A Stormy Peace

by David McDine

  Johnstone’s eyes twinkled. ‘But since then I’ve become almost respectable.’

  Anson laughed. ‘Respectable? Well, yes, but if the rumours are true while you were in the Netherlands you seduced your host’s wife.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ He ordered another round and soon Johnstone was reminiscing about piloting the Duke of York’s expeditionary force off Den Helder.

  ‘But it didn’t go well?’

  ‘Not my fault that most of ’em fell sick ashore and the whole thing turned into a jar of worms. Anyway, since then I’ve led a perfectly respectable life and helped the Admiralty with scraps of information I’ve picked up here and there.’

  ‘Such as your friend Robert Fulton’s plunging boat, and the fact that Bonaparte won’t fund it anymore?’

  Johnstone laughed. ‘Nautilus? How the hell did you know about that?’

  ‘I try to keep up to date. Look, I know people back home who would give a lot to know chapter and verse about it — and maybe make an approach to Fulton through you.’

  Shaking his head, Johnstone countered: ‘I can’t see him cooperating with the Brits. He’s a republican.’

  More wine and brandy flowed and by the time they parted Anson had extracted a promise that Johnstone would contact him once they were back in England, which the fragility of the current peace indicated could well be sooner than later.

  48

  A Pencil Shortage

  Anson and Cassandra were happy to accompany the old gentleman to places of interest, galleries and so forth, but drew the line at attending meetings of the learned societies.

  Instead they were content to stroll together beside the Seine or in the public gardens followed at a discreet distance by Bessie the maid, who, rather than keeping an eye on them, was forever glancing behind, fearful that some randy Frenchman was creeping up intending to ravish her.

  They marvelled at the view from the top of the Panthéon and, over a number of days, took in the Invalides, Place de la Concorde, Champs-Elysées and the Jardin des Plantes, in addition to paying several more visits to the Louvre.

  Just back from one such trip, they were taking tea in the vestibule when the old gentleman returned, attended by Nat Bell.

  Parkin had been at a session of natural historians and was positively glowing. ‘They were so welcoming,’ he announced. ‘It was as if we had never been at war. A love of the natural sciences transcends all human pettiness!’

  Anson was sceptical. ‘I’d hardly call the past decade of conquest and blood-letting mere pettiness.’

  Parkin chuckled. ‘Touché, as the French say. But you know what I mean. We put aside politics and national animosity and spent a delightful afternoon looking at specimens and discussing truly important matters.’

  Bell couldn’t contain himself, muttering: ‘What ’e means is, they spent bleedin’ hours passing round dead hanimals and great big hinsects pinned to boards.’

  ‘Thank you, Nathaniel, for your frank summing-up of the proceedings. No doubt you’d like to run along and get your supper.’

  Alone with Anson, Parkin confided: ‘There is something I should tell you — quite remarkable. When I took my pocket book out to make some notes about a particularly large dung beetle, the entire room fell silent.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, to a man they were staring lustfully at my pencil!’

  ‘Good grief, what narrow lives they must lead!’

  ‘No, don’t you see, owing to the war they have not had access to English graphite and therefore over the years their supply of pencils has dwindled to nothing.’

  Anson pretended astonishment. ‘Frenchmen with no lead in their pencils! Couldn’t they obtain graphite elsewhere?’

  ‘There is none in France, and although there are some deposits elsewhere on the Continent the supply has been severely disrupted by war. No, England is their main hope. Of course I donated my pencil to the president who was pathetically grateful and flaunted it to the envy of his peers.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Afterwards one of the members approached me and asked if I could obtain a supply of graphite and send it to him, so that he could arrange the manufacture of pencils for the society’s use. I readily acquiesced of course. It’s the least I could do to repay their hospitality.’

  Anson was puzzled, wondering why they hadn’t simply asked for a supply of pencils. But he did not want to prick his friend’s balloon so held his peace and confined himself to suggesting that the French might name some insect after him out of gratitude.

