Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘Excuse me Miss,’ a security guard appeared out of nowhere, ‘but you can’t have those horses here, it’s not safe.’ Cleo frowned at him and opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Don’t worry, she’s with me,’ Jack stepped between them and Cleo felt her jaw drop. Jack grinned, enjoying her shock. Overalls discarded, he stood transformed, resplendent in the tight fitting uniform of a British cavalry officer that clung to his tall frame as if tailored on Saville Row. Every inch the dashing cavalry officer, from the polished georgette at his throat to the brilliantly shined knee-high riding boots on his legs, Jack stepped forward and laid a confident hand on the guard’s shoulder.

  ‘Not to worry old chap,’ he smiled warmly, ‘just had to pick up some instructions from the director.’ He nodded understandingly and the guard found himself smiling in understanding. ‘Now, there’s just been a fire alarm that’s gone off, so we’ll need you on crowd control by the door, can you do that?’ The guard nodded eagerly.

  ‘Good man, off you go,’ Jack patted the man on his back and pushed him on his way before turning to Cleo.

  ‘Um.’ Cleo smiled, her eyes still goggling.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack grinned back, enjoying the inspection. ‘This is for you.’ He tossed across a red jacket and sash. ‘Put that on and we’ll be able to ride across the battlefield no questions asked.’

  ‘I…’ Cleo stared at him. ‘Where did you get this stuff?’

  Jack shrugged, one hand resting on the pommel of his newly found sabre. ‘Those overalls you put me in made me look like a cleaner – I just breezed into the Visitor Centre, set off a fire alarm and grabbed the uniforms from two mannequins during the confusion.’

  Cleo shook her head in mock-disappointment. ‘Jack Starling, you have changed.’

  Jack grinned. ‘I wonder where I got it from! Now let’s get the hell out of here before they realise what happened.’

  Cleo slipped the jacket on and buttoned it into place, lowering the sash across her chest. The outfit complimented the length and strength of her frame and she grinned as she saw Jack appreciating the view.

  ‘Feel good to be back in uniform?’ Cleo raised a knowing eyebrow at his inspection.

  ‘It does,’ Jack nodded firmly. The tight red uniform of the cavalry officer did feel good, Jack realised. It was an auspicious sign. 200 years ago Napoleon had been stopped in his tracks at Waterloo. Today, he and Cleo were planning to do the same to Deschamps. He shifted the sabre on his side. ‘Let’s saddle up and ride out.’

  Cleo nodded vaguely, distracted by the stretch of his breeches as Jack swung himself onto his horse. A moment later she mounted her own horse and followed him through the crowd, the backpack with the tablet swinging from one shoulder.

  It was a few minutes before they were able to pass a rope barrier and leave the milling tourists behind as they rode onto the battlefield proper, thin lines of red coated British infantry visible in the distance. Jack pushed his horse into a gentle canter and felt a thrill of history course through his veins – they were riding along the very ground that British troops had marched upon two hundred years before. The battered white walls of La Haie Sainte were less than 200 metres distant as they pulled up under a tree and looked at the farmhouse.

  ‘Steady now,’ Jack cautioned the horse, giving a heavy pat to its shoulder. There was a small formation of troops in the shade nearby and Jack spurred his horse over toward them.

  ‘Where are you boys from?’ he called out. His question was met by a collection of blank looks. He brought the horse closer still and repeated the question. They looked at each other, then one man, dressed as a colour sergeant, stepped forward and waved his hand toward the farmhouse.

  ‘Excuses, je wilt het Engels jongens, ze zijn binnen!’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Cleo frowned.

  Jack shrugged. ‘No idea. Sounds like Dutch.’

  There was a sudden crack of cannon fire in the distance and the huddle of soldiers began to murmur in excitement. Jack looked out across the fields to see plumes of smoke billowing from the mouths of cannons on both sides of the valley. Blasts of dirt and smoke blew up from fields across the battlefield. The battle had begun.

  ‘My God, is that live ammunition?’ Cleo spurred her horse closer to Jack and looked out across the field with alarm.

  ‘No,’ Jack shook his head after a moment, ‘look there.’ He stood up in his stirrups and pointed to a cluster of tubes dug into the ground nearby. ‘Something like a firework launcher,’ he guessed.

  ‘Is that safe?’

