Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  * * *

  The watch-officer and Sergent-chef of Marines had thrust Derrien and the wounded Masson into the first empty room on Orient that the lieutenant could find. Derrien threw them off, ‘Leave me, you dogs!’ and once they did so, he drew his screw-barrelled pistol, thrusting it into their faces, and the marines backed away. Masson whimpered, nursing his bloody hand and now his shoulder, his face chalk-white, sweat streaming from his brow.

  ‘By the end of this escapade, Lieutenant,’ spat Derrien, ‘I shall have you commanding a coastal galley-boat!’

  ‘You will be silent, m’sieur,’ rasped the lieutenant of the watch. He held a wad of cotton to his own neck: it was he who had been hit by a splinter caused by Masson’s musket-ball. To the lieutenant’s regret, Derrien had escaped the marines’ confused shots. ‘You are called to the wardroom, Citizen Croquemort.’

  ‘You will pay for this interference,’ threatened Derrien, but the lieutenant merely yanked open the door and waited for him.

  Derrien found a small audience waiting inside, Captain Casabianca, Admiral Brueys, Lt Marais and three other naval lieutenants, the chief ADC Colonel Junot, aides Duroc and Jullien, and Bonaparte. Brueys looked tired, roused from his bed, but Bonaparte was fully dressed, as if he had even yet to retire.

  The marines withdrew and closed the door. For a moment no one spoke. Bonaparte seemed very calm, leafing through a booklet of bound papers. He did not look up.

  ‘And so?’

  Derrien took a breath. He was not moved by this assembly, this display of power. He had stood before Robespierre, and called him traitor. ‘An incident, Citizen General. The officer of the watch overstepped his authority and called armed marine soldiers to the upper gundeck, causing confusion among the ranks. In this confusion one of the soldiers shot Captain Hazzard, possibly hitting Mademoiselle Moreau-Lazare, his…’ he hesitated ‘…his hostage. He and an accomplice, a stowaway dockworker, fell overboard. With some good fortune, Mademoiselle Moreau-Lazare was retrieved at the last moment.’

  He was determined that not even Bonaparte would learn anything more of Isabelle Moreau-Lazare than Derrien wished. Because she was his. Not Bonaparte’s. And this would be his official version of events. Anything further was a matter for Citizen Derrien and the Bureau d’information.

  Bonaparte watched him. ‘And?’

  ‘When steps were taken to recover the bodies,’ Derrien continued, ‘there was no sign. He is presumed drowned.’ He said nothing of the quickmatch in the hold, or the powder magazine. He would keep that in reserve.

  Colonel Junot turned his cadaverous features slowly to Bonaparte, incredulous.

  Bonaparte was not incredulous. He was incensed. He whacked down the booklet on the edge of the table. ‘An incident.’

  Derrien remained equally unmoved by this show of anger. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What you have done, Citizen,’ he shouted, ‘is beyond belief. When we know the English are after this leaden-footed convoy of transports filled to the brim with my guns and forty thousand of my soldiers, when we learn from one of our frigate captains that Nelson passed no more than a thousand metres from us in the night mist,’ he breathed with outrage, ‘you decide to fire a shot on deck!’

  His pale skin glowed brighter across his bony features. Derrien said nothing in reply.

  ‘Have you any idea what Nelson would do to this convoy, should he find it? He would hack it to pieces at the cost of every ship in his squadron, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, you do not understand. Only the naval officers understand. And we have discussed it. Nelson is a madman. A madman armed with a thousand cannon and the deadliest gunners in the world!’

  The officers watched, enjoying the fall of Citizen Croquemort. Junot voiced their mockery, ‘Did you learn anything of value from the Englishman, Citizen? What actual intelligence did you glean, what great secrets of Nelson?’

  Derrien glanced at Casabianca and the naval officers. They did not look away. He then addressed himself only to Bonaparte.

  ‘A considerable amount, Citizen General.’

  Bonaparte glared back at him. ‘Such as? For, even now, Mr Hazzard may have been rescued by the English, and could be informing them of our course, our strength and disposition. Jullien tells me he even climbed to the lookouts on the mast and saw the entire fleet – everything.’

  Marais glanced at Jullien, then looked down, but said nothing.

