“If you will give me the fifteen francs to pay off the bargee, I will do so and then leave you before someone recognizes me near the Oostkade.”
Bond looked around the canal basin and the few coastal traders taking on cargo. This was Napoleon’s new harbour works, open to the Westerschelde and the open sea at one end, and leading through the first lock to the new Ghent Canal at the landward end. “Do not leave too soon. My agent who will be your correspondent in Antwerp will need to know how to contact you here.” He turned to call down into the hoogaar’s small cabin. “If you have quite finished playing the fool, Elise, please come on deck to speak to our Neuzen correspondent and arrange the passage of messages.”
Elise came on deck, a mischievous gleam still in her eyes. “Enchante, Monsieur. To who am I speaking,” she said to van Aa.
“I will use the name Schulemeister, with an address of No.3 Marke in Hoek. Who will I write to, Madame?”
“Do not use my identity,” Lord Bond said quickly.
She looked at him with a smile before turning her attention back to van Aa. “Very well. You may address your messages to Freiherrin Louise von Langenhorst at Poste Restante in Antwerp. We must arrange some secret code words to ensure our identities are not compromised. Let us walk to the other side of the boat,” she said quietly.
Bond watched them move away. It was a good idea that no one but themselves knew this precaution. He thought he should object to the use of her alias again, but as far as he knew all the debts linked to the name had been settled. He was well aware she coveted a claim to nobility, it was what had made her such a reliable companion for his spying. The time was coming, though, that he must offer her something concrete in that direction.
When van Aa disappeared through the alleys behind the East Quay and the turnips were loaded in Nederlander’s hold, they slipped moorings to return to the Westerschelde. As they got away on the fair wind from the west to make good speed up the estuary toward the entrance to the Schelde River he sat with Elise on the closed cargo hatch to plan their procedures in Antwerp.
“Who is the man you wrote to me about? What can he do for us?”
“He has a canal barge that brings iron from France for the shipbuilding. He would offer a place in his crew for a man who wishes to see what iron is being carried.”
“I see. That will be a good opportunity. What does he want for his trouble?”
Elise smiled impishly. “A hundred francs.”
Bond shrugged. This seemed to be her price of everything, but no doubt it included her cut. “We will use the dwelling that Cornelius van Ee has found for us in Antwerp, but we will not operate together. I will oversee what my two British spies undertake, but you must meet with all your contacts to observe what the Count does and who he sees. Can you do this?”
Elise smiled. “Of course, but why must I do it? Is not the Count approved by Admiralty?”
“I do not have a good feeling about him,” Bond answered. There, he had committed himself to placing credence in mere feelings and intuition that he had chided Roberta about. She was beginning to influence whatever he thought. “Van Aa told me that you Dutch and the French Royalists were following different interests. I am concerned that my plans and that of England will be lost or betrayed in the conflict if I cannot have a means of advance warning.”
Roberta followed the First Lord into his library after dinner, and sat with him to discuss her progress. “Your tests at Woolwich seem to have garnered much valuable information,” he said.
“Yes, I am pleased . . . as far as the experiments go.”
His face registered surprise. “But you are not entirely satisfied, my dear?”
“I would have liked there to be further tests. What would be the result of using two two-inch iron plates together . . . what difference would thirty-two pounder or even forty-two pounder cannon have made . . . how many successive shots at a single plate with the twenty-four pounder would have eventually defeated the armour.”
Viscount Melville threw up his hands in mock surrender. “My dear young lady, you are a very Erinyes of Ancient Greece in your determination to wring every answer from your quest. I do not dispute that we have not looked at any of those outcomes, but did we not at our initial Admiralty meeting restrict ourselves to what is most probable in this French ironclad?”
“Probable, yes, My Lord, but not all that is possible.”
“So you are not yet sufficiently informed to be able to design this larger steam ram that can defeat whatever the French put to sea?”
Roberta considered a moment. “I think that in the matter of armour plate to protect my ram and the protected third rate the Laird yard is building we are restricted to two-inch plate. That is the thickest that can currently be rolled. I would like to know whether doubling the plates will double the resistance.”
“But you are doubtful?”
“The plates cannot be more than bolted together, which is not likely to allow them to act as a single four-inch plate.”
The First Lord sat back in silence a moment. Eventually he picked up the brandy the footman had poured for him and looked into her eyes. “What more must you know before you may begin to lay iron?”
Roberta enumerated on her fingers. “The form of the French ship, heretofore described as two Third Rates coupled together; the engine power, and hence the speed; its seaworthiness in a seaway; the length of time it may stay at sea under steam power; the thickness of its own iron armour.”
The First Lord took a strong draft of his brandy. “I must confess, that I am more persuaded that Lord Bond is correct when he asserts that you must be present to see these secrets truthfully uncovered. We have received some good news on that matter. The Foreign Office reported that one of its agents in Stockholm has intercepted the last letter sent by Herr Gottliebe . . . I was shown the letter at a Cabinet meeting. It is in cypher, of course, but apparently your presence in the Admiralty was noted.”
