10th August 1805
A REGISTER OF WORLD-PROOF HEARTS: OUR GREAT FAMILES OF THE CATHOLIC FAITH BY HENRY CRABBE, PUBLISHED PARIS, 1754 (EXTRACT)
ROSCARROCK (ROSCAROKE, ROSCARRICK) John Roscarrock dwelt in Cornwall in the Sixteenth Century of our Lord, and was known for a man of a good and faithful disposition. He is buried in the Chapel that bears his name in the Church of St Endelion in north Cornwall. His son Nicholas Roscarrock (d. 1634) achieved distinction for his composition ‘Saint Endelienta’, and owns undying merit for his account of the Lives of the Saints, altho’ perchance his greater service was as the sworn friend and associate of the Blessed Cuthbert Mayne (mart. Launceston 1577) when in the University of Oxford in that Holy Circle which included Gregory Martin, Edmund Campion and Humphrey Ely. For his Faith Nicholas Roscarrock suffered confinement and tortures in the Tower of London, among the echoes of the hymns of so many faithful men, but endured to continue his service. This family of Roscarrock have been known for true believers through times of plenty and times of hardship and held fast to their Cornish rock as they held to the One Religion.
[SS M/1309/2/10]
The following morning De Boeldieu and Roscarrock rode through the first glow of the mist towards a farm five miles off. Word had come from the beggar. Kinnaird’s network and the web of protection around General Metz had found each other, as London had hoped.
Roscarrock had told his companion about the disappearance of Captain Miles Froy, and sat patiently through the reaction. ‘Allow me to be clear, my friend; the fine professional crew of our ship of escape – our one link with safety, the ship on which all our hopes depend – have just murdered their Captain? Truly your organization overwhelms me.’ Roscarrock was starting to find reassurance in the exile’s dark bravado. ‘I think, Roscarrock, that as a good Frenchman I shall renew my loyalty to the regime in which I now look likely to spend the rest of my life. Tell me, what will you do?’
Behind them, in the dark, huddled quiet of the fishing village of St Valery-sur-Somme, they left one hundred thousand pounds in gold bobbing gently against one of the jetties.
The farm of Lamarque sprawled over a shallow bowl in the Picardy landscape. The fields of grain glowed gold in the morning; they’d be harvesting any day now. But today the labourers they saw were picking at little chores – sharpening tools, repairing a cart. Three times they were stopped as they rode in, De Boeldieu murmuring select phrases to the man who had gripped his bridle while Roscarrock watched the hefty peasant invariably in attendance.
They were met at the farm door by a man in his thirties, tanned and good-looking. ‘I am Lamarque,’ he said curtly. ‘You are welcome to my house. Have you had any breakfast?’ De Boeldieu’s face lit up.
Lamarque’s wife, prettiness hardened by years of farm work and child-rearing, brought bread and cheese and wine, and left them alone in a whitewashed parlour.
Stiff in his wooden chair, Lamarque continued to speak with quiet efficiency. ‘Firstly, please, you will tell me who you are. I have of course little way to know if you are telling the truth, but honesty will help us.’
De Boeldieu glanced at Roscarrock, and received a tiny nod. ‘I am Philippe De Boeldieu, of the Boeldieus of Yvetot and Argentan, hereditary Counts of Charente, the Cotentin and of the Vacetian Islands.’
‘Not I think in current possession of those lands, Monsieur.’
‘I am temporarily in exile.’
‘And working for the Government of Britain.’
‘And working for the restoration of a legitimate government in France. This cheese is excellent, by the way.’
The door opened with a crash and an old man stumbled into the room. He was tall and thin, his bald head gnarled and browned by two generations outdoors. He slouched towards the fireplace, one foot dragging behind him. The two visitors watched him for a second, then looked back at Lamarque.
‘My poor old uncle. He hears little, understands less, and will betray nothing. You may speak freely.’
