A Set of Lies

by Carolyn McCrae

  “I was born in the year 1760, the second George was still on the throne of England. Yes, I am that old.” He had seen his friend’s doubtful look. “I was the sixth son in a farming family in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts—”

  “The Americas?” Claude interrupted, exclaiming his surprise, but his intervention was ignored by Sir Bernard.

  “My family had come originally from Dorset but were settled in the Colonies for more than two generations. We lived a simple life but we were affected by the taxes being imposed on us and were aware that rebellion against the Crown was inevitable. When that rebellion came I was fifteen years old. I, along with my brothers, left our farm to fight for our rights and our independence against the distant oppressor. So you see, my friend, we are both revolutionaries in our different ways.”

  Bernard gave Claude the opportunity to respond but when nothing was said he continued.

  “When I returned to the farm two years later it had been burned to the ground. Our neighbours told me how our community had been attacked by a renegade group of men who called themselves ‘patriots’. My father had been cruelly murdered and my mother and sisters raped and tarred and feathered. The men who did that to my family were rebels like me, fighting on the same side as I and my brothers. It was a complicated time, it was always difficult to understand what was the best course of action, however I did not wait to see my mother and sisters, I could not look at them after what those ‘patriots’ had done to them. So I just shook my neighbour’s hand and left to put in my lot with the forces of the third King George. We fought hard but when it became inevitable that our troupe of loyalists would be defeated I travelled with them to Quebec.”

  Claude had been listening intently, at times nodding his understanding of the conflicts and the lack of clarity of war.

  “I have fought and I have killed. Not these long-distance killings with cannons and guns. I have abused and killed women whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I have done to other men’s mothers and sisters what others did to mine. Since the time I was little more than a boy I have killed men close enough to feel the breath leaving their body and watch the light leaving their eyes. I have heard the final gasp, I have felt that final jerk as the soul leaves the body. Have you killed a man, Olivierre? Have you ravished and killed a woman or butchered a child? Have you watched as the life drained from them with no thought that they were a woman’s husband, a man’s wife, a mother’s baby? Have you, you who have been responsible for so many thousands of deaths, ever stood over a boy yet to reach manhood who is pleading for his life and, ignoring that plea, killed him anyway?”

  Claude looked at Sir Bernard who was carried away by the anguish of his memories. He could find no words of comfort. He thought back to the days, early in his career, when he had led his troops into battle but his job then had been to organise, to encourage, to direct and to deploy. He tried to remember if he had ever struck a blow and watched as his victim died and could think of no such instance.

  “I killed too many,” Bernard continued, having collected himself. “But I was still young, strong and clever and I soon became a subversive, what would now be called an intelligence gatherer and confusion agent. Someone saw in me the ability to be any man in any society and I was picked out of the ranks, as it were, and trained well. I came to Europe in the year 1781 and continued to learn my trade in the Dutch wars, which is where I was befriended by the officer who was to become the Duke. I became part of the English unofficial forces and, because I knew what I was doing, progressed in the service.”

  “An understatement I suspect.” Claude filled the heavy silence as Sir Bernard broke off his confession.

  “I found war to be a secure profession. There is always war, or if there is none active there will be the threat, or if there is no such threat there will be men manipulating and spreading falsehoods so that war will be the outcome. Even as wars are ended there is plotting to ensure another will follow in its shadow before too many days have passed. Too many men make too much wealth from the deaths of others for there to be any length of time without war.”

  “You are a cynic, my friend.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe so,” Sir Bernard said thoughtfully, aware he had voiced views that were deeply embedded in his heart. “At the time man’s need for war excited me, now it simply makes me unbearably sad at the waste.”

  “After the Dutch wars there was a period of peace was there not?”

  “A very short time. In 1784 I was in Paris for the negotiations—”

  “You were in Paris in 1784?” Claude interrupted with interest. “I also was in Paris in that year. I attended the École Royale Militaire.”

  Sir Bernard nodded to acknowledge a fact he already knew. “I understand you were an exemplary and extremely able student. You will not remember me. I was there, you and I met, we talked and then we moved on to talk to others. At that time no one could have foreseen the danger you would become to my adopted country.”

  “So our meeting in St Rochelle was not our first?”

  Sir Bernard turned the subject. “You remember I recently voiced fears that our masters in Whitehall tire of supporting us, well my friend, my fears have been realised. I must tell you of my recent visit.”

  “Are you certain I should know the details?”

  Sir Bernard nodded slowly before he answered. “I was, to my surprise, called into a private audience with the Duke. I knew that was no good sign, the bureaucrats would have no mandate to change matters, the Duke, however, had every authority and he has decided to use it. He is closing the file. Those were his words. ‘The General has been dead now for over a year, Lacey,’ he said. ‘It is time to close that file.’ He explained his thinking, which, of course, he was not obliged to do but I believe he respects both you and I sufficiently to feel explanation was necessary. He believes there is no longer any threat from Bonapartism. He listed his more pressing concerns; the succession, the Irish Question, the increased occurrence of civil disturbances and rising calls for universal suffrage. He has accepted the responsibility to support you in your lifetime but that is it. The whole affair is be closed and never again to be mentioned. I tried to press him on a plan for disclosure, but he was unconcerned. I asked if we had no responsibility to history and he shook his head.”

