'Yes, sir. He did. When I began to regain my senses I heard him give a series of commands.'
Captain Rennie dried off his face, stared away a moment, and: 'Well well, I think you must have imagined that, you know. You had struck your head, and was confused. What you heard was in course one of the boat's crew taking command, an experienced man that—'
'No, sir, no.' Earnestly. 'If you wish, any of the boat's crew will confirm it, sir. Mr Tonnelier took command, and used an oar to steer the boat. I would swear on my oath ...'
'Swear what, Mr Leigh?' Looking at him.
'That Mr Tonnelier ... is or was a sea officer, sir, RN. He even ordered me to sit down.'
'Yes yes. Well well.' Draping his towel at his neck. 'Everything and everybody was in a state of confusion in the boat, Mr Leigh, and no doubt Mr Tonnelier, as a man of substance, has wide knowledge of how to govern men, and merely wished to – to protect his life, and yours, indeed, in an emergency. We must be grateful that by a happy chance he was able to do so. Hey?'
'Aye, sir. If you say so.' Unconvinced. 'But I still think—'
Over him: 'At any rate, he was got ashore, and that was our purpose and design. It is a very great pity about the coxswain, but there it is, and nothing to be done. Thank you, Mr Leigh. Y'may retire, and I will send Dr Wing to examine you presently.' A nod of dismissal. 'Cutton!'
*
'Good morning, Mr Mappin.'
'Prime Minister.' A bow.
'Sit down, will you?' Indicating a chair. 'A glass of something?'
'No, thank you, sir.' Sitting down, flipping the tails of his coat on either side neatly.
'No?' Mr Pitt poured wine for himself.
'It is a little early for me, thank you, sir.'
'Ah.' The Prime Minister lifted his glass, and sucked down half of the wine. 'Now, Mr Mappin, your plan is how far advanced?'
'Well, sir, that depends on which plan you mean. I am at work on many and several at once.'
'The French plan.' Looking narrowly at Mr Mappin.
'The frigate plan, sir?'
'Exactly so, Mr Mappin.' Sucking down the remainder of his wine, and refilling his glass. 'How do we progress?'
'He has got ashore into France. To date, to this hour, we have heard nothing more.'
'The frigate has returned to England?'
'No, Prime Minister.'
'An attending cutter, then?'
'There is no cutter with her, sir. The frigate—'
'Then how d'y'know for certain your man is in France? What is his name? Lieutenant ... ?'
'Hayter, sir. He has gone into France under the name Tonnelier, a silk merchant.'
'Yes, yes, I mind that name. I repeat: how d'y'know he's there, if your ship ain't here?'
'I have received a communication from another source, sir.'
'Do not be obtuse, Mr Mappin, now. Who told you what, how, and when? Hey? I am pressed in many distinctions, and I will like to hear you in plain English.' Another pull of wine, and he drew toward him on the desk a sheaf of documents tied with a ribbon. 'D'y'see these, Mr Mappin? I must go to Windsor, directly, and seek His Majesty's signature. They are ... well, never mind what they are, exact. They concern debt, Mr Mappin. Debt. If I am able to persuade His Majesty to take up his pen I shall be grateful. He frets about America still, when matters at home are what concern me. Important matters elsewhere – in France, as an instance – cannot occupy me paramount. But when I do think of them, and ask for enlightenment, I expect to get it, Mr Mappin, I expect to get it.'
'Yes, sir, forgive me.' A tight half-smile. 'The communication was by word of mouth, from a young lady that returned from France yesternight, in the packet-boat. The message had come to her by a horseman, at the port.'
'You trust her?'
'She is Lady Sybil Cranham, sir, daughter of the Marquess of Chalke. She is a confidante of our principal friends there.'
'Then in course she is above suspicion. Where, in France?'
'He is to be taken to the Château de Châtaigne.'
'Where is that?' A slight shake of the head.
'It is near to the coast in the Pays de Léon, north-west of Brest. Isolated, secure, hid away. Our friends believe it is the ideal place.'
'Very well, thank you, Mr Mappin. I will not detain you now. Send word to me, though, as soon as you hear anything further. Will you? Your plan is important, and I do not wish to neglect it.'
