Spies and Subterfuge

by Christopher Hoare

  Better she should place the enigmatic Mr. Holmes in such a position of judgment. She felt certain that on the memorable occasion at the draughting table when he almost kissed her . . . for surely that must have been his impulse. He had for that moment been prepared to give her his heart. It had only been the awakening of his more reserved nature that had prevented his indiscretion. She had been more confused by his action than pleased, but that was before she had learned about his social situation. She felt his caution most becoming and thoughtful. There must be many young women who would shun him for his paternity. Would she? She would like to think not—but here she was using him as if at an experiment on a natural history class.

  How did His Lordship influence her feelings for Mr. Holmes, if in truth she had any? The converse was easy to see now she knew of his social inferiority to Lord Bond. How would it seem to himself or to those around him if he should take the woman that Lord Bond appeared to have set his heart upon? Legion would be the criticism of his presumption in placing his damaged name above that of the future master of Castle Tiverton.

  But what of her feeling? She liked him, respected him, even more now. But she knew she felt no romantic attraction toward him. He had the promise of being a valuable colleague, but no more. His reserve and his careful husbanding of his feelings had worked upon her own caution and sensibility.

  Should she set Commander Worthington against His Lordship? Although she knew little of his antecedents he was, by his social position, much closer in fortune to herself. She could imagine their situations might make his suitability easier to judge—but what of his background as sailor? Even the kindest of assessments were hardly generous to sailors. Did he drink? Had he ever caroused in foreign ports? His deportment while at Clydebank had been exemplary, but surely even a hedonist might change his spots for a few weeks if it were to his advantage.

  She stopped her pacing at the desk to look at the empty page. She had no evidence of these defects to lay against him, but she was only wise to stay her judgment until she did know more. When she was more settled, and her mind less confused, she would write a letter as dishonest as the reassurances and omissions in the letter to her father, and give only the slightest hint that she was pleased to think she might have tender feelings toward him.

  She was about to sit on the stool to accomplish this task when a knock came at her door. “’Tis time for the mid-day meal, Miss Roberta,” Annie’s voice announced. “Wilt come to sit with the wives?”

  “Yes, Annie. I’m coming.” She closed the inkwell with a guilty feeling. When was she likely to start the letter again? Prudence told her she should wait until she heard him speak with the same passion in different circumstances, but when would that be?

  Chapter Four

  A Night on the Town

  Symington Holmes, in his bargee disguise, shouldered his pack and leaped over the barge rail to land on the quay. His back hurt and his hands were scarred and almost nail-less but he felt fitter than he had for years . . . the exercise had been good for him.

  He set out for the centre of the city to meet with Julian; a day or two late, but his brother had known he had no control over the movement of barges. He had not learned all they needed—not by a long shot, but it was a good start.

  As he left the docks area and walked into the residential streets he was surprised how many folk were about, this being the afternoon of the Sabbath when people in England were sitting at home with family and the prayer book. Of course, this was a land that had been touched by the Godless revolution, and piety was likely in short supply.

  Despite his good mood he felt the dirt and grime of his dress keenly among those passing him in more fashionable attire. Perhaps he should go to the hideout first to change into the cavalry uniform waiting there, but perhaps Julian was in need of his early arrival to go to meet the Nederlander at Neuzen. He would go to the hideout after seeing Julian and perhaps afterward he and McNab would change to spend the evening with a good meal and a bottle or two of wine. He looked forward to something more inviting than the pottage of tripe he had eaten on the barge.

  The mood faltered when he arrived at Julian’s pensione and found it empty. He knocked on the door of the concierge and a swarthy man in his unfastened coulotte opened it.

  “Zut alores. We have no time for you peddlers.”

  “Monsieur Paine will have time for me. I bring notice that his shipment has arrived.”

  “I know nothing of the Monsieur’s shipment. All I know is that he left two nights ago and would not leave his forward address.”

  “Did he say when he would return?”

  “He said nothing. And his floozy has not been back these three nights.”

  Holmes thanked him more cordially than his manner warranted and left. Surely Elise had not gone to Neuzen as well, but he did not know how to find her if she was not with Julian. He bent his tracks for the hideout, likely Captain McNab would know more.

  “Aye, His Lordship has ridden to Neuzen,” McNab told him as soon as they sat down on the rickety furnishings of their abode. “Yesterday they waited on mah corner by the Poste and saw the American, Paine, come out after purchasing his mail. His Lordship has left before the French informers can report twa gentlemen in Antwerp wi’ the same name.”

  Holmes frowned. “Good Lord, that has scuttled our security.”

  “Maybe, but his Lordship has sent the lassie to watch o’er the American and call her friends tay come and truss him up like before.”

  “So where is she?”

  “At the Hôtel Du Parc under the name o’ Freiherrin Louise of . . .” he paused. “You know the name. We are not to go to her and spoil her alias.”

  “I see. What instructions did Julian give you when he left?”

  “What I have done fer the week. I stand at my corner pretending to be a dumb beggar and deliver messages from the English to the French Royalists and from the Dutch rebels to the English.” McNab regarded him with an aggrieved expression. “What of you?”