  Again, Parkin did not detect his young friend’s playful sarcasm but instead glowed at the thought. ‘What an honour it would be to have some newly-discovered beetle or fly called after me! Why, that would be the next best thing to immortality!’

  49

  An Encounter with Bonaparte

  Excitement mounted in the cobblestoned courtyard fronting the Tuileries palace as a haughty Imperial Guard drum major, hand on hip, swanked past brandishing his baton followed by two lines of drummers beating out a slow roll that quickened the blood.

  Behind them marched a band, playing an unfamiliar but unmistakeably military air, and then came rank upon rank of guardsmen, stepping smartly through the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, their bearskins giving them the appearance of near giants.

  A formidable foe to face in battle, Anson acknowledged as he stood with Parkin, Cassandra and Pettiworth among the crowd of spectators. Dogs, excited by the drums and bustle, ran about yapping and he smiled at the sight of small boys with toy drums and penny whistles aping the bandsmen.

  A guards’ officer shouted an order and to cheers the First Consul, Bonaparte himself, appeared on horseback and trotted through the ranks.

  The review over, Pettiworth led the way to the gardens behind the palace where a reception was getting under way.

  He showed an official-looking paper to a sentry and they were waved through.

  ‘Contacts, you see?’ he announced to his fellow tourists. ‘English gold can still open any door, anywhere.’

  ‘Or any garden in Paris that’s already open to the public?’ Anson countered, tongue in cheek.

  But Pettiworth was not one to allow himself to be put down. ‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong my friend. It may be open to the hoi-polloi on ordinary days, but today’s reception is exclusive.’

  Exclusive or not, the gardens were already rapidly filling with fabulously coifed and dressed — some might say half-dressed — ladies on the arms of extravagantly uniformed military officers. They were overwhelmingly army men and Anson was able to spot only a few naval types — and those evidently admirals.

  The cavalrymen included cuirassiers with shining breast-plates and elaborately-plumed helmets, hussars in tight sky-blue overalls with pelisses slung apparently nonchalantly over their left shoulders, dragoons in green coats with scarlet facings and leopard-skin fronted brass helmets, and lancers and chasseurs in equally extravagant uniforms. The infantry, and particularly members of the Imperial Guard, were almost as colourful, and Anson pointed out to Cassandra a marshal of France, his green jacket festooned with crimson and gold, and his decorations flashing in the sunlight. But, predictably, Cassandra was more interested in the ladies’ fashions, and Anson himself was not averse to having some of them pointed out to him — especially those with deeply-plunging necklines.

  Anson had been happy to wear his civilian mid-blue coat when they set out that morning but the sight of all this brass made him feel a trifle inadequate and he rather wished it had been appropriate to wear his naval uniform, which of course it was not. Cassandra, too, was clearly feeling overwhelmed by all the high fashion and her mauve dress that her uncle and Anson had said suited her so, now made her feel drab.

  At least their subdued outfits meant that no attention was drawn to them — a relief to Anson, who was afraid he would have struggled to conduct a conversation with any French officer in such a twittering throng.

  He noticed
a good many others in civilian dress, no doubt ambassadors, functionaries and tourists like themselves.

  Pettiworth excused himself to mingle with his ‘contacts’ and Parkin wandered off in the hope of finding some of the fellow antiquarians and naturalists he had become acquainted with at meetings of the learned societies.

  Anson was relieved and delighted to be left alone with Cassandra, the more so when she slipped her arm through his. He smiled at her protectively and they walked slowly through the throng, content to be alone together even in such a crowd.

  After a while their people-watching was interrupted by the return of Pettiworth and the old gentleman, who was smiling broadly.

  ‘Did you find any luminaries, uncle?’

  ‘No, I imagine that there are precious few among all these preening militarists, but I did have the pleasure of conversing with General Bonaparte!’

  ‘Good grief!’ Anson was truly amazed and would have given his eye teeth to have bumped into the man many Britons rated a monster. ‘You actually met him?’

  ‘I did, and we conversed. In fact I instigated the flow of conversation.’

