Swept Away

by Marsha Canham

  “It would have saved a good deal of trouble if he had.”

  Emory shook his head. “He would think it an ignoble, cowardly way to end things.”

  “I did read once that he considered himself godlike. Maybe he believes he cannot possibly fall victim to mortal complaints, that he will just reappear in another guise and claim to be resurrected from the dead. Frankly,” she paused and wriggled some more, guiding him where he was most wanted, “I think he is just mad. They should lock him away in Bedlam where he can be emperor of all the other madmen.”

  Emory stared at her. “What did you say?”

  “About locking him away in Bedlam?”

  “No. Before that.”

  She frowned. “That he thinks himself godlike and indestructible?”

  Emory sat forward abruptly, his hands tense where they grasped her around the waist and lifted her off his lap. He snatched up the letter and stared at it for a moment, a look of sheer and utter amazement coming over his face.

  “I don’t believe it,” he murmured. “I don’t bloody believe it! Duroc, you bastard! How did you think you would ever get away with it!”

  With a surge of energy, he leapt up and went over to the bed, quickly jerking his breeches over his hips, hopping from one foot to the other as he stamped into his boots.

  “What is it? What did I say?” Anna asked.

  He glanced over at her and his gaze flicked to the gallery windows. The sky was a pearly gray along the horizon, the sea still inky black beneath, but it would be full dawn soon and if his calculations were correct, they should be less than forty nautical miles off Torbay.

  He came back to where Anna stood and took her face between his hands, kissing her hard enough to leave her lips stinging. “Have I told you that I love you?”

  “I’m very pleased to hear it again, but--”

  “And that you are brave and beautiful and clever and I plan to fill you full of children so they can all be as brave and beautiful and clever as you.”

  “I--”

  “Quickly, now,” he kissed her again, “get dressed. I have to go and speak to Barrimore.”

  “But wait--”

  It was too late. He was gone, bare-chested and steely-eyed, leaving only the echo of his boots in his wake.

  “Get you on board the Bellerophon?” Barrimore knuckled the sleep out of his eyes and hung his legs over the side of the wildly swinging hammock. “You must be mad.”

  “Perhaps I am, but if I am right, I can clear my name and make a hero out of you at the same time.”

  “Right about what? What the devil are you on about? And what time is it for pity’s sake?”

  “Half gone four bells. The winds are in our favor, the currents are good; we should make port well before noon. My question is, will Captain Maitland honor a white flag?”

  Barrimore’s eyebrows shot upward. “You plan to sail the Intrepid into port? The harbor batteries will blast you out of the water.”

  “Not if you can convince them it would be in the country’s best interest to let us on board the Bellerophon.”

  “Me?”

  “Hell, if I’m wrong about this, you will still be the hero, Barrimore. You will have captured the notorious Emory Althorpe single-handedly and brought him in to stand trial.”

  Both men turned as Annaleah rushed up behind them, her hair in disarray, her shirttails untucked and hanging to her knees.

  “Do you know what this is all about?” Barrimore demanded.

  “No,” she said. “He did not tell me.”

  “Believe me,” Emory said, “you will both think far more highly of my sanity if I keep my thoughts to myself until we are on the Bellerophon.”

  Annaleah had guessed correctly, though her estimate was low. The number of small boats in the harbor had easily trebled and were filled to capacity with curiosity-seekers. Men in their finery, ladies in frills and parasols sipped wine from crystal glasses and nibbled on tiny cakes during the day watching for the signs the crew displayed on both sides of the Bellerophon indicating their famous prisoner had ‘gone to breakfast’ or ‘gone back to his cabin’. At night, women of a different sort took to the fishing boats and barges, able to almost walk from boat to boat where they formed closely packed clusters. From early evening, the sweeping crescent bay made for a spectacular scene where every room in every tavern was full and lights blazed in windows from the shore to the tops of the cliffs.