  “Do not speak lightly of your post, we all have a part to play. I had hoped to hand over my findings to Julian today, and now it seems he will not see them until he returns. I should contact the Royalists and find out if they have succeeded in finding a disguise and an identity for me to go into the shipyard.”

  “Cude ye not send yer papers by post to van Aa?”

  “I hesitate doing such with a large package that might tempt someone to steal it. Perhaps I should mail it at the Post here for him to collect when he returns.”

  “Under what name? He has been using Paine’s.”

  “True but the Dutch rebels will have the American in a secure place very soon. I must put the papers in order and take them this very afternoon. They are worth an introduction to the guillotine if the police find us with them.”

  “Aye let me help thee. Yon idea o’ maken oursel’s up smart and finding a meal and a dram or two strikes ma fancy.”

  With McNab taking care of the candles so he could see to write, filling the ink-pot, and selecting enough sheets of paper to make an envelope and pad it against nimble fingers, while Holmes completed the careful ordering and correcting of his notes, they were done in an hour. Holmes started a letter to mail to Julian at Neuzen informing him where the report would be waiting for him, in the eventuality that they missed one another in the city, but did not finish it before the promise of the evening interposed.

  “I dinna like sending such as this to Mister Paine,” McNab said when he finished sealing the package with sealing wax. “What if Paine takes it?”

  Holmes smiled. “You will see in a moment. Let me have our French identity document, will you. Which one of our real spies would you choose to be?”

  “Since they both be dead, I’d be loath to be either.”

  “Ah, don’t be so superstitious. You can be Captain Dodet or Lieutenant Jean-Baptiste Saviot.”

  “Why do you want their names?”

  Holmes raised a finger. “Only on
e name needs to be on the package.”

  “The Captain, one mus’ suppose.”

  “Very well.” Holmes dipped the quill to write the sender. “Capitane Dodet . . . 11e Régiment de Chasseurs-à-Cheval . . . where do you suppose the regiment is stationed?”

  “Bologne?”

  “Good enough.”

  “I still dinna see why ye want to address it so. Mister Paine would never know one cavalry regiment from another.”

  Holmes smiled again. “Of course not . . . and neither would he pay for such an expensive letter from someone he does not recognise.”

  McNab laughed. “Ah, I see yure purpose now.”

  “Good man. Now let us be about presenting ourselves as gallant Frenchmen and find this food and drink.”

  “I still dinna like havin’ ta be a mute beggar.”

  “No, I can see where that soon becomes tiresome.”

  “Ah suppose ah might give pretense o’ havin’ a toothache.”

  “Good idea, keep a kerchief handy to put against your mouth. Also you might remember not to speak in full sentences. Less chance of your sounding Scottish.”

  After that they spent less time about their ablutions and dressing in their uniforms than they had earlier when refreshments had not beckoned. “I suppose I will be able to mail this tonight.”

  “Aye. Nay trouble o’ that. I watched that business all week from my corner. Mailing a letter costs nothing, ’tis the buying that keeps they payed. The box fur sending mail is big enough to post a cart horse.”

  Sure enough, Holmes experienced no trouble mailing his package. He looked wistfully as it fell away into the box. It was a pity Julian would not have it when he went out to the ships of the Navy’s blockade—but he would have it when he returned. He thought briefly of Miss Stephenson—would their Lordships of Admiralty see fit to send her to sea in a warship to meet him? He thought them pusillanimous wretches if they did. It was no way to use the young lady.

  They decided to walk to the Market Square, where they had noticed a better class of eating establishment when they had first arrived in Antwerp. The evening was warm and with a light breeze from the countryside. Their uniforms garnered them many surreptitious glances from charmingly dressed young women as they walked among families out for an evening stroll; Holmes and McNab felt as ready to tackle a hundred enemies as they were to capture some joints of beef and a bottle or two of Champagne.

  The Grote Markt had been cleared of market stalls for the weekend, and citizens strolled about or else stopped to speak with friends. A number of officers in uniform walked with the civilians and conversed with them. Holmes contented himself with smiles and a raising of headgear to passersby to avoid making an issue of McNab’s supposed toothache.

  Several groups of cavalry officers stopped briefly to ask their regiment and to offer entertainments for the evening of drinking, gambling or carousing, to which Holmes answered with his thanks and his regrets that they already had an important call to make for the evening.

  “I wish these cavalry laddies was less clannish,” McNab whispered when the third group had walked on. “I feel suc’ a fool to mutter so.”

  “Ah well, you have doubtless heard the jokes about cavalry officers in your time—there is no one else who would wish to know them.”

  McNab laughed. “Aye, an’ told a few tales meself.”

  “I would suggest we see if there is a free table in that restaurant over there,” Holmes said, pointing. “I see fewer military uniforms than in the others.”

  “Ver’a good.”

  They were ushered to a table near the rear of the dining room, where it turned out the majority of the military officers had been seated. They looked at one another as the waiter put down a menu for them. McNab glanced at the officers and shrugged.

  “Will this suit you, Messeurs?” the waiter said as he stood back.

  Holmes exchanged a look of acceptance with his companion. “Yes. I am sure it will do us very well.”