Roscarrock was watching the old man as he settled in the chair by the unlit fire and began to doze. He wasn’t as old as he seemed: fifty at the most, and sinewy rather than frail. Perhaps the trouble was mental rather than physical. Every peasant family had its simpletons, and a decade of horror had left internal as well as external scars. He looked back at his host. ‘I’m Tom Roscarrock. I work for the Comptrollerate-General of Scrutiny and Survey, of the British Admiralty.’
‘The name of that organization is almost a myth to men like us, Monsieur; it is rare indeed to hear it spoken.’
‘Monsieur Lamarque, you could get me hanged just for my nationality; there’s no point being coy about my address.’
A respectful nod from the farmer. ‘And you have approached my friends and I, because…?’
Roscarrock spoke in slow and careful French. ‘We believe that the peace of Europe depends on the restoration of stable government in France. For now, that means that Napoleon Bonaparte cannot be allowed to defeat Britain. Everything possible must be done to distract and weaken him.’ He paused. There was no response from Lamarque. ‘We believe that you share this attitude. We believe that the one man who can inspire such resistance is General Metz. We believe that you can help us contact General Metz.’
There was silence in the room. Lamarque tapped his lip reflectively. Then he said, ‘General Metz is a ghost now. He is a dream.’
‘Perhaps only a dream can save France now.’ De Boeldieu was more earnest than usual.
Roscarrock: ‘We believe that the General can be real again, and that he must be real again. If he does not inspire a reaction against Napoleon now, the opportunity will not come again. This is the last chance for Britain as well as for France. Britain will give every possible support to the General.’
‘In what form would that support be?’
‘In the form of gold coin. Guineas. Lots of them.’
A nod. ‘We are not mercenaries, Mr Roscarrock.’
‘But idealism can be expensive, can’t it? Besides, you need to know we’re serious.’ Roscarrock’s head came forwards. ‘Britain is on the brink, Monsieur. If Napoleon is not slowed or distracted now, he will conquer us easily. If he conquers Britain, it is the end of resistance in Europe. Napoleon will rule France and the Continent untouchable, and his descendants will follow him.’
Then De Boeldieu was speaking, a sudden torrent of emotional French that Roscarrock had no hope of following. The old man stirred for the first time, gave a loud sniff from the depths of his trance, and resided. Lamarque listened impassively to the speech, and when it finished gave only another thoughtful nod.
‘And if the General decides that he wishes to discuss this with you?’
Roscarrock was still watching the uncle. ‘I had hoped,’ he said carefully, ‘that we could have reached that point already.’ He turned to Lamarque. ‘We can arrange a place that we both consider safe.’
‘And if the General wishes to see the… resources?’
‘They can be brought to this district in the same period.’
The farmer paused to consider. Then he stood. Roscarrock and De Boeldieu did the same, uncertain. ‘I guarantee that the General will consider your offer, nothing more. If he is interested, we will contact you. If not, you will hear nothing. Do not come to this farm again.’
There was another loud sniff from the old man. Two very blue eyes opened in the brown face, and stared out into the room.
‘You are the young De Boeldieu?’ The voice was as sharp and strong as the gaze.
‘Sir, I am the only De Boeldieu.’
The walnut of a face wrinkled and peered. ‘You were a fop: a dilettante, a waster.’
De Boeldieu scowled in irritation, and then pulled himself straight. ‘With God’s will, those good days will return.’
The old man pressed on. ‘But now you live as a hunted man, sneaking between hovels of the countryside.’
De Boeldieu’s grace was fading. ‘There’s been a Revolu
tion, Grand-père, or didn’t the news reach here?’
The crystal eyes regarded De Boeldieu sternly. ‘The Count, your father, would be very surprised at you, young man. And very proud I think.’
De Boeldieu turned and left. Roscarrock gave polite thanks from them both, shook hands with Lamarque, and then stopped in front of the old man’s chair. ‘I look forward to seeing you again, Monsieur le… Oncle.’ He nodded respectfully, and a minute later they were passing back through the lane of swaying grain.
‘The old man?’
‘I think so too,’ De Boeldieu said.
‘But will he act?’
