The Frenchman was dozing below deck, sprawled against the side of the boat with his head cushioned against a blanket. One arm lay across the bag he’d brought with him. The hilt of a sword showed through its open folds; Roscarrock wondered if De Boeldieu had left it showing deliberately. It was the first time he’d really had the chance to observe the man. He’d put on rougher, plainer coat and trousers for the journey, but his thick brown hair and fine hands hadn’t lost the signs of the attention they normally received in London. The skin was wine-warmed, and De Boeldieu was running to fat a little, too. Even if the fop was a pretence, the Frenchman obviously lived well enough.
Sitting back against a bulkhead, Roscarrock pulled a paper from an inside pocket of his coat and skimmed it one last time. Then he tore it into fragments, and put them in an outside pocket. They could disappear into the Channel next time he was on deck.
‘Anything about me in there?’ Roscarrock looked up at the words. De Boeldieu was watching him carefully.
‘Yes, I’ll be knocking you on the head just after midnight.’
‘Ah, excellent,’ De Boeldieu said soberly. ‘I shall have time to sleep a little.’ The face and body shifted uncomfortably, and Roscarrock wondered if the Frenchman himself suffered from seasickness.
‘We’re heading for the mouth of the Somme, as you suggested.’ De Boeldieu nodded. Instinctively, Roscarrock checked they were alone, and lowered his voice further. ‘Two little tasks, then we can go home. Napoleon’s secret fleet: we must talk to as many of your agents as we can about it. And we must make contact with General Metz.’
De Boeldieu whistled. ‘Le Vieux Taureau? Just like that, we will contact him? I told you: our networks overlap, but we have never met him.’
‘I’ve been given a password, and I’m sure your people will have ways to reach him. What did you call him? Old Bull?’
De Boeldieu nodded. ‘A nickname from the army. Nowadays, the people doubt whether he exists. Until now we have not wanted to contact him. He is a weapon to be used sparingly. The Government use his name to justify their repressions. Loyalists use him to justify their hopes. If you have some code from the old days, perhaps this will appeal.’ He sat back and his cheeks puffed out. ‘But this is serious business, Roscarrock. Le Taureau is a legend. His record, his reputation… his inspiration, you understand? If there is one man who might rouse France…’ He shook his head. ‘But now – he is a ghost. I doubt – Oh!’ The eyes widened, and the Frenchman smiled grimly. ‘I understand now! You will use your boxes to persuade Monsieur Le Général to make a little distraction to save poor England.’ He shook his head. ‘I am sure he will be delighted to oblige.’
Roscarrock scowled, irritated that he had no good argument to put against De Boeldieu’s sarcasm, and trying not to think about how he would put the suggestion to the General even if the man did exist. ‘I’m more concerned about getting into France in the first place.’
De Boeldieu flicked a disdainful hand. ‘There are procedures. You will see.’
‘You’ve travelled on a ship like this before?’
‘Many times. I am invariably seasick, but it is a very clever system. An initiative of our friend Kinnaird, of course.’
‘I’ve heard. Our private fleet of irregulars – fishermen, merchantmen, smugglers – the best sailors, and ready to run risks for a price. How many are there, do you know?’
The Frenchman shook his head, and then winced as his nausea flared. ‘Two dozen? More? I don’t know. I have rarely been met by the same Captain more than once.’ He glanced around their little, lantern-lit space. ‘Is this a good ship?’
‘Fast, certainly. More flexible with the wind – she can sail very close. But not very steady, I’m afraid.’ De Boeldieu tried to produce a brave smile. ‘Monsieur’ – the smile faded at the new severity in the word – ‘how long have you known Sir Keith Kinnaird?’
A moment’s thought. ‘Five years? More.’ The flushed face leant forwards. ‘But never well, if you understand me. He is not that kind of man.’
‘What do you think has happened to him?’
Philippe de Boeldieu gave an enormous, theatrical shrug. ‘Oh, as to that, I know everything and nothing. He has made his calculation, as always. That is all.’
Roscarrock considered this.