  Jack grinned. ‘As long as no one gets too close, of course it is!’ It was a fair question, but there was as strange bullishness in him. The uniform on his back and the sound of martial music had lit a fire in his belly and he felt unstoppable. He gripped at the handle of his sword for a moment, then clicked the horse forward to a trot. It might not be safe to approach the farmhouse during an artillery exchange, but today was not a day for timidity. The tubes they had been looking at suddenly erupted, firing projectiles into the air that quickly exploded into great billows of smoke. A stench of cordite reached their noses and the horses reared up nervously. The troop of Dutch soldiers sudden formed themselves into lines and began marching off across the fields, their commander carefully studying a thick page of notes about where his company needed to be and when. Jack spurred his horse toward the farmhouse without delay, breathing in the smell of battle and relishing the day ahead.

  His eyes scanned the farm complex critically as he approached. Ferme La Haie Sainte squatted next to the road, a collection of farm buildings built around a central courtyard, with tall walls marked here and there by heavy plaques commemorating those who died in 1815. A gate house stood on the eastern side of the complex, with a pair of heavy green doors guarded by a squad of Britsh Redcoats and an officer, some watching the opening salvoes, others watching Jack and Cleo approach curiously. Jack sized the officer up as he drew the horse near and dismounted.

  The man was around seventy, with glasses and a slight beard and spoke with a cultured British accent. ‘It’s a bit early for reinforcements, surely?’

  ‘Official business,’ Jack lied smoothly. ‘Have two Frenchmen come in, one tall and dark, the other about my height, with red hair, probably very well dressed.’

  The man frowned. ‘There’s a gaggle of tourists upstairs, but we’re hardly checking passports. ‘What’s this about?’

  Jack stared at him, lost for words... so much for the smooth lies. Suddenly his plan seemed ready to fail.

  ‘They’re part of a French protest group,’ Cleo declared as she made an elegant dismount from her horse. ‘They’re planning to disrupt the reenactment and draw public attention to their criticisms of the French Government. We’re trying to round them up as quietly as possible without ruining the day for everyone.’

  ‘The bastards!’ one of the soldiers declared in a heavy Irish accent.

  ‘When did you get here?’ Cleo continued.

  ‘Oh, erm, we bivouacked here last night,’ the officer explained. ‘Bully for breakfast and we’ve been emplaced ever since. We certainly haven’t seen anyone unusual, at least until the tourists arrived about an hour ago and they all went straight into the farmhouse. Look, is there some way we can help?’

  Jack nodded quickly. ‘Tell me about the farmhouse – is there any other way they could have entered?’

  ‘Right, well.’ The officer was down to business, drawing Jack into the entrance to the farmhouse. He gestured into the courtyard of the building where three ranks of red-coated soldiers were drawn up.

  ‘To the left is the barn,’ he gestured to a big building whose whitewashed walls made the northern wall of the quadrangle. A single doorway led into the cavernous space within. ‘All the non-combatants are on the second floor of the farmhouse on the right,’ he pointed to another building on the northward side of the courtyard. ‘There’s about 200 people watching the battle with tv relays, long distance cameras and a lecture
r. If these troublemakers are anywhere, they’ll be in there.’

  ‘Right,’ Jack nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, keep your eyes peeled.’

  ‘Sir.’ The officer saluted smartly and turned back to his soldiers. Jack and Cleo tied the horses by the gate and moved toward the farmhouse on their right. The two entered the building in silence, walking quickly through a series of deserted rooms and then up a rickety flight of stairs to the first floor. Each room was crowded with chairs and tables and throngs of well-dressed tourists sat in each room, listening avidly as a lecturer explained the course of the battle while the TV screens showed computer-generated images of troop movements and battlefield dispositions. Behind them were the open windows of the farmhouse. Distant ranks of troops made dark lines across the pastoral view.

  ‘Seen him yet?’ Cleo murmured quietly. Jack shook his head. They had been through room after room, but there was no sign of Deschamps or Reynard. Jack could feel a tension rising through his stomach as he paced through room after room. The gold had to be there. We have to find it, Jack swore to himself, time is running out.

  930 hrs 18 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.

  GR 51.503721, -0.126270

  ‘Right,’ Brice declared, ‘Situation report?’

