The Guinea Stamp

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  The Guinea Stamp

  Alice Chetwynd Ley

  © Alice Chetwynd Ley 1961

  Alice Chetwynd Ley has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1961 by Robert Hale.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To

  Richard and Graham,

  who share my interest in the past

  Table of Contents

  ONE - Both Sides of the Channel

  TWO - The Eavesdropper

  THREE - Miss Feniton Holds a Conversation

  FOUR - Miss Feniton Takes Sides

  FIVE - Conference at “The Waterman”

  SIX - The Cottage by the River

  SEVEN - Captain Jackson’s Story

  EIGHT - Miss Feniton is Introduced to a Poet

  NINE - Suspicion

  TEN - Arrival of Mr. Cholcombe

  ELEVEN - The Building of a Ship

  TWELVE - A Declaration of Love

  THIRTEEN - The Trap

  FOURTEEN - Miss Feniton’s Suspicions are Verified

  FIFTEEN - Miss Lodge is Adamant

  SIXTEEN - Mr. Cholcombe Makes a Declaration

  SEVENTEEN - The Enemy Revealed

  EIGHTEEN - Joanna’s Trust is Misplaced

  NINETEEN - The Passing of a Traitor

  TWENTY - The True Identity of Captain Jackson

  “The rank is but the guinea stamp The man’s the gold, for a’ that.”

  ROBERT BURNS

  ONE - Both Sides of the Channel

  The day was bright for November, but a cold, blustering wind was blowing across the cliffs of Boulogne. A grenadier of His Imperial Majesty’s guard suppressed a shiver as he monotonously paced out his alloted patrol along the high wooden fence which railed off the Imperial Baraque from the cliff top. It was just his luck, he reflected, to be posted on guard duty here, the coldest spot in the camp. He thought enviously of those others in less exposed situations, and allowed his eyes to wander for a moment over towards the huge, pearl-grey building which had been erected as Napoleon’s headquarters.

  As he did so, he noticed a man standing over by the Signal Semaphor, that gibbet-like apparatus which had been installed to convey messages from one section to another of the Grande Armée. This stranger was no soldier, that was certain. He wore the high boots of a fisherman, a dark jersey and breeches, and his head was bare. He had paused irresolutely on his way to the Imperial Baraque, as if uncertain of his next movement.

  The grenadier, too, hesitated for a split second on his pacing.

  Had the visitor any right to be there? Ought he to be challenged? Even as the soldier’s foot came down to continue his patrol, he knew the answer to these questions. His orders had been to guard the fence, not the territory surrounding the Emperor’s headquarters. That was the responsibility of others. It was not for him to assume duties which had not been allotted to him. The army was no place for initiative, as every serving man knew well.

  The stranger had not long to wait. An officer came forward almost at once, clicking his heels smartly. One never quite knew who people were up here; appearances could be deceptive. It was as well to pay the stranger as much deference as one would give to a superior officer—for the time being, at any rate.

  “Your pass, Monsieur?”

  It was courteously spoken. The stranger presented a document encased in oilskin. The officer scrutinized it carefully, taking his time.

  “The Emperor expects to see me without delay,” said the man.

  His tone was quiet, but carried authority, his accent was that of the cultured Frenchman. The officer shot a keen glance at him.

  “At once, Monsieur. Be pleased to follow me.”

  He led the way to the Baraque. From this grey building, Napoleon was able to survey his four principal camps, which stretched over an area of ten kilometres. The “Iron Coast”, they called it, and not without reason; for from Etaples to Cap Gris-Nez it was bristling with guns, armoured forts, and picked troops which kept pouring in from all parts of France to swell the ranks of the Grande Armée which was to conquer England.

  The fisherman was shown into the principal chamber of the Baraque, a large, lofty apartment hung with a silver grey paper and lighted by numerous long windows. Evidently he had not been here before, for his gaze briefly travelled round the room. There was only one chair that he could see, and that was drawn up to a long oval table covered by a green cloth. He approached, and made as if to sit down.

