King, Ship, and Sword l-16

by Dewey Lambdin

  Finally, an elegant young fellow from the French Foreign Ministry approached Sir Anthony Paisley-Templeton, whispered in his ear, and indicated that that worthy should herd his presentees to a prominent place in the centre of the hall, before a set of chairs and settees quickly cleared of people, one chair in particular that would serve as a throne 'til the real thing was dusted off and dragged down from the garret.

  "Not very big, is he?" Caroline whispered to Lewrie as they were led to the makeshift seat of honour.

  Napoleon Bonaparte stood about two and a half inches shy of her husband's five feet nine. To Lewrie's memory, Napoleon had put on a few pounds since '94, but still appeared slim. His hair was now more carefully dressed, no longer a sans culottes page-boy; frankly, Bonaparte's hair was thinning, and was combed forward over his brow, shorn closer to the ears, with longer sideburns.

  Forgot he and I have much the same blue-grey eyes, Lewrie told himself as they approached. From one side of the seating arrangement, a liveried servant came with a long bundle wrapped in dark blue, gilt-edged velvet. From the other, there came another man, bearing a much slimmer package.

  Paisley-Templeton, presented first by a simpering Frog diplomat underling, responded in his excellent French with over a minute or two of "gilt and be-shit" diplomatist-speak, with so many subordinate clauses that Lewrie's head began to reel trying to follow it. At last, he recognised that he and Caroline were being named to Bonaparte, and made a "leg" with his hand over his heart, as Caroline performed a very fine curtsy (she had not imbibed as much champagne as he!) with a fetching incline of her head.

  "Your servant, sir," Lewrie spoke up, in English, in English fashion, and he heard Paisley-Templeton making excuses for their lack of fluency in French.

  "The First Consul says you are welcome, Captain Lewrie… He expresses enchantment with Madame, and finds her beauty, and her gown delightful," Paisley-Templeton translated. "He remembers you, he says. Toulon… Fort Le Garde exploding… firing upon your ship, blowing her up, as well, uhm… You would not accept parole, and he told you then that, ehm… 'you have hair on your arse.' Had, rather," their representative said, deeply blushing at the crudity, while the gathered audience tittered and chuckled.

  "Tell him that I recall, vividly," Lewrie said, not even trying to tangle his tongue with his French, not after four glasses of wine. "Say that I am honoured that he would remember such a minor incident, such a minor encounter. Say also that, had I known who he was then, or to what heights he would rise, I would have tried to be more pleasant, even given the soggy circumstances."

  "Of course, sir," Sir Anthony said, before launching into one more long simpering palaver. Lewrie noted, though, that Bonaparte had his lips curled in a faint expression of dislike for this pantomime. Unconsciously, one finger of Napoleon's left hand tapped on his thigh.

  "He says that you appeared a half-drowned rat, sir," Paisley-Templeton translated, "with your stockings round your ankles, and your breeches draining water."

  "Aye, I expect I did," Lewrie agreed with a grin. "Though, as I recall, General Bonaparte looked natty. Does he still have that white horse he rode? A splendid beast."

  The pleasantries went on for another minute or so before Sir Anthony got to the meat of the matter, expressing a well-rehearsed preamble about Lewrie's wish, now there was a lasting peace between their respective countries, to return the swords he had taken, restoring them to France and to the families of the fallen.

  At a nod from Napoleon, the liveried servant with the large bundle came to lay it across Lewrie's arms, just long enough for him to re-take possession before the draped bundle was formally laid at Napoleon's feet and spread open to reveal all five scabbarded blades, with paper tags bound to the hilts to indicate who were the former owners.

  At another nod, the other servant came forward and gave it to Napoleon. He whipped the cloth covering off and tossed it aside, then held up Lewrie's old hanger for all to see before stepping forward-Sir Anthony gave Lewrie a slight nudge to make him take a step towards Napoleon to meet him halfway-and Napoleon held it out to him. But, before he actually let it go, he began another long speech, this time with his lips slit to nothing whenever a pause came, and he didn't look all that happy.

