he will ‘turn a clod himself,’ as they say in Ireland. But he has laid claim to a great deal more than 18,000 acres. Several hundred thousand would be more accurate, registered in the names of certain surrogates. Th is does not surprise you, Captain?”
“Not especiall
y,” Nathan confessed, who would have been surprised only if Imlay had paid for it out of his own pocket.
“Well, and we now approach the crux of the matter: if the United States should expand westward, that land will be worth a great deal more than it is now. However, the entire territories west of the Mississippi and north to the Canada border are presently part of the Spanish Empire. And Spain is stubbornly opposed to settlement, fearing to jeopardise its hold on the region. Their agents in Natchez and New Orleans, indeed, all along the Mississippi, have been encouraging the Indians to attack the few settlements that have been established there, which are mainly American of course. And of course, their hold on New Orleans blocks any access to the sea by means of the rivers. But you will know all this from your own experience of the region.”
Nathan’s mind was racing. True, all this was known to him. The mystery was, where it was heading.
“However, we have now learned that certain factions in Madrid are anxious for an accommodation with the Revolutionists in Paris,” the banker resumed, “and that in return for peace in Europe they would be prepared to cede the entire region to France. That is, the vast territory west of the Mississippi, from New Orleans to the Canada border and westward to the Pacific Ocean.”
He gave Nathan a moment to take this in.
“We need to know if the French and the Spanish have come to an arrangement along these lines,” explained Earl Spencer in case he was having difficulty. “That is why we want you to go to Paris.”
In the sudden silence Nathan could hear the pigeons coo-carooing on his lordship’s windowledge. It sounded to him remarkably like a dry chuckle, the kind the Devil might make, or Gilbert Imlay. He spread his palms in a gesture of helpless confusion. “But how am I to even begin to … to …”
“You will carry a letter from Imlay introducing you to Madame Tallien as his agent,” continued the banker briskly, “in which capacity you will invite her to confide in you concerning the intentions of the French government in North America. Has there been a secret agreement with Spain along the lines I have outlined? What has France agreed in return? And is the United States involved in the deal?”
You could not fault him for clarity, Nathan thought, and as easy as pounds, shillings and pence.
“But why—even if she knows—would she pass on such information to me?” he enquired reasonably. “Even if she thinks I am a friend of Imlay’s?”
“Because it could make her the richest woman in Europe.”
Another short silence. Even the pigeons appeared attentive.
“If the territory is ceded to France,” his lordship expounded, “and the French come to some arrangement with the United States over settlement in the region, then the land Imlay has registered in their names will increase substantially in value. If Madame Tallien knows of this, then she will almost certainly be anxious to purchase more land from the same source. And that will tell us a great deal.”
Nathan considered the prospect gloomily. So he was to become a land agent for Gilbert Imlay, while the fellow continued to strut around London, wining and dining in Covent Garden and entertaining his concubine in Charlotte Street.
“Come now,” said Spencer, seeing his downcast expression, “from what I have heard, you will find Madame Tallien a charming confidante. She may even invite you to one of her notorious salons. I am told they would shame the courtesans of Venice for indecency and cause even the Hottentots of the Limpopo to consider themselves o’erdressed.”
“I cannot wait,” murmured Nathan, with something of his lordship’s humour.
“Excellent, for there is a vessel waiting for you at Deal, which will transport you across the Channel this very night.”
“Tonight?” Nathan was startled.
“I am sorry if that inconveniences you. If you have any more duels outstanding, I am afraid they will have to wait upon your return.”
“But what of the Unicorn, my lord?”
“Never fear, we will not give her to someone else. I should not think you would be long detained. Indeed, the sooner you bring us news of what the French are plotting with their friends in Madrid, the sooner we will be able to make our own dispositions to counter it.”
“Then I had better make my own dispositions, my lord, if I am to leave for Deal before dark.” This would not take long. He had one bag to pack and two women to bid farewell—three if you counted Izzy.
“Before you do, there is one more thing.” Nathan braced himself. “As Imlay’s representative, you will find yourself at the heart of the seraglio that presently governs France and in an excellent position to judge its strengths and weaknesses. It is to be hoped that you will learn a great deal more that will be of use to us. In particular, why the opposition in Paris failed to act during the landings at Quiberon.”
“Is that something Madame Tallien might be expected to know, my lord?”