‘And you, Roscarrock: are you asking me because you do not know, or because you do know but you want to find out how much I know?’ A frown fell on the Englishman’s face. ‘It is a pretty game, is it not?’
In the silent seclusion of his windowless office, Fouché placed two pieces of paper beside each other on his desk and let out a long hiss of satisfaction. No one else had placed a foot in this room, not since the betrayal by the servant Dax. The office, and the mind, of Napoleon’s master of secrets was a lonely landscape; the activities, and the satisfactions, were beyond the comprehension of average men.
At last the navies of France were operating as they were supposed to – in concert with each other, and in concert with his plans. Admiral Allemand was at sea with his ships, cruising west of France and within striking distance of the English Channel. And now – at last – Admiral Villeneuve knew this and Admiral Villeneuve was free to manoeuvre. No British blockade was in his way. Perhaps it had been worth letting Villeneuve know a little of the plans after all; such confidences played to the man’s aristocratic vanity, and if aristocratic vanity was required to float the Emperor’s fleets effectively, then the Revolution would bear it. It was now only a matter of a few days before Villeneuve was at sea and united with Allemand. Together, they would sail for the Channel, and then Fouché would put his Emperor into London.
All that remained was to draw off enough of the Royal Navy to guarantee that Villeneuve and the invasion transports were unhindered. At the same time, Fouché would preside over the final destruction of the Comptrollerate-General for Scrutiny and Survey, and the last taste of betrayal would be washed away forever.
It was time. A message to Gabin, already near the coast, and then he would set off himself. He must be close to the Emperor, and close to the action. A signal was coming out of England, and that was all he was waiting for now.
Darkness had swallowed the summer evening before the Jane glided closer to the coast of France. Only the necessary crewmen were on deck, and the Captain himself was at the wheel. De Boeldieu was directing one of the crewmen as he prepared a lantern, and Roscarrock was watching the Frenchman and trying to calm the storm of his thoughts. Around them, the sea glistened in the night, a vast pit of black snakes seething over each other.
‘Roscarrock: take her a moment, would you?’ Roscarrock nodded and stepped to the wheel, and Froy moved to the side of the ship. He scanned the gloom, peering for the shore and the currents. ‘A point to port,’ he called softly over his shoulder. Roscarrock smiled, and turned the wheel as instructed.
Froy continued to watch the darkness for some moments, and then returned. ‘Book learning?’
‘Book learning.’
Froy replaced him at the wheel. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Roscarrock. We’re all liars of one kind or another.’
Roscarrock chuckled low into the darkness. It had pleased him to confirm the Captain’s suspicions, and he judged it would go no further.
The Jane dropped anchor. At eleven o’clock, De Boeldieu stood the lantern on the ship’s rail and uncovered it for five seconds; then he covered it for another five, and uncovered it again; a third time, and then without hesitation or discussion he extinguished the lantern and returned below deck.
The performance was repeated at half past the hour, and again at midnight. Going below for the third time, De Boeldieu murmured, ‘Can we afford to spend another twenty-four hours here?’
‘I doubt it.’
The Frenchman shrugged grimly and ducked down into the relative warmth.
But in the first glow of the dawn a fishing boat came out of the Somme estuary, and made for the Jane. Signals were exchanged, the fishing boat came closer, an
d De Boeldieu just nodded at Roscarrock. Five minutes later, after a final glance into the hold and a brief exchange with Froy – the restrained murmurs of men speaking their own private language – he was stepping down into the fishing boat after the Frenchman.
The Jane pulled up her anchor and drew away from the coast, to wait. The fishing boat, with two new men among her crew, began the routines of the morning. Thus, heaving splashing, ungainly lobster pots out of the water on slippery ropes and trying to get a grip on the barked Picardy slang, Tom Roscarrock came out of the sea mist to France.
Sometime during the night, he had answered the biggest question of all, the question he had been asking for weeks, and the implications of the answer were still eating at him.
8th August 1805
ROSCARROCK, Tom, identified Taunton 15th July 1805 (Vivary Arms), Bristol 17th July 1805, Wootton 18th July 1805 (Five Bells), Newbury 19th July 1805 (Rachel Stafford).
