The Emperor's Gold

by Robert Wilton

  There was a pause, and then the man in the corner leant forwards into the glow of the single lamp. It was a dark curled head and a handsome face, with a pair of large and strong eyes that moved carefully from man to man.

  ‘Got a voice, do you? Got a name?’

  The stranger nodded. Then he said quietly, ‘I do. And I’m very careful with both of them.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘Aye.’ Again the careful scrutiny of each man. ‘You’re lucky men. You’ve only got to haul me off to your Colonel or the local Magistrates and you’ll be heroes. Maybe a little reward. I’d consider that carefully, if I was you.’ The face fixed on the older soldier. ‘My voice is an Irish voice, and my name is the name of a known Irish rebel. I’m trusting you because I believe what your friend here says about you. But you can get me hanged tomorrow morning if it takes your fancy. I’d consider that carefully, if I was you.’

  ‘I’m considering it, mate, don’t you worry.’

  ‘If it makes you feel more comfortable, you can call me James. I don’t plan on asking your names. If you’re the quality of men I think you are, we’ve no need to be fooling around with blood oaths and declarations of loyalty.’

  ‘No one’s hanging anyone, Irishman. What’s your business with us?’

  The stranger sat back against the bench, face moving in and out of the shadows as he talked. ‘Firstly, I suggest we agree what we’re not. I am no kind of philosopher; I’m not preaching brotherly solidarity; I only care about a free Ireland. I have no interest in the freedoms of Englishmen, as long as they’re not exercising them in my country.’ The soldiers watched the display of honesty cautiously. ‘On your side, I suggest that you probably don’t care whether the Irish live in peace or all starve to death tomorrow. You’ve got your own battles to worry about.’

  The older soldier – he was probably a corporal, the stranger decided – nodded slightly, an unattractive smile lurking. ‘That’s right, mate. I’m a little too poor for philosophy. And no, we wouldn’t give a fart if Ireland sank under the sea tomorrow. You can all go to hell, for all I care, and too many English soldiers have caught fever or a knife in the back in Ireland for us to want to stay there one day longer than necessary. I guess we can agree on that.’ The Irishman smiled politely. ‘Right. So it sounds like we both have a problem with the British Government, doesn’t it?’ A nod from the shadows. ‘And don’t think this is radical hot air. Politics don’t interest us.’ Next to him, Private Foley grunted agreement.

  One of the other soldiers – he was barely more than a boy – felt that he wanted more of a share of the conversation. ‘It’s not getting flogged to death is what interests us.’

  ‘Flogged to death?’

  ‘First it was Willie Watkins. They flogged him so he’ll never stand properly again. Just for talking. And then it was Corporal Tubb – someone informed on him – and they flogged him almost till he died and now he’s been discharged sick and he’ll probably die.’

  The Corporal next to him put out a slow hand and gripped his forearm; it was restraint rather than reassurance.

  The stranger leant forwards, his face suddenly glaring in the light. ‘There was an informant?’

  ‘Was,’ the Corporal snapped quietly. ‘There isn’t anymore.’

  The stranger smiled as he understood. ‘Perhaps you won’t be dragging me to the Magistrate after all. I didn’t realize just how deep you gentlemen were in. And I hadn’t realized what conditions were like.’ Another quick smile. ‘Always having been on the receiving end of the British army, so to speak.’

  ‘You’d better believe it, mate.’ The Corporal spoke slow and insistent. ‘It ain’t all medals and pretty girls. None of us wants to be here. Some was crimped, and—’

  ‘Crimped?’

  The Corporal smiled heavily. ‘You get drunk, or knocked on the head, or invited upstairs by a tart, and next thing you’re in cuffs and the Magistrate’s swearing you in as a soldier. Kidnapped, if you like.’

  The Irishman shook his head. ‘Christ, no wonder you were always such miserable sods with us. We might have had a little more sympathy.’

  The Corporal chuckled. ‘Course, the rich don’t get kidnapped, and when they get balloted for the militia they can buy their way out. No choice for the rest of us. And once you’re in, well… pay – food – discipline: all fucking horrible.’