“It is. For her husband has the responsibility for repressing internal dissent—in the Vendée and elsewhere. It is important for us to have more knowledge of the strengths and weaknesses of the opposition in Paris.”
Nathan’s gloom increased proportionately.
“From what Imlay has told us, Madame Tallien and her friend Rose are not only the greatest trollops in Paris, but also its most notorious gossips. I am persuaded they will be only too happy to babble out their secrets to you and that you will soon become the most intimate of friends. Indeed, I cannot but envy you the opportunity.”
“I was only wondering, my lord, why, if he is so trusted, you do not send Imlay himself?”
“Ah. Well, now.” His lordship shot a look at the banker. “That is to stray into areas that do not properly concern you. I will only say that while Mr. Imlay has made himself extremely useful to His Majesty’s Government from time to time, his paramount loyalties are, we believe, to the United States of America. And of course, to himself. If any conflict of interest were to arise, I do not believe we could rely upon him to put Britain first, whereas in your case, of course, we can.”
“And can we be sure that Imlay’s recommendation is still to be trusted by his friends in Paris?” Nathan persisted. “For he has been away a long time.”
“Oh, I think so. His friends still appear to have every confidence in him. And after all, they have a great deal to gain by it. They have ambitions to buy America. And you, sir, will sell it to them, at a most advantageous rate.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dance Macabre
IT WAS OVER A YEAR since Nathan was last in Paris. In the month of Thermidor: the time of the heat. He had stood pretty much where he was standing now when he had first seen the death carts trundling down the Rue Honoré with their daily quota of flesh and blood for the machine on the Place de la Révolution.
They had been led by a little drummer boy with a face like an angel, beating the step; then came the foot soldiers with fixed bayonets; then a troop of horse; and then the carts. Farm carts with tall sides that the English called tumbrels and the French charrettes that were handy for carrying hay and other loose produce of the fields. But on that occasion they had been carrying women. Women from many walks of life and of many different ages, though most were in their twenties or younger. Their hair had been roughly cropped, so roughly as to lacerate the scalp in parts. Their hands had been tied and their chemises torn to expose the nape of the neck and, in some cases, the breasts. Some were praying. Others weeping. A bystander told Nathan they were nuns. Nuns and whores. He did not appear to make a distinction.
The procession had put Nathan in mind of a similar event, in Salem, Massachusetts, where they had once hanged seventeen women for the practice of witchcraft. It had happened long before his birth but it was part of his family history and it had been described to him many times when he was growing up, for one of the condemned had been his great-grandmother, Sarah Good. And many times since had he seen her, in his nightmares, flying across the moon on her broomstick, as witches do in childish dreams, or twisting slowly
at the gallows with her face black and her tongue protruding and her eyes staring and the rope creaking. In certain conditions aboard ship, in a gentle swell when there was little else to trouble him, he would hear the creaking of a rope and it would haunt him still, that slowly twisting corpse.
Now he watched a very different procession advancing down the Rue Honoré, or the Rue Saint-Honoré, as it was now called, its former sanctity having been restored to it in these more tolerant times. It was led by a number of young men dressed all in black, as if for a funeral, but with long plaits hanging down over their shoulders, like thin coils of rope, or snakes, and their hands thrust insolently into their pockets. They were known as Muscadins, Nathan had learned, and their garb distinguished them as men who had been condemned to death in the time of the Terror or who had suffered the loss of at least one close relative to the guillotine. They sauntered, rather than marched, down the centre of the street, those at the rear forced into an indignant scuttle from time to time by the disrespectful horses that followed: six prancing greys pulling a violet-painted carriage with matching curtains. And behind the carriage came a troupe of young women attired in muslin, so thin and so closely aligned to the curves of the female form that its value in preserving the modesty of the wearer was negligible. Indeed, the material appeared to have been soaked in water, or oil, to make it more revealing. These were the Merveilleuses, he had heard, an exclusively female order united by their striking physical beauty and a passionate resolve to outrage the rest of society by any means imaginable. Nathan had seen many things in Paris that were not seen in other cities and had thought himself inured to shock, but he did blink a little at this, for he doubted if even Babylon in all its glory could have surpassed so blatant a display of harlotry. And yet there was a kind of almost pastoral innocence about it, a splendid indifference to convention, the creatures dancing with such obvious delight in their own bodies, as if to express their sublime joy of life and expunge the horrors of the past when death had ruled here.