[SS X/41/12 AND VARIOUS]
A helpful wind pushed the fishing boat up the Somme estuary, between the sprawling banks of brown and swampy sand, and in the late afternoon Tom Roscarrock stepped onto French soil. The single step from the boat to the dark stone of the quay represented a new level of alienation and danger, and he was glad to focus on the chores of tying and tidying the boat and bringing the lobster pots on shore. He watched De Boeldieu making the same step, saw the little ritualistic kick that the Frenchman gave his native ground, and wondered again at his life of exile and deception.
The boat kept them busy for an hour, helping at the age-old chores with the fisherman and his crew, two slow and hefty sons and pair of sharp and equally bulky cousins. Then they disappeared with them into the little fishing village. St Valery-sur-Somme looks out over the first bend in the river, a dark and ancient warren of close-packed flint houses, and it swallowed them easily.
De Boeldieu did the little talking that was needed, and he kept it to a minimum. Roscarrock guessed that his companion’s educated accent would stick out as much as his own voice. Most of the movements and transactions were silent, and he had the impression of a practised routine. On both sides of the Channel there were men prepared to blur the boundaries between the nations, and not ask questions.
There was a murmur between De Boeldieu and the old man, and suddenly the fishermen had disappeared down an alley, and the two interlopers were alone. Roscarrock was instantly more watchful, but had to trust the Frenchman. Fifty dank and shadowed yards further on there were two horses, and a minute later they were trotting south out of the village. Roscarrock had followed every movement in silence. It made sense that they weren’t staying in the village after all; he knew the raw communal life of an isolated fishing village, where everyone knew everyone else’s business, and it was no place for two spies.
The packet handed to a French military policeman of the Imperial Gendarmerie in Étaples, south of Boulogne, was a single sheet of paper folded and sealed. The few words on the outside gave no indication of the contents, but they included one phrase that moved the packet speedily to regional headquarters and a second phrase, familiar only to senior officers of the Gendarmerie, that moved the packet on again very speedily indeed.
When, on the evening of the 8th, Minister Fouché stepped with sour, sagging eyes from his coach after a twenty-four-hour journey from Paris, this single piece of paper was in his hand before his second boot had touched the ground.
He had been expecting it. The outside phrases were irrelevant to him; at last the seal was broken, with a single impatient finger, and he looked inside. A thin smile grew on the pale and weary face, and Fouché snapped out, ‘Messenger!’
The inside was blank, but for a neatly written name: St Valery-sur-Somme.
In the middle of the evening, a single figure walked with the last of the sun towards the crumbling farmhouse where Roscarrock and De Boeldieu were sheltering. Roscarrock saw the approach, and De Boeldieu was quickly beside him at the window. At the gate that enclosed the dusty yard the man stopped, and seemed to scrape at the ground with his heel; then he withdrew forty or fifty yards to a tree.
‘Keep looking out all round,’ De Boeldieu said, and then walked out into the yard. He reached the gate, glanced at the ground where the man had scraped at it, then did the same himself before walking back to the house. The other man advanced to the gate again, checked the ground, and looked up and nodded. De Boeldieu came forwards again, the man entered through the gate, and they embraced, quickly but sincerely.
They walked five circuits of the increasingly gloomy yard, talking quietly, De Boeldieu’s arm around the man’s shoulders for some of the time. The other man handed over a folded paper. A final embrace, and he passed back through the gate and disappeared into the night.
De Boeldieu reappeared. ‘A friend.’
‘I hoped so.’
‘Some information on the dispositions of the army up at Boulogne, which we can pass back. A little local gossip. We are safe enough here for a few days. The people in the farms around here do not trust authority of any kind; it threatens their world, their little rural habits. Any strangers and my friends will hear of them.’
‘Safe enough to light a fire, then?’
De Boeldieu thought, and nodded. ‘I have sent some messages – arranged some meetings.’
‘The General – Metz?’
‘I have started the process, as you asked.’ Roscarrock nodded, and started to pile kindling in the ancient stones of the hearth. ‘It will not be easy, my friend. The Old Bull – you do not simply knock on his door.’