  ‘He was shot, Citizen General, and subsequently drowned—’

  ‘He was flogged like a Corsican mule by your dogs in a Maltese gaol, but look what he did to you and a platoon of our finest marines!’

  Derrien stared back.

  Bonaparte waited. ‘You have nothing to say.’

  ‘I acted according to my orders.’

  Junot could stand it no longer. ‘Orders? From whom?’

  ‘I would respectfully remind the Citizen General, and his staff, that I am not under his orders, but those of Citizen Directors Barras, Révèillaire-Lépaux and Rewbell, and the Ministry of the Interior.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ gasped Junot, shocked. ‘You will retract this impertinence—’

  ‘Neither will I divulge further details save those relevant to the General in Chief and the security of this enterprise.’ He gave the naval contingent a bow of the head. ‘Of value to the Citizen Admiral and officers of the fleet is that I have concluded the British squadron under Nelson will head direct to Alexandria, with such speed that they will reach it before we do.’

  There was a brief silence as Casabianca glanced at Marais for confirmation. ‘How could the British know for certain? And how could you know this?’

  Derrien looked at Bonaparte. ‘I must submit that the remainder of this report should be disclosed in camera, Citizen General.’

  Bonaparte did not relent. ‘Answer him.’

  Derrien inclined his head. ‘Very well. From the beginning Mr Hazzard was not what he claimed. The historical paper which he had indeed written was not from the Sorbonne, but the university at Grenôble, was it not, Citizen General?’

  Bonaparte frowned, surprised at this unexpected riposte. Eventually he registered acceptance. ‘So I later recalled. What of it.’

  ‘I discussed the matter with our own specialists, one of whom also recalled it in his own research, and was aware of a copy in the library at the Vatican’s Office of Propaganda. It was the work of possibly one of the foremost yet little-known scholars on the history of Egypt, Greece and Persia, who dined so modestly with the savants, learning everything about the expedition and their role within it, from chemistry to engineering, yet revealing none of his own expertise… save an educated gentleman’s mild interest in Herodotus.’ He looked directly at Bonaparte. ‘As I insisted at Valletta, through interrogation I learned that he is half-French. Of a Bordelaise Huguenot mother. He is of course fluent in our language, as I continually reminded the officers of this vessel, and he was educated at the university of Grenôble under the patronage of counter-revolutionary Hugues Bartelmi – where he began his study of ancient cultures, including Egyptian hieroglyphics, and…’ he said, pulling from his pocket one of Bonaparte’s special printed flyers, ‘the Arabic language. He had this in his possession before he fled.’

  Junot snatched the sheet from him and glanced at its incomprehensible contents. ‘He could read this?’

  ‘I believe so, yes. Some of it, perhaps. It was for this reason he was sent by the British Admiralty to intercept, infiltrate and destroy this expedition.’ He cleared his throat quietly. ‘He is William John Hazzard, a contributor to the Gentleman’s Magazine in England, a correspondent of Dr Samuel Johnson, and a scholar of Jesus College, Cambridge, and served in the British East India Company naval service. He is a master swordsman, who overcame six men of the 1st Company of the 75th Invincibles, and killed a Maltese revolutionary and two fusiliers before being captured. He is not just an ordinary officer of Marines.’

  The assembly star
ed, astonished. But Junot was on him in seconds. ‘And you let him escape?’

  Derrien’s expression was as blank as ever. ‘I am not convinced that the Citizen General would agree entirely with that conclusion.’ He took back the flyer and carefully folded it away into a pocket.

  Bonaparte stared back at him, furious, the rebuke evident – that it was Bonaparte who had released a deadly spy from captivity and brought him into the very heart of their operation – and worse, that Derrien had warned him not to, but had gone unheeded.

  Junot put a hand to his sword. ‘How dare you…’

  Bonaparte said nothing. But Derrien again seemed impervious to Junot’s threats. ‘It would not be unreasonable to assume,’ he continued, ‘that Nelson is more than aware of Mr Hazzard’s mission, and will head for the region via Naples as soon as he is able. We must proceed on this assumption and continue to conceal our true course as best we can.’

  After a moment of angry silence, Bonaparte nodded.

  Brueys glanced at Casabianca. ‘Heading of the British?’