  “Sacré Nom!”

  The startled officer covered the distance between door and table in two strides and jerked the chair hurriedly from the visitor’s grasp. The fisherman raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, but said nothing.

  “Pardon, M’sieur! No one—but no one—may sit in this chair excepting only the Emperor! It is not permitted that any lesser person should sit at all in this apartment—even the Council must stand at meetings. It is understood, no?”

  The visitor gave the slightest of shrugs, and turned away from the Imperial throne.

  “Soit,” he replied, docilely enough.

  The officer eyed him keenly for a moment, then drew himself up and saluted.

  “I will inform His Imperial Majesty of your arrival, M’sieur,” he said, and quitted the room in good military order.

  When the door had closed upon him, the visitor smiled somewhat enigmatically, and walked over to the seaward windows.

  He was a young man of not more than middle height, slim, with good shoulders. His dark hair was ruffled by recent exposure to the keen wind, and his face and hands wore the brown, weather-beaten appearance of the man who spends his life in the open. There was nothing remarkable in his features, but the eyes were keen and alert, the expression one of intelligence. He carried himself well, as though poised for instant action, and his step was light in spite of the great boots he wore.

  For a time he stood at the window looking thoughtfully across the Channel in the direction of England. It was impossible to discern the coastline with the naked eye, but he had heard that on fine days one could see the walls of Dover Castle from here with the aid of a telescope. Could it be that in a few weeks or months that fortress would yield, as London itself might yield, to the mighty conqueror who already had enslaved half Europe? With an abrupt gesture, he turned from the window to where an enormous map of the Channel and coasts hung on the grey tinted wall. He considered it for a few moments, brows knit in thought, then allowed his attention to wander to the painted ceiling of the room. Here a huge eagle was depicted moving through an azure sky dotted with golden clouds, directed by the Star of Bonaparte to discharge a thunderbolt at England. His brow cleared, and a slow smile twisted his lips.

  He checked it as a footfall sounded from outside the room. With an expression of suitable gravity, he turned to face the door.

  It opened, to admit a man of short stature, clad in a well-cut uniform of fine grey cloth. His black hair was brushed flat over a high forehead, and a pair of piercing dark eyes looked out from a sallow complexioned, though not unhandsome, face. At sight of him, the fisherman straightened, and bent his head deferentially.

  “Majesty.”

  “Captain Jackson, I believe?” Napoleon’s voice was curt and deep. “You have dispatches for me?”

  The man called Captain Jackson produced a package from a concealed pocket, and handed it to the Emperor. Napoleon received it wordlessly, tore the seal, and glanced at the date.

  “Eight days old! Too long, by God!”

  “Tide and wind, Majesty, are at no one’s bidding.”

  A sharp look from the dark eyes seemed to pierce into the fisherman’s mind.
It lasted only a second, then Napoleon moved over to the table, seated himself, and gave his full attention to the document before him. Captain Jackson waited, relaxing his stance a little.

  “It is well,” remarked the Emperor, at last, pushing the chair impatiently from the table arid standing upright. “As far as it goes, that is to say. Captain!”

  Jackson jumped to attention.

  “Majesty?”

  “You have lately been in England for some time, I understand.”

  “That is so, sire.”

  “What have you to say of the situation there?” Captain Jackson answered without hesitation.

  “Catastrophic, sire. Invasion is talked of everywhere, and hourly expected. Fieldworks have been thrown up on all the principal roads to London, and Martello towers are being built at frequent intervals round the coast. The lodging-house keepers of East Bourne in Sussex complain that the erection of a barracks on the beach quite ruined their trade this summer.”

  “Pah!” His Imperial Majesty snorted. “A nation of shopkeepers and farmers! Shall such a country be allowed to impede the destiny of mankind?”

  “It would appear unlikely, certainly,” replied Jackson, in a judicial tone.