News of the mortal scuffle by the new canal in Burnley did not reach Sir Keith Kinnaird for several days, and then only in the form of a report on the report, scanned quickly in a room looking down onto the mail-coach stand at York as the gasping horses were led away. But the details were clearer to him than to anyone.
M rpt from B-y (Ln) tells of canalside scuffle involving one + suspected industrial spy/wrecker, and subsequent d., presumed related, of man provisionally id as GARROD, previously believed d. flood Oakworth.
[SS K/17/98]
The second of his dead men was dead to him as well as to the world.
Garrod, the Engineer, had been testing the Comptrollerate-General’s activities in the area of industry and manufacture. He had got too close to a French secret agent of destruction. It had been an unnecessary distraction, and now angry, earnest, wounded Garrod was dead.
That left Christiansen and Roscarrock; the Schoolmaster and the Sailor. Two dead men against the Comptrollerate-General.
And now Roscarrock had gone into France. His single-mindedness, his courage, and his storm-forged sailor’s wits had carried him further than anyone could have imagined possible, right to the heart of the Comptrollerate-General.
And now, because of him, the Comptrollerate-General was more vulnerable than at any time in its history, and with it the stability of the Empire.
By lunchtime they were in Abbeville, upriver from St Valery and the first crossing point on the Somme. De Boeldieu’s contacts had found them good horses, but they rode them loose and slow so as not to draw attention to themselves. The Frenchman did all the talking whenever there was anyone else around, and amused himself with high-handed attitudes to his servant Roscarrock. On the outskirts of the town they found the Auberge de la Tour, and within it a bland, soulless room that De Boeldieu had picked deliberately, and settled in one corner.
After half an hour another man came in, bought a drink, and sat at a table near them. Fifteen minutes more, and polite phrases were exchanged. De Boeldieu offered the man a drink, and he joined them.
Paul Desmoulins was a navy Quartermaster based in Boulogne but working all over the region to manage supply for the vast machine of consumption that was Napoleon’s Army of the Ocean Coasts, and the fleet of transports and escorts that would convoy it. The circumstances allowed no more than polite formalities and a gentle murmur of chat, but Roscarrock could see the warmth with which the trim officer gazed at De Boeldieu when he first sat down. The loneliness of the men they met in these days manifested itself differently in each case, but it burnt strong.
Desmoulins was pedantic and a little pompous, but Roscarrock could see De Boeldieu staring hard as he tried to store the quiet stream of facts coming out of the official’s mouth. He described the disposition of the army, much of which they’d already heard, but which could have changed and might offer clues to the plan of invasion itself. He described the location and condition of ships, the movements and the embarkation rehearsals. He described the massive effort to amass food and military supplies for the invasion fleet, and what this meant for the durability of the force. He described what he knew and what he’d heard of the French navy in its various ports and at sea. He said nothing about the Emperor’s Sharks.
Roscarrock began to murmur questions in a slow, stiff French that had De Boeldieu checking the room in concern. What had Desmoulins heard of a private fleet of the Emperor? A special fleet? A special mission? How could such a fleet be sustained if not through his organization? Was there someone like him elsewhere, an equivalent, who would know of supply and disposition?
Desmoulins knew nothing of this. He made suggestions about how the fleet might be manned, and sustained, and where it might be based, and what it might be doing. But he was more pomposity than pedantry now. Roscarrock felt his own frustration, the sour flush of disappointment that this daring and dangerous foray away from the coast was proving irrelevant. He could see disappointment in De Boeldieu’s eyes too: this was the key naval source in Kinnaird’s French network, but Kinnaird’s French network was not delivering on the single question that most mattered to the British Empire.
De Boeldieu thanked his old comrade. ‘You look a little tired, Paul,’ he said softly, and his hand rose as if wanting to touch the other’s arm. ‘You should get a little rest.’
The navy Quartermaster frowned. He licked his lips, and glanced at Roscarrock. Then he gave a formulaic dismissal of the suggestion, thanked them for his drink, and left.
De Boeldieu wandered to the counter and knocked on it, trying to rouse the landlord to offer food. Roscarrock watched him go, and he was still watching him as he sat again.
‘Whatever it is, we were better to have brought some of that damn soup.’
