The Emperor's Gold

by Robert Wilton

  This is the nervous time, you understand me? The waiting time. We old men, my friend, now we may relax in our long chairs. For the Lieutenant here – Lieutenant, this is before you, and you will come to know this feeling. The uncertainty. The emptiness of the sea. All of those magnificent ships and their brave men totally in your hand. A miscalculation, a moment of error, and you are responsible for more deaths than any General could contemplate.

  Ahead of me, somewhere, is Allemand, and my eyes are like the eagle’s as I search the sea for him, I myself the lookout boy. Then, sometimes, I look behind myself also, waiting for a fast ship to bring me news from Paris of Fouché’s plan.

  [SS G/1130/17]

  The mill, the gentle rush of water beside it, the flat and pleasant countryside under the soft evening, these all suggested an innocent and peaceful France. But Philippe de Boeldieu saw only the stains of evil on the scene. Hands lashed together and to the saddle in front of him, he could ride but not escape. Around him were four other riders; his captors. The two men he could see idling by the doorway ahead would, he assumed, be policemen or police spies. The mill itself had become a tower of oppression, a new Bastille. Inside he looked to find only enemies, and the final betrayal of his hopes and his trust.

  He was pushed upstairs at sword point, and into a large, spartan storeroom: wooden floor, a great many filled sacks, a lot of dust, and two men. On a plain chair nearer him was a solid man of average height and a blank, innocent face. Small dark eyes flashed in the lantern light and turned to his arrival with happy malice. This would be Gabin, the policeman who had hunted Joseph.

  Comfortable and laughing on a throne of sacks, the other man was Tom Roscarrock, and the last faint hope of Philippe de Boeldieu died.

  The policeman spoke pleasantly. ‘You are welcome. I am delighted to see you here.’ De Boeldieu just scowled. ‘Please make yourself comfortable like your friend.’ De Boeldieu threw a brief look of contempt towards Roscarrock, and stood still. Gabin smiled. Roscarrock, unable to follow all of the rapid French, sat back among the sacks.

  ‘I think, Monsieur, that I am speaking to Philippe de Boeldieu, son of the last Count of—’

  ‘I am the Count of Charente, and my descendants will follow me in that title. The unhappy period of your illegitimate regime will pass, and I pray that I may see the true France restored.’

  The policeman smiled politely. ‘If that time comes, Monsieur, you will find me as true a servant to that regime as I have been to this.’

  De Boeldieu shook his head vehemently. ‘You have sold yourself to this dictatorship, Policeman, and you will be destroyed with it.’

  A shrug. ‘Very possibly. Monsieur Roscarrock and I have been sharing the wisdom of our ancestors in Brittany and Cornwall, and they would make the point better than I can. We are practical men, Monsieur, realistic men. You would be more comfortable if you would share our view.’

  ‘If you two are realists, then I am proud to be an idealist.’

  Another shrug. ‘If you insist. To practical matters, nevertheless. Thank you for sending your message to the associates of General Metz, changing the arrangements for tonight. We—’ De Boeldieu’s shoulders dropped and he stared hatred at Roscarrock again, his fears confirmed. ‘Yes, Monsieur, Roscarrock sent you that message as part of our agreement. The General will not go to your farmhouse tonight; instead he will go straight to the fishing boat where you have been storing your gold. My men will be waiting for him, of course. We will capture the General and the gold in one coup, and a much more contained and certain operation it will be. Very sensible – an excellent suggestion by Monsieur Roscarrock.’

  Three sudden steps and Philippe De Boeldieu launched himself at the complacent figure on the sacks, trying to reach face or neck regardless of the cord that bound his wrists. Roscarrock wriggled out from under him, pulled him up to his feet and pushed him away.

  The policeman had stood quickly. He waited until De Boeldieu had subsided. ‘Monsieur, if you do not remain calm, I must bind your legs also and have you under closer guard. If you co-operate, we can do without bindings completely and pass a more pleasant night together.’ Gabin sat down. ‘My men will be in place on the boat as soon as darkness comes. You will wait here with me until I receive word that the General has arrived there. So we have several hours together, I think, and I hope we can all be comfortable. Then I shall complete the arrest of the General, and subsequently of the rest of your network of spies and traitors in this country. Until this week, we could not trace a single spy of your Comptrollerate-General; by this time tomorrow I shall take them all.’

