Time of Terror

by Hunter, Seth

  Nathan negotiated the washing and the woman on the step who smiled at him and nodded without apparent curiosity as he entered the house. It was modestly furnished but clean and there was a smell of baking. The other woman was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

  “My name is Citoyenne Duplay,” she said. A young woman with a curt manner, almost stoically plain as if she worked hard at it, with much scrubbing of skin and severe brushing of hair. “You will be Citizen Turner.”

  Nathan removed his hat and bowed but she had already turned away. He followed her, as he assumed he was meant to, along the landing and into a small but elegantly furnished drawing room at the rear of the house with the blinds drawn against the sun. Two men were sitting there.

  “Citizen Marshal Brune,” said the woman, “and Citizen General Danican.”

  Nathan tried to hide his surprise. These must be the men he had been brought to meet—but why? As they were military men he must assume it was something to do with the war. They rose and bowed to him but appeared uncomfortable. Nothing further was said. The woman left. They all sat down. The silence stretched a little. Then, while Nathan was wondering if he should open the conversation, in came the two women he had seen in the yard, smiling self-consciously and no longer wearing their aprons.

  More standing and bowing and sitting and saying nothing.

  Back came Citoyenne Duplay with a tray of refreshments. Cups and saucers and little plates were distributed and balanced precariously on knees. Coffee was poured and cake allocated in equal proportions. The usual pleasantries were exchanged. The weather was discussed. It had, Nathan discovered, been very windy of late but now the wind had dropped and the sun was very pleasant. A bee buzzed against the window pane in a desperate struggle to escape and Nathan did not blame it in the least. But then presumably Commissioner Gillet was not waiting for it outside with a pistol. He was desperate to know what he was doing here and why.

  “And you are an American, I believe,” Citoyenne Duplay suddenly prompted him with a glare, as if he had somehow failed in his function.

  “I am,” he confirmed smiling, braced for further interrogation. But it was far less of an ordeal than that which had preceded it at the Grand Châtelet. He was able to gratify their curiosity about Savages and Grizzly Bears and other exotica on the peripheries of New York society and from there the conversation flowed naturally to General Washington. Had he ever met the great man? Nathan regretted not. More silence during which he noted his hostess glancing rather anxiously towards the door, presumably calculating her own chances of escape, but then one of the officers—field marshal, general?—inquired of the older woman—”And how is your esteemed lodger, Madame, I had heard he was unwell?” Such was Nathan’s evaluation of the conversation thus far he was fully prepared to learn that the “esteemed lodger” had died overnight or was at that very moment having a limb amputated but after glancing nervously at the younger woman—her daughter?—she replied: “He did have a slight indisposition but is now quite well, thank you, Citizen and anxious to resume his public duties.”

  And it suddenly hit Nathan with some considerable force who they were talking about.

  Imlay had told him the story: a famous story in Paris. In July, 1791, a great crowd had gathered in the Champs de Mars to celebrate the second anniversary of the storming of the Bastille. It was more in the nature of a festival than a demonstration—people were there with their children and there were stalls and a carousel—but tensions were running high and the National Guard had been sent to keep order under General Lafayette. Some small incident flared into violence and suddenly the troops began to fire into the crowd. When it was over the ground was strewn with bodies. The number of deaths varied from fifty to five hundred—men, women and children—and the event was known ever after as the Massacre on the Field of Mars. Robespierre had been caught up in the crowd fleeing back into Paris along the Rue Honoré and some of them turned on him. He was not as well known then as he subsequently became and it was possible that in their anger they took exception to his aristocratic mode of dress. Another, more popular, version of the story had him being attacked by soldiers. But either way, the event occurred quite close to the premises of a master carpenter called Maurice Duplay who was a member of the Jacobin Club and one of Robespierre’s greatest admirers. So Duplay shouted for his sons and apprentices and led them in a rescue which probably saved Robespierre’s life. They took him back to their home in a state of shock and he had lived there ever since.

  So this was the esteemed lodger; and almost certainly the man Nathan had been summoned to meet.

  There was a small knock on the door and everyone sat up as if it was a gunshot. The young woman—who must be Robespierre’s reputed mistress, Eleanor Duplay—opened it a crack and bent her head. Nathan glimpsed the figure of a child. A low-voiced exchange that none of them heard. Then the woman turned and summoned Nathan by the simple expedient of crooking a finger. Feeling very much like a schoolboy anticipating a caning from the headmaster, Nathan followed her from the room.

  She led him out of the house and across the yard past the waiting coach to what might have been taken for a storeroom except that it had drapes on the windows of the upper floor and a small wooden staircase leading to a door with a large mailbox attached to the front. The woman knocked gently and a voice bid them enter: the same high-pitched voice Nathan had last heard in the Convention extolling the virtues of the Terror. Eleanor Duplay held open the door for Nathan to step through and then shut it firmly behind him.

  Citizen Robespierre was standing by the little fireplace, as if he had struck a pose in expectation of visitors, wearing a kind of dressing gown, or chemise-peignoir, but with a quantity of immaculate linen at the throat so as not to appear too informal. His thick, brown hair was un-powdered and looked the better for it, Nathan thought. In fact, he looked much younger than he had in the Convention and of less consequence.

