Spies and Subterfuge

by Christopher Hoare

  That evening, the day cabin of Medusa had been flooded with as much light as the crew could muster, as the officers and visitors took their places around the captain’s chart table. Lord Bond regarded the assembled company from one side of Captain Bell, while Roberta sat on the other. The rest of the party included all the off-duty officers, as well as two of his Admiralty assigned people, Cornelius van Ee and Lieutenant Farley. Commander Wilkes of the Braveheart sat beside him, while Chaplain Jenkins, a fresh-faced young fellow, instead of one of the usual dour clerics without a land preferment generally found on board a warship, sat beside van Ee opposite, across the table.

  The main course of the meal was anchored by several of the haunches of beef and turnips he had brought from Neuzen and presented to the officers and crew of Medusa. He had also brought casks of Dutch beer—knowing how much men at sea valued fresh rations after a few days of salt pork and stale ale. The Medusa obliged the diners by taking a moderate sea calmly under the stern counter with hardly any roll. They were now twenty nautical miles off Zeebrugge.

  When the diners moved from the main course to a plum pudding washed down by a new cask of beer and became louder in their conversation, he was able to huddle with Captain Bell and Roberta to discuss their orders.

  “I am glad you have been able to find Medusa, My Lord,” Captain Bell said. “I was most concerned about the seriousness of the information that necessitated my sending Miss Stephenson and the crew of my cutter into a hazardous venture on this coast.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Bond replied. “The information sent for Lieutenant Farley to deliver is much the same as the opinion about the French Royalists I had already formed. I fully agree with the correspondent who sent his assessment from Switzerland to the British Government.” He leaned forward to hold Roberta’s eyes. “They are not on-side; merely looking to create a better situation for the next Louis when Napoleon is defeated.”

  “From my experience, it is impossible to trust any Frenchman,” Captain Bell replied gruffly.

  van Ee leaned forward across the table. “The Royalists provided the safe accommodation to Mr. Holmes and Captain McNab in Antwerp, and now they have become missing.”

  Bond heard Roberta gasp, and sought to reassure her with a smile and shake of his head. He had not intended telling her so soon, certainly not without some reassuring news to soften the blow. “They have likely found it necessary to change hideouts. We will hear from them soon; Mr. Holmes sent his findings about the iron in a letter awaiting me when I return to the city.” He hoped the look he directed at van Ee would encourage discretion.

  van Ee would not keep silent. “But Madame Elise has not been able to locate them.”

  Bond frowned at him more deeply. He had no concern about revealing secrets to his host—van Ee was spilling the beans about Elise that he had hoped to keep from Roberta. He regretted bringing the man aboard today; he should have left him minding the Nederlander as it kept station near the American prize. “Madame Timmins is carrying out another task at the moment. She will be able to locate them when she returns.”

  “Madame Timmins?” Roberta said.

  “She is the Dutch wife of an Englishman, a spice merchant in Java,” he said casually. “She belongs to the same resistance movement as Herr van Ee. I must say that my Dutch allies have always proved a far greater asset than the Royalists.” He said this with another disapproving frown at the Dutchman.

  Captain Bell’s next observation fortunately changed the topic of conversation. “I was quite confused by your words about our prize when you came aboard this afternoon, My Lord.”

  Lord Bond delved into a pocket. “Perhaps reading this will dispel your confusion, Captain. Please pass the letter to Roberta after you have read it. Its contents must go no further than the three of us.” He handed over the third page of the American Ambassador’s letter.

  He turned his attention to a large helping of plum pudding while they both read. When Roberta handed the letter back to him he spoke as he put it away. “You will understand why I have an interest in the Reaper, Captain. I must ask you to keep the schooner with the squadron while I search for this diplomatic bag.”

  “How did you come to receive this letter, My Lord?” Roberta asked.

  “In my assumed identity . . .” he paused to give her time to recall the identity he meant, “I was able to intercept a letter from the Ambassador. The same identity that will enable me some options to my intentions once I have found the documents mentioned.”

  “I see,” she replied. “But does this imply the presence of the wife is required in order to derive these options?”

  He put on his most reassuring expression. “Not at all, Miss Stephenson. My further course depends upon the contents of the bag.”

  Chapter Seven

  Secrets; American and Otherwise

  Early next morning Lord Bond, Roberta, and Lieutenant Farley took Medusa’s cutter across the intervening water to the American schooner. Before they set to work to look for the diplomatic bag, Lord Bond related his expectations and advice. “The letter from the Ambassador to Mr. Paine suggested that the concealment and treatment of the bag should be as was customary. If this were His Majesty’s Government’s procedure I would consequently be inclined to search the Master’s cabin thoroughly—did you look into any of the Master’s belongings and papers while you were in command of the vessel, Lieutenant?”

  “Only to acquaint myself with particulars of the voyage and of the vessel, My Lord.”

  “Then I would suggest you and Miss Stephenson should investigate every nook and cranny in the vessel’s great cabin, but first you must tell me if the Americans had unrestricted access to the cabin while the vessel was boarded and secured.”

  “No, My Lord. Captain Hawkins of the marines and I had all the officers and crew secured in the fo’c’sle under marine guard as soon as we boarded.”