'I will, sir, certainly.' Rising.
'Good morning.'
'Good morning, Prime Minister.'
*
'Are we to return to England, sir?' Mr Souter, lying in his cot in his cabin. His breath was foul, noticed Captain Rennie.
'Nay, Mr Souter. As you are aware, we are here to carry out a duty of survey along the French coast, and we shall do so, as ordered. Tomorrow we venture south.'
'We do not call at Brest?'
'We do not. How d'y'fare today, Mr Souter? Any better?'
'I – I endeavour to feel better, sir.'
'What ails you? What does Dr Wing say?'
Rennie knew what Dr Wing thought. Dr Wing had already given his opinion in plain, forthright language, the day previous. 'He is constipated. He don't believe it, and will not swallow the purgative I have prescribed. Won't take his ball pill.'
'You are certain it is simple costiveness?'
'I am.'
'What does he think it is?'
'Scurvy.'
'Scurvy! That is nonsense, when we've had fresh produce all the way from Portsmouth until now. There ain't a single scurvy case in the ship.'
'I know it, sir, and you know it. He don't. Or won't.'
'Then I must attempt to persuade him myself. I don't want to lose another man so soon in this commission, Doctor.'
'Then I wish you good luck, Captain. Mr Souter has a certain stubborness of character and perception that I have noticed before in his race.'
'Have ye, indeed? Leave him to me, Dr Wing. Leave the fellow to me.'
'What does Dr Wing say?' repeated Captain Rennie now in the lieutenant's cramped cabin.
'I do not think Dr Wing knows what ails me, sir. He – pretends that he does. But I am not persuaded. I believe, myself, that—'
'Not persuaded?' Over him. 'I see. Will I tell you something, Mr Souter, about Dr Wing?'
'As you wish, sir.'
'Dr Wing, in my opinion – arrived at from long direct experience of his activity – is very nearly the best doctor-surgeon the Royal Navy has produced in thirty year. He believes you to be costive, Mr Souter.'
'I am certainly not—'
'He believes it, and so do I. The cure is a ball pill. You will oblige me by swallowing it now, without the loss of a moment.' Producing the ball pill from a twist of paper in his pocket. He picked up a glass from the cabinet beside Mr Souter's hanging cot, and held it out with the pill.
'I am afraid I must refuse that request, sir. I have no need for a ball pill. I am suffering from—'
'You are suffering from disobedience, Mr Souter. Y'will swallow this damn' pill right quick, or know the consequence.'
'Captain Rennie, I decline to submit to bullying.' Very pale, but holding up his chin.
'Decline to submit! By God, sir, you are impertinent! You there!'
'Sir?' A ship's boy, attending.
'Find the lieutenant of Marines, and ask him to come to me here, at once, with his sergeant and two men. Jump, now.'
'Aye, sir.' Touching his forehead, running up the ladder.
'You – you intend to place me under arrest, sir?'
'I intend to teach you a lesson, Mr Souter. A lesson ye'll never forget. Unless ... unless, in course, you wish to swallow your ball pill?'
'And – if I don't?' Still stubbornly defiant.
'You will be marched in full view of the ship's company to the head, and there deprived of your breeches. And there you will sit, sir, upon the seat of ease, until you are eased. Do you apprehend me?'
'I – I do not bel
ieve that you would do—'
'You don't believe me?' Looking out of the cabin. 'Ah, there y'are, Lieutenant Melly. Your sergeant is with you, and two men?'
'Very well, I will – I will take the pill.' Mr Souter, sitting up in his coat.
Captain Rennie ducked back inside the cabin, handed the pill to the lieutenant, and the glass of water, and the pill was duly swallowed.
At first light of the following day, Expedient weighed and proceeded south through the Chenal du Four toward the Pointe du Raz. The initial part of her mission had been accomplished, but the pretence of survey would have to be maintained for the time being.
*
He woke. The blindfold at last removed, and his hands untied. His captors gone. James blinked in the painful brightness of light, and saw that he was in a simple bedchamber, with plain walls, a high ceiling, a fireplace, and a tall double window with open shutters, overlooking ... what? He stood up and went to the window. Below lay a stone courtyard, a high wall with a massive gate, and beyond a solid round tower with a conical roof. He rubbed his wrists, and pins and needles prickled through his arms as feeling returned. He pushed open the windows, and smelled hay, sweet chestnut, and roses. Yes, roses, he thought, or perhaps it was another bloom.