  This could be important. What valuable gem had Parkin heard from the Corsican’s lips that could be passed on to the faceless ones back in Kent?

  ‘What did you say?’

  Parkin beamed. ‘I saw him approaching and said “Bonjour General”!’

  ‘And he replied?’

  ‘Yes, he nodded to me and said “Bonjour!”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I had intended to ask him if he thought the peace would last, but unfortunately some extremely tall guardsmen with huge moustaches moved him on to a group of ambassadors from vassal states who were clearly desperate to curry favour with him.’

  Anson could not disguise the ghost of a smile. So, no pearl of wisdom or hint of useful intelligence from the lips of France’s First Consul, then?

  *

  Back in Seagate, Sam Fagg was contemplating his future with some misgivings.

  ‘Why the long face, Sam? I thought you’d have bought the Mermaid and be looking for a couple of plump barmaids by now.’

  ‘Never ’appen, mate. I changed me mind. After what we just done up at Woodhurst I got the taste fer a bit of action, like, and can’t bear the thought of settlin’ dahn. Not yet, anyways. I’m gonna take a few weeks orf, boozing, wenchin’ an’ that, and then I might see if the revenue’ll take me on.’

  ‘You, on the side of the law? Like they say, set a thief to catch a thief!’

  Fagg ignored the sarcasm. ‘What abaht you, Tom?’

  ‘Dunno. I’m going to report back to Phineas about the Woodhurst business...’

  ‘And his daughter?’ Fagg asked archly.

  ‘Yeah, and his daughter.’

  ‘So can we expect a weddin’?’

  Hoover smiled. ‘Mebbe. But like you I ain’t ready to settle down. What would I do? I don’t fancy sitting around out in the sticks twiddling my fingers. She’d soon get fed up with me.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘Officially I’m still in the marines, so I might take myself up to Chatham and see if they’ve got a berth for me. But with the peace and all, well, there’s not much chance of any action.’

  Fagg sucked on his pipe and blew a plume of smoke skywards. ‘It’s a funny fing. When you’re in the navy — or marines, I s’ppose — all you want is to get aht. But once ye’re aht you wish you was back in.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a pity Mister Anson ain’t here. I reckon he’d feel the same and come up with something we could all do.’

  50

  Ghosts from the Past

  Temporarily separated from the Parkins, who had wandered over to the Tuileries palace to join others apparently trying to peer through the windows of what they had been told was Josephine’s suite, Anson spun at a tap on his shoulder.

  He was confronted by a small, balding, cadaverous man wearing civilian clothes.

  The man took off his thick spectacles and blinked as he polished them with a handkerchief, asking in excellent if heavily accented English: ‘Lieutenant Anson? Your name is very familiar to me.’

  ‘How did you know—?’

  ‘Your name was on the list of foreigners granted access today and Englishmen of military age are easy enough to identify.’

  ‘If my name is familiar you may be thinking, perhaps, of my illustrious namesake Admiral Lord Anson, the great circumnavigator and reformer of our navy? I’m afraid I’m only a very distant kinsman.’

  Replacing his spectacles, the Frenchman shook his head. ‘No. I recall your name because we came close to meeting in Boulogne when your Admiral Nelson saw fit to bombard the port and later to mount a...’

  He paused, searching for the right word, and Anson offered: ‘Disastrous?’

  The Frenchman smirked. ‘Thank you, yes, a disastrous boat attack. At the time of the bombardment you were there in the company of a renegade, were you not, Hurel by name?’

  Anson was now convinced that this was the sinister colonel of intelligence who had questioned Hurel during their reconnaissance mission in Boulogne. He thought for a moment. There was little point in denial. ‘Hurel? Oh yes, a royalist rather than a renegade, I believe.’

  ‘And where is this Hurel now?’

  Praying that Hurel would not suddenly appear, he answered as nonchalantly as he was able. ‘He went off to take the waters at Tunbridge Wells, I understand. The spa is popular with French émigrés, especially the ladies, hence Hurel’s keenness to take the cure there.’