Roscarrock ignored the comment. ‘You’re closing the network, aren’t you?’ he said quietly. De Boeldieu watched him carefully over the table. ‘Closing – perhaps just suspending. But that’s what you’re doing – this phrase you use. Yesterday morning you told your official friend, Monsieur Jean, that he looked tired and should get some rest, and today exactly the same phrase again. I couldn’t think what it meant. Monsieur Desmoulins is going to turn deserter, isn’t he, and make for the hills? Same with Monsieur Jean.’ He leant forwards, and hissed: ‘Why, Philippe? What are you up to?’
Philippe De Boeldieu folded his arms, and said softly, ‘Because I do not know what is happening, in England or in France, and I will not risk this network while I wait to find out.’ His head tilted as if seeking an alternative view. ‘And yes, Mr Roscarrock, I include you in my doubts most certainly.’
‘Kinnaird’s network – your network – these men may be all we have left.’
‘These men cannot save us, Roscarrock. They do not have the answers you need – the story… the story is beyond them somehow. There is nothing they can do to stop this fleet, and I do not see they should risk their lives while we wait for it to come.’
Roscarrock sat back, and pawed at one side of his face with a slow hand. ‘Did Kinnaird tell you to do this? To cut us off?’
‘It’s simple,’ De Boeldieu unfolded his arms and clasped his hands neatly. ‘If Kinnaird was somehow still good, he would want me to do this; if he is bad, I do not care what he thinks. Either way, I must take responsibility for the network myself.’
Roscarrock chewed on this. Eventually, still watching the Frenchman, he took one deep breath and said, ‘All right, Philippe. The next meeting? Here, or do we move again?’
‘Here. I would not dream of missing whatever poor rodent the landlord is currently scraping up from his yard for our lunch.’ He shifted in the chair, and resettled himself. ‘Maybe this time we find some more about your fleet, yes? This should be your agent who reported the Sharks most recently, I think.’
‘You’ve met him?’
A shake of the head. Roscarrock held up a finger as the landlord approached with two bowls, dropped them onto the table, and left. ‘No. I am not the only man – or woman – who meets these people.’ De Boeldieu looked down into the grey broth, and shivered. ‘I just have the highest standards.’
Source ‘Malmsey’ was a man in his thirties, nervy, arrogant and well-dressed – under a coat that was dirty and too large for him. He insisted on speaking English. He introduced himself as a close acquaintance of Marshal Soult and navy Minister Decrès, amongst others, then launch
ed into a description of a supper he’d attended in Paris three evenings previously. He offered colourful character sketches of his notable companions, and a beautifully balanced generalization on the mentality of the conversation.
De Boeldieu interrupted him: where was Minister Decrès now?
Malmsey didn’t know: Decrès, like so many of the Emperor’s Ministers, was an ornament and not an organ of his Ministry.
De Boeldieu asked about the disposition of the French fleets. Malmsey didn’t know, brushed away the question. Roscarrock wondered if De Boeldieu’s antipathy was pique at having to deal with an agent who wasn’t part of his own network.
The stilted conversation continued, De Boeldieu’s blunt questions disrupting the flow of the spy’s fragile wit.
Roscarrock realized that the dirty coat was Malmsey’s attempt at disguise. He started with questions of his own, speaking in French to try to encourage the man to greater discretion. In the most recent report from Malmsey – Malmsey perked up – there was talk of the Emperor’s Sharks. What more could he say about the fleet?
The spy smiled at his French, and continued in English: he did not know, of course, about these details of fleets; his reports covered strategy.
‘But in the report you said the Emperor was pleased, and confident, about the fleet; you described how it had taken resources from elsewhere in the navy.’
‘But this fleet, it is secret! Who can know such details? I have heard only a very few references – a word here from an admiral, a word there from a secretary of Decrès – they do not know much themselves, of course, but they confide in me.’
‘Monsieur, your report was very specific.’
‘Oh, the technical details were from her, your very lovely colleague with whom I spoke. She was seeking my judgements, as one familiar with the politics and the strategy.’
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