Roberta put a hand to her mouth to stifle any dismay.
“Yes, my dear. It is always alarming when one sees one’s own name in a hostile communication. But that threat has been extinguished, at least. There is one other matter I must speak about—it concerns a request that duty impels me to make. I have also learned something that makes me even more loth to hazard you in His Lordship’s plans.”
Roberta took a sip from her own glass, containing the First Lord’s coveted Amontillado sherry. “What has increased the danger of his mission, My Lord?”
“The Government has received intelligence through our embassy in Switzerland that the cooperation and alliance offered by Monsieur le Comte de la Marke is not all that we were led to believe. Our ambassador has evidence from a reliable correspondent . . . that is, a secret agent informant . . . that the Royalists are betting both ways in this enterprise of Napoleon’s.”
Roberta’s eyes widened in horror—this meant that all her friends could be in danger.
“This is only information from one source as yet . . . which makes it important but not completely reliable. This correspondent is French, and is in Paris, so it is possible that Fouché may have captured or turned him to his own purposes. However, because Lord Bond and his people are in the Low Countries as we speak, I cannot wait until we have confirmation. The Medusa will be ready for sea in a matter of days and I want to send another agent with you to go ashore to find His Lordship to warn him.”
“How will he find any of them?” Roberta asked.
“I have not solved that problem completely, but I want to warn you that you are the only person we have who has met this schoolteacher from Neuzen who is a member of the party. He is the only person we know who can lead us to the team in Antwerp. Would you be willing to go ashore in Neuzen with the new agent to confirm the identity of Herr Nicholas van Aa?” The First Lord wore a very guilty expression. “You would not need to go farther, and would return to sea in the cutter that had brought you to land.”
Roberta seemed to feel cold f
ingers down her spine. The First Lord’s request had suddenly started to sound too much like Lord Bond’s, which she had been holding at bay for a month.
Chapter Forty-two
Improvising Plans
Lord Bond stood in the centre of Antwerp’s Grote Markt, the market square, looking around at the tall, ornate buildings that surrounded it . . . some as many as eight stories. The paper seller, from whom he had just bought today’s newspaper, walked away, but standing beside the fountain that was their designated rendezvous, Bond took the paper from under his arm as if too anxious to begin reading to take it home first.
It was in French; all other languages being proscribed—even Dutch—since Napoleon’s France had annexed the Low Countries. A few pedestrians walked past, but on this day, Sunday, the area was not crowded with market stalls crammed tight together. He read one column on each page, as if poring through the articles to find a specific story, but did not try to remember any. He was merely filling in time until Holmes or Captain McNab arrived—if they did . . . he was three days late.
Every few lines of text he raised his head to look around, noticing the passersby and keeping an eye out for anyone official who seemed to be watching him. His only concern was for the two men in uniform walking slowly toward him—wait! They were Holmes and McNab in their cavalry uniforms. Well, they had been spending the waiting time profitably, at least.
Holmes stopped before him. “Good day, Monsieur. Do you have time to show us around?” he said in French.
“Yes, I do, but we must go back to your house for you to change. The contact Elise has for you requires workmen’s clothes.”
“Mais, our documents require us to be sawjers,” McNab said.
“Yes, but as a barge crew, you will have less need for identification. The barge and the bargee will be enough documentation. You must keep the rooms and the uniforms for your return to the city.”
Before they could leave, some of the passing pedestrians looked askance at what appeared to be the apprehension of someone suspicious. Holmes seemed quick to note this and jovially slapped Bond on the back. “Well, let us move on then—we are waiting for you to buy us a drink.”
“Where will this barge tak us, Monsieur?” McNab asked quietly.
“Up the Schelde toward Ghent. It is the direction from which comes the iron for the shipyards.”
Their walk took them away from the market square and the river to a tall, narrow terraced house near the old city walls in a maze of narrow streets lined with similar houses. They stopped at the weather-beaten door for Holmes to knock. After a few minutes it was opened by a small girl of about ten. “Ah, Monsieur LaGarde,” she said as she let them in.
Bond looked at Holmes in some surprise. Holmes shook his head and spoke softly in English. “The name seems to be a recognition signal for all activities. There is no Monsieur LaGarde as far as we have learned.”
The girl led them up three flights of stairs to a narrow landing where she knocked on one of two doors that faced one another. The door opened quickly, letting a strong smell of boiling cabbage out into the landing. An older man stood behind the door, looking around the edge to peer at them with rheumy eyes. “Maria, gran papa,” the girl said. At that, the man looked down at her and opened the door wide to admit them.
Inside, they followed the girl through three rooms, where the occupants looked up with dull expressions as they walked past. At the end of the third room the girl walked to a wooden cabinet with a few sparsely stocked shelves of fabric. Here she stood back to let Holmes and McNab take hold of the cabinet to heave it aside—revealing a narrow passage beyond.
“Welcome to Chez Nous,” Holmes said with a laugh as he led the way. Lord Bond found himself in a long narrow room with a low, sloped attic ceiling. “Take a seat while we pull the ‘door’ closed,” Holmes told him.
