King, Ship, and Sword

by Dewey Lambdin

  “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 Fouché. 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 Fouché to appear . . . without Talleyrand.

  “Where is the salaud? Still fumbling under that silly Madame Grand’s skirt again, Fouché?” Napoleon snapped.

  “I would suspect so, General,” Fouché 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 reports you sent me from the Ministry of Marine . . . about his connexions with the Anglais secret service, Fouché. 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 vigourous 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,” Fouché 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, Fouché! 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, ohé,” 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,” Fouché 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, Fouché . . . good work, your precautions,” Napoleon off-handedly said with an abrupt wave of his free hand, too intent on scolding Foreign Minister Talleyrand to consider how Fouché might interpret his idle