  ‘Uncertain, Admiral. Only one sail spotted, possibly with a British ensign, but it was dark of course. Possibly a scout, to or from Syracuse, or a Ragusan merchantman, we cannot say, but she headed away.’ Brueys nodded. If she had been a scout and had seen them, she would have followed at a distance.

  Bonaparte was not a man to admit errors easily. Instead he looked to Brueys and Casabianca. ‘Admiral, how long to change course for the northeast, for Corfu and the Ionian Sea?’

  Admiral Brueys thought it no great difficulty. ‘We shall signal Admiral Decrès in the Diane to lead, bring in the flanking frigates and coordinate such a correction at once, General.’ He glanced at Derrien. ‘A feint to the north would not be unwise, given this new information. We can set a course for Corfu via the Bay of Taranto, and drop southward upon Alexandria from Crete when our scouts confirm that the port is clear.’

  Bonaparte inclined his head. ‘Very well, let it be so, I thank you.’ His gaze hardened as he turned it on Derrien. ‘I will, then, hear your full report, Citizen. Now, if you please.’ He turned from the wardroom and a sentry snapped open the door to the passage and the chambers beyond.

  ‘As you wish, Citizen General.’ Derrien looked at the gathering. He nodded. ‘I bid you a good night, Citizen Admiral.’

  It was effectively a dismissal of the most senior officer, but etiquette demanded Brueys acknowledge his good wishes. He did so with a reluctant bow, then said to Casabianca, ‘Captain, let us be about it, if you please…’ They filed out, but Junot went last, his steady gaze focussed on Derrien with outright loathing.

  Derrien followed Bonaparte into the corridor. Bonaparte turned. ‘Junot is right. How dare you.’

  ‘I did not wish to say, Citizen General,’ said Derrien, hitting him with it finally, ‘but I found Mr Hazzard in the holds of the ship. He had laid a fuse to the central powder magazine.’

  Bonaparte stared at him.

  Derrien added, ‘I believe it carries some two hundred tons of ammunition.’

  Of all the officers aboard, Bonaparte knew best how much powder was packed into the magazines aboard the Orient – and what would happen if they were detonated. ‘Very well,’ said Bonaparte. ‘And?’

  ‘I disabled it, Citizen General,’ he said, ‘interrupting his efforts.’

  Bonaparte regarded him carefully for some time.

  ‘So.’

  Derrien knew not to press his advantage yet. He waited. ‘Of the moment, Citizen General, it is Citizen Mademoiselle Moreau-Lazare that concerns me most.’

  Once again, Bonaparte was wrong-footed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I should like to know why Mr Hazzard took her and no other. Her relationship to you might perhaps be of value to the British if she were to be captured.’

  ‘What utter rubbish.’ Bonaparte had hardly flinched, but his fury glowed white-hot. ‘You will not come within arm’s reach of Mademoiselle Moreau-Lazare, is that clear? She is a beloved companion to my wife, a friend to my children, and a mistress of François-Joseph Talma…’

  Derrien did not falter. ‘It is my belief she will need protection for the remainder of the voyage. Particularly from Chef de brigade Junot, should he come to the same conclusion as I.’

  Bonaparte’s eyes burned into his. ‘Junot is my senior aide de camp. He does not jump to conclusions—’

  ‘Nevertheless I should like to keep her safe,’ said Derrien, ‘in case I can be of assistance. She would naturally wish to follow you to Cairo and be at your side – but I wonder if she might rest more safely with the junior savants and others at Rosetta,’ said Derrien.

  Bonaparte was as ready as any other man of power to mistrust his closest advisers, but he had been knocked off-balance. ‘None of this ventures any further, do you understand? Not a word.’

  Derrien was more than satisfied. Once again, he had become the keeper of secrets. ‘The ship’s company will remain under close observation,’ he said with a bow. ‘I endeavour to serve, Citizen General.’

  Derrien withdrew, leaving Bonaparte to consider his words. In the pursuit of his own self-interest and security, Derrien had outwitted the ancien naval officers, set the high command against itself, cast doubts in Bonaparte’s mind over his mistress, and wrapped himself in the invulnerable cloak of the secret servant. Citizen Croquemort was still very much alive.

  * * *

  Bonaparte moved through the chart room to his cabin. Two marine guards stiffened at his approach. He saw his cabin door ajar, lamplight inside. He waved the marines off and they withdrew.