  It had been Emory’s early intention to sail past Torbay and approach from the west, finding anchorage somewhere up the coast and from there, travelling on land to Brixham. But under the bright noon sky with her sails filling all three masts and curled forward in the wind, the Intrepid came straight in off the Channel, making no secret of either her arrival or her identity. She tacked gracefully to leeward, acknowledging the bristled warning from the dozen armed pinnaces that patrolled the mouth of the harbor, and came to a near stop while she was still a mile out.

  Althorpe was not so reckless as to test the range of the garrison batteries, and although he kept the gun ports closed, the crews were crouched at their battle stations, ready to return fire if the pinnaces did not honor the white flag.

  Barrimore, his black evening clothes brushed clean and his cravat knotted in place, was rowed to the nearest gunboat, and from there taken into the harbor. On the deck of the Bellerophon, a crowd of men and officers had gathered at the rail, most of them with spyglasses trained first on the Intrepid, then on the pinnace as it maneuvered it’s way through the sea of fishing boats. They were met by four longboats crammed with scarlet-clad soldiers, whereupon Barrimore transferred vessels again and was escorted through the inner ring to the hull of the warship.

  Annaleah, watching anxiously from the deck of the Intrepid, saw the speck that was Barrimore winched aboard on the bully chair. She glanced sidelong at Emory, but he had his eye fixed to the spyglass. His jaw was squared, his mouth pressed into a grim line. During the brief moments he relaxed his vigil, his knuckles were white where they gripped the rail.

  An hour later, the pinnace was on its way back, a white flag fluttering officiously on its mainmast.

  “What does it mean?” she asked in a whisper.

  “They have not run out their guns yet. I would say it was a good sign.”

  When the pinnace was within hailing distance, the lieutenant in command identified himself and his vessel. He conveyed the compliments of Captain Frederick Maitland of H.M.S. Bellerophon and a request for the captain of the Intrepid to join him on board the British frigate.

  “He’s giving no guarantee of safe passage, lad,” Seamus noted dryly.

  “Did you really expect one?”

  The Irishman hawked and spat over the side of the ship by way of an answer.

  “Once I am away, keep a close eye on the gunboats. If they start to close, or make any attempt to maneuver behind us, run up the sails and catch the wind. If I don’t come back,” he looked solemnly at his companion, “get the Intrepid clear by any means necessary. They will not be so careless with you the next time, my friend.”

  Seamus would have spat again, but his mouth was too dry.

  Emory turned to Annaleah. “Before you puff up and start giving me twenty different reasons why you should be allowed to come with me, let me save you the bother. If there is trouble, the last place I want you to be is on board the Intrepid. Barrimore has offered his protection and I have accepted it on your behalf. Regardless of what happens--” he hesitated and obviously had to steel himself before he continued. “I have given Barrimore the name of my banker in Calais and instructions that he is to release everything I have to you. It should be more than enough to thumb your nose at whomever you please for as long as you please.”

  “I don’t want your money,” she cried aghast. “I want you.”

  He tucked a finger under her chin. “‘Would she could make of me a saint, or I of her a sinner’,” he quoted, smiling as he touched his lips to hers. “Do not count me lost
yet, madam, for I intend to do my damnedest to see that you have me for a very long time. I have not grown that fond of Barrimore.”

  He lowered his hand and swept it by way of an invitation toward the gangway.

  “Wait,” Seamus grunted. “I’ll not be seeing ye away with only the brass of your ballocks to threaten them with if they corner ye. They will be sure to search ye before you go on board, but I’ve something here small enough to fit where no real man would dare put a hand.”

  Emory looked at the pistol Seamus laid in his palm. It was a pocket pistol with a box-lock built to hold the firing mechanism inside the round, stubby barrel.

