The Emperor's Gold

by Robert Wilton

  The initiative was his again. He was on his own ground, and they were the fugitives. With prudence, he would contain them here and then locate them.

  Gabin began to walk steadily along the waterfront, bringing first his emotions and then his thoughts under control. He thought of the mystery that was Tom Roscarrock. He also thought of the Minister of Police. The Minister would be livid that Metz had escaped; but, after all, out of France he was no longer a problem. With the Cornishman and the aristo, Gabin could deliver the British network in the region. Meanwhile, Fouché’s bigger plan to distract the British fleet and secure the invasion continued unaffected. There was freshness in the morning again, and Gabin began to step with greater confidence.

  Something had moved. Something on the edge of his vision – an irregularity in the stillness of the estuary. He stopped on the rough stones, and stared out across the crowd of boats. There! A movement again, on a small boat on the far side. Gabin began to walk more quickly towards the eastern arm of the harbour. As the quay curved out from the village he saw the boat again: a tiny flat shape on the water, but surely that was a figure crouched low in it. He hurried on over the age-worn stones, the blank frontage of buildings and shadowed doorways to his right and the murmur of water to his left. Again there was movement in the little boat, an oar – two oars – emerging ungainly from the sides.

  Then a man stepped out in front of him, and Gabin stopped.

  It was Philippe De Boeldieu, one hand folded behind his back, the other resting light on his sword hilt, a startling portrait of aristocracy on the grey and anonymous waterfront.

  ‘Good morning again, Inspector.’ The voice was quiet and cold, a new voice of authority. ‘We have business today, I think.’

  Gabin took in the poised figure, relaxed and ominous. His first thought was that he had not, in all the madness, had any breakfast, and his whole body seemed to sigh. ‘Business?’ he said softly.

  ‘I am a servant – the emissary of Joseph Dax.’

  ‘You set him as a spy, and he died escaping the treachery that you had created.’

  De Boeldieu nodded. ‘That is quite true, Inspector. But I am here to seek his vengeance for his mother, Marie Dax. She was promised the support and protection of the Comtes De Boeldieu for as long as she lived. I owe a debt of honour to her memory, for a France that did not care for her as she should.’

  Inspector Gaston Gabin just nodded. Then he grabbed at his knife and his pistol; he had the knife in his left hand and the pistol swinging up in his right, but death was on him, with lightning flashes of agony to one side and then to the other, and he was staggering back with useless arms and burning pain and then, with one last glide, De Boeldieu’s sword pierced his heart.

  Faintly, there were shouts from the waterfront, and Roscarrock allowed himself a glance over his shoulder as he heaved at the oars. There was nothing – he put his back into another smooth stroke, and looked again – De Boeldieu was out on the quay – he kept peering awkwardly at the village as he rowed towards it – and then he saw figures emerging onto the waterfront, pointing, and again there were shouts.

  De Boeldieu saw the men too; he stepped towards them to check, then looked back into the estuary. ‘Roscarrock!’ he yelled. ‘Get out – go now!’

  Roscarrock ignored him, and bent to the oars again, kicking down with his legs to drive every pound of momentum he could get.

  ‘Roscarrock!’ Another mighty heave at the oars, and the boat swooped forwards over the water, and Roscarrock looked back again. The figures were running along the waterfront now, and there were more emerging behind them, muskets waving as they moved.

  ‘Philippe! Jump, man! Get into the water!’ A hundred yards.

  De Boeldieu hurried to the end of the quay. ‘Get out, Roscarrock! Save Europe for me!’

  ‘Jump, you fool! I can pick you up.’ Eighty yards.

  ‘Roscarrock, listen to me! Go!’ Roscarrock missed a stroke, and the boat slewed slightly. He yelled his irritation and took another mighty pull at the oars. ‘I’ll drown, and even if I don’t they’ll pick us off with their muskets. You must listen!’

  ‘No!’ Seventy yards, the burning of the muscles in his back and the thump of the oars against the water, another smooth heave, sixty yards.

  ‘Roscarrock – Tom! You must listen to me! You will lose everything we’ve fought for if you don’t get out now. I can buy you the time. Listen!’

