Napoleon Must Die
Page 3
“The fleet needs our help,” said Vernet darkly.
“Admiral Bruey was caught napping, overconfident,” Berthier added in tones that placed all the blame for the debacle on the naval commander’s shoulders. “I’m just glad we moved most of the supply ships into Alexandria harbor or the fool would have cost us the campaign.”
“Who could expect this?” Vernet protested. “We should have been prepared.”
“It’s the way of the British,” Victoire agreed in a lower voice that only Vernet could hear. “Why should we admire their skill when they are doing this?”
“Who has said we should admire their skill? Still, they should have placed some heavy guns on that island,” Vernet insisted.
Victoire shook her head, unwilling to reveal that it was her father who had expressed admiration for the British navy, ten years ago. She hated the smell of burning that filled the air. “Foolish people say it, those who do not have to fight them.”
Vernet glared, his eyes reddened with smoke and wrath. “They have held sway on the ocean too long. They exploit every other nation. Their rule must end.”
“Yes, yes—and how I regret it will not be today,” said Victoire, raising her hand to her face to brush away her tears, leaving a smear across her cheek. She put her hand into Vernet’s and took solace in his fingers tightening. A body had washed up to the shore. A French sailor, one arm missing and the other flapping as the waves washed past. No one moved off the dune to pull him further ashore. For a very long time they all watched as the rest of their fleet was pounded into ruin.
Most of their attention was being taken by the L’Orient. Even while black smoke poured from her sides, the flagship continued to fire with visible effect on her English tormentors. When a mast toppled off the gallant ship, Victoire buried her head briefly on Vernet’s shoulder. She remembered a dinner in Alexandria, one held to celebrate their almost bloodless capture of the city. The L’Orient’s captain had sat at their table and asked her to dance. He had been a very good dancer, graceful in the same way as her dance instructor had been years ago. It was hard to picture a man with that captain’s gentle touch amid all the horror.
Long after midnight, only the L’Orient still fought back with any vigor. Victoire suspected the crews of both sides were near exhaustion, or beyond. They had been fighting for over five hours. A few of the officers that had stood vigil with them had already drifted back to their tents. Most waited, hoping for something miraculous that could snatch victory from such utter defeat. Had not Napoleon led the army to many surprise victories in Italy?
The explosion, even over a mile distant, was strong enough to drive the tired spectators back a few steps. One moment the L’Orient was fighting on, her broadsides ragged but persistent. In an instant the proud, graceful flagship burst apart in a thunderous crash. Every ship in the harbor was racked back by the explosion. Victoire noticed that a frigate that had been listing badly could no longer be seen. Debris from the explosion rose skyward and began to shower over the entire bay. Small scraps of wood and metal rained down on the dune, none larger than a fraction of an inch across. The rumble of the explosion echoed back off the distant hills and city, rolling endlessly across the black waters of Aboukir Bay and the hundreds of men struggling to survive by clinging amid the flotsam. Where the L’Orient had sat, not even flotsam remained.
“Mary and Joseph,” whispered Vernet, his oath lost in the thunder of L’Orient’s end. He held Victoire’s hand more tightly.
Around them several people were weeping openly, and one cavalry captain swore loudly and continuously. Smoke rolled over the water toward them, hot and stinking. Many of the watchers had retreated, and now, as burning embers began to fall around them, most of those on the shore fell back, getting away from the presence of battle and defeat.
Vernet pulled Victoire after him, and together they reached a line of makeshift stalls at the edge of the camp that provided some protection. Inside, horses milled and whinnied, fretting at the smell of burning.
“I ought to arrange to send you home,” said Vernet seriously, looking down at his wife with genuine concern. “This is no place for you.”
“What do you mean?” Victoire inquired, looking for some opportunity to vent her frustration and dismay.
“I mean I should never have let you come here. You’re not a typical army wife, raised to follow the drum and live from camp to camp.” He lowered his head. “It was my mistake. We have been married such a short time, I was selfish to want you with me, even against the general’s wishes. You should be somewhere you can live as you deserve to live, not here where you—”
“This is exactly the place for me,” Victoire corrected him with some heat. “I am your wife, Lucien Vernet. What sort of creature do you think I am? I am not a rich man’s pampered darling, I’m from merchant stock. My mother knew what it was to unload shipping bales and to carry cargo from dusk until midnight, and so did her mother before her. Even when my father was elected to office, my mother continued to supervise our enterprise.” She folded her arms. “What would I do in Paris, or Rouen, with you gone? Your salary would not go far, not with you here and me in France, and my competence would not support you and me as well. Would you like to see me as a governess in a high-born household, catering to the demands of half a dozen ill-informed brats? It could come to that. Do you think my cousin would welcome me into his household? Or were you intending that I should find a little cottage in the countryside where I could throw corn to chickens while you fight the British? My inheritance would cover those expenses well enough.”
He had no answer for her, and so took refuge in bluster. “You make it sound as if I have no use for you and am looking for an excuse to be rid of you. That’s far from the truth.”