  De Boeldieu closed his eyes, trying to escape the nightmare.

  They passed six hours in the spartan storeroom. Gabin tried pleasant conversation, but neither of his companions was in the mood for it. He came and went, checking arrangements or receiving reports or perhaps resting elsewhere. But always there was a policeman by the door with a musket. De Boeldieu had accepted the untying of his hands with the same expression he would have used walking to the guillotine; he refused to move any closer to his betrayer, and eventually sat down on the bare boards, his back stiff against the wall.

  For most of those six hours, Tom Roscarrock slept.

  13th August 1805

  With the first pale suggestion of dawn in the sky, a figure hurried into the mill. Gabin, impatient, was in front of him at once. It was his ambitious deputy, excited and proud. ‘Monsieur l’Inspecteur: our observers watching the harbour have reported the arrival of three men. They were heading for the fishing boat.’

  Gabin’s heart bloomed in his chest. The plan was actually working.

  ‘By now, Monsieur, they will be in our hands.’

  ‘Well come on, then! Horses!’ Gabin thumped up the stairs to the storeroom. ‘Gentlemen, you must excuse me for a short while. The General is in our hands, and I must welcome him appropriately. We will return within the hour.’ He muttered to the guard by the door, and left as rapidly as he’d come.

  Roscarrock settled back against the sacks, watching the guard. De Boeldieu slumped against the wall again, staring at his boots on the dusty boards.

  ‘Philippe.’

  De Boeldieu turned one wary eye towards the Englishman.

  ‘Philippe, I’m sorry.’

  Bitterness broke through De Boeldieu’s restraint. ‘You’re sorry! How can you begin—’

  ‘Calmly, my friend, please. The guard here does not seem to understand English, but he would get interested in a fight.’ The voice was measured, pleasant. ‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you what I was doing today. You’re a good man, and I needed your honesty to convince the Inspector. But because you’re a good man, you deserved better.’

  Confusion led De Boeldieu into the conversation he swore he wouldn’t have. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Roscarrock checked the guard again. The man was only half-awake, leaning against the wall at the far end of the storeroom. ‘I had to get here myself because I needed to be here on my terms. I had to get you here because this was the safest place in all France for you. I also knew I would need your help.’

  De Boeldieu just shook his head, bewildered.

  The voice continued low and calm. ‘I shan’t ask you to trust me. Loyalty’s too common a currency now – it’s cheaper even than gold and human lives. I can only ask your help in getting out of here and saving the General and as much of the network de la Fleur as we can.’

  De Boeldieu stared bleakly at him. Eventually he said with resignation, ‘Well?’

  ‘If I gave you a sword and a distraction, could you deal with that guard?’

  The Frenchman’s face burnt scornful in the lantern light. ‘You forget yourself, Englishman. The world has tumbled with revolutions and treacheries, but I am still a Count of France.’ He glanced at the guard. ‘Without a sword it will be a little more difficult, but…’

  Roscarrock got up slowly, and the guard opened his eyes fully and stood straight. Roscarrock
acknowledged the gaze companionably, and began to rub his back. ‘We’re looking for a grain sack with a white cross on it,’ he said to De Boeldieu in the same even voice. He bent to rub the circulation into his legs; the guard subsided against the wall again.

  ‘We are?’

  ‘It has a sword and knives in it. I had it delivered to the mill this afternoon.’

  Dimly, a little of De Boeldieu’s spirit was starting to glow in the cold morning. ‘I still don’t know who or what you are, Tom Roscarrock, but you do bring a little colour to a man’s life.’

  ‘We need to hurry.’

  De Boeldieu had stood, and copied Roscarrock’s performance of stiff limbs. ‘We do?’

  ‘Any moment now, Inspector Gabin is going to discover that his faith in me has been badly misplaced.’