  Roscarrock turned and looked over his shoulder again, and he listened. He held off for a stroke, and then with a cry of frustration pulled on the right-hand oar alone so that the boat turned slightly and he could see De Boeldieu more easily.

  ‘Tom, you must go now! You know it.’

  He felt the cold in his sodden clothes. ‘You can still—’

  ‘Go, you romantic idiot!’ De Boeldieu pulled his shoulders and head up. ‘This is my country. I belong here. You do not. Go and do what you must do for your Britain; leave me to fight for my France.’

  Roscarrock’s shoulders sagged in despair. Then he looked up sadly. ‘You’re the possibility of a better France, my friend. Give my respects to your father.’

  Philippe gave an elegant wave from the quay. ‘God speed, my brother! I hope that one day soon you will find yourself.’ Then he turned smartly on his heel and, an aristocrat striding proud before the mob, the last of the Comtes De Boeldieu advanced towards the hurrying soldiers with hand on sword and head held high.

  Over the south of England, the morning of the 13th of August rose fresh and cloudless. It was so clear that, from the coast of Devon in the south-west, a man with a telescope could just make out unknown sails moving on the horizon, more than twenty miles off.

  When the Admiralty Board met early that morning, Admiral Lord Hugo Bellamy had early reports of these unknown sails beginning to gather to the south-west. Confirmation of their rendezvous point and likely movements was expected during the day. The Admiralty Board sent orders to Admirals Cornwallis and Keith to prepare to abandon their blockade and move to meet the threat.

  Still Admiral Villeneuve sailed north, waiting for a sign that the distraction had worked, waiting for the chance to slip into the English Channel, waiting for glory. On the beaches of Boulogne, Napoleon’s Army of the Ocean Coasts was waiting too, for the moment when the Royal Navy’s weakness would allow it to hurry across the small strait to victory. In London, on the English coast, and on the coast of France, men listened for the hurrying feet of a message, or watched the sea.

  The little sailing boat carried Tom Roscarrock out to sea, alone in the gulf between France and England. He was no stranger to oars, and their hard, steady rhythm had swept him clear of St Valery-sur-Somme, the last defiant stand of Philippe De Boeldieu dwindling behind him as he stared towards it. Once among the open sandbanks at the mouth of the Somme, he’d raised the boat’s single sail and caught a little wind, enough to carry him away from France and the chaos he had created. Slumped against the transom, the tiller tucked under his arm, he realized how hungry he was, and how very tired. He’d tried to sleep in the mill, knowing that this day would bring the crisis, but there was a deeper weariness in him that a few hours among the grain sacks could not ease.

  Another half of an hour, and he saw a sail: a small pale triangle against the horizon. A fisherman at anchor? Then as he got closer he saw two masts, and realized that it wasn’t the mainsail of a smaller boat but a bit of canvas raised to keep a larger boat steady. Still too small for a navy frigate, though. A French naval craft of some kind? His own little sail carried him onwards, and as he got closer, Roscarrock’s face grew grim.

  It was surely the Jane. For some reason – some other passenger, some other task – the sloop had waited.

  Of all ships on the sea, he had wanted it not to be the Jane. He had calculated that she would have moved quickly to pass on the message about the Sharks; he had calculated that not having the sloop for himself would cost a few extra hours, but still enable him to stop the conspiracy.
His task was suddenly a lot less simple. He could not avoid or outrun the sloop.

  If it was the Jane, there would have to be more deaths – and one death in particular. And the Jane it was.

  Then he understood why. The sloop would not carry the message herself. She would relay it via the navy frigates patrolling further off the coast. That meant flags or a meeting, which meant daylight.

  In the distance, over the top of the sloop, he could see sails now. That would be the frigate. There was something else. Another small boat was moving alongside the sloop – probably a fisherman. As he watched, two ropes were thrown up to the Jane and for a moment they were pulled hard together. In that moment, a figure had clambered up onto the side of the fishing boat and was reaching for outstretched arms on the sloop that hoisted him up and safely aboard.

  Another agent of the Comptrollerate-General? By the time Roscarrock drew close, the fishing boat had pulled away and was adjusting her sails for her onwards journey – either back to France or on to the lobster grounds. On the Jane there was new movement: they were pulling up the anchor and raising sails.