  Highgrove spoke up from her computer. ‘We’ve got the Foreign Secretary climbing down from the Cairngorms to fly to Paris, the Army Chief speaking to his French counterpart and we’re waiting for the Russian ambassador to call us back.’ Her fingers typed across the screen once more. ‘Tintin Alpha and his team are watching Sir Johnathon, Tintin Bravo, Charlie and Delta are trailing Jack Starling… he’s just entered the La Haie Sainte farmhouse in the middle of the battlefield. There are few civilians nearby, and Tintin Bravo says this would be a good moment to move in.’

  Brice nodded slowly.

  ‘Any news on the PM?’ He asked softly.

  ‘Just touched down at Heathrow, Mr Brice,’ Highgrove replied breathlessly. ‘Earlier than expected.’

  ‘Fine.’ Brice nodded slowly. ‘We’ll have this situation wrapped up before the PM gets to Downing Street, I’m sure of it. All we’re waiting for is Deschamps.’

  But can we wait any longer? Brice frowned for a moment, remembering his embarrassment when Jack Starling had escaped his clutches at Cleopatra’s Needle.

  ‘Mr Brice, there’s a call for you on line one,’ Highgrove declared. ‘The Prime Minister’s Press Secretary wants a word, urgently.’

  ‘I’ll call her back,’ Brice decided, eyes focused on the map of Waterloo as he imagined pushing the fortunes of the state back and forth through sheer willpower alone. The last thing he wanted right now was to waste time talking to the Dragon of Downing Street. Everything depended on the next few minutes.

  But what if Starling escapes again? The thought made his blood run cold. I can’t risk it. Deschamps can wait. Jack Starling and Johnathon Fairchild are the priority, and this time they won’t escape. Brice took a deep breath.

  ‘Alright,’ he smiled calmly. ‘No more waiting – this is it. All Tintin units to move in – lethal force is authorised. The targets are Jack Starling and Johnathon Fairchild, dead or alive.’

  1035 hrs (0935 hrs GMT) 18 June 2015, Ferme La Haie Sainte, Belgium.

  GR 50.677982, 4.412077

  Jack and Cleo stared at each other in frustration. No sign of Deschamps, nor any easy way of finding the gold, given the tourists packed into each room of the farmhouse. Beneath his focus Jack could feel a growing fear that Deschamps had managed to steal the gold away after all. Were we too late? If Deschamps isn’t here, perhaps it’s because he’s already left.

  Jack closed his eyes in frustration. No. Don’t admit defeat yet… we can keep looking no matter what.

  ‘The barn?’ Cleo looked at him expectantly, the same frustration visible in the corners of her eyes. Jack nodded and followed her back down to the ground floor.

  The officer and his men had vanished, replaced by three brooding Redcoats. Jack felt the hackles on his neck begin to rise.

  ‘What happened to the other soldiers?’ Cleo stared at the three men uncertainly. They grinned silently and stepped closer. Jack came to a cautious halt. Cleo stepped into him from behind and careened off his stock-still frame.

  ‘Stay behind me,’ Jack spoke shortly.

  ‘Time is up, Starling,’ the lead soldier declared. ‘Don’t make it difficult on yourself.’

  ‘Jack,’ Cleo whispered nervously.

  ‘It’s all right, mate,’ another Redcoat stepped forward, all of them taller and broader than Jack himself. ‘We’ll have you back in London soon enough and all will be well.’

  Jack gritted his teeth. ‘Over my dead body.’

  One of the soldiers hefted his Brown Bess musket like a club. ‘So be it,’ the closest Redcoat snarled, ‘we’ve got orders from COBRA to bring you in, dead or alive.’

  Jack braced himself, then stared behind them in disbelief. ‘Sir Johnathon?’ he swore, ‘what are you doing here?’