The room appeared to be sitting room, kitchen, and bedroom in turn as one looked down its length toward the blank wall at the far end. The sitting room boasted of one wooden chair and a broken down chaise longue; the kitchen of a bread bin and an empty table; and the bedroom of two pallets of straw on the floor. “It’s nae a palace,” McNab commented coming out of the passage, “but ’tis oursel’s castle.”
“Well, you may be lucky enough to find the barge more comfortable,” Bond answered.
“What is this barge?” Mr. Holmes said as he returned. “I thought the young lady was to take us to a contact.”
“This is the contact, and since I have assigned the young lady to keep an eye on our French allies, I cannot let them see her with you. The barge is employed with bringing iron from France and coal from Wallonia down the rivers to Antwerp. I’m hopeful that a few days of sailing toward Ghent and passing the nights in backwaters where other, loaded barges of friends congregate . . . you will learn what manner of iron is being transported.”
“An’ particularly, the thickness o’ armour plates.”
“Exactly.”
“How do we find this barge?” Mr. Holmes asked.
“You will find it in the South docks. It is called the Hortense, of Baasrode. Elise has made the arrangements with the bargees . . . several barges owned by men from South Flanders will travel together. There is sometimes trouble between the Flemings and the Walloons, into whose provinces they travel to pick up the cargoes.”
“I do not like the sound of that,” Holmes said. “How many of these people will be your Dutch speaking allies from the north?”
“The bargee, for certain, and whatever other crew he has. Among the other barges will certainly be more. When you are ready, I will walk with you . . . and watch you go aboard the barge from the end of the dock. I’m hoping the Royalists—if any are assigned to follow you—will show themselves. I can divert them from seeing where you go.”
Holmes and McNab looked soberly at one another.
“Cheer up,” Lord Bond said. “You will be perfectly secure once you are on the river.”
Not being too sure of the way through the winding streets of the old city, Lord Bond led them by way of the streets beside the city walls. Elise had told him the docks they wanted were located in the southernmost district of the city, most certainly at the southern extremity of the fortifications. They took turns to check whether they were being followed, with mixed results.
At one point they felt sure a well-dressed man was following, but he turned off their route to take a street leading into the centre from a city gate. If he was replaced by another agent, they failed to recognise him—or her, Holmes was careful to point out.
The two fake bargees looked quite disreputable compared to the well-dressed faux American, but Bond hoped they would not arouse suspicion among the soldiers stationed at various street corners and watching the crowds. “If we are stopped I will explain that you are leading me to speak with your barge skipper about carrying a cargo to Ghent.”
Luckily, they were not stopped.
Arriving at the first basin of the docks, Lord Bond stood looking at the notices posted on a shipping company’s window while the other two walked on. Here, they were the ones who blended in while he was the one looking out of place.
He left the window to follow just in time to see them clamber aboard a single masted sailing barge about half way along the quay. He decided to stay watching until he was sure they were not the object of attention for anyone else among the busy workers on the quay. He was beginning to feel satisfied they were safe when he saw Captain McNab clamber back onto the quay and walk toward him.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked when McNab reached him.
“There’s nae room for twa bargees, M’Lord. They would’na tak me.”
“Damn. Oh well, you can go back to your safe house—I know I can use your help while I’m in the city. We must keep Mr. Holmes’ enterprise with the Flemings a secret from your landlords the French Royalists, which means we must concoct a new story—are you up to that?”
“Indeed I am, M’Lord. I was never easy in m
y ain mind fer our dependence upon them.”
Chapter Forty-three
Alarming Information
Lord Bond crossed the cobbles near the double doors of the cathedral, walking slowly and wending his way toward the deaf and dumb beggar outside the portico. The beggar looked up, made animal-like grunting noises, and shook his wicker alms basket. Bond dropped a coin in the basket and quickly palmed a scrap of paper he found in the bottom. He tried not to make eye contact, but could not avoid nodding to Captain McNab—for a very fine performance.
He thrust aside his urge to walk quickly away, maintaining his zigzag, leisurely path until he reached the first of a line of shops facing the cathedral. One was a wine shop with tables outside where patrons enjoyed the early fall sunshine. He took a seat at one and didn’t look at his message until the waiter had brought him a glass of wine.
The message was from Elise, in her mixed French and English script. “Letter for Paine at Poste Restante. Meet me there, noon.”
Bond looked up at the buildings around him without seeing them; she had found a letter addressed to Gideon Paine in Antwerp? Good Lord, was he in the city? That might make things difficult.
He drank his wine quickly and placed a coin on the table before leaving immediately—it was but a quarter of an hour before noon.
The building where the post might be collected was adjacent to the horse barns where the motive force of the mail coaches and couriers were housed. He found Elise talking to the stable lads currying a pair of horses in the courtyard. “How did you find out about the letter?” he asked in Flemish.
“I ask if they have letters for Madame Paine,” she said with a smile. “This is first time I get ze answer.”
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