“Is it?” She put her hands on her hips in unconscious imitation of her dead mother. “How can you suggest that I leave and then tell me you don’t wish to be rid of me?” She stared at him. “Well?”
“You’re overwrought,” he mumbled.
“Nothing of the sort,” she countered, but recognized there was some truth in his accusation. “I am worried. That’s a very different matter.”
“About the British,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the smoke and chaos on the Nile.
She was just angry enough not to guard her tongue. “About Berthier,” she said, and immediately fell silent.
“What about Berthier?” asked Vernet, very much on the alert.
Now that she had begun, she knew she had to finish. “Yes. He’s spoken with me. He suspects you of killing the marine private.”
“He told you this?” Vernet demanded, his face darkening.
“He didn’t have to,” she answered, making an effort to speak sensibly. “His investigation reveals it. When he questioned me, I could see he was already half-convinced that you had done the murder. He told me to keep his remarks in confidence, but I cannot conceal what he said from you. You are my husband. It may be that he expects me to tell you.”
Vernet took a step back from her. “How could he think such a thing of me?” he asked the air.
“He has been trying to account for the time of all the officers who had some part in guarding the treasure, to discover who might have been able to kill the private without attracting attention,” said Victoire, making herself speak clearly. “From the things he asked me, it was apparent that you are one he has not been able to account for. That has led him to suppose you might have been the killer. He must be under a lot of pressure.”
“Grace and mercy,” said Vernet, turning white. “But I have nothing to do with it.”
“He is not convinced of that.” She realized how distressed he was and did her best to offer him some reassurance. “I informed him that you would not do such a thing, but I doubt he believed me.”
Vernet nodded several times. “He ought never to have talked with you. I
t’s inexcusable to ask a man’s wife to speak against him.”
“So I told him, and assured him I would not be turned from you by his insinuations.” She put her hand on his arm. “Vernet, it’s a very dangerous game Berthier is playing. It seems to me that there is more at stake here than one dead marine private.” As he gave her a startled glance, she explained, “This is a war, and marine privates die. Therefore the death of this one marine private must have special significance, or Berthier would not trouble himself over the matter.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” said Vernet, his worry changing to perplexity. “What is his intention?”
“To fix blame on you, I fear, and so avoid any blame himself,” said Victoire. She stood straighter. “And I will not permit that.”
* * *
The lamplight cast tremendous shadows on the walls of the tent where Berthier sat, Eugene taking down the last of his day’s dictation.
“One last thing,” said Berthier to his secretary. “Then you may have supper and retire for the night. It is the matter of Inspector General Lucien Vernet.” He scowled at the lamp as if it were Vernet himself. “I want to advise Napoleon to confine the man until he can be tried. Deliver this recommendation to Napoleon before you have your supper. It troubles me that Vernet is walking around where he can do more damage. I wish last night’s battle had not so disrupted everything.”
“And the scepter?” asked Eugene as he wrote.
“The scepter could be anywhere. I’ve ordered the Vernet tent searched, but it cannot be done until tomorrow, and if Vernet is half the man I suspect he is, the scepter will be gone before we can find it.” Berthier leaned back and peered at the roof of the tent. “It’s only to be expected. Men on campaign have many temptations. Some pursue women, some pursue treasure. There is nothing that can stop soldiers from—” He broke off as the flap of his tent was raised.
Napoleon Buonaparte came quickly through the space, Murat and Jean Baptiste Bessieres behind him. He stopped in front of Berthier’s writing table. Though standing still, he had a motion about him, a pent-up energy that caught the attention of everyone who met him. “What’s this about a missing scepter?” he asked without ceremony.
“You’ve read my report?” Berthier asked, making a signal to Eugene to stop writing.
“Yes, of course. And I’ve spoken with Murat and Desaix already. The guard was found dead. The scepter was missing.” Napoleon regarded Berthier attentively, waiting.
“Yes. The scepter has not been found,” said Berthier heavily. He rubbed his stubbled chin. “I was dictating a recommendation a moment since.”
“In what regard?” Napoleon motioned Murat and Bessieres to move closer. “Keep your voices down. I don’t want the details all over camp by morning.”
“Of course,” said Berthier. He faltered, then said, “I have reason to t-think that the man responsible for the death of the marine private and the theft of the flail scepter is the gendarme officer, Inspector Lucien Vernet. He has no one to account for his whereabouts except his wife, before the murder was discovered, and he was present when the guard over the treasure was set. It was his responsibility, in any case.” He put his hands, palms down, on the writing table. “He is not a rich man, and he has a young wife that he dotes upon. He must make his fortune in the army.”
“What’s his reputation?” asked Napoleon of Bessieres. “Do you know anything to his discredit?”
“Nothing worth mentioning,” said Bessieres. “His wife did come here against your wish that all wives stay home. He is considered a good man, logical, if a little unimaginative.”
“Not a bad quality in an Inspector-General,” said Napoleon. He swung around to face Berthier once more. “Find Desaix. I’ll want him here in ten minutes. I want to discuss this with you after I talk to him.” Saying that, he turned on his heel and strode to the tent door. “I will be back shortly. I expect you to be here.”