  “Impossible!” was the emphatic retort. “They want us to jump the ditch, and, by God! we shall jump it!”

  “Assuredly,” answered the fisherman, soothingly. “But it would be folly to allow oneself to imagine that England will be found unprepared. Already 340,000 men have come forward for service in the volunteer forces, and daily their numbers swell. Even the Prime Minister, Mr. Pitt himself, takes his part as Colonel of the Cinque Port Volunteers. Fashionable tailors are swamped with orders for showy uniforms, for each corps has its own particular dress.”

  “Pah! A nation of dandies, too!”

  “As you say, Majesty. But do not be deceived; it is also a nation of sportsmen and even the dandy has usually learnt the art of self-defence.”

  Napoleon eyed him keenly.

  “You I do not at all understand. You are an Englishman, no?”

  Captain Jackson bowed slightly, but made no other reply.

  “You are a man of education, I think, in spite of your so humble appearance. Your French is not the tongue of the sans-culotte. Why, then, are you ranged against your countrymen? Why are you a smuggler and a spy?”

  The captain shrugged, and spread his hands in a typically Gallic gesture.

  “A man must live, sire. Under your gracious protection, free trade is a lucrative business. For the rest—I have my reasons.”

  “Which you do not mean to divulge? As you will. There are ways, however, of obtaining any information I may desire of you. I warn you, Captain, that those who seek to hoodwink Napoleon do not prosper.”

  “I am sure of it, Majesty. But this, you will allow, is a powerful incentive to any man to keep faith—or to break it.”

  He drew forth from his pocket a heavy canvas bag, and dropped it upon the table. The chink of coin instantly claimed His Imperial Majesty’s attention.

  “Gold?”

  Captain Jackson nodded. “English guineas. There is more, if I can obtain wine of the right quality—at the right price.”

  Napoleon nodded, and began to stride about the room.

  “You will be offered every facility. We must have gold! Gold to build fine ships and yet more ships—would to God I had some of the old sailors to man them, men of the calibre of the Grande Armée!”

  “In England, the complaint is otherwise,” stated Captain Jackson. “The condition of the vessels leaves much to be desired.”

  “Good! That is good! You would also say that the men—”

  “The British Navy,” replied Captain Jackson, gravely, “is still of the same quality as always.”

  Napoleon grunted. “Almost I trust you, for you do not bring me the account I wish to hear! You must learn the art of flattery, Captain, if you would prosper. But I can waste no more time with you. Go to Rochefort. I will give orders for your safe passage—”

  A deafening burst of gunfire interrupted him. With an oath, he strode towards the seaward windows. Captain Jackson followed at a more leisurely pace.

  All at once, the ground surrounding the Baraque was swarming with men. Grenadiers bustled hither and thither, officers shouted orders, their hoarse voices adding to the din of the guns. The Emperor threw up one of the windows and barked a question at the nearest group of officers. They came smartly to the salute.

  “A British frigate, Majesty. They are firing on the Wooden Fort again—”

  “Nom d’un nom d’un nom! Have we not a Navy? Have we not shore batteries? How is it that the enemy can approach unhindered thus closely to our coasts? Send for the Minister of Marine! Send for Admiral Bruix! Send for—”

  Another loud burst of gunfire intervened. Four or five officers leapt as one man to do their Emperor’s bidding.

  Napoleon slammed the window shut, and took to pacing the room, his brows thunderous. Captain Jackson watched him in silence.

  “We shall see!” Napoleon said, in intense tones. “We shall see! A favourable wind, and 36 hours—we shall be in London before the year is out!”

  It was evident that he had completely forgotten the fisherman’s presence. Captain Jackson waited patiently for a little longer, then ventured to break in upon the Imperial reverie.

  “Have I your permission to retire now, Majesty?”

  “Comment?”

  Napoleon awoke unwillingly from his dream of entering London at the head of the victorious Grande Armée. He waved a hand wordlessly in dismissal.