  Gaston Gabin was trying to keep his horse at a steady trot, but it kept slipping to a canter and he knew his own excitement was responsible. He wasn’t usually so emotional – but surely it was understandable. To crown the destruction of the English networks in France with the capture of Metz – the Old Bull himself… He allowed the horse to push its head in front of the others.

  Ahead, in the darkness, there was a faint shout. Gabin glanced beside him; the others had heard it too. It came again, nearer and stronger. ‘Inspector! Inspector!’ Gabin cursed the indiscretion, and the interruption to the smooth skill of his success. Out of the black mass of St Valery, a policeman was running towards the horsemen silhouetted in the dawn.

  ‘Inspector!’ A desperate gasping for breath from the man as he grabbed a bridle for support, and the beginnings of an obscenity from Gabin. ‘The fishing boat: she’s – she’s sailing away!’

  Gabin’s world began to crumble. He kicked the man aside, and galloped for the shapeless village.

  De Boeldieu was leading them towards the village and the coast, but on a different road. Roscarrock tried to make himself coherent over the thundering of their hooves. ‘We have to warn the network – now. There’ll be confusion for a short while, and they must use it. Those you haven’t already warned off must disappear before morning. If they’re under observation, we’ll have to hope that they can slip it. Gabin will have told his people not to close in until the General’s capture has been confirmed.’

  ‘What’s happening to the General?’ De Boeldieu was faint in the onrush of air.

  ‘He’s getting away to sea, I hope.’

  ‘How?’ De Boeldieu suddenly veered away to the left, and Roscarrock followed.

  ‘I told old Boule to get his sons aboard the boat, along with the cousins and any other large citizens he could think of. When the police arrived this afternoon to set their ambush, they’ll have been ambushed themselves.’ The Frenchman was slowing now as they approached an isolated farm. ‘It’s all been about the General, Philippe; the General and the network. Like you said, we’ve been watched almost from the moment we stepped ashore. Gabin was waiting for us to land somewhere near here, and as soon as he’d found us, he could follow us.’

  ‘He let us move around?’

  ‘He didn’t care about us. He wanted to use us: we were leading him to the network of British agents here.’ The horses slowed to a walk. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Someone we haven’t met yet – so hopefully he’s not under watch. He will pass the word.’ The farmhouse loomed white in the grey dawn. ‘When did you realize all this?’

  ‘This morning. Then I knew they’d be wanting the General. He’s the great prize. At the farm, there’d have been a massacre: the General arrested, and anyone with him slaughtered. Assuming the General’s identity had become known, we had to get him out of France. That meant the fishing boat. I had to change the arrangements in a way that the General would accept – but also Gabin. That was this evening’s performance.’ They dropped from their horses under the blank wall of the farm. ‘Sometimes it’s useful when everyone thinks you’re a traitor.’

  De Boeldieu knocked at the rough planks of the door, hard and rapid. ‘And now?’

  ‘Now we have to get a boat ourselves, and fast. Joseph said that Fouché was waiting for a signal out of England; you remember?’ He smiled grimly. ‘I realized yesterday that we were that signal.’

  ‘We were the signal?’

  ‘Now a signal is coming out of France, and it means the deception of the Royal Navy and the invasion of England. I have to stop that signal.’

  Inspector Gabin was in a nightmare of panic and failure. By the time his horse skittered onto the dockside in St Valery-sur-Somme, his men hurrying after him in confusion and timidity, the fishing boat was a faint sail among the sandbanks. There was nothing now to stop General Metz making the open sea and freedom from France. Only then did the Inspector grasp the full extent of the deception, and after a last futile glance at the sail against the pale sky, he wrenched his horse around and headed back into the narrow streets, yelling at his bewildered followers to get to the mill. A vestige of the old Gabin was trying to consider and to understand this man Roscarrock, but the old Gabin was a faint voice next to the harpies of hope and apprehension that screamed in the impassive head.

  When they got to the mill a few minutes later, they found only dead men. Dimly, Gabin clutched at the possibility of recapturing the deceivers, of securing some prize for the Minister even though the General had escaped. In the nightmare, he heaved at the gasping horse and led his shattered party back towards the village once more.