  “What will you have to start? If you wish, we have a jeroboam of blanc de blancs for your palette tonight.”

  “Oh.” He looked at McNab. “Isn’t that rather a lot?”

  “Ah, yes laddy. Bring it on.”

  “Very well. And what do you have in boeuf, garçon?”

  “We have a nice Boeuf à la Provençale.”

  McNab looked at him.

  “A kind of stew with wine and bacon,” Holmes said.

  “Good for me. Hurry with that wine.”

  They passed a graceful half hour with their wine, smiling at the young women and saluting the toasts of a nearby table full of noisy dragoons. By the time the meal arrived the jeroboam was half empty. Holmes was pleased to find out that, except for the dragoons, the officers in other tables were less boisterous. No doubt the table of senior officers in the far corner had had some calming influence, but halfway through their meal these gentlemen, with the exception of a couple of colonels, stood and left.

  They soon became adopted into the revelry of two more tables of cavalry officers and had to decline several more invitations to finish their meal and join them in a grand parade around the night spots of the city. The most popular entertainment de jour was a promised spectacle of bear-baiting that was to take place near the Emperor’s new dock.

  They had already learned this was the location of most of the steamship construction, but Holmes felt they would see little of the construction tonight unless the bears escaped and took to the water. “Would you like to see bears and dogs pulled to pieces?”

  McNab scowled. “Not my idea of jollity. I would rather find an opera with plenty of scantily dressed ladies.”

  “Yes. When we have finished our meal we should take our leave of these fellows. I doubt if any of them is above twenty years.”

  “Aye, the experienced cavalrymen were left behind on the road from Moscow,” McNab said.

  “Yes, that was a foolish campaign. They were lucky the Russians failed to keep them at Moscow until the snows came.”

  The two colonels stood and left, and the young officers became noisier. Holmes and McNab drained their jeroboam, took a link out of their belts and stood to leave. Several young fellows, so deep into their cups they could hardly keep their feet came to throw their arms around their shoulders to beg them to stay.

  Holmes had to call the waiter to them and order he bring a new jeroboam for their friends, after which they stood raising their hats to the salutations of the revelers until the honours were done and they were free to move on.

  “Aye, it were a good meal,” McNab said as they started off walking across Grote Markt. “But the floor show was not to mah taste.”

  Holmes noticed several groups of troopers in uniform about the square but thought little of it. Armies generally had police in uniform in a friendly city to quash any trouble between the men and the citizens. The crowds of the earlier evening had already repaired to home and bed so they had half the square to themselves as they set off, a little crookedly, toward their “palace.”

  It was only when two officers and some troopers stood out from the buildings of the other side that he recognised them as the two who had sat with the senior officers. “Good evening, colonels,” he said as they met.

  “Yes, it is,” one answered. “I hope you had a good evening, messeurs.”

  “We did. What service may we be to you, colonel?” Holmes asked the one who seemed the senior.

  “You may be so good as to show me your documents. I am the Provost Marshal for the city.”

  “We have been asked about our regiment by half of the cavalry officers in the army it would seem. I am sure we can oblige you as well, Sir,” Holmes said, groping for the letter from the 11e Regiment.

  “Yes,” the colonel said with a smile. “I could not help but notice your strong reserve when your fellow officers offered their invitations.”

  “Good Heavens. Did we offend someone? I would like to make my apology if I did.” He looked about and
saw that the number of uniformed troopers around them had increased.

  “No, you were not particularly offensive, merely a very strange pair of cavalrymen.” He took the papers from him and looked down at them.

  The other colonel chuckled. “The most steady and dutiful cavalrymen we have seen in a long time. We could not but remark upon it.”

  “So you are given detached duties from the 11e Régiment de Chasseurs à Cheval,” the Provost Marshal said as he scrutinized the document. “What duties, pray?”

  Holmes had to think a moment to remember the story they had decided upon. “We brought some personal papers to the city for our colonel, Sir.”

  “Which required you to be paid by the Minister of Foreign Affaires? That seems very strange.”

  “As strange as your presence in Antwerp,” the other colonel said. “When your Regiment is with Marshal Ney and stationed on the Rhine.”

  “Now,” said the Provost Marshal, staring him in the eyes. “You would not think me too overbearing and suspicious if I supposed you both to be on some personal business, and very likely away from your regiment without leave. Perhaps you could even be deserters?”

  “Oh no, Provost Marshal,” Holmes managed to say.

  “Hmm. I don’t think it would be too much for me to request your presence in our accommodation in the city while I write some letters and sort this matter out to my satisfaction. We will not consider you under arrest . . . yet.”

  Chapter Five

  Nelson Had No Luck

  Roberta watched from the fo’c’sle as Medusa’s longboat was lowered and the prize crew took their places on the thwarts. The American schooner rolled heavily in the waves as it lay with sails furled awaiting its captors. The rags of the topsail that still hung from their yard flapped fitfully in the wind.

  It had taken all day to overhaul the fugitive, even after the topsail and several other pieces of rigging had failed in the chase. The crew still attempted to flee until Medusa fired several shots across their bow, and only now were the crew lowering the Stars and Stripes from the jackstaff.