As soon as he was gone, Murat shook his head in admiration. “He is always two jumps ahead of the rest of us.” He chose one of the canvas chairs and sat down. “We might as well be ready when he returns.”
Berthier was not so sanguine. “How am I to find Desaix?”
“Let Eugene do it,” suggested Bessieres, one of Napoleon’s most respected division commanders. “What else are secretaries for?” His long, lean frame was ill-suited to perching on canvas chairs, but he made the best of it, locking his hands around his knees.
“Eugene,” said Berthier to his secretary.
“Yes. I will attend to it at once,” said Eugene, setting his writing supplies aside and rising. “I will return shortly.”
“With Desaix,” Napoleon’s aide added as he chewed the nail of his little finger. “This is a very bad thing, gentlemen. We must take care to keep the story from getting out.”
“Why?” asked Bessieres. “Who will care what has become of a single marine private? Anyone who saw the battle this morning has more deaths to consider than one man’s.”
“But the scepter. The private was guarding the treasure and the scepter is gone. It is likely that whoever stole the scepter killed the private as well,” said Berthier.
Murat slapped his hands on his knees. “It’s the scepter that unquestionably matters the most. Those Egyptians want it returned to their control, more than they want most of the treasure. Not that there are a dozen men in Alexandria that would hesitate to steal us to perdition. It’s more than a stick of gold to them. It’s a symbol. Like our regimental flags. They would rally to it. There are men who benefitted from Mameluke rule. They’ll pay well and ask no questions to have it returned. Surely there are desperate men who know this.”
“That’s what concerns me,” said Berthier. “Who is to say that the thief was not acting at the behest of the Pasha? If a French officer is so compromised ...”
“It won’t be the first time an officer looked to improve himself with foreign gold,” said Bessieres laconically. “Dismiss the man, and make an example of him. If there are others in it with him, hang one of them. That should put a stop to the thefts. A hanging and one or two officers released in disgrace would put the rest on notice that Napoleon will not tolerate any mischief.”
“My thought exactly,” said Berthier, cocking his head toward Murat.
“If he is the man,” said Murat. “You say you are certain, but how can you be? Have you found the knife that slit the private’s throat? The scepter is missing. The worst you have reported about Vernet is that he cannot account for half an hour at a time that many officers could not account for their movements. I was in camp, lost in Morpheus’s grip.” He shrugged. “Is that sufficient?”
“If it is not Vernet, then it must be you or Desaix. Or me,” Berthier added conscientiously. “No one else was aware of the arrangements. Or that exact location for the scepter. The tent was cut directly where it lay.”
“That we are all incontrovertibly aware of,” added Murat. “But in a camp like this, there are bound to be spies, and what they overhear cannot be assessed.”
Berthier scowled. “Why do you protect this man?”
“I don’t,” said Murat. “But I don’t judge him, either, not yet.” He looked toward Bessieres. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know the fellow,” said Bessieres. “But I think perhaps it would be better if we had more against him. So far from France, we must uphold our justice, for example. If we decide he is guilty and it turns out he is not, then it will look badly for the general.”
This was the one argument that could shake Berthier. He swallowed bard and rose from his chair. “It wouldn’t come to that,” he said as if trying to convince himself. “We must show swift punishment for crimes, or half the army will be more devoted to finding treasure than to advancing Napoleon’s cause.”
Bessieres’s smile was cynical. “What makes you believe that isn’t true already?”
“He will be here in a moment,” said Berthier, trusting it was so. He indicated his own chair, the only one in the tent that was not canvas.
Napoleon accepted it, but did not actually sit down. He took up his position behind the writing table and drew a packet of dispatches out of his tunic. “The private was killed with a knife, it says.”
“Or a sabre; something with a heavy blade. That’s right,” said Murat. “He was very securely bound. Whoever made those knots did not intend him to escape.”
“He showed signs of being beaten,” Napoleon went on, consulting the sheets he opened. “One presumes that was before he was killed. He had a deep cut across the throat.”
“The wound penetrated all the way to the spine,” said Murat. “The killer knew what he was about. He was determined, too. You don’t make a wound like that if you’re craven. Though you might if you feared discovery. The private would make no sound dying and could not live more than a few minutes with such a wound.”
“True enough,” said Napoleon, looking up as Eugene escorted Desaix into the tent.
“I am sorry to be late,” said Desaix in his quiet voice as he entered the tent. “I was attending to one of my men—he has an infection in his arm.”
“Send him to Larrey,” Napoleon recommended. “This is more pressing business.” He motioned Desaix to one of the camp chairs. “Berthier wants to be rid of Major Lucien Vernet.”
“Detention at the least,” said Berthier.
“You mean prison?” asked Desaix politely. “What reason have we for that?”
“Plenty of reason, if he is guilty,” said Berthier, his color heightening.
“If,” echoed Desaix. “And if he is not?”
Napoleon cut into what was turning into a stalemate. “Guilty or not, I can’t go throwing good officers into prison. I need this man. I knew him when I was only a captain. He has done his work well, from what I can see.”