  Roscarrock and De Boeldieu had hidden their horses on the outskirts of St Valery and crept into the village through silent, misty back streets. There was no sign of Gabin and his policemen as they made their cautious way towards the waterfront. A last twist of an alley and the estuary opened in front of them, an instant expanse of light and space.

  The mouth of the Somme was filled with untended fishing boats. Pressed close to a wall on the waterfront, Roscarrock scanned the jungle of masts rapidly. As many boats as a man could want, but none of them capable of being readied for sea in less than an hour or sailed by only two men.

  ‘Time is passing, my friend’ – De Boeldieu, murmuring in his ear – ‘I don’t want to risk trying to find another contact with a boat – not after what’s happened, and with Gabin likely to arrive. But we might find somewhere to hide until we can find a boat.’

  Roscarrock shook his head, eyes still moving over the water. ‘We’ve run out of time, Philippe. If nothing else, we’ll have to cut one of these larger boats loose and hope to drift out, but…’ There! A low shape on the far side of the estuary. ‘That might do us. Some kind of single-master – I hope so, anyway.’

  ‘You can swim that far?’

  ‘I gather I’m about the only person in the whole Admiralty who can swim at all.’

  ‘And if it’s no good?’

  Roscarrock pulled off his boots. ‘I’ll swim to England. Give my best to the Emperor.’ He smiled earnestly. ‘I’ll be back, Philippe.’

  ‘I believe it. You damned English have been coming back for five centuries.’

  A mooring rope hung from a stone bollard on the edge of the quay, and Roscarrock straddled it and made to lower himself into the water. Then he looked up again. ‘Philippe, I didn’t have time earlier: Joseph’s information – what he brought out of France to you, using your system – it explains everything.’

  De Boeldieu stared in surprise, excitement replaced by confusion. ‘But there was nothing in it!’

  Roscarrock smiled grimly. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Exa— I don’t understand.’

  Another smile, at the bewilderment. ‘It explains everything. If I can use it properly, it’s just possible that you – and poor Joseph – will have saved Europe.’

  ‘I just don’t see—’ He picked at the idea. ‘Saved Europe, eh?’

  ‘Something for your father, perhaps.’

  A sniff, and a smile. ‘The old fool would never have given a thought for Europe.’ De Boeldieu’s eyes were deeper for a moment, and he nodded. ‘Sy
bille, though: she’d understand.’ He glanced back along the quay. ‘Be quick now. I want my breakfast.’

  Roscarrock slipped down the rope and dropped without a splash into the chilly water of the estuary.

  Gaston Gabin and his small band of men had raced madly through the streets of St Valery, the Inspector sending individuals off down side streets as they ran. There was no sign of the fugitives in the lifeless village. A minute after he’d arrived in the outskirts, the Inspector was hurrying out onto the amphitheatre of the waterfront, casting feverishly around the quays and the moored boats for any hint of movement.

  There was nothing. The quays were deserted. Nothing moved on the boats at anchor.

  The Inspector breathed, trying to decide whether this was good news or bad. Surely they couldn’t have got to the waterfront, got a boat and got away in so short a time. No, they were still in the village somewhere, or they hadn’t got here yet. Perhaps they were hiding out, until the confusion had died down.

  Hooves and footsteps and heavy breaths were gathering behind him. He had the time now, and he had the advantage.

  The waterfront of St Valery-sur-Somme spread out in two encircling arms. One stone quay stretched round to the west. It was from the far end of this that General Metz had put to sea – less than an hour ago: the thought scalded Gabin’s mind. Another curved to the east, under a gloomy frontage of shuttered shops and houses, and then projected out into the estuary. Throughout the day these quays were busy streams of activity, of flapping fish and spread nets and brusque trade. For now they were silent, just shadows and stone.

  Gabin sent two men out along the western arm of the harbour – one to watch from the end of the quay for any boat trying to slip out towards the sandbanks and the sea, the other to investigate a fishing boat tied alongside. The rest he left with his deputy, to be put to patrolling in the village.