  "Oh Lord, sir… he asks what sort of peace is it when England stalls and delays fulfilling its part of the terms. I won't bore you with all of it," Paisley-Templeton said with a very good imitation of a placid expression on his stricken phyz, nodding now and again as the First Consul had himself a little rant at Lewrie's expense. "He hopes you never have cause to use your sword against France again, but… does Great Britain continue in its perfidious course, the need to draw it will become more likely, and he… he expresses a desire that England sends him a proper ambassador, and accepts his own in London, else… before mistakes and confusion engendered by junior diplomatists do irreparable harm to the amity between our nations."

  Napoleon clapped his mouth shut for a moment, his lips pressed closer together, and his expression stormy, whilst the gathered crowd sounded quite pleased with his rant, the generals that Lewrie could see sharing wolfish, eager glances between them.

  "He presents you with your old blade, sir," Paisley-Templeton said at last, looking as if he wished to daub his face with a handkerchief. "From one warrior to another."

  A quick imperative shake of the sword and Lewrie reached out to take it. He had enough wit to bow again and express his utmost thanks along with some of those phrases Sir Anthony had written for him: great honour to be presented; so pleased the exchange could be made; thanks for his excellency's indulgence; let us pray that peace prevails, and all that tom-foolery.

  Lewrie stepped back at last, with a final bow in congй, as Caroline did a Parting curtsy, and Sir Anthony led them away from the Presence. "It don't look like we'll have tea with Josephine after all," Lewrie whispered to his wife. "Sorry 'bout that, m'dear."

  "To see her was quite enough," Caroline told him. "She's not as fetching as we've heard." An incline of her head led Lewrie's eyes to a woman in a pale pink and white ensemble, with her hair up in Grecian style, and roses in her hair, who was now joining Napoleon.

  "Should we scamper, now it's done?" Lewrie asked their chaperone "Or must we circulate and try t'be polite any longer? I don't think he cared much for it."

  "A quarter-hour or so, a last glass of champagne, and we could depart," Sir Anthony told them, looking troubled and whey-faced. "And not appear to be fleeing with our tails tucked."

  Once back in his appartements in the Tuileries Palace, Napoleon Bonaparte had his body-servant, Rustam, peel him out of his sash and uniform coat. He tore away his own cravat and tossed it on the floor, crossing to the fireplace (Napoleon loved a fire, even in temperate weather) and furiously jabbing at the coals and embers with the poker. He even kicked one of the mostly consumed logs in anger, an act that cost him many ruined shoes and boots.

  "Monsieur Bourrienne! Monsieur, monsieur!" he called for his private secretary. "Allez vite! Bring me Talleyrand and Fouchй. I wish to know who thought that… charade a good idea!"

  And it did not do his simmering temper any good that it took a good quarter-hour for Fouchй to appear… without Talleyrand.

  "Where is the salaud? Still fumbling under that silly Madame Grand's skirt again, Fouchй?" Napoleon snapped.

  "I would suspect so, General," Fouchй sarcastically replied. "Is this about the Englishman? I am relieved that the affair is over, and that he had no ulterior designs upon your life. All my careful precautions proved un-necessary," he added, almost preening, awaiting his master's thanks. "A day or two more of sight-seeing and they will be gone, now the exchange is done." Bourrienne had warned him that the First Consul was angry, and why.

  "I will not be settled in my mind 'til the fumier is back across the sea, Napoleon spat, poking at the fire again. "Much better would it be that my troops had slaughtered that Lewrie and all his men right there in the surf as they came ashore! I read the re
ports you sent me from the Ministry of Marine… about his connexions with the Anglais secret service, Fouchй. That fellow is more dangerous to France than he appears! Not the sort I'd leave alive or turn my back on without finding a way to neutralise him, did I run across him on the field of battle. What an insult to the honour of France, to lay dead and conquered men's swords before me… to smile and speak of peace when what was really meant was to flaunt their navy's superiority to my face and present me with the blades of abject failures! As a warning to France what will happen at sea should we contemplate a vigorous response to their continued perfidy."

  Napoleon paced at a rapid gait from one end of his offices to the next, pausing to jab or kick at the fire at the middle of every circuit.