  ‘The cure? He should ’ave come to Paris with you, monsieur. I know ways of curing such men without the need of spas.’ He stared at Anson, his thick lenses making his eyes appear to bulge. ‘And what I have in mind is a permanent cure.’

  Anson imagined the intelligence man’s remedy would involve torture and a date with a firing squad — or guillotine.

  ‘Fortunately Hurel will not be needing your cure, colonel.’

  The Frenchman started at the use of his rank. It confirmed beyond doubt that Anson clearly knew exactly who and what he was — briefed no doubt by Hurel — and it killed the politesse of the conversation stone dead.

  ‘So you know who I am, monsieur, and you are aware that Hurel was unmasked when genuine escapers from your filthy prison hulks reported your spying mission to me?’

  Anson chose not to respond.

  ‘On my orders they pursued you and you escaped from Boulogne only by what you English call the skin of your teeth. But I warn you that the men who pursued you are now on my staff. They know who you are and while you are in France they will be keeping their eyes on you. Take one step out of line and poof, you will be taken, peace or no peace.’

  ‘I am obliged to you for that advice, colonel. My companions and I are here merely as tourists, sampling the delights of Paris that have been denied to us by years of war.’

  ‘If that is so, you have nothing to fear, monsieur. Enjoy your stay, although you would be well advised to depart immediately should war suddenly break out again. If it does it will be what ’unters call open season — on Englishmen.’

  A moustachioed officer in a gaudy hussar uniform approached, with fur-edged jacket — the pelisse — hanging from his left shoulder like a dead animal and a lady on his right arm dripping jewels and displaying a large expanse of chest.

  Anson used the opportunity to back away and disappear into the melee in search of the rest of his party.

  He spotted Parkin and Cassandra near the refreshment tables, availing themselves of un-smuggled French wine for a change. But as he made his way towards them he started at seeing another familiar face: Citoyen Bardet — the French officer who had escaped from a Medway hulk and pursued him in Boulogne.

  The intelligence colonel had mentioned that this man and his fellow escapers were now on his staff but spotting him here, so close, was a shock.

  He slipped behind a statue so he could observe Bardet without being spotted.r />
  Yes, it was definitely him — a coarse-featured individual with thick curly hair, looking about him as if seeking someone: him!

  When Anson had first met ‘Citizen’, as the hulk guards called him, he’d had a straggly, unkempt beard and was wearing tattered sulphur-yellow prisoner-of-war garb. But now he was in a smart blue naval officer’s uniform and sporting a neatly-trimmed beard. In view of what the intelligence colonel had told him there was little doubt in Anson’s mind that Bardet had already been set to keep an eye on him and his party.

  The last thing he wanted was to endanger his friends. What’s more, Bell was an old soldier in possession of a stash of firearms. The French could easily make something out of that if they so chose. And what if they were to discover that Hurel was with them?

  As he watched, two men in plain clothes joined Bardet — no doubt ‘Citizen’s’ bodyguards on the hulk who had escaped with him. From the information he had been given at the time by Captain Wills, Anson knew that one of them was a Parisian called Girault, a butcher in civilian life, and the other a Corsican known as Cornacchia, the crow, who looked as if he would cut your throat as soon as look at you — and probably would.

  Bardet appeared to be briefing the other two and while their attention was engaged, Anson slipped away, joined Parkin and Cassandra and hurried them away.

  ‘Ah, my dear boy! I was about to send out a search party.’ Then, noting Anson’s anxious look, he asked: ‘Are you alright? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’

  ‘I’m very much afraid I just have come across one from my past. I’ve been sought out and chatted up by a sinister intelligence colonel, the man who questioned Hurel during our recce of Boulogne.’

  ‘Really? What on earth did he want?’

  ‘Truth be told I think he wanted to chain me up in a dungeon and remove my body parts bit by bit. But fortunately, as we are at peace, he restricted himself to barely-veiled threats.’