The Emperor's Gold

by Robert Wilton

  Admiral Gambier’s summary of French naval dispositions had been brief: Admiral Villeneuve was probably in Spain; Admiral Allemand with his small squadron was at sea somewhere off the south-west of England; the other French squadrons were still blocked in their ports.

  ‘And our own?’

  ‘Blockading, My Lord. Patrolling the Channel.’

  ‘No damned good, Gambier! Allemand is loose in the Channel. Give him so much as a rowing boat more and he’ll have enough to challenge one of our squadrons. Presumably Villeneuve will be pushing north to join him any day, Bellamy.’

  ‘We believe so, My Lord.’

  ‘And even if he doesn’t, we still have Napoleon’s private fleet, ready to come at us when we least expect. That fleet’s the key to the Channel and to the war. Allemand alone is too small. Villeneuve we might be able to block in Spain. But if this other fleet comes at us, we’ll have no choice but to weaken the force blocking Napoleon’s army. And you still don’t know where the damned fleet is, Bellamy?’

  ‘No, My Lord.’

  The First Lord of the Admiralty shook his old white head at the Comptroller-General for Scrutiny and Survey with something like accusation, and then the building shuddered around them and the world seemed to thump and the portraits of former First Lords of the Admiralty slumped on the wall, and a cloud of smoke billowed up outside the window and the Admiralty Board was dimmed.

  In Whitehall there was uncertainty, then confusion, and finally alarm. The petitioners who had already passed the Admiralty thought that the back of their column was under attack; those still next to the smoking building didn’t know what to think, but they knew they didn’t want to be where they were. In a first-floor window further down Whitehall towards Parliament, a Magistrate and an anonymous Government official shared the confusion and knew what they ought to do in any incident of doubt: soldiers and dragoons were in place in several locations, and a signal was passed to bring a detachment across Westminster Bridge to restore order.

  Even as the smoke cleared to reveal no damage to the Admiralty, the march in the street beside it was collapsing into chaos. Those at the back of the column of petitioners were drifting back up Whitehall to Charing Cross, and the impression of a retreat startled the spectating Londoners. Those nearer the front were trying to shove forwards, and soon the threat of a stampede forced the leaders of the column to begin running towards Westminster Hall. This sudden rush was exactly what Parliament’s custodians had feared; frantic shouts of orders, and a detachment of soldiers was hurrying out of the building’s courtyard to block the way, muskets level. The front of the column now found itself being swept towards a line of bayonets, at the same time as those behind them saw another detachment of soldiers trotting towards their flank from Westminster Bridge, and the storm of shouts and screams and hoarse commands to soldiers and futile attempts to control the panicking marchers soared, deafening and intoxicating.

  In the shadow of Horse Guards arch, Roscarrock watched the scrum in anger and frustration. This was not necessary, it was never necessary, and now what could have been peaceful would mean injuries and probably deaths. The prophets of reform had led their people to another futile battle. Teeth clenched and eyes grim, he bullied his mind into self-control, looked methodically around, to Whitehall and out to the parade ground and up towards the Admiralty: this surely wasn’t an accidental riot; it meant something, it was happening for a reason, and under its shadow some darker purpose had to be in play. But what, and where?

  And who? Whitehall showed nothing but the mob and their falling banners and billowing dust, and he hurried through the arch to the parade ground. As he emerged, the space and light yawning over him, he saw a detachment of soldiers moving towards him and Whitehall; reinforcements, presumably, but they were moving without purpose or discipline. To his right, other movement: from the back of the Admiralty building a small group of men hurried into the daylight, well-dressed men – uniforms?

  Lord Barham had survived seventy-nine years and a score of battles and he did not scare easily. But in the shock and the confusion – an attack on the Admiralty itself? – he led his subordinates hurrying out of the building, old spindly legs skittering down the back stairs and onto the parade ground. The mob was in Whitehall, and someone had said they were stampeding, so the back it had to be and a guard of Marines and a carriage out of the city.

  Roscarrock didn’t recognize the First Lord, but he could see the dominant figure of Bellamy hurrying the old man away from danger, and then behind them he saw Jessel running to catch up. What were these soldiers doing? They were still straggling on the other side of the parade ground. But now there was a shout, shouts, and their muskets started to waver and fall level, and they began to trot towards the handful of Admirals. Instinctively, Roscarrock started towards them; they should be coming to protect the Admiralty Board, but where was the discipline and where were the officers?