  “His mind is made up then. He was ever a decisive man.”

  Bernard nodded and continued the speech he had rehearsed in the days since his return.

  “History, the Duke said, has no need of the truth. It needs only to understand that the men whose lot it was to make decisions, made honest ones. The men of the future have no need of knowing what those decisions were or how they came about. He said that a man once called Bonaparte had described history as a set of lies agreed upon by the victors. He said that the General was, in that instance, correct. It has been ‘agreed’ that the defeated Napoleon was captured trying to escape to the Americas, it has been ‘agreed’ that he was exiled to St Helena, it has been ‘agreed’ that he died there of his familial complaint of cancer of the stomach. That is what has been ‘agreed’ and that is what history will record, and what history has recorded will be the only truth.”

  “He turns the Emperor’s words back on him? He knew you would report the conversation and he wishes you to tell me that he has won again. He will not let the English look on the Emperor with any kindness.”

  “I asked if anyone would ever be told of what had occurred and he said, brooking no argument, that there was nothing to be gained from any person ever knowing the truth of the matter. He repeated that the file, and you understand that in any section of government there must always be a file, will be hidden deep in the archives. It could, of course, never be destroyed, that would be a dishonest act, but it is a file that will never be in the public gaze.”

  “So we are to be abandoned?” Claude asked.

  “I am told the country is grateful for my ingenuity and sacrifice and for your honourable conduc
t. He also has undertaken to honour me through my sons. They are to have Lord Liverpool named as a godfather at their baptism.”

  “Liverpool, that is indeed an honour.”

  “The Duke has also made a commitment to support you for the remainder of your natural life, and then to support your wife for her lifetime and your daughter until such time as she marries.

  “He is an honourable man. He will honour those commitments.”

  “But what of future generations? It is imperative that no one learns of what we did in my lifetime, or the lifetime of my sons, or, of course, in your lifetime or that of Josephine. But surely, my old friend, someone has to know the truth of the matter sometime?”

  “We have laid some clues already, for the future.”

  “Yes?” Bernard asked.

  “The trunk and the bag I have hidden in the new kitchen chimney at The Lodge.”

  “I had not forgotten. But that may never be found. The walls are well built, they may stand for hundreds of years. That is why I write.”

  “Write away, my friend. But that is for the future and you must not forget the present. You must not neglect the joy your two young boys will give you as you see them grown to manhood. You must enjoy your time with them and with your dear wife. You must not shut yourself away in your study with your sheets of paper and your pens and, doubtless, your codebook. You must not think only of death and of obscurity. You still have a life to live and to enjoy.”

  “I will write all that I have to,” Sir Bernard said firmly as the two stood to return to their houses and their families.

  *

  Sir Bernard loved his wife and, having married late in life, had enjoyed the advantages of marriage in a way he felt many men took for granted. But he knew, after the birth of his twin sons, he could never put his Constance through that experience again and so he had never pressed his attentions on her. She understood and was grateful as her husband was never unaffectionate, he simply did not expect what many would have considered his right and her duty.

  When, in September 1831, they travelled to London for the coronation of William IV they had, of necessity in that crowded city, shared a bed for the first time since their sons’ birth and in the euphoria of the day were man and wife one final time.

  Both were devastated, some weeks later, to discover that Constance was with child. They both knew she could not survive the trauma of the birth and, each in their own way, prepared for the inevitable.

  Constance could never have gone, as young girls did, to the old woman who ended the lives of unwanted children before their existence became apparent to the world. Instead she took long walks in the rain hoping to catch a fever that would kill her child and herself. She had taken the fiercest hunter from the stables and ridden hell for leather but nothing rid her body of the child that would kill her so she experienced the agony of eight months of waiting for the inescapable.

  As she grew larger with the child that would kill her Constance withdrew from her husband and her sons, preferring to spend the sunny days of the spring of 1832 walking through the gardens of Oakridge Court with her sister, but every evening, when Patience had left her, she would return to her rooms and dine alone.

  In early May she felt the pains she knew were the beginning of her end. She called her maid to bring Patience to her but she could not say farewell to her husband or her sons.

  Through the night Bernard sat at his desk determined not to hear the muffled cries but he was desperate for them not to stop. He would never forgive himself those moments of weakness in the aftermath of the euphoria of the coronation in London.

  When, two hours after he had watched a glorious sunrise, Patience came into his study, he knew it was all over.

  “It was a girl,” she said with immense tiredness.