  “What if the diplomatic bag was tossed overboard before the schooner was surrendered, My Lord?” Roberta asked.

  “Yes, my Dear, you have brought up the most serious of my fears. However, it is possible that the officers and crew were not told of their secret cargo. I will know when I question the Master of Reaper as my first line of investigation. I will have the marine sergeant bring him to me in some secure cabin below where he and his men can assist me in interrogating the fellow.”

  “Do you mean—?” Roberta began, before failing to complete her question, with her hand over her mouth.

  “Will I torture him, I believe you intended to ask. I will certainly make him aware that I do not discount the possibility if he proves uncooperative. It depends upon him.”

  Lord Bond remained in the Reaper’s great cabin watching Roberta comb through all the sea-chests and stowage while waiting for the marine sergeant to report his prisoner was ready. She had asked what a diplomatic bag should look like and he had to admit that an American one could be far different than any others he had seen. “The documents I want may not even be in a diplomatic bag with all the customary details of commercial traffic, political disputes, and legal applications,” he said. “You must examine every packet you find for its address and seals.”

  He smiled as Roberta went about her task as if oblivious to the dirt and smells of the decidedly male abode. He liked watching her work—she exuded such an air of commitment to her task and to her confident handling of the details. Were his sometimes risky future dealings to find him charged and incarcerated for some political or financial offence—not at all impossible in the course of his activities in support of his class in the Lords or his wishes for his country—he would feel confident of her as his wife—ensuring that every possible loophole and remedy were explored and put into effect. She would be an impressive advocate to visit any official who might have the power to help.

  A knock at the cabin door interrupted his pleasure. “The Master is secured below in an empty storage room, My Lord,” the sergeant of marines reported.

  He glanced a
t the other two working before reaching the sergeant at the door. “Thank you, please lead the way.”

  The storage room was quite small, perhaps six feet each way and with the deck beams above no more than five feet from the deck below. Mr. Caleb Monkman—Bond had perused the ship’s log to ascertain preliminary details of the man—appeared to be in his thirties, and was of middle height, with lank fair hair and blue eyes; he wore a white shirt, now much stained from the incarceration, and breeches of heavy canvas. He looked up with a sneer as Bond entered and then folded his arms across his chest.

  “I got nuthin’ to say. You got my ship, you got my cahgo, you got my crew—what moah do you thievin’ English want?”

  Lord Bond nodded to the sergeant who struck the man across the face with his swagger-stick. “Speak respectful to His Lordship!”

  Monkman shook his head as if to cast off the effects of the blow. “Oh, loahdship is it? I’m American! We don’t have no truck with loahdships.”

  “You will with this one,” Bond said equitably. “I am looking for the mail you brought from America.”

  “This ain’t no mail packet. You got the wrong ship.”

  “Please do not be tiresome. I have certain knowledge that an item of mail was being carried on the schooner Reaper.” Bond paused and took out his Jover & Belton as if absently toying with it. “Where is this mail carried?”

  Monkman seemed perplexed. “You got somethin’ on me, feller. Other than company papers in my cabin, I weren’t ’structed to look after anythin’.”

  “You did not, by chance, throw anything overboard while being pursued?”

  Monkman shrugged. “Some signal codes from the Navy, navigation advice on wheah to find more secure passage through your blockade . . . nothin’ special about them. Don’t do me no good in an English jail.”

  Bond rubbed his chin. “Hmm. What cargoes are you carrying?”

  “Cotton.”

  Bond began to pace. “From where?”

  “Trans-shipped from Carolinar.”

  Bond looked at the man’s face—he seemed to be telling the truth—no sign of tension. “In bales? What else do you have?”

  “Yep, in bales. Whale oil in barrels, molasses in casks, and some rum. Perty fine rum, if I do say-so.”

  “From?”

  “Louisiana, I s’pose. Came from a New Ohleans ship tied up in New Bedfohd.”

  “That all?”

  “And some tobacco . . . in bales. Maryland tobacco.”

  Bond stopped pacing. Paine was a tobacco trader, and Maryland was close to Washington, the new seat of government. “You will take me to the hold and show me these bales. Sergeant, you and your men will bring him in irons.”

  It took an hour’s work, cutting open the bales of tobacco leaves and scattering them about before he found a tarred canvas pouch in the middle of one. “No mail, you said?” He addressed Monkman, holding it up.

  Monkman shrugged. “Said you got somethin’ on me. How d’ya know?”

  “Never you mind.” Bond hefted the package, likely nothing solid, perhaps only papers inside. He scanned the hold and the litter of tobacco, starting to get the beginnings of an idea—it depended upon whatever secrets he’d find in the pouch. “Better get this mess straightened out . . . there is two thousand guineas worth of tobacco here the prize court will want to see.”

  Roberta’s search was almost over, she had found nothing but personal papers and a portrait of a young woman with two babies, perhaps Mrs. Monkman. She did not like the task of delving into even a stranger’s possessions—fine spy she would make.