  ‘If they was as quick and generous with the shillings as they is with the lash…’ Foley started.

  The Corporal pressed on. ‘When the navy mutinied over pay and conditions in ’97, Government gave in. Handshakes all round and Rule bloody Britannia. When soldiers protest—’

  ‘Like the Artillery at Woolwich, or the Irish Regiment in Exeter.’

  The hand across again, and irritation, ‘— they just get cut to pieces by the dragoons.’

  The Irishman was nodding in slow sympathy. ‘The whole bloody system is corrupt,’ he said heavily. ‘The whole thing stinks. Your man Foley here and I fell to talking about it last night, but I just had no idea.’

  ‘No. No one does. But don’t expect us to be raising the flag of liberty and reform on your behalf, mate, because we’ve no wish to be sabred to pieces just to prove a point.’

  ‘Right, right.’ The Irishman was nodding, apparently heavy with thought. ‘But your hands are in the mangle now, aren’t they? Someday soon they’ll have you for killing their sneaking informant, won’t they? I guess you must be worried that sometime soon one of your mates is going to decide he’s better off doing himself a favour and betraying you, right?’ The Corporal’s grim glare showed that he was well aware of this; the boy’s wide eyes showed that he wasn’t. ‘You can’t go backwards now, can you? You have to find a way forwards.’

  ‘Don’t get carried away, mate. We can take care of ourselves, and we ain’t joining no revolution.’

  ‘Course not; course not. When you act, it has to be quick, and it has to be proper, and it has to deal with all your grievances. You don’t want to fight the system; you want a new system.’ The Corporal was nodding warily. ‘Full redress of complaints, free pardon for anything you’ve been forced to do along the way. Like the sailors got at Spithead.’

  ‘Right. But that’s never going to happen, is it? Country’s run by corrupt politicians and fat admirals. They’re never going to do us any favours, are they?’

  ‘There must be a way.’ The Irishman was leaning forwards on the old, stained table, concentration gripping his face. ‘Foley says you’re posted to London this week.’

  ‘Right. Government’s worried about protests.’

  ‘They want you to fight against the people you’ve most in common with, don’t they?’ The Irishman’s face was sour. ‘It’s sick, so it is.’ Again the thought. ‘But maybe those politicians and admirals have got a bit too clever for themselves this time. Maybe they’re taking you for granted, and they’ve calculated wrong.’ There was interest in the four flickering faces opposite him. ‘You see, some friends of mine have got plans for the 6th of August in London – not Irish, not radicals, just people who think the system needs to change and those people responsible need to be held to account. They’ve got plans for Tuesday – mate, I’m trusting you not just with my life here, but with lots of lives – plans to end the brutality and the unfairness and the pointless fighting and the corruption.’ He looked earnestly around the rank little room. ‘Frankly, they need a bit of maturity and stability in their plan – that’s what you bring – and in return this could solve everything for you in a day.’

  The Corporal was staring hard at him. ‘Keep talking.’

  ‘It shall be the 6th – Tuesday.’

  ‘I see. Can it be stopped?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Should we expect a little bloodshed?’

  ‘It’s entirely possible, but irrelevant. The impact will be as strong without deaths, but if there are many it does not matter. Everyone involved is expendable.’

  ‘A little blood might help t
he effect, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I would. But the effect on London and on the Ministry will be as catastrophic either way.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  2nd August, 1805

  On the morning of the 2nd, Joseph smelt the sea for the first time. It came slowly at him out of the mist, an empty, alien smell that unsettled him because he could neither recognize nor grasp it.

  He passed a cold hour huddled on a bench opposite the merchant’s office, an army blanket clenched around his shoulders and the leather folder under his coat. It was so hard to think. A vicious wind was snapping up the street, edged with icy drops of water from the sea. Silly Joseph. He had to be so very careful; that was right, the young Master would want that. But he was so cold and so hungry and it was so hard to think.

  The young Master, teaching him how to deal with an emergency, how to escape: Crowds of people are your best disguise, but individuals are your greatest danger. Why couldn’t he just disappear into the countryside? Why couldn’t he go back to Doudeville? Normandy wasn’t so far. Would the Minister and the Inspector really want to waste all that effort trying to find one little Joseph in the middle of the fields?

