‘Of course.’ He smiled at her, and carefully raised the window. ‘There’s a danger, of course,’ he said, ‘that when the navy move to intercept the Sharks, they’ll leave the way clear for Napoleon to invade anyway.’
She peered hard at him then, then nodded and smiled slowly. ‘In the end, Tom, we must let the Empires fight it out. We have lives of our own.’
12th August 1805
Marceau’s had none of the attributes of a tolerable hostelry. It was, in truth, nothing more than a single room in Marceau’s crumbling house. It was cramped, dingy, stinking and inconveniently placed for all but the few who travelled out of St Valery on the road to the under-populated district that included the farmhouse where Roscarrock and De Boeldieu were based. It had no counter and no tables, very rarely offered food, and for drink nothing but rough local wine and some firewater brewed up by Marceau’s brother in the shed.
But De Boeldieu trusted Marceau to a point, and this faith was reciprocated. De Boeldieu was vouched for, silently and irrevocably, by the confidence of other men whom Marceau respected. A stranger, however powerful or rich or friendly, would never be welcome at Marceau’s; but a man who was accepted would be protected. Roscarrock knew the place from a dozen villages of the far south-west of England. He himself was accepted by extension, a silent man who looked fit enough not to be trifled with.
It was never lively, and at seven in the morning Roscarrock had the place to himself. He chewed slowly on a lump of rough bread that Marceau thought might take the edge off the rough wine, and waited for De Boeldieu. The Frenchman had said he was going to be busy during the night, and they travelled to and from the farm together whenever possible; it minimized the number of movements around the place, and gave a chance of protection.
De Boeldieu walked in half an hour later, by which time there was only one other drinker. Roscarrock looked up, but his colleague ignored him and walked straight to the counter and the lump of a man behind it. With movements that could not be seen behind him, he placed a coin on the counter and a finger on his lips. Marceau gaped stupidly, and Roscarrock watched as discreetly as he could.
Then De Boeldieu spoke, in strangely slow and deliberate French. ‘Marceau, I am going to the farm. If anyone is coming after me, he will know what to do.’ Marceau’s eyes flicked in bewilderment towards Roscarrock, but Roscarrock’s gaze had dropped and he was now entirely absorbed in a mouthful of bread. De Boeldieu turned and walked straight out again.
If anyone is coming after me? Roscarrock took a slow mouthful of wine. There was someone after him; it was the only explanation for the bizarre performance and odd words. Roscarrock took another mouthful, and sauntered to the window. Sure enough, just after De Boeldieu had disappeared with unnecessary haste around the first bend in the road that led towards their farm, a man on horseback emerged from an alley on the edge of the village and trotted after him. A young man; rough clothes but a good horse, and concern on his face as he focused on the corner where De Boeldieu had been.
Roscarrock returned to his chair, and bolted his bread and wine. The other customer had paid no attention to any of it.
A minute’s canter and Roscarrock caught up. De Boeldieu’s pursuer was keeping one bend between them, and Roscarrock did the same. That probably meant that the man knew where De Boeldieu was headed, so wasn’t worried about sudden detours.
But the man didn’t know the road well enough. As Roscarrock eased slowly around a bend, he saw a long straight stretch in front of him. Ahead, De Boeldieu had stopped, and was looking in his pockets for something. The pursuer had found himself exposed on the road and had stopped too, wondering whether to ride past or retreat. When he looked back for the possibility of concealment, he saw Roscarrock trotting towards him.
Roscarrock slowed as he passed. ‘Bonjour,’ he said amiably, and then swept his fist up and around under the man’s chin. It was a clumsy strike, but enough to tip the man off balance and topple him into the roadway. Roscarrock was on him a second later, reaching for the knife to hold at his throat, but the man kicked his legs away and they were both scrabbling at each other in the dust. Head struggling dangerously close to a set of heavy horse feet and a pair of hands clawing for his throat, Roscarrock managed one good punch to the side of the man’s head and they rolled apart. They stood up together, swaying, hooves thundering behind them as De Boeldieu raced back to close his trap. The man hesitated between fighting and running and Roscarrock hit him twice, feet dancing over the ground as the other staggered back. The man managed one instinctive strike in return, and Roscarrock lost balance for a second, but as his opponent turned to escape, he was on him again. He grabbed him from behind in a bear’s hug, and they grappled clumsily for a moment, feet scuffling in the dust as they spun, and then there was a word of protest and a long choke of pain as De Boeldieu drove his sword into the man’s chest.