  “Wear your saber and a brace of guns in plain sight and I warrant they’ll look no further. She’s only good for one shot, but she makes enough noise for twenty. The trigger is made a bit stiff to keep you from blowing off your own parts, so give it a good snap and mean business. As for you, Miss--” he looked to Annaleah with a steady eye-- “they’d be fair proper sods to give ye a brushing, so if ye think you can handle it--”

  “No,” Emory said, glaring at the second weapon that appeared in Seamus’s hand. “No gun for her. Barrimore’s protection would not be worth spit if she went on board armed.”

  He strode toward the gangway, turning his back for the split second it took for Anna to snatch the gun out of Seamus’s hand and slide it into her waistband. She tucked the loose folds of the shirt around the barrel and buttoned her pea coat to conceal it then followed after Emory, trusting him to guide her feet to each rung of the ladder as they climbed down to the boat full of soldiers waiting below.

  CHAPTER 26

  The H.M.S. Bellerophon was heavy frigate carrying seventy-four guns and a crew of three hundred and forty. The latter number had swelled by nearly a hundred to include the officers, advisors, friends and emissaries who had accompanied Napoleon from France. The decks were crowded with guards in scarlet tunics, sailors in striped shirts and canvas trousers, naval officers in blue and gold, civilians in sombre black coats and severe white collars. To a man they stared at Emory Althorpe as he stepped through the gangway, and, like following a ball in a tennis court, their heads swivelled to watch the bully-chair swing Annaleah on board.

  Captain Frederick Maitland was a twenty year man having enlisted as a midshipman shortly after the citizens of France had stormed the Bastille. He had won honor during the campaign for control of the Nile, and later fought with Nelson at Trafalgar. One of the most respected captains in the English fleet, he was known for being fair, and while he had assumed the task of bringing Bonaparte to England, he was not the least amused by the fairground atmosphere that had developed both on board and off.

  Flanked by four lieutenants and half a dozen midshipmen, he stood on the forecastle and glowered down over his quarterdeck. He was, on the one hand, clearly not impressed with the rogue captain’s audacity in demanding an audience. On the other, he could not completely conceal his admiration for Emory Althorpe’s impudence in coming on board a fully manned ship-of-the-line with only a slender rapier and two single-shot pistols at his side--both of which were peremptorily removed at the gangway.

  Annaleah Fairchilde earned only a slightly more penetrating stare. He had heard the story of her abduction shortly after it happened, then a much different version an hour ago from the Marquis of Barrimore. Watching the way she alighted from the bully-chair and instantly moved to stand by Althorpe’s side, he knew which version to be the truth and wondered what her father would make of it to see the elegant young gazelle dressed in sailor’s garb, her hair flown loose around her shoulders, her skin a healthy blush from the wind and the sea--and likely other things that did not warrant speculation. Maitland, a married man with four silly daughters, did not know quite what to make of it himself and so turned his eye to Althorpe again.

  “You do realize, sir, you are now on British soil and as such are subject to immediate arrest.”

  “If you feel inclined to arrest me after you have heard what I have to say, then by all means feel free to disregard the white flag.”

  Maitland’s skin prickled but his expression remained calm. “I assure you, sir, you have my full attention.”

  Emory glanced around the crowded deck. “What I have to say might be better served in private, Captain.”

  Eyes icier than frost narrowed. “Mr. Witherspoon,” he said to his first lieutenant, “you will kindly escort our guests to my day cabin. I also want men in the tops and I want to know if anything on that pirate ship moves. Have the crews remain at battle stations and for heaven’s sake, clear my decks of this French rabble.”

  The captain’s day cabin spread across the width of the ship and was furnished with, among other things, a long table and twelve chairs. Beneath them, the floor had been covered with stretched canvas painted in black and white squares to resemble tiles. A parrot sat in a gilded cage in one corner, a manservant stood attendance in the other, neither reacting to the sudden influx of men other than to tilt their heads a little higher.

  Maitland strode directly to the head of the table and handed his bicorn to his servant.

  “Miss Fairchilde, Mr. Althorpe, Lord Barrimore...” He waived a hand to indicate the empty seats. “Please. Ogilvie, I believe brandy would be in order.”