  “And Constance?” he made himself enquire.

  “With her daughter.”

  *

  An hour later, when he had collected himself, he sent for his sons.

  They stood unmoved as he told them that their mother had left this world. “Yes Father, we know.” Henry spoke with a hint of arrogance. There was no more emotion in his voice than showed in his face. William’s voice made him seem far more than one hour younger than his brother. “We are very sorry Papa.”

  “Well boys. We must look to your future.” Sir Bernard was prepared for tears. He would not know what to say or do but he was prepared to face them. What he was not prepared for was the silence, the total absence of any display of emotion, as the two boys stood next to each other in front of him.

  He had had eight months to decide what he should do with the boys when the time came and he had long before concluded that they should go away to school.

  “I am an old man,” he said quietly but still there was no reaction. He was seventy-two years old and felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I cannot look after a household with young boys. You will leave immediately for Winchester College. Dr Williams, the Headmaster, expects you.” Still neither boy moved or spoke. “You will be in the same house, together. You must support each other.”

  He had expected some reaction, if not from Henry then from William, but neither questioned why they could not stay for their mother’s funeral, neither asked about the child that would have been their brother or sister. Both boys remained silent.

  As they turned and left his study Sir Bernard put his head in his hands.

  He had not been able to say a proper goodbye to his sons, just as he had not been able to make his peace with his wife.

  He would, however, say farewell to his friend.

  *

  The next day, after he had watched his sons driven away, Sir Bernard sat at his desk. He slowly and deliberately dipped his pen in ink and wrote a short note.

  Henry, you are the elder, you are my heir, I address you alone.

  Attached to this letter are the pages of my diary with which you are now entrusted. They are to remain sealed until the fifteenth day of July in the year nineteen hundred and fifteen. You are to hand them to your eldest son on the twenty-first anniversary of his birth and he to similarly pass them to his eldest son until the due date, on which day they may be opened.

  Never forget that you were loved and respected by your father who entrusts this to you in the sure and certain trust you will abide by his wishes.

  He had done his duty.

  He took the four packets of papers and the notebook that detailed the cipher keys from their hiding place. As he wrote The Fifteenth Day of July Nineteen Hundred and Fifteen on the front of each one he wondered if the date would be recognised as the centenary of Napoleon Bonaparte’s surrender to the English.

  Perhaps through some long-forgotten habit he took the sheets written in code and shuffled them before returning them to the folders and tying them tightly with pink legal ribbon.

  He could not carry the folders with him on his last walk so he picked out the notebook that contained the ciphers and attached it to his letter with the last of the pink tape.

  He thought of the evening he and Claude had heard of the death of Ennor Jolliffe and had arranged for the hiding of the military chest and the canvas bag. He remembered how they had toasted the man who would find them and, as he looked one last time on the folders on his desk, he again prayed that Providence would ensure that the man of another century who read their contents would have the wisdom to use them well.

  Taking a long look around his study, glancing one final time at the folders on his desk, he tucked the notebook inside his jacket and strode out of the house for the last time.

  As he walked across the lawns, through the familiar woods and across to The Lodge he remembered happy times with his wife and children and he dreamed of the world his descendants would inhabit when the packets would be opened.

  He imagined the summer of 1915.

  Henry’s children and their children would be living prosperous and peaceful lives, content in the security of their heritage. Children would b
e playing on the lawns, perhaps a young woman would be cutting roses to decorate the house. He wondered, distractedly, what she might be wearing as fashions changed so quickly. The sun would, he decided, undoubtedly be shining as his grandson sat at the desk in his study and opened the packets that had been entrusted to him.

  He could not have known that those descendants would be engaged, in their different ways, in fighting a war whose bloodiness he could not have imagined, against a country that did not, in his time, exist. Neither could he have imagined that the home he had just left, instead of being elegantly furnished and filled with the happy cries of his eager and curious great-grandchildren, would be packed with iron bedsteads occupied by officers recuperating from the grievous injuries sustained at the front in a war he had hoped to render impossible.

  *

  “But you cannot do this to the boys.” Claude Olivierre was angry. “They have just lost their mother, their world is turned upside down.”

  “Then now is the time to get it all over with. They have a new start, they have each other, they are young. They will survive.”

  “Of course they will survive.”

  “They go to Winchester but in the holidays you will have them here?”

  “Of course we will. You know you have only to ask. But it should not come to this.”

  “You will have them in their holidays, you will be mother and father to them, you will ensure they are kept safe and happy?”

  “Of course I will do my best. But you must not do this, Bernard.” It was a measure of his distress that Claude, for once, did not use Sir Bernard’s title.

  “I have lost my Constance. She died because of my weakness. I have nothing to give them that others cannot give better.”

  “Your mind is made up?”

  “It is.”

  Claude Olivierre understood. It was no surprise to him that his old friend felt this way. “Then Patience and I will welcome them into our family.”