Roscarrock let go his grip, breathing heavily, and the body dropped loose to the ground. ‘We’re not interrogating him, then?’ he gasped out. ‘You could have finished me with that thing too.’
De Boeldieu’s face was grim. ‘Perhaps I should! They’re all over us, Roscarrock!’ It was a new De Boeldieu, angry and brutal. ‘That man can’t tell me anything I don’t already know.’ He held his sword high and level, the blade at Roscarrock’s throat. ‘What in hell are you doing, Englishman? What dirty game are you playing?’
Roscarrock knocked the sword away. ‘What do you mean, “all over us”?’ He’d caught his breath, and his brain was starting to race.
‘The countryside is alive with informers and policemen! Everywhere we go we are watched. And so we are contaminating the whole damn network!’ The words came in a torrent, clumsy and tumbling in De Boeldieu’s haste. ‘They are rolling us up, Roscarrock! Jean, the Mayor’s clerk, was arrested. Ducroix, from the first evening, has disappeared. There are two other men we can’t find out about. God knows what has happened in Abbeville and Amiens. I can only pray that by warning them to disappear I have saved enough.’ He grappled for the words, and then in an incoherent instant of frustration he punched Roscarrock in the face. ‘This network took a generation to create. You are destroying it in a day!’
Roscarrock stood fully upright again and rubbed at his battered cheek. His eyes were lost in the distance of the landscape. De Boeldieu started to speak again, and he raised a hand to silence him.
‘They’re rolling—’
‘Philippe!’
De Boeldieu stood and seethed.
At last Roscarrock looked square at him, and there was new gravity in his voice. ‘I understand it now. God, I understand it all now.’
‘What does that mean?’
Roscarrock was still thinking hard. ‘It means I understand what I was doing in England. It means I understand why I was sent into France.’ He actually smiled. ‘It means we are all puppets, my friend, of the cleverest man in Europe.’
‘Fouché, you mean?’
‘No. No, Sir Keith bloody Kinnaird.’ He looked sadly at De Boeldieu. ‘You told them to shut up shop, to get away. Maybe they changed routine – panicked – and are getting picked up because of it.’
De Boeldieu glared at him. ‘Yes, Roscarrock, that thought had occurred to me, thank you so much.’
‘Can we get word to the General not to come?’
‘I do not dare communicate with his people outside the normal channel. He comes tonight. Besides, can your precious British Empire afford for him not to come?’
Roscarrock nodded. ‘Very well. Three things, Philippe.’ De Boeldieu looked at him warily. ‘Philippe, I can’t ask you to trust me, but – you can ignore me if any of these things harms your network. First, I need to talk to old Boule, the fisherman, now. I’ll meet him in any place you choose, any rules. Second, Fouché’s people must have a base near here. Find it.’
‘Just like that?’
‘There’ll be new people around; unusual movement. Your network must be able to locate it.’
D
e Boeldieu nodded modestly. ‘Very possibly, if they don’t cut my throat first. And third?’
She’d been reluctant to leave France until she heard that the gold was ashore and the General coming to get it, and then she couldn’t wait to move.
‘Lady Virginia. She’s in Rue, at the Lion d’Or. Get one of your people to her now. Get her to the river, and get her on a boat out of France.’
‘Very well,’ De Boeldieu said slowly. He found a spark of himself. ‘In the name of a chivalry that I hope France will someday recapture, we will get her out.’
‘In the name of nothing. Like you said, she’s trouble. She’s a complication. And tell your man that once he has got her to a boat, he is to get clear; get well away. The same with the crew who get her out to sea: once she’s delivered to the Jane, they must disappear.’
‘You really trust my people so little?’