  The room was sparsely furnished with a wooden bedstead and a cupboard, a small table with a bowl of oranges, and two cane chairs. A single book lay open on the mantelpiece. Also some papers . . . and the infamous green spectacles.

  He greeted Nathan amicably enough and invited him to sit. Nathan sat but his host remained standing, one arm thrown casually across the mantelpiece, almost as if he needed the advantage of height; or perhaps it reminded him of being at the people’s tribune and the authority that went with it. Almost immediately he launched into a speech—though at least he did not read it from notes and it had the merit of being short and to the point.

  “I am sorry you have been inconvenienced on your visit to Paris,” he began. “I wanted to take the opportunity of assuring you that it has not been with any hostile intent and I trust you will take back no harsh opinions to your countrymen.”

  As if five weeks on bread and gruel in the Grand Châtelet was no more than a minor irritant; the kind of thing most tourists took in their stride.

  “And we are very sorry to disoblige a friend of Thomas Jefferson.”

  With a great effort Nathan forestalled an expression of incredulity. To be taken for an American was one thing, but a friend of Thomas Jefferson . . . Who could possibly have given him such an impression? Morris? Imlay? But Imlay had last been seen disappearing through a hole in the ground and was now presumably a fugitive from revolutionary justice.

  Whoever it was he had clearly done Nathan an enormous favour. Jefferson’s was a great name in Paris, almost as great as Ben Franklin’s, at least among Frenchmen of a certain class and political persuasion.

  “But I hope,” continued Robespierre, “that you will assure him we had the most compelling reasons of national security.”

  Nathan spread his hands—what could he say?

  But Robespierre was reaching for the dreaded green spectacles.

  “As a member of the Committee of Public Safety, I receive a multitude of rep
orts. They are a regrettable consequence of the current emergency.”

  The papers on the mantelpiece appeared to be a small sample of this multitude. He adjusted the spectacles on his nose the better to inspect them, though Nathan suspected he knew very well what they contained.

  “One of the more recent details your contacts with Citizen Danton . . .”

  A pregnant pause.

  “I have had but the briefest contact with Citizen Danton,” Nathan protested. “On a social occasion.”

  Robespierre regarded him coldly. The eyes were no longer childlike. Or indeed, even blue. They glittered like two cold emeralds, polished with malice.

  “That may well be,” he murmured, “that may well be. However Citizen Danton who, as you are doubtless aware, has been executed by order of the Revolutionary Tribunal on charges of gross corruption—”

  Nathan was aware of no such thing. He felt the blood drain from his face. The man had seemed indestructible, even in the courtroom with his back to the wall and the wolves at his throat—but this little man with the green glasses had destroyed him. And if he could destroy Danton he could destroy anyone.

  “Citizen Danton was no more a friend to America than he was to France. Indeed, I have evidence that he was in the pay of the English who are enemies to us both.”

  The letter! The document Pitt had given him to remind Danton of his obligations to the British taxpayer—it had been on the barge with the gold; well concealed but not so well that a thorough search would not detect it. But if Robespierre had seen the letter he must know that Nathan was not an American . . . It made no sense. He must be guessing or have evidence from some other source.

  Robespierre said nothing for the moment but he pushed the spectacles to the top of his head and contemplated Nathan thoughtfully, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Then he came down from his extemporary tribune and sat in the chair opposite. His manner when he spoke again was less formal. Yet it was a modified version of the speech Nathan had heard him make to the Convention.

  “Citizen, we are engaged in a War against Tyranny. A degree of suffering is perhaps inevitable in the interests of democracy—even to those who may be innocent of any crime. It became necessary to hold you under the Law of Suspects while certain investigations were carried out. Certain of our law enforcers wished to hold you for a great deal longer but I prevailed upon them to release you and permit you to return to America.”

  He appeared to be waiting for Nathan to thank him.

  Nathan did.

  The Tiger-cat inclined his head in polite acknowledgement.

  “I am aware,” he said, “that certain of your countrymen have been critical of our recent policies. Even General Washington himself. Perhaps they are not aware of the grave danger that we face—a danger, I might say, to both our great Republics.”

  He stood up again and returned to the mantelpiece. The green spectacles came down once more. He held a note in his hands, which he studied thoughtfully before passing to Nathan.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  There was no mystery about it. Nathan had seen a great many during his visits to France.

  “It is an assignat,” he said, “to the value of twenty livres.”

  “That is certainly what it looks like. Doubtless it would surprise you to know it was made in England?”

  It took a moment for Nathan to register the significance of this.

  “A counterfeit,” Robespierre continued, “made in England, smuggled into France and distributed by criminals. We have reason to believe that many millions of such forgeries are being circulated in the Republic. As a result the value of the assignat is rapidly declining. If this continues it will result in a complete loss of confidence and a collapse of the economy. The Republic has little or no reserves of gold. We should not have the means of paying our armies or of purchasing their ordnance or food supplies; not to speak of the general misery and confusion it is already causing among the civilian population. It is a most effective weapon, Citizen, more effective than any number of foreign armies. And you, as one of our American allies, must surely deplore it.”