  "The fellow is not a Nelson, General," Fouchй pointed out. "He is only a minor frigate capitaine… a very fortunate one, we learn."

  "Fortunate?" Napoleon scoffed, giving the fire another poke. "A soldier or sailor makes his own fortune, Fouchй! Non non, what the Ministry of Marine reports of his doings shows me a man born for war. In time, he might become another Nelson… another pestilent, obnoxious, poorly educated and piss-proud… Englishman! As poorly as our navy has done so far… non. It might be better for us that this salaud does not… that he drops dead of something would… Ah, ohй," Bonaparte barked. "Here at last, are we, Monsieur Talleyrand? I wish for you to explain to me what gain there was in that ignoble theatric you recommended so highly… that you forced me to endure!"

  "I will see to it at once, General," Fouchй said, certain that he understood his master's command to a tee. He was anxious to depart, no matter how much pleasure could be derived from seeing the arrogant, languid Talleyrand being scolded, and a strip of flesh torn from his arse.

  "Fine, fine, Fouchй… good work, your precautions," Napoleon offhandedly said with an abrupt wave of his free hand, too intent on scolding Foreign Minister Talleyrand to consider how Fouchй might interpret his idle, spiteful wish. "Now, monsieur… tell me what…"

  Fouchй left the offices and quickly made his way out of earshot, his keen mind already laying plans, contemplating the methods and means, and organising a list of likely personnel to fulfill the First Consul's order.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It had been a grand jaunt up along the Seine to Melun and Fontainebleau to tour the pristine forests and the grand hunting lodges of the displaced nobility; over thirty English miles each way, but more than worth it, for the side-trip had soothed Caroline into calmer takings. That, and several smaller vineyards' best wines, and heartier provincial dishes than the effete kick-shaws found in Paris.

  Still, it felt grand to kick off shoes, coat, and waist-coat and sprawl on one of the settees in their rented parlour-Lewrie upon one, and Caroline on another, in stockinged feet, too. She was tucked up with a new book in her lap when there came a rapping on the hallway door. Jules went to answer it.

  "Stap me, if the Lewries didn't get eaten by the Corsican ogre!" Sir Pulteney Plumb brayed as he swept in, bestowing an elaborate bow to each with a flourish of his hat. "Imogene and I are dyin' of curiosity as to how your levee at the Tuileries Palace went, so much so that we simply had to barge in and enquire, haw haw haw!"

  "Main-well, if ye like 'icy' and 'threatenin'," Lewrie said as he got to his feet. "You find us not quite ready to-"

  "And, to extend an invitation to supper this evenin', where you may reveal all the juicy details to us," Sir Pulteney blathered on. "I have discovered a pearl of a wee restaurant in the Rue Saint-Nicaise. Odd's Fish, but their vol-au-vent, their bouchйe а la reine, and their sautй а la provenзale are simply divine, and you must try the place… before you leave Paris. Oh, do say you will join us… Our treat?" Sir Pulteney tempted, then added, "Imogene and I have news to impart to you, as well, which news you will find astounding, sir and madam."

  "Well," Caroline said, cocking her head to one side and looking at her husband. "If you do not find our travelling clothes too plain, Sir Pulteney."

  "Begad, Mistress Lewrie, no fear o' that, for you are always elegant," plumb pooh-poohed. "It is we Plumbs who may shame you, haw!"

  Indeed, Sir Pulteney was garbed in darker, soberer fashion than was his usual wont.

  "'Tis a splendid evenin' for a stroll before we dine… grand for both appetite and the digestion, to which the French pay particular care," Sir Pulteney further suggested. "A turn along the Seine in the twilight?"

  "Yes, let's," Caroline agreed, deciding for them.

  A quarter hour later, after they'd dressed, the three of them slowly ambled along the Galerie du Louvre, enjoying the coolness of a breeze off the Seine and the soft, lingering amber sunset. Sir Pulteney had babbled, brayed, and japed most amusingly, plying his walking-stick with the panache of a regimental drum-major, but then fell into an unaccountably gloomy silence. At last, he turned his head to look at the Lewries, and muttered through a fool's smile.