  Jessel had seen them too, and he overtook Bellamy and Lord Barham and moved closer to the approaching soldiers. No discipline, no officers, and he knew them for a threat. He fumbled in his pocket and an instant later a whistle squealed across the parade ground. The Admirals, edging down the side of the square towards the Horse Guards building, stopped in confusion. Roscarrock knew what it meant, but there was still no way of knowing how everyone would move. The militiamen hesitated in the middle of the parade ground, startled and wary, then took the whistle for defiance or the last vestige of the corrupt authority they had drunk themselves into overthrowing, and hurried forwards again with shouts.

  A thunder from the trees at the northern edge of the parade ground, shouts, the vicious hiss of metal against metal and Royce’s dragoons gushed out into space, a fist of darkness that drummed over the ground and exploded into the terrified soldiers. They staggered, they screamed, two or three muskets were fired on instinct, and then the packet of rebels were fleeing or falling under the swooping sabres of the dragoons, and Roscarrock knew that he was watching the work of James Fannion. The noise and violence of the attack dragged out slow and stark for the onlookers, but it was only fifteen seconds before Royce called his men to order around the remnants of unrest. They stood shocked and shattered, muskets abandoned at their feet, among the screaming bodies of their wounded colleagues and the forbidding ring of dragoons.

  Half a dozen horsemen cantered after those who had fled, and the brutal episode was done. The Admirals breathed gasps and exchanged uneasy bravado. Ahead of the others, Lord Barham turned and bestowed a single nod of approval on Bellamy for the precautions that had saved them all.

  Lord Barham was perhaps thirty yards from Horse Guards arch, the other members of the Admiralty Board spread out beyond him. Nearer the skirmish between soldiers and dragoons, Jessel was fifty yards and Roscarrock rather further from the arch. In the aftermath of mayhem, none of them paid immediate attention to the solitary figure who walked through the arch at that moment, though his placid movement was the strangest thing of all on that day of frenzy.

  The First Lord of the Admiralty noticed the fellow walking silently towards him, and thought his approach perhaps disrespectful but hardly a threat. Jessel saw the man and on some instinct started to move. Roscarrock not only saw the man but knew him, and launched himself across the expanse that separated them.

  It was Gabriel Chance, coming into the light at last.

  Shouts from Roscarrock and then from Jessel bewildered Lord Barham, who found himself with two men running towards him and a third gliding closer in silence. Jessel reached into a pocket as he ran and pulled out a pistol. Roscarrock was tearing over the loose ground, and still Chance walked. Roscarrock knew in his nightmare that he could never reach him. Barham was alarmed by the weird silence of the man coming straight at him, by the wide, bright face that stared at him but said nothing, and started to back away. Jessel was closing fast, pistol coming level, and Roscarrock kicked his feet faster and harder off the dust and reached for his knife as he ran. Then in the nigh
tmare he saw Chance’s arm emerge into the parade ground with a pistol of his own.

  Jessel had one shot and knew he couldn’t get between Barham and the assassin, now so close; he had to slow, he had to be steady if the shot was to have any hope. Still Chance was moving on, the silent serenity of a dream, and Jessel was ten yards from him and stuttering to a halt and holding his pistol level with one controlled breath, and the hammer strained and snapped forwards and only a click disturbed the parade ground.

  Misfire.

  Jessel gaped in surprise, stared at the pistol, round at Bellamy, and back to the First Lord of the Admiralty and the man who would now kill him. Gabriel Chance had stopped; he blinked twice and walked on, so close to the old grey man, so close to the light, and a smile broke on his ghostly face and the pistol wavered between Jessel and Barham and then settled on the old man, and the smile grew wider and more serene and then from the unseen shadows outside his vision, the shadows that were all that was left of the old world, Tom Roscarrock hurled himself forwards and knocked Chance to the dust.

  Bellamy and Jessel were pulling Lord Barham away, and the rest of the Admirals were still becalmed on the parade ground trying to absorb the wild succession of shocks. Roscarrock was sprawled on top of Gabriel Chance, his knife buried in the prophet’s chest. The pale, unworldly face flickered, coughed out one last frail breath of corrupted air, and settled into its perfect peace.