  Captain Jackson bowed low, and made his way from the Council Chamber to the reverberating echo of gunfire.

  *

  A light rain was falling monotonously. The river showed grey in the distance and patches of mist floated wraith-like over the sodden fields. The mud-splashed carriage drew to a standstill before reaching the crossroads and the coachman dismounted to consult his passenger.

  “This be the village of Teignton, my lord.”

  The passenger poked his head from the window and surveyed without enthusiasm the deserted, rain-spattered road, the cottages of cob and thatch, which in summer would appear so picturesque under a riot of roses, and the moss-grown lychgate leading to the church. A poster was pinned to the gate; rain and wind had spoilt its pristine freshness but its impact was still strong. One word only appeared upon it, for words could have little meaning to a population that was for the most part illiterate. The word was printed in large letters of fiery red: INVASION. The picture underneath this caption left even the least imaginative of its viewers in no doubt as to the meaning of that single word.

  Whether from sight of the poster or from contact with the chill November air, the passenger gave a slight shudder. The sudden movement brought a shower of raindrops down his neck, causing him to draw his head back again within the shelter of the carriage.

  “The place we seek is a mile or so beyond the village itself,” he said to the coachman. “We must go right at the crossroads, continuing along the road until we approach the Manor House. There is a turning hard by the house, which leads down to the river: it is this lane we must take. I am told that Teignton Manor is the only large house hereabouts, so there should be no difficulty in identifying it. I was also told that the lane is just passable for coach traffic, though it is narrow and rough. Let us hope I was not misinformed.”

  The coachman glanced at his horses, and echoed these sentiments, if not aloud. He remounted the box, and carefully negotiated the turning at the crossroads. A short journey brought them to the high stone wall which surrounded Teignton Manor. They at once perceived the lane which they were seeking. It was bounded on its one side by a wall of the Manor, and on its other side by a high bank.

  The passenger reflected with satisfaction that, once in the lane, they would at least be secure from observation. The coachman studied the track with strong disfavour. It wound downhill to the river bank, and therefor
e was well drained; but its surface of rough, uneven stones would play the devil with his horses, and it was so narrow that there could be no passing even a pedestrian in safety. He turned the vehicle neatly enough into it, however, and proceeded cautiously along the many twists and bends. Once the nearside wheeler stumbled and almost lost its footing, but was set right again with practised skill. The decline eased off towards the bottom, and the lane widened, revealing ahead an open stretch of rough ground on which stood a cluster of poor cottages, a small farm and a modest tavern. Behind these buildings was the misty river, grey and rainswept. The scene was inexpressibly dreary.

  The coach came to a halt outside the tavern and the passenger alighted. He glanced at the sign, swinging on rusty chains. It badly needed a coat of paint, but its lettering was clear enough: “The Waterman.”

  “This is the place,” he said. “Find an ostler, and stable the vehicle immediately.”

  The coachman touched his cap, and wondered if such a place ran to a stable, much less an ostler. He held his peace, however, and drove his elegant, though mud-splashed equipage over in the direction where he supposed the stables to be situated.

  Meanwhile, his passenger walked swiftly through the rain to the front door of the building. He found it fast shut, though it was barely four o’clock in the afternoon. He glanced at the small windows on either side of the door; they were unshuttered, but close curtained, and showed no light. He picked up the knocker and rapped gently, three times in quick succession. After a short pause, he rapped again, this time a single beat.

  Nothing happened for a while, and he began to have misgivings. He stepped back a pace, and glanced at the upper windows. There was a faint light showing behind the curtains in one of these. He stooped, picked up a handful of loose stones, and flung them against the pane. Then he returned to the door, and repeated his performance upon the knocker exactly as before.

  This time, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Presently the bolts were drawn noisily back and the door was opened cautiously an inch or two, and a round, rubicund face was revealed, topped by a shock of untidy red hair. A pair of bright blue eyes regarded the visitor suspiciously.