‘I don’t trust anyone anymore.’
On Monday the 12th of August, the Admiralty Board met in emergency session again in London. No Secretaries were present. ‘Preliminary details on the Emperor’s special fleet at last, My Lord.’
‘Not before time, Bellamy. Well?’
‘The fleet is thought to number some twenty ships of the line, with support.’
‘Twenty!’
‘They have been dispersed, which is why we have not accounted for them. When gathered, they will make for Brest, where they will drive off or destroy our blockading squadron, releasing Admiral Ganteaume’s ships. Admiral Villeneuve, coming up from Spain, and Admiral Allemand, who is already on the high seas, will likely rendezvous there as well, making—’
‘Making a fleet three times larger than we’ve ever faced. Great Gods, it would be unstoppable.’
‘Yes, My Lord. Even if one of those combinations is unsuccessful, the French will have enough of a force to enter the Channel and protect the invasion.’
‘Then we come down to it, gentlemen. We must defeat the French piecemeal, before they combine. Bellamy, what time do we have?’
‘A very few days, I fear, My Lord.’
‘Nelson’s ashore now, isn’t he? Gambier, can he get to sea in time to stop this?’
‘If we are talking of only a few days, My Lord, then he certainly cannot.’
‘Then you must tell Cornwallis and Keith to have the bulk of their ships ready to move out of the Channel immediately we know the gathering point for the Emperor’s Sharks. We must get to them before they can combine.’
‘That means drastically weakening the blockade on the invasion ports, My Lord.’
‘We have no choice. Your analysis, Bellamy?’
‘My Lord, the other French fleets are blocked; Villeneuve cannot be found, and hopefully is still nearer Spain than England. If we can locate the new fleet, we should strike it at once.’
‘Bonaparte is presumably waiting on the success of his manoeuvre before launching the invasion, so we have to trust that we have time if we act immediately. The last throw, gentlemen!’
It was late in the afternoon when Inspector Gabin got back to his temporary headquarters at the mill. There had been no developments or surprises in the nearby villages. But his people were in place; the net was ready. Within twenty-four hours his success would be complete – perhaps within twelve. The sore rump and the empty belly came with the salary.
One of his policemen met him as he dismounted. There was a visitor for the Inspector – waiting in the storeroom. Gabin passed the reins to the policeman and climbed the stairs, intrigued. As he entered the large first-floor room, the mill labourer was leaving it; terrified into cooperation and silence, the man had continued to receive and process St Valery’s grain under the indifferent scrutiny of the policemen. Seeing the Inspector, he hurried away down the hollow steps.
There was a policeman just inside the door, who nodded to the end of the room where a man had made himself comfortable among the bulging grain sacks.
Gabin was expecting no visitor; his informants did not call like this. The man in the gloom wore no uniform, and did not look like an official. Gabin muttered, ‘Has he a weapon?’ The soldier had checked thoroughly. The man had no weapon. ‘Very well. Leave us.’
He walked towards the man. Hard-wearing, anonymous clothes. Nothing fancy; working clothes. But somehow unfamiliar to the Inspector – foreign. A good face; a strong face, with dark eyes that watched him calmly. Gabin continued to scrutinize. A fit man; tall and in good health.
Gabin pulled out the chair from his makeshift desk, and sat down near the stranger, close enough for conversation, far enough to avoid a threat. Very slowly, he smiled. ‘Monsieur… Roscarrock, I imagine.’ A nod from the stranger. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you. What is it I am required to say? “The storm blows strongest from the west.” That is the phrase, is it not?’
The man said nothing; then, slowly, he too smiled. ‘And you will be Inspector Gabin, perhaps.’
‘You have heard the name?’
‘The spy Joseph Dax reached London.’ The policeman’s face soured momentarily. ‘He told us of the man who had hunted him. You have heard of me, too?’
‘Oh, little Dax is not the only spy in London, Monsieur Roscarrock. Now, what accounts for the pleasant surprise of your visit?’
‘I heard you were looking for me.’
A friendly smile. ‘Oh, Monsieur Roscarrock, I was not looking for you. I was watching you.’