  "Pray, do not react at all to what I have to impart to you, or make any sign of distress. Pretend I tell you another amusing tale-can you do that? There may be people watching us this very instant."

  "Watchin'? What the Devil for?" Lewrie asked, frowning, fighting the urge to peer about. Caroline put her hand in his but kept a silent shudder well hidden.

  "Years ago, as the Revolution turned violent, and right through the Reign of Terror in Ninety-Three," Sir Pulteney Plumb explained in a softer voice, "there was a grand English lord who was so appalled by the injustice and bloodshed that he organised a league of gentlemen dedicated to the rescue of innocents from the guillotine and the Mob… which league was quite successful, right up to the death of Robespierre and the outbreak of the war with France in February of Ninety-Three. Of course, this league sometimes depended upon the aid, and the intelligence passed on, from well-disguised Royalist sympathisers here in Paris, throughout France. I confess to you only that I was once a member of that league then, and now, able to make cautious rencontres with former French supporters… even under the noses of the Police Nationale."

  "What the bloody-" Lewrie began to flummox.

  "Hist! Listen carefully, I pray you!" Sir Pulteney cautioned, then continued. "The rebel Georges Cadoudal's failed attempt to kill Bonaparte with a hidden bomb a while back-quite near here in point of fact, at the intersection of the Rue Saint-Nicaise and the Rue de la Loi-has tightened the surveillance of the Police upon any who might still harbour Royalist, anti-Bonaparte feelings.

  "Yet!" Sir Pulteney went on with a louder bark, as if getting to the punch-line of a jape, "one of our old confidants sought me out whilst you were away, and told me that whatever it is you did or said to Napoleon has made him exceedingly wroth with you,… and he has given orders that you are to be… eliminated for your insult to him."

  "My insult?" Lewrie gawped. "But what the Devil did-"

  "Dear God!" Caroline softly exclaimed, blanching.

  "Now laugh. Laugh as if I just told you the grandest amusing tale!" Sir Pulteney hissed, breaking out his characteristic donkey's bray. The Lewries' amusement sounded much lamer, as if they were merely being polite or the tale had not been all that amusing.

  "Therefore, you both must flee Paris, instanter," Sir Pulteney said, leaning closer and urging them to begin strolling again. "Pack as if you haven't a care in the world, wind up your accounts, without showing any signs of haste. Above all, do not let on to your hired servants or the concierge of your lodgings back yonder that you are departing in a panic. Most importantly, do not discuss the matter if a servant is anywhere within earshot, for you may trust no one whom you do not know, even a fellow Englishman whom you suddenly encounter here in Paris… He may be a skilled, bilingual Police agent. I will arrange for your bulkier possessions' shipment back to England, and I have already begun the scheme to spirit you back to England. If you will trust to my experience and abilities in this matter?"

  "What? Well, erm… hey?" Lewrie stammered, thinking that only a feeble idiot would trust this braying ass wit
h an empty pewter snuff box, for Sir Pulteney Plumb gave all evidence of losing it within the hour; too scatter-brained to keep up with a pocket handkerchief!

  Part of a secret league, him? Lewrie thought, incredulous over the very idea; he arranged hundreds of escapes? Best we abandon all our traps and run like Blazes, this instant! I made Napoleon angry? He wants me dead? Or, is it Charitй de Guillen's doin? Yet she's no real power here… does she?

  "Alan, if what he says is true…," Caroline almost whimpered, squeezing his hand like a vise. "What must we do? This is impossible!"

  "Softly, Mistress Lewrie, softly!" Sir Pulteney cautioned her, "and do not lose heart. You must believe that what I say is true, and that what our old league accomplished in years past we shall be able to accomplish now. plans are already afoot, soon as I was informed of Bonaparte's wrath by someone well placed in his entourage. I've sent word to some of our old compatriots in England to cross over to help, and once we reach the coast, we shall be met by a schooner, mastered by yet another of our old compatriots. Royalist sympathisers and old supporters, though Minister Fouchй and Rйal imagine they have eliminated our, and Cadoudal's, networks, I assure you that whichever route we take, there will be many along the way to aid us.