  Cleo gasped in surprise. Despite himself, the closest Redcoats’ eyes flickered in confusion. The ruse had worked. Jack lunged forward toward the man on his left, one hand sweeping the muzzle of the Brown Bess away from his opponent’s grip, while the other curled into a fist, swinging unstoppably into the man’s jaw and knocking him senseless as if hit by a locomotive. The second redcoat was shouldered to one side while the third recovered himself and charged at Jack. Jack swung the musket over his head in a close arc, managing to hit the stock against his opponent’s head just as he came within range. The Redcoat grunted but stayed on course, colliding into Jack and knocking them both to the ground. Jack scrambled upward but was tangled by the sabre swinging from his hips. A fist swung at him amid the confusion and Jack felt stars burst through his head. Another blow like that would leave him helpless. He rolled close to his foe, scrambling upright as they struggled and clawed together, barely away of Cleo leaping to one side, one foot swinging out in a long pendulum to crunch solidly into the second redcoat’s nose. Once on his feet Jack staggered back, giving ground as the heavy fists of the man swung past like cinderblocks. He slid past another haymaker and delivered a punch of his own to the side of the other man’s head. The Redcoat grunted, then knocked Jack away with one sweep of his arm. Jack hit the wall of the barn and twisted out of the way of a follow-up punch, glee bubbling up inside him as the man’s fist impacted into the brick wall where Jack’s head had been a moment before. Another blow went whistling past and Jack backed off, pulled the Tomcat from behind his belt and firing a shot into his opponent’s thigh. The man looked at him in shock, a flicker of dismay on his face as Jack ruthlessly changed the nature of the brawl. Jack tossed the pistol to Cleo then moved forward, fists up. His opponent raised his fists and then writhed in agony as Jack lashed out a kick against the bullet wound. The man fell to the ground, clutching at his thigh in agony and Jack took the opportunity to land a final kick against the man’s jaw, knocking him out at last. The giant foe slumped sideways like a blasted oak, utterly senseless. Jack scooped up the Brown Bess musket from the ground and turned toward the final soldier. He knelt helplessly on the ground beside his senseless colleagues, blood dribbling freely from his ruined nose while Cleo stood by his side, the Tomcat jammed against his temples. Covered in dust and blood from the fight, Jack presented a fearsome image as he approached the pale-faced soldier.

  ‘Now, come on mate, you don’t want to do anything rash.’ His voice was cracked with panic, eyes darting back and forth around the courtyard.

  ‘No,’ Jack agreed. ‘Nothing rash.’ He stepped around the soldier and hefted the musket, then brought it down in a heavy blow on the back of the man’s head. The man crumpled silently to the ground.

  Cleo looked at the three fallen soldiers and shook her head in amazement. ‘Will they be ok?’

  ‘Broken jaws on two of them, and a broken nose on your one.’ Jack estimated as he took the pistol back. ‘Possibly detached retinas on that
last one. But otherwise they’ll be fine.’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘Not personally,’ Jack shook his head, gently touching his bruised jaw. ‘MI5… Territorial Army… maybe Scotland Yard. The Governments have little action squads like these guys in capital cities all over the world – always on hand in case ambassadors get kidnapped or threats need to be taken care of. The Americans and Russians do the same – and the Chinese.’

  ‘So they were special forces?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Jack shook his head dismissively, then winced at a pulled muscle in his neck. ‘Not Special Forces at all.’

  A rumble of thunder drifted from overhead and both checked their stride, eyes gazing upward. The clear blue of the morning sky had been replaced by a sullen layer of grey clouds. ‘Rain?’ Cleo asked. Jack nodded and tilted his head to listen carefully as more thunder rolled out. The very ground itself seemed to shake.

  ‘Only thunder…’ Jack decided, ‘… and cavalry.’ Cleo stared at him with nervous eyes.

  ‘There’s a storm coming… and a war out there,’ Jack warned her. ‘Let’s go have a look.’

  Jack led the way out of the entrance of La Haie Sainte and stopped short. Lines of French and British troops stood wreathed in smoke as artillery crews fired blank shells into the air. The rattle of regimental drums competed with the skirl of bagpipes, but both manmade sounds were interrupted by the ominous rumbling from the clouds overhead. A trio of embedded tubes detonated by the wall of the farmhouse, firing smoke-bombs into the air. The acrid stench of gunpowder reached their noses and Jack felt a thrill of excitement rush through his head.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Cleo’s eyes shone at the sights and sounds of the battlefield.

  Jack shut his eyes for a moment, pushing away the pageantry and glory.

  ‘It’s terrible.’ He shook his head. ‘Just think how many of the soldiers on this very battlefield died for nothing.’ He looked at the lines of soldiers on either side of the valley, ranks of men standing still as explosions detonated around them and behind them, crowds of tourists gasping in delight. For all its realism, however, Jack knew the battlefield was not complete – the observers were missing out on the screams of the wounded and smell the stench of blood and shit. That was what war was really like, Jack knew. It was a crime, not a game. Armchair generals who glorified the pageantry and forgot the bloodshed made him sick.