  His mother’s cold, sad face on the pillow. The Inspector would never stop; he would destroy France to find little Joseph.

  So he must escape France, and to escape France he must walk into the office of Du Maurier Frères – Marchands and ask at the counter. But to do that he must step out of the crowd; he must become an individual, and talk directly to another individual, and if that individual was working for the police after all, or if that individual was just not helpful, then he would be finished. He pulled the blanket tighter, and tried to bury his neck in its folds.

  It was so cold. Come on, Joseph. Lady Sybille would want him to be brave. He stood up, and flinched as the wind stung his ears. Across the street, so cold, trying to burrow down into himself. It would be warm in the merchant’s office.

  But he must be a servant, not a beggar. The young Master: ‘Anonymity is your best disguise, Joseph.’ So, on the threshold Joseph stood as straight as he could, pulled the blanket from his shoulders even though his neck burnt in the wind, and rolled it under his arm. Proudly now, Joseph. The old Master going to the guillotine. He stepped into the merchant’s office.

  This could be the man. What had the message from Paris said? Joseph Dax was a servant, travelling alone, unlikely to have resources for comfort. An enemy of France, carrying vital documents. Watch all departing ships and shipping offices for such a man trying to escape to England, or to anywhere from where he could travel on to England.

  Slumped on a chair in the corner of the merchant’s office, Jean Brel watched the little man step forwards into the room, and look around himself like a rabbit. The rabbit was trying to understand how the office worked. Brel shifted his substantial weight on the chair which had been his for two hours now, too hard and too small for him, and shifted the news-sheet up to cover more of his face. He’d put on a shabby coat instead of his police jacket, and the office was busy enough that he shouldn’t be noticed.

  This creature was a servant at best, and he was alone. Might he try to get to England? Of course he wouldn’t do so directly, not here in daylight. Where might he ask for? Portugal? Lisbon, perhaps – a booking on behalf of his Master?

  The little man had taken one deep breath and was now moving forwards to the counter. Brel folded his news-sheet, and stood slowly, rubbing his rump. He sauntered over to the noticeboard next to the counter, and began to examine details of transports down the coast.

  The little man had to wait for someone else in front of him to finish; he stared directly ahead of him. He didn’t look like a spy. There was no cunning in the eyes, no strength of mind in the face. Just a timid servant scared to talk to his betters.

  Brel paid great attention to the dates of cargo sailings to the German states.

  The little man reached the counter. Brel leant his head towards him, eyes not leaving the timetables that blurred in front of him. What was he saying?

  ‘Please, sir – I am asking about the times of coaches to Paris.’

  That certainly wasn’t it. Wrong man; no spy after all. This office had nothing to do with coaches, anyway, as the clerk was saying. Waste of time, this was. Brel turned, hoping that his chair was still free. It was uncomfortable but it was better than standing all day – or, worse, having to keep watch from outside.

  ‘But sir, Monsieur Trichet assured me you would know about coaches to Paris.’

  The chair was still free, and Jean Brel ambled slowly towards it and tried to make himself comfortable. He looked quickly around the room, wondering if the distraction of the idiot servant had made him miss anyone more promising. Nothing. He unfolded the news-sheet again. The servant was back at the door now, with the clerk’s curse in his ear no doubt, and he looked broken beyond despair. Probably expecting a beating for fouling it up so badly.

  The chair creaked ominously. Brel rebalanced himself, and his mind drifted away from the forlorn rabbit. Stew for dinner today, surely?

  Behind the counter, the younger Du Maurier was murmuring hurriedly to a servant. ‘Yes – the man with the blanket under his arm. There is no doubt; the phrases were precise. Watch that lump of a policeman; if he moves for the door you must get to him immediately and delay him – you think he’s someone else and you have information about the sailing for Hamburg. And you’ – to another servant – ‘out the back now, and follow that servant. Do not approach him until he has travelled at least fifteen minutes and is completely away from here; make absolutely sure that there is no one in sight when you approach. When you are sure, give him the details for Labiche’s boat at the outer jetty tonight; nothing more.’