He turned to look at the bed on which he had been placed. It was narrow, as narrow as a hanging cot. There was no other furniture, save a commode half hidden by a screen in the far corner. He strode there, availed himself gratefully of the commode, and returned to the window. Peered out and down, and tried to assess where his room was in relation to the rest of the house. Obviously a large house, very large – a château. He put his head out and glanced upward, and saw that the window was in a mansard roof, very steep. Glanced down again, and judged the drop to the stone flags to be sixty or seventy feet. He was high aloft here, and no backstay to clap on to and slide down, nor shrouds neither. To himself:
'Trapped, my boy. Imprisoned. Christ's blood, if these are my friends let me find no enemies here in France.'
He yawned, stretched, and realised now that most of his clothes had been stripped from him. His coat, waistcoat, stockings and shoes. His hat. He clutched at his head. His peruke. He was bareheaded, exposed, chilled, in this great stone house. He was thirsty, and hungry. What o'clock was it? He glanced at the sky, and at the angle of the light across the courtyard, and again sniffed the air. Unless his senses deceived him it was early morning. He had lain here all night. He sighed, stretched his arms above his head, flexed his knees, and then on a thought strode across the chamber to the heavy door. Tried the iron handle. Found it locked.
'In course it is locked, you damn' fool.'
He sat on the bed, and after a moment lay back and mused on the questions Mr Mappin had never properly answered. Why must he go to a remote part of the Breton coast, disguised as a silk trader? Who were the 'friends' in France? Why had he been sent to meet them? What was the true purpose of his task, of all this subterfuge and discomfort?
He had been brought here last night, after two days – or was it three? – in a hovel, or a barn, a place anyway of richly pungent farmyard odours, then a further arduous journey over long distance across fields, and ditches, and then along rough tracks in a cart or trap of some kind. He had been fed meagrely, and given only water to drink. The water he had been given last night tasted of stone, and earth. Well-water. His captors – he was unable to think of them in any other distinction – had refused to answer his questions, had indeed enjoined his silence. His anger, confusion, dismay – all vehemently and repeatedly expressed – had been resolutely ignored. The thought of his treatment at their hands fired his anger all over again, and he jumped up off the cot and strode round the room. There was no looking glass. He had no real sense now of his appearance. He touched his face – and found that his beard had been shaved off.
'Good God, then they have removed all of my disguise. They know I am not Henry Tonnelier, not a silk merchant, and they believe I am a spy. I am trapped here a prisoner, and very probably they mean to execute me. Christ Jesu, what a fool I was to agree to Mappin's scheme. Four hundred a year? You ninny. You bloody blockhead.'
The ratcheting click of the lock, and a woman's voice:
'Le petit déjeuner, monsieur.'
A pretty young woman of perhaps eighteen years, dark-haired and black-eyed in her apron and cap. James took the tray from her, sat on the bed and ate rolls, butter and sweet preserve, and sucked down a large bowl of dark, fragrant, reviving coffee. Presently the girl returned with ewer and basin, face cloth and towel, the water steaming hot.
James smiled at her. 'Merci, ma'm'selle.'
'Monsieur.' A little curtsey and she withdrew, but not before her black eyes met his.
He stripped, washed himself, dried himself with the towel, and pulled on again his shirt and breeches.
'What may I take ashore in the way of baggage?' he had asked Mr Mappin.
'Take nothing.'
'Nothing, Mr Mappin? Not even a valise?'
The eyes closed, the neat head shaken once. 'Nothing.'
'How long am I to remain in France?'
'Mm... a short time. Anything you may need will be provided for you. You will want for nothing.'
'Indeed? Not even fresh linen?'
'Not even that. These are civilised people, you mark me? You will be treated handsome on all occasions.'