  “Indeed,” began Nathan, “but—”

  “Then I hope that you will inform your friends in America of our concern in this matter and the necessity of adopting extreme measures to counter it. It is no exaggeration to say that this note”—he reached over and took it back—“this note is responsible to a large degree for what our enemies are calling the Terror.”

  Robespierre accompanied Nathan to the door and out on to the staircase. Eleanor Duplay was waiting at the bottom. The coach was waiting in the yard.

  “I am sorry that you are leaving France,” Robespierre simpered almost coyly as they parted. “Perhaps if circumstances allow you will return and visit us again. We occasionally have a few friends round for some entertainment in the evenings: to read a little poetry or play a little light music. I think you would enjoy it.”

  Chapter 34

  the Pilot’s Mate

  The coach stopped once more on its way out of Paris, this time at the Porte de Neuilly where it appeared that Gillet was to leave them.

  “I am to be deprived of your company to the coast?” Nathan expressed polite concern.

  “You are. However, these gentlemen will ensure you arrive safely.” Gillet indicated the two gendarmes. “And if I see you again,” he added coldly, “you will regret it.”

  Nathan touched his hat and smiled with an assurance he did not feel. “For once,” he said, “we are in agreement.”

  They travelled through the night. Nathan remained in the coach at every poste. When it became necessary for him to relieve himself they pulled up at the roadside and he was obliged to step behind a bush, with his personal escort watching over him.

  They reached Le Havre late in the afternoon and drove straight to the docks. The Speedwell was at the berth where he had left her two months earlier, with two militiamen at the foot of the gangplank. Tully awaited him at the top, with Keeble at his side grinning and winking as if he had pulled another rabbit out of the hat. There was a cheer from the crew as he stepped aboard.

  “I am very glad to see you,” Nathan told them, “but I thought I said if I was not back within the month you were to return without me.”

  Tully nodded towards the guards presently conferring with Nathan’s escort at the foot of the steps. “Several days after your departure for Paris an officer arrived with a squad of soldiers and informed us we were impounded. Since when I regret we have been under constant guard.”

  Nathan gazed around the crowded deck.

  “Are all the crew aboard?”

  “All present and correct, sir, saving Joseph Gurney who I regret to say has skipped ship.”

  “Which he run off with a whore, sir,” added Keeble.

  And now here was Gabriel, as unmoved as if Nathan had been gone two hours instead of two months but with a disapproving frown at the clothes he had been given in the Châtelet. “I hope you had a comfortable journey, sir. I expect you will be wanting to change.”

  “I believe these once belonged to a duke,” Nathan informed him, glancing down at his attire, “before he was sent to the guillotine.”

  “I trust a similar fate befell his tailor,” Gabriel replied smoothly. “You will find hot water and a clean suit of clothes laid out for you, sir, in your cabin.”

  “What are our orders, sir?” requested Tully with a glance toward the gendarmes down on the quay.

  “We are to sail at once.” Nathan looked up at the pennant hanging limp from the mizzen. “Or as soon as we are able.”

  “The pilot is come aboard already.” Tully indicated the gentleman at the stern: the same gentleman who had guided them into the Baie de Seine on their last visit when they had taken the Vestale. “And his mate.
”

  “His mate?”

  “He is waiting below—in your cabin.”

  Tully’s expression was wooden but his eyes spoke volumes, if only Nathan could read them. Wondering, he proceeded below deck.

  “Well, well,” said Imlay, looking up from the letter he was writing at Nathan’s desk, “look what the cat’s brought in.”

  Nathan stared at him in astonishment.

  “I hope you do not object to my making free of your quarters,” Imlay waved an arm airily. “It is more private than the deck.”

  He was wearing a sailcloth shirt and trousers with a red scarf tied round his neck like a common matelot but had apparently lost none of his easy authority.

  “So,” Nathan recovered his powers of speech. He sat down on the only other chair. “You are back from the dead.”

  “To be honest I found their company a little tedious—though I had little choice in the matter. I am sorry you were left behind. I thought you were following me.”

  “The dragoons had other ideas.”

  “What can I say?” He spread his arms. There was a bottle of brandy on the desk and a brimming tumbler. “What could I do? It was an unfortunate business. It appears they were after contraband.”

  “I wonder why.”

  Imlay ignored the sarcasm or failed to notice it. “Brandy?”

  Nathan nodded and Imlay poured and raised his glass.

  “Well, to your return. I hope the Châtelet was not too grim.”

  “I have known better accommodation. How did you know I was in the Châtelet?”

  “One hears. If it is any consolation you were safer there than outside. Le Mulet thinks he was betrayed and his immediate suspicions fell on you.”

  “I trust you managed to allay them.”

  “I did my best but he is an awkward fellow. However, I also spoke to Robespierre on your behalf. Yes, you may well raise your eyes; it was not easy. I told him you were a very good friend of Thomas Jefferson.”