  The core of the Admiralty building – like the institution – is seventeenth-century formality, panelled rooms and cold stone corridors. Jessel was waiting outside one of the meeting rooms when Lord Hugo Bellamy emerged, and as the Admiral strode off down the corridor, he fell in step at his shoulder.

  ‘I may turn revolutionary just to avoid all these damn meetings. How do you do today, Jessel?’

  ‘Adequate, My Lord, thank you.’

  ‘The petition comes to London on the 6th, and the Admiralty assume that any serious trouble – the tailor, and Fannion the Irishman – will be related to that.’

  It was a statement, and Jessel didn’t bother to interrupt.

  ‘And I have told them that our French assassin may be related, as part of a wider French design, but that we cannot be sure.’

  Jessel kept pace, and waited.

  ‘The convention, Jessel, is that you give me information, and not the converse. What about Kinnaird? Where is he and what is he doing?’

  Jessel’s mouth twisted in discomfort. ‘We have nothing, My Lord. He is clearly active. He is getting at his agents where he can. But we can’t tell what his objective is.’

  ‘Grim, Jessel. Grim. Keep at it. And Roscarrock?’

  ‘Bury St Edmunds. He thinks he can find out where Chance the tailor is going.’

  The Admiral stopped and stood still in thought. ‘Intrepid sort of fellow, isn’t he, Jessel? I do hope we can confirm him on the right side eventually.’ Jessel just grunted. ‘Any more as to that?’

  A slight shake of the head. ‘Nothing definite, My Lord. Enquiries in America, but it will take weeks to get anything of who Roscarrock knew and what he was doing there. Enquiries in Ireland: there have been Irish Roscarrocks, and they’ve been directly connected with radicalism and the rebellion, but—’

  ‘Hasn’t everyone?’

  ‘Quite so. But we’ve no way of knowing when Roscarrock was there and what he was up to. Perhaps he just… knows that world, My Lord.’

  ‘It’s clear from what Kinnaird knew that Roscarrock has radicalism and mischief in his past; Kinnaird didn’t spook easily – if he was worried about this man, he’s worth worrying about. He might be tempted to radicalism again.’

 
‘But we employ him still? The Admiralty wouldn’t be surprised by that?’

  ‘Jessel, the Admiralty would be horrified to know half of who we employ; that’s why I don’t tell them. The closer Roscarrock is to radicalism, the more he can say and do about it. I’m using him, Jessel, not putting him up for my club.’

  ‘He may be active already – if Kinnaird has gone bad—’

  ‘Regardless of Kinnaird.’ Bellamy started to stride forwards again, and Jessel hurried after him. ‘He may be doing something on his own account regardless of Kinnaird. But is it for reform, or is it for France?’

  ‘Quite, My Lord.’

  ‘Jessel, we need to be able to show my Admiralty colleagues that we are trying to stop a revolution this week.’ The two pairs of feet thumped heavy and insistent along the corridor. ‘Energy, you hear? Action.’

  ‘My Lord.’

  3rd August 1805

  FIRE IN SAFFRON WALDEN

  NEWSPAPER PREMISES BURN

  A FRESH ASSAULT ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS?

  We learn of a serious fire in Saffron Walden yesterday, the 2nd of August. The conflagration, the timing and origins of which remain undiscovered, caused severe damage to the offices of the Voice of the Land news-sheet. It is not known when this organ will next be publishable given the loss of press equipment and scarce paper.

  There is some uncertainty about the only inhabitant of the premises, Mr Andrew Malloy. Mr Malloy, also owner and editor of the Voice of the Land, has made no comment on the destruction of his property and his whereabouts remain unknown. We have long known Mr Malloy as a wise commentator on the social and agricultural difficulties of his district, a prudent advocate of an improvement in the conditions of his fellow man, and a brother in the cause of the freedom of the presses. It is devoutly to be hoped that he has come to no injury in this sad incident. Neighbours suggest that he was absent from the building for a day or more before the blaze, and we trust that he will emerge shortly to resume his former activities and status.