  Now there was pointing on the deck, and he had been spotted. As he drew close, he raised a hand in greeting, and steered for the stern of the sloop. Closer still, he dropped the sail of his little boat, and let momentum carry him alongside and down the length of the Jane. He glanced up two or three times, trying to gauge the reaction to his arrival, looking for one face in particular. He tied up to the stern, under the windows of the Captain’s cabin, and already he could feel movement as the wind caught and her sharp lines began to cut through the water.

  A rope thumped against the stern beside him, and Roscarrock scrambled up onto the tiny quarterdeck at the back of the sloop. The first face he saw was Griffiths, the former Mate and presumably the murderer of Miles Froy. Roscarrock started to speak, but Griffiths had been content just to check who he was, and now turned and stepped back down to the main deck to keep an eye on the crew. As the back of his head dropped away, it was replaced by a form opposite in every way. As Roscarrock finished coiling the rope, the face and then the chest and then the whole, swaying body of Lady Virginia Strong appeared at the top of the short flight of steps. The morning sun glowed in the golden hair and the delighted face.

  ‘Tom! I didn’t dare believe it.’ She grabbed him by the arms, stopped, checked behind her, and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

  Roscarrock grunted a greeting. The kiss burnt on his face.

  ‘Even after that night in the hotel I still wasn’t sure, Tom. I didn’t know which way you were really working.’

  ‘But now?’

  ‘How could you be here if you weren’t with us? What happened to De Boeldieu?’

  ‘He’s dead. Gabin too.’

  She shrugged, and turned. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  Roscarrock moved forwards carefully, something inside him enjoying the movement of the deck beneath him while his mind raced, and started down the steps. As he did, a figure in a dark landman’s coat – the figure he’d seen scrambling aboard just before his own arrival – turned to him.

  The face was so out of place that, for an instant, Roscarrock couldn’t register it. The rich curls, the strong cheeks, the dark eyes: it was James Fannion, an Irish rebel on a ship of the Comptrollerate-General for Scrutiny and Survey. But really, how surprising was that after all?

  By the time they were level, Roscarrock’s momentary incredulity had been replaced with a new sharp realization: if he was to stop the invasion – if he was to stay alive – he had to act very quickly indeed. He contrived a rough smile, and gripped the Irishman’s hand.

  ‘I’ve become what you might call a close observer of your work, Fannion,’ he said evenly. ‘You’re an exceptional man.’ Fannion smiled, and for the first and last time Roscarrock saw the seductive power of the poet’s eyes.

  As Roscarrock turned away, Virginia Strong was behind him. He examined the face again, part of him enjoying the absolute beauty of the bones, the skin, the shining eyes. Again, he managed a smile.

  ‘Have you passed on the location of the Sharks?’ He had to act quickly, and he had to pray to the god of the sea for a last mighty measure of Cornish luck.

  She nodded towards the Royal Navy frigate shrinking behind them, a mile away now and heading in the opposite direction. ‘Signalled to the Unicorn half an hour ago.’

  He felt the key in his pocket. ‘Good. Then our mayhem is complete.’ She nodded again, excitement in the remarkable eyes. ‘Enjoyed yourself?’

  She smiled. ‘Always.’

  He watched her for a moment more, with something like wonder. ‘Right. I haven’t slept in a week. I’ll see you when it’s all over.’ And he ducked back under the quarterdeck, towards the Captain’s cabin.

  They watched him go. Around them the crew were busy with the eternal tidying of the ship. Sails set and checked, the Jane was gliding now over the water. Virginia Strong watched it all, and turned to the sea again, loving the wind for bringing sharp life to her face and tugging at her hair. Then Fannion was beside her.

  ‘That’s the fellow you were telling me about – the one who chased me that first night we met?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s him. Oh – he is from Ireland, originally; you said you knew the name.’

  ‘Where in Ireland?’

  ‘Cork. There was a whole family of them: Conor Roscarrock and his sons, all of them tall and wild like Tom, no doubt.’

  There was a thumping from behind them, and then Griffiths’s angry voice. ‘Roscarrock! What—’ More thumping, heavy steps. ‘Roscarrock’s blocked himself in the cabin!’