‘Of course. It’s General Metz you’re really after, isn’t it?’
Gabin watched the man opposite him carefully. A very able man indeed, clearly. ‘Yes. Now we know his identity, we have him.’
‘He’s so important to you?’
Gabin considered the answer carefully. ‘You are not French, Monsieur Roscarrock: you cannot know his spell. He is worth one of your fleets. He is an invasion in himself. While he is free, he is a memory of an old France, and a dangerous hope of a return to it. His capture will send the contrary message – that there is no chance of going back. It will end all thought of domestic resistance. You understand that we were looking forward to meeting you all tonight.’
‘At the farm, presumably.’ Gabin nodded. ‘Which you still propose to do.’ A slight shrug. ‘You’re taking a risk of course – all that clear ground – the chance of an open fight. But perhaps there’s no alternative.’ Gabin waited silently, appraising. ‘You’re surprised that I’m so co-operative? Why? Everything you’ve heard from England has told you that my loyalties are… ambivalent. If you had that code phrase for me, you must have known it.’
‘So ambivalent that you wish to help the arrest of yourself?’
‘Inspector, I have only one concern tonight: I wish to live until morning.’ He rolled his shoulders. ‘I have no interest in the domestic politics of France, and not that much in those of England.’
‘You? An agent of the legendary Comptrollerate-General?’
‘These are difficult times, Mr Gabin. The wise man recognizes what is inevitable, and works out how to survive with it. Any man who has stayed alive through the last fifteen years in France knows that.’
Gabin smiled, nodded in acknowledgement of the point. ‘We’ve an old saying where I grew up, Monsieur Roscarrock’ – he produced a mouthful of weird syllables – ‘it means, approximately that it is not—’
‘It is not necessary to enjoy it, but it is necessary to survive it.’
Now the policeman was surprised. ‘You – you know Breton, Roscarrock?’
‘No. But I know Cornish.’ Roscarrock was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps we’re closer than even I imagined, Inspector.’
‘You are a Cornishman! I start to understand a little more about you.’
‘You’re going to arrest the General whatever happens. Thanks to my movements here, you can identify and destroy the Royalist and Comptrollerate-General networks in northern France, and capture the gold. I just want to survive that process.’
‘You have perhaps some suggestion to increase the chances of this? I should
warn you that the General is really the only person we want to capture alive. Someone like yourself…’
Roscarrock considered this. ‘I have a suggestion. Two suggestions.’
There was a note from Roscarrock at Marceau’s. De Boeldieu skimmed it, and frowned, then read it through more slowly. The change in plan was undesirable, and further communication with the General’s people a risk. But there was a kind of sense in the suggestion, and the tone was emphatic. Fifteen years of deceit had passed since De Boeldieu had been able to relax in the trust of other men, and the loss was an open wound. He slipped back into St Valery to pass a message to the farmer Lamarque.
He was on the road to their own farm half an hour later; Roscarrock had said not to wait for him. He trotted solitary between the walls of grain, torn as usual between the two Frances. This land was his: he knew it and loved it and was an emanation of it, and to see it and smell it and taste its flavours was to recapture old identities and certainties. But it was a new France now, a France that had estranged him from his roots, destroying his family and his way of life, and hunting him as if he were vermin. Now he moved through France in a kind of fever, as if his body was reacting against himself.
There was a short flat explosion from the ground immediately ahead – a musket? – and the movement of something in the ditch. De Boeldieu tried to reach for the sword in his saddlebag but the horse was rearing and skittering and turning, and by the time he pulled her to order and had her steady, four men had risen from the grain with muskets levelled at him.
CONVERSATIONS OF ADMIRAL P. C. J. B. S. DE VILLENEUVE, RECORDED THE 30TH DAY OF NOVEMBER 1805
Very well, it is now the 12th of August. My twenty-nine warships and Zacharie Allemand’s five are converging at last. We are both at sea, we are both free, we are completely undetected by your Royal Navy. After many months’ confusion, soon, we will combine, and together we will be able to fall on your coast wherever we choose and you will not stop us.
The Emperor's Gold Page 38