  Above it, arm shaking on the knife and breath coming in desperate gasps, Tom Roscarrock gazed down, grim. Beneath him, he could only see the face of the Reverend Henry Forster, and that face held sad sympathy and an infinite disappointment.

  In his mind, he heard the last words of Forster’s last letter. Somehow, Tom Roscarrock had set himself against the angels.

  FRANCE

  6th August 1805 – continued

  IDENTITY FICHE (ACTOR/CONTACT/THREAT) NO. 407

  ROSCARROCK, Donal (and family) Donal Roscarrock born Wexford? 1740. Married Rachel GALLAHER Roscarrock 1765 d. 1768; married Ann CONNOLLY Roscarrock 1769. At least six sons survived to adulthood, including Donal (1766), Patrick (1770), Sean (1773). Fate of twins (1 s, 1 d) born 1771 unknown. At least two other daughters, including Fiona (1768). Donal (snr) active in Defenders and United Irishmen. Several of sons also active including three above named: Sean executed 1799 for rebellion; one other son (name unknown) killed Vinegar Hill; Patrick and one other son hunted following 1798 rebellion – file still open (Fiche no. 833). ?Familial link to traitors in Wicklow (see Fiche no. 155 on DWYER). Donal Roscarrock now habitually living Rathcoole w. Martha ?Macdonagh; status of w. Ann unknown.

  Brother of Roscarrock, James, b. Wexford ?1741 and still dwelling there. Married Annie PRICE Roscarrock 1770 (eldest d. of Price, Michael of Armagh, whence fled apparently because of links with Armagh Defenders). At least 4 s survived adulthood. James and at least two sons involved in support for Leitrim rebellion and Longford unrest 1793 and (esp. son Michael) in preparation for proposed landing of French force 1796. Believed residual familial links to Armagh and Defenders.

  Brother or cousin of J. T. Roscarrock, references Wexford 1765–1775, Dublin 1790, Wicklow 1793–5, and intermittently. No further reference – perhaps d. Wife unknown. 1 s D. D. ‘Tiger’ Roscarrock, sometime prizefighter now thought Dublin, link to Emmet insurrection 1803 unclear, 1 s P. T. Roscarrock whereabouts unknown, at least 2 other s living. Reports of sons active 1798 including Vinegar Hill.

  Other associations: TANDY, Napper (see Fiche no. 78 on TONE); SIMMS, ?Jonathan (see Fiche no. 103 on ROWAN and Fiche no. 149 on HAMILTON); McBRIDE, Joseph; McBRIDE, James; CURRAN, Sarah; MacNALLY (see Fiche no. 298 on HOPE).

  [SS I(D)/2/407]

  It was over. He had come so far, come almost to the very end, and now, in the final doorway, Joseph was blocked. The tiredness was all-powerful now, a vast blanket on his shoulders, so heavy that his knees kept buckling, and so warming. Outside him, the night was bitterly cold.

  Once again, one last attempt, his French just a whisper to the uniform buttons in front of him. ‘I must enter. Must see the Ambassador. Vital. It’s for France. Please. Vital.’ But he kept losing the words in the folds of the blanket, and the uniform buttons glared and blurred in his dull eyes. The footman was bored of the game now, ruder, throwing out threats to this bent bundle of a man at the foot of the steps.

  Roscarrock paced the landing like the uneasy deck of a ship before storm clouds, gripped the banister rail and wished for the spray on his face. The reception at the house of the French Ambassador to London, official representative of the exiled Crown, had become a celebration of the escape from assassination of the First Lord of the Admiralty and his colleagues, and Roscarrock wanted no part of any of it. Behind him was the brittle chatter of glasses, the gurgling of conversation, and he scowled at the distraction and the irrelevance.

  This, surely, was not it. Surely, there was more to Napoleon’s secret designs than this misguided craftsman. Surely the vanguard of the French threat was more than a handful of surly infantrymen. Where, indeed, was the French hand in any of this? Was there some part of the danger that he just hadn’t seen, a whole level of the plot they weren’t aware of? Why, once his blood had cooled, did the melodrama at Horse Guards seem so insubstantial?

  The Irishman, the tailor and the fleet. The tailor was dead, the Irishman presumably escaped into France. The fleet was still out on the sea somewhere and, unless the Comptrollerate-General’s network in France could find it, the rotten timber that was English stability would shortly receive its final, shattering blow.