  Virginia Strong said, ‘He’s just—’ but Fannion had grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘There are no Roscarrocks in Cork, Virginia.’ The dark eyes, the shaking head, the insistent voice tried to communicate his urgency to her bewildered face. ‘No such man, and no such family.’

  ‘Captain!’ A shout from up on the quarterdeck. ‘Astern – look!’

  They hurried up the short flight of steps, Griffiths, Virginia Strong and Fannion, impatient with each other and their confusion. ‘There!’ They followed the crewman’s pointing arm. Thirty yards behind them, forty yards, was the small sailing boat, dropping further behind with every second of the sloop’s forwards movement and the firm rhythm of the man at the oars pulling in the opposite direction.

  Fannion, confused, and trapped in a course of events over which he no longer had any control: ‘Who in hell is he, then?’

  And Lady Virginia Strong, with the first suggestion of doubt and a last gasp of wonder as she gazed across the water: ‘Tom?’

  Then the stern of the Jane blew itself out of existence, and the sea surged into the weakened decks, pulling the sloop down into its darkness.

  THE DOOM BAR

  From the deck of His Majesty’s Ship Unicorn, Captain Angus Folliott had seen the destruction of the Jane. Shortly afterwards, his men were pulling a rough-looking individual up out of a sailing boat that appeared to have emerged from the disaster.

  The man raced up the rope to the ship’s rail like one born to the sea, and when he stood to his full height Folliott could see that his face had the same texture of the oldest of the Unicorn’s hands. He was tired, unshaven, and dressed in worn and simple clothes, but as he demanded to speak to the Captain he spoke with urgency and command. The ship’s First Lieutenant glanced uncertainly towards the quarterdeck. Folliott gave a curt nod, and a moment later the stranger was at the foot of the steps below him.

  ‘Permission to come aboard, Captain.’

  ‘Granted. The First Lieutenant will provide you with—’

  ‘I need to speak to you, Captain, immediately and in private. It concerns the signal you have just relayed to the Admiralty, and the safety of the Empire.’

  Folliott’s eyebrows rose a fraction. He observed the tall stranger a second longer, then led the way below decks.

  In the gloomy privacy of the Ca
ptain’s cabin, Roscarrock had a second to size up Captain Folliott as he sat and removed a chart from the table and his visitor’s line of sight. The thin face spoke breeding and disdain faster even than the voice. The stiffer type of officer, by the look of him, but you didn’t get to command a Royal Navy frigate without experience and exceptional judgement.

  He had to hope for both. Folliott started to speak, but Roscarrock cut him off. ‘My apologies, Captain, but time is critical. In a moment I’m going to ask you to cancel the signal you just sent describing—’

  ‘How on earth do you know—’

  ‘Captain!’ The voice was quiet but hard. ‘Delay could put Napoleon on Dover Beach. I will tell you all I know, openly and honestly, and you must judge.’ He took a breath. ‘My name is Tom Roscarrock. I am an agent of the Comptrollerate-General for Scrutiny and Survey, in the Admiralty. That name is largely unknown, but I suspect that the Captain of a frigate may have heard rumour of it, or at least have an idea of the activities of a secret department of the Admiralty.’ There was silence from Folliott. He knew. ‘You have just relayed a message from that sloop, via other ships in the fleet, to the Admiralty. The signal, originating from Comptrollerate-General spies, gave a location. That location is supposed to be the rendezvous point for a fleet of previously unidentified French ships. Again, I suspect that a frigate Captain entrusted with Admiralty communications and the most sensitive inshore patrol knows something of this.’ This time there was the slightest of nods from the austere face opposite. ‘As soon as the Admiralty receive that location, they will take ships from our squadrons blockading Napoleon’s invasion force in an attempt to defeat the new threat before it can combine with any other French fleet. Do I summarize fairly, Captain?’

  A cautious Folliott, calculating. ‘You do.’

  Roscarrock leant forwards. He had to convince, immediately. ‘This new French fleet does not exist, Captain. It is a phantom, created out of false intelligence reports with the deliberate aim of distracting the Royal Navy and allowing the invasion. Thanks to the bravery and endurance of a remarkable man, I have seen the naval dossier of Napoleon’s Minister of Police. That dossier contained not a single word about this fleet. That’s not because it’s so secret; it’s because it’s a fiction.’