  When the servant had carried a bottle and glasses to the table, he was dismissed. Barrimore declined a chair and elected to stand by the gallery windows; Witherspoon, the only other ship’s officer present, remained by the door.

  “We will dispense with formalities within these four walls, shall we?” Maitland suggested, then looked at Emory. “Naturally that comes with a small caution, Mr. Althorpe, allowing that we are none of us fools who tolerate the wasting of time. I have already given you more leeway than my better judgement advises, due in no small part to Barrimore’s intervention. He says you have proof that clears your name of some of the charges outstanding against you, namely those of treason and sedition. This is not a court of law, so I can neither accept nor reject this proof at face value. Your ultimate innocence or guilt will still have to be adjudicated by a higher authority.”

  “I am well aware of that, Captain,” Emory said. “I have taken the liberty of bringing certain documents with me, however, and would request you take them into your care to be delivered safely into the hands of the foreign office.”

  Annaleah, trying to remain as invisible as possible, glanced over at Barrimore and saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. He had offered earlier to take charge of the forged dispatches, but Emory had said he was taking no further chances with them falling into the wrong hands. If the admiralty trusted Maitland to safeguard England’s most powerful enemy, he could in turn be trusted with a packet of documents.

  The dispatches were produced from an oilskin pouch and set on the table for Maitland to examine. For the next twenty minutes Emory explained the role he had been playing for the past three years, that of spy and mercenary privateer with his ship and guns for hire. His remarkable success in running the naval blockades had been due mainly to orders from Whitehall which bade the fleet captains turn a blind eye to his vessel when it was slipping past. All of this Barrimore verified, up to and including the forged documents acknowledging the Intrepid’s captain had been hired to sail to Elba.

  Maitland, to his credit, rarely interrupted. Whether he was convinced or not was another matter, but to all outward appearances he seemed to accept the fact that Althorpe was not a complete madman, nor had he come on board the Bellerophon seeking absolution.

  This last suspicion was confirmed when Emory broached the subject of the emperor’s plans for the immediate future.

  “They do not concur with either yours or the government’s,” he said flatly. “He has no intentions of returning to exile, sir.”

  “Whereas I put it to you, Althorpe, that he has no choice in the matter. He is due to be transferred to the Northumberland--”

  “Yes, and from there transported to St. Helena’s, a tiny knoll of rock an
d seagull guano in the South Atlantic. But I assure you he will not go quietly.”

  Maitland’s face darkened. “He will go in chains, if need be, allow me to assure you of that.”

  Emory drew a breath and spoke his next words slowly and carefully. “The man you currently have on board the Bellerophon may indeed be bound for St. Helena, chains or no chains, but he is not Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  Maitland, Barrimore, even Annaleah stared at Emory. The silence in the cabin was all the more pronounced due to the sounds that emanated from the boats outside in the harbor, and it lasted long enough for one dominant voice to conduct a good natured auction for a crate of fresh chickens with someone on deck above them.

  Maitland reached for his glass and took a deep swallow of brandy. “I presume you have your reasons for making such an astounding statement, although I am not completely certain I wish to hear them.”

  “If you will read the letter from Jérôme Bonaparte you will notice a reference to Colonel Duroc. The name eluded me until I remembered overhearing one of his aides mention a soldier named Duroc who had thrown himself in front of a sabre intended for Bonaparte. It happened very early on in the general’s career, but he never forgot that act of bravery and sacrifice.”

  Maitland scoffed. “Are you suggesting this Duroc has come back from the dead in order to sacrifice himself again? And come back, no less, in the perfect guise of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

  Annaleah was hardly able to breathe. She glanced at Barrimore, who in turn looked straight ahead, clearly shaken by the thought he may have erred in his judgement after all. He stared unblinking at Emory as if he wished he could have forced this revelation from him on board the Intrepid and not risked what was sure to happen to his career at Whitehall if it was thought he had given an ounce of credence to such a wild notion.