  Lieutenant Farley had shifted every item of furniture that moved, as well as some intended to be fixed, but found no secret compartments or false bottoms. They stood back looking at the ransacked cabin when Lord Bond came triumphantly from below. “Can you find me one of these chairs fit to use, Lieutenant? I think I have found what I’m looking for.”

  They put some of the scattered chairs back into use while Lord Bond opened the packet and started to read papers stamped with the seal of the American free colonies. She perched herself on the edge of the chart table as she watched him read. His face wore alternate expressions of amazement and exultation.

  “They are important?” she asked.

  He looked up, smiling, and then jumped to his feet to leap at her and clasp her in his arms, kissing her face even as she struggled to turn away. “Priceless, my Darling. These papers could be nearly as valuable as the information we came to find.”

  Roberta squirmed to escape his embrace. “Please unhand me, My Lord. You are causing me the deepest distress. We must not become so familiar!”

  He stood back to look into her face. “My dearest Miss Stephenson, I assure you that I wish you no distress; quite the contrary. I am most earnestly desirous of causing you nothing but pleasure and gracious satisfaction, but unfortunately these tasks we have set before us must first be completely settled and all perplexities put to rest. I must humbly ask for your forgiveness if my feelings lead me into so great an exuberance of good feeling toward you that I cause any untoward feelings in your breast.”

  Roberta stepped away from him to take a strong stance on the other side of the chart table. She did her best to calm the racing of her heart and the powerful but horrifying feelings emanating from regions of her person that an upright woman of pure character should never let a man induce. After a few deep breaths she felt able to speak in a calm, measured voice. “Please, Lord Bond, I urge you not to assume that your wildest feelings find any response in mine. I am aware that you had a conversation with my father before you departed Clydebank that may well lead you to suppose that certain privileges might be considered to belong to you. I will remind you that you have not broached the subject with me, which all propriety demands must be dutifully and honestly conducted before any consideration can be expected on my part. I must inform you that a number of concerns about your character and past actions have been relayed to me. I expect a full and complete account and assurance of your having learned from these errors never to repeat them before I should ever be willing to listen to such an address.”

  Lord Bond actually smiled and bowed. “I deserve and relish such a chastisement, my Dear Miss Stephenson. How I accept the value of your rectitude. I will say no more until I have properly considered and accepted your admonitions.” He turned and addressed Lieutenant Farley, who stood at the furthest end of the cabin as if to foreswear any part of the conversation. “Can we leave you aboard the Reaper, Sir? Miss Stephenson and I must speak with Captain Bell and agree on a course of action right away. We have no time to lose. I assure you that, if my plan is accepted, you will have the command you so strongly desire.”

  Farley stood as tall as the ceiling of the cabin would allow and bowed in answer. Lord Bond replied in a similar fashion before stepping to the door and urging Roberta to precede him through it. “We will take the cutter back to Medusa, my Dear. This new information presents us with an opportunity that our mission had previously lacked. Success is within our grasp; once the necessary details are accepted.”

  Chapter Eight

  Unexpected Developments

  Close to midday, Roberta and Lord Bond went to speak with Captain Bell, closeted in his great cabin. Roberta still had no sense of the contents of the diplomatic messages, but from the eager pacing and exclamations of Lord Bond as he prepared for the meeting she understood that they had opened up a direction in their enterprise that had not before existed.

  When at last they were seated before the Captain in his day cabin, Lord Bond took out the American dispatches to lay them on the table. “Before I show the both of you these secret messages, I must impress upon you the great weight of discretion they will place upon you—as they certainly do on me. I must also ask, Captain, that you remember their import when you hear my subsequent plans and requests.”

  Captain Bell frowned at these words and their implications, Roberta thought, but he merely nodded and replied wit
h a curt affirmative. Lord Bond handed the papers to him first, so she had to calm her anticipation and listen to Lord Bond as she waited to learn their contents.

  Roberta watched the parade of expressions crossing the captain’s face while Lord Bond spoke. “I must ask you to do the honour of listening to me later this afternoon, Miss Stephenson. But I have one other interview before I can continue with my intention.”

  She looked at him absently, the import of the words she had heard without a degree of attention gradually reaching their mark. Her answer was cut off by Captain Bell’s outraged response to a passage in the letter.

  “The ungrateful miscreants! The traitors! What calumnies they must call down upon their benighted and iniquitous body politic.”

  Lord Bond smiled wryly. “I do sympathize with your sentiments, Captain, but I cannot put aside sorrow at the neglect that allowed them to claim the statehood that they now exercise.”

  Captain Bell looked up with a black expression. “Neglect, Sir? You do not mean to imply a dereliction of duty by the Royal Navy by any chance?”

  “The refusal of the First Lord, the fourth Earl of Sandwich, to send sufficient force across the Atlantic to prevent the French fleet from turning the tide of King George’s imminent victory? No, my friend. I understand the reasons for his keeping the bulk of the navy on guard against the main force of the French at Brest, and totally accept his reasoning.”

  Captain Bell gestured with the letter. “It would have been of small import to have defeated the colonists only to lose England to French invasion.”

  Lord Bond bowed slightly. “Your logic is irrefutable. I was really lamenting those actions of the past that have created these perils of today.”