‘I understand. I gave up on easy a long time ago.’
De Boeldieu smiled, and nodded, and found two decaying chairs. ‘And I have told our local network of friends to keep watch for this Dutch acquaintance of yours, Mrs Sophie Van Vliet.’ He kicked a log towards Roscarrock. ‘I may assume that I would know her as Lady Virginia Strong?’
Roscarrock gave it only a second’s thought. ‘You may assume that.’
‘Very good at what she does, my friend. But she stands out, I fear.’
Roscarrock sat. ‘Is that regret I hear?’
‘Oh no, no, not in the least.’ De Boeldieu shook a fierce negative finger. ‘She is not my type, that one.’
‘You can obviously afford to be a damn sight choosier than the rest of us, then.’
A little shrug. ‘My tastes are elsewhere. Besides, when I go to bed, I like to think there is a good chance I will get up again.’
Later, the glare of the fire playing with the rough lines of his face, Roscarrock said, ‘Philippe, tell me about your family. What happened to them?’
The Frenchman turned and examined him for several moments, then looked back into the fire. ‘My father was a wonderful – what is this excellent phrase you have in English? – “old fool”?’
Roscarrock smiled. ‘Old fool.’
De Boeldieu nodded. ‘Actually, it’s quite significant – that phrase, that type of phrase.’ He continued to nod as he looked at Roscarrock, and waved an instructive finger. ‘Seriously. This ability you have, both in manners and language, to laugh fondly at authority, this may yet save you a great deal of bloodshed. But my father – my father was indeed an old fool. An old-fashioned, absolutist, monarchist, reactionary aristocrat – utterly devoted to his servants, every dozen of them, completely loyal, would have died to protect them, never missed the birthday of the most insignificant of them, insisted on their comfort and health as badge of our own family pride – but thought it inexplicable and insane that they should have any opinion in the matter. He made no attempt at all to escape or compromise with the Revolution. He stood erect before their citizens’ tribunal, used language I had never heard from him to describe every one of them and their ancestry back for untold generations; and from nowhere he produced arguments, of a sophistication and a clarity and a – a poetry – that I had never dreamt he possessed, to dismantle and condemn their bastard ideals. He all but asked outright for an invitation to the guillotin
e, and when it came, he took it with a grace and a style that I shall always aspire to.’ Philippe took an enormous breath, eyes staring away into the flames.
‘Did you ever have the chance to tell him any of that?’
A shake of the head. ‘It was not necessary, nor would he have cared. He wasn’t trying to impress me. No, I didn’t change my previous opinions of him, if that’s what you mean, but I found something to love him for. At the end, the very end, I understood what history and family meant to him – and what they must mean to me.’ Roscarrock went to speak, but De Boeldieu would not be swerved. ‘My mother was beautiful, graceful, really rather stupid – or at least completely unthinking – and loyal. I can remember not one single word of significance ever uttered by her, from my earliest memory to when she walked to her death, slapping off the hands of the functionaries who assumed she would have to be dragged, praying to the God in whom she never doubted, silently and proudly following the husband about whom she felt approximately the same.’
Roscarrock kept his eyes on the fire. Then, softly: ‘And Lady… Sybille? Your sister?’
Philippe de Boeldieu shrugged at the night, shook his head, sucked at the air for words. ‘She was all that I was not. She was the son that my parents deserved. Intelligent, active, committed and strong. I should have hated her, but there was nothing in her that was not to love. She was better read in philosophy than most of the revolutionary leaders, she understood the attractions and strengths of reform better than most of the reformers, and its seductions and dangers better than most of the monarchists. When the crisis came, my father made sure that she was away at one of our distant estates. He probably couldn’t be sure whether she’d fall to the Revolution or join it. But it found her in any case. Any of our servants, whatever their views, would have died to defend her. Seven of them did so.’ His hands were clenched on his knees. ‘She killed herself rather than be taken. Only Joseph survived to tell. He and I have been trying to be worthy of her ever since.’
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