  He pushed open the door, revealing the glowing lamp on his bedside table, the turned-down white sheets. Bourrienne stood in the middle of the room, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘Louis?’

  Bourrienne removed his spectacles and gave an oblique look to one side. Waiting uncertainly behind the door was Sarah, her face smudged with tears, looking down at her hands, busily tying a handkerchief into knots. Bonaparte stared at her a while, then glanced at Bourrienne. ‘Anyone?’

  Bourrienne shook his head. ‘No one saw her come in. So, I trust,’ he said, with a note of stern warning, heading to the door, ‘no one will see her leave.’

  Bonaparte smiled at his old friend. ‘You need your bed.’

  ‘I was in it,’ yawned Bourrienne, ‘swinging this way and that like an old sack till the world erupted.’ He glanced at him with a gesture, as if to take care of her. ‘Poor thing. I shall say goodnight.’

  Bourrienne closed the door quietly and they heard him dismiss the guard, his voice fading as they tramped along the passage behind.

  Bonaparte looked at her. She began to sob again and he approached her, and took her hand in his, holding her cold body. She trembled.

  ‘There there,’ he murmured, and she broke into tears. He held her close. ‘What I cannot understand, my darling Belle,’ he said softly into her ear, ‘is why he took you, of all people.’ He felt the ends of her damp, curling hair with his fingers. ‘Why, why, why. I cannot understand…’

  She clung to him, weeping, and he held her, ‘Napoléon,’ she whispered, ‘I was so frightened…’

  ‘Shhh,’ he sighed to her. He became aware of her scent, her skin. ‘You are so like Désirée. Nothing would frighten her.’

  ‘Ci-Citizen Derrien frightens me,’ she sobbed.

  He shook his head, admonishing a child. ‘Non non non. He will not. C’est rien. Do you see? He cannot touch you.’

  He slid a hand round her neck and held her tight – then kissed her. Her mouth pushed back against his, hard, as he pushed her against the doorframe, his hand in the small of her back, holding her, her breath catching as he raised her chin, opening her throat down to her bosom, his lips on her.

  Abruptly he stopped. With one finger he traced a curving line over her skin to her shoulder. He saw the blood.

  ‘His?’

  She nodded. ‘Or the lieutenant, who saved me…’

  He closed his eyes
, putting his forehead to hers. ‘I found him an honest man. M’sieur Hazzard. Not a liar, or cheat. Not a monster.’ He sighed. ‘But I will kill him, most certainly.’

  She did not move.

  ‘I am so far from her, Belle,’ he said, ‘and think of her always, my Joséphine, though now she betrays me. So says the gossip. You are a memory of happier times, our home in the Chausée d’Antin…’

  He kissed her deeply, his fingers in her hair, holding her fast and she sighed into him, the heat coming through her gown, her shift, every part of her, her fingers entwined in his long hair.

  ‘But I must be ruthless,’ he breathed, ‘and if necessary… I will have Junot shot, or Citizen Derrien…’ He kissed her again, and pressed himself against her. He held her suddenly firm and dead still. ‘I will do the same to anyone, Isabelle.’ He looked suddenly deep into her eyes. ‘If I must.’

  She froze. He pulled back from her. The threat was clear. He put a finger to her lips.

  ‘Rest under my protection, ma belle Isabelle.’ He smiled, an old joke. ‘You need fear no one. Go to Rosetta with the savants, far from the army and the fighting, hm? I will see to it. Jérôme will be there too, at some point, never fear. For Eugène and Joséphine’s sake as well.’

  She nodded obediently. ‘Yes, Napoléon.’

  He watched her carefully, as if waiting. ‘Hm? But…?’

  ‘I wanted,’ she said miserably, ‘to go with you… to Cairo…’

  His face gave away nothing, but his body tensed, locked tight, possibly at the thought of Derrien’s prediction. He watched her, his dark eyes wide and shimmering in the half-light of the cabin. ‘I must take that country in less than a month. It will be easier to do so knowing you are safe.’

  He pulled from her and leaned against the frame of the door, suddenly bored, or exhausted, looking at the deck. ‘Now, go, please.’

  She moved past him and his grasp slid from her arm, to her wrist, her hand, her fingers, until finally she pulled away. A dark look on his tightly controlled features, he shoved the door shut with his boot.