  From a doorway on the other side of the landing, all trace of the fop absent, Philippe de Boeldieu watched the Englishman, trying to read the tense, tired face.

  There was a mist settling around him. Perhaps the cold in his feet meant he’d missed his step, missed the firmer grass and slipped into the shallow water of the marsh. There was a morning freshness to the air, and as the reeds swayed around in front of him he listened for the call of the birds.

  Joseph was alone. Vaguely, his eyes had registered the sudden uncoordinated movement of the two footmen. One turned and hurried into the house on some errand at exactly the moment that the other trotted down the steps and past him across the street, and he tried to turn his head to find out what the incident or attraction was, but his head wouldn’t turn.

  Lady Sybille was scolding him gently. He had missed something, of course.

  The doorway was clear. Somewhere beneath him, his legs began to move up the smooth stone steps.

  Roscarrock saw the footman bustling across the hall below him, wondering at the errand and its triviality. The movement pulled him out of his reflections and he started for the stairs. Fresh air.

  Another figure appeared below him, a dark and dishevelled form sliding along the wall, and the incongruity of this dirty shape against the polish and gleam of the decorations froze him. His eyes tracked the painful movement from above, a stain on the white squares of the marble floor that kept disappearing into the black ones. He set off down the stairs.

  There was sudden new movement and noise in the hall below him, and the Ambassador and Lord Barham strode across his vision, with the unhushed assurance of those who knew they could not be outranked in this place.

  Roscarrock’s glance shifted back. The creeping figure had come alive. The movement in front of it had sparked energy, a new clarity of action.

  Was this it? To get the Royalist Ambassador as well as the First Lord of the Admiralty, and the head of the Comptrollerate-General, in one coup would be a fantasy for Paris. The impact of such a strike in the heart of London would be shattering. Roscarrock was taking the steps in twos and then threes, oblivious to all other sound and movement around him. One stealthy figure could penetrate where no band of rebels could dream. Move!

  He landed on the marble chequerboard tiles with a leap and his appearance stunned the furtive creature in front of him. The forward movement stopped, a pale head came up and two dead eye
s opened in alarm. Roscarrock strode towards him, knife ready, body poised.

  Then in an attack from nowhere his knife hand was flung up and he was shouldered aside with a force that sent him staggering, and Philippe De Boeldieu was tearing past him trying to shape an incoherent cry of amazement into words. ‘Great Gods! My Joseph – Joseph! How have you come, how are you here? Great Gods, what has happened to you?’

  At last it all felt right. Master Philippe was here. Master Philippe was holding him. Now he could sleep, if the young Master would permit…

  Roscarrock stood over the two Frenchmen, bewildered. De Boeldieu looked up at him, breathless and stern. ‘Your English hospitality is a terrible thing, Roscarrock, but since this man has just by some unimaginable chance escaped from the very heart of Napoleon’s evil, could you possibly manage to find him a glass of water?’

  Lord Barham had heard the unrest in the hall and taken two steps back to observe, absorbing the peculiar scene with weary surprise. Extraordinary people, the French.

  Through the hot summer night, the ripples of the chaos in Whitehall spread across the city. The men of Suffolk were dispersed, their unity broken in the first confusion and by one panicked and unnecessary burst of musket fire. But small bands of them roamed the streets hurt and angry, inflating each other’s stories of wounds and wrongs and looking for cheap violence to prove their resolve. Silly brawls and broken windows charted their wandering through the warrens of the metropolis. Meanwhile, the anger and the confusion were echoed by other fists and voices. Young apprentice men had been caught up in the mayhem of Whitehall, and they spread news of a Government offensive, new restrictions on rights, the permanent stationing of soldiers in the city. A dozen new protests became a dozen confrontations, hot and hasty stand-offs with soldiers and officials, machines broken and buildings set alight. In Leadenhall Market, a Magistrate found himself cut off by a mob and had to be rescued by the militia. Lord Mayor Perchard was forced to take refuge in a church on Lombard Street. The radicals and reformers of the London Corresponding Society hurriedly ran off handbills denouncing the Government’s new tyranny – rallying calls for liberty, words into the mouths of the angry young men who wandered the streets venting their insecurities.