'Handsome!' With irony, glancing round the bare chamber. He wandered to the window, and gazed disconsolately down once more. And leaned forward. The great gate was open, and a carriage had just come into the courtyard. The echoing clatter of hooves and wheels. The doors of the carriage opened, and the people stepped down. A gust of wind from the open gate sent straw swirling and scattering round their legs, and lifted the ribboned bonnet of the lone woman among them. She clutched at the bonnet, turning away from the wind in her waisted silk jacket and petticoat, and James saw her face. Even at this distance from her, and high above, she was the most strikingly beautiful creature he had ever seen.
'Good heaven ... who is that?'
And then he turned from the window and looked at the door. Had that girl turned the lock as she left? He did not remember having heard the squeak of the key, and the click. She had carried a large ring of keys at her waist. Had she forgotten to lock him in as she went away?
He ran to the door – and found it locked. And roundly cursed himself.
'You fucking poltroon you! Why did y'not overpower that slip of a girl and make good your escape? Hey? Hey? You are too much the gentleman, by Christ! Instead of admiring her dainty arse, you should have took her bloody keys, y'timid dimwit, and locked her in!'
He kicked the door, and stubbed his bare toe. Wincing:
'A fine, upstanding spy you picked, Mr Brough Bloody Mappin.'
James was left alone in the bedchamber until noon, and he lay dozing on the cot because he was still tired after the rigours of the past few days.
At midday he woke to the sound of footfalls outside the door, and sat up. The lock was turned and the door opened, and two men came in, the younger one carrying a plain wooden chair. He placed it in the middle of the floor, and the older man looked over at James and pointed to it. James eased himself warily off the cot and limped to the chair. His toe was still painful. He sat down. The younger man – powerfully built, dour-looking – stood by the door, which he closed but did not lock, as if he and his companion wished James to attempt an escape.
The older man, who was perhaps forty-five, and dressed very plain, with a simple, close-fitted wig, had a gaunt face and an angular frame. In educated French:
'You have hurt yourself, monsieur?'
'No. Yes. I struck my toe, an accident.'
'You wish for a doctor?'
'A doctor? No, thank you. Will you please tell me, monsieur, why I have been brought here, and held captive?'
'I will ask the questions, monsieur, and you will oblige me with truthful answers. Lies I will not tolerate.'
&n
bsp; 'Ah, I see.' A grimace of a smile.
'How did you arrive in France?'
'How did I— You know very well, monsieur. I came ashore at the Pointe de Malaise in a boat, as arranged.'
'Arranged? I did not arrange it. I have arranged nothing. You are here because I wish to know why you have come to France.'
'Again, you must know the reason. I do not. I was not told. I am yet at sea, as to that.'
'You do not know why you came? Pfff. Do not play the lackwit, monsieur. It will go very hard with you, if you do not treat me with respect.' Cold eyes, a full-lipped, unkind, sardonic mouth.
Fear curled in James's belly, but he lifted his head and stared at his interlocutor defiant, and said nothing.
'What is your name, monsieur?'
'Henry Tonnelier.' Sticking to it, as instructed.
'You, a Frenchman? But no. No no, it is not possible.'
'I never said I was French. I am a silk merchant from England. But your men knew that, didn't they? That is why they asked me on the beach—'
'My people said nothing of silk.' A hint of irritation? Or was it dismay? James watched him.
'They most certainly did, monsieur. I was challenged in those words, exact. "Are you the silk merchant?"'
His interlocutor now removed his wig with an irritated sigh, revealing close-cropped grey hair. James watched him narrowly, and:
'I never saw the faces of the people who seized me on the beach, and yet you have just admitted that they were your men. I do not know if they were the same men that brought me here. I was blindfolded three days, and there were different voices all round me. I do not know this house, neither. I have no idea where it is. But you know that I do not. So why do you—'
'Be silent, monsieur. Do not make me angry.'
James now decided that he must attack, and ran out his guns:
'Do not make you angry! By God, you arrogant wretch, I will not bear this any more!' He stood up, and at once the young man by the door came towards him. James grabbed up the chair, lifted it by the ladder-back, and faced them both.
'You attempt to do me harm, either one of you, and by Christ I will smash skulls!'
The older man now smiled, and produced from his coat a pocket pistol, which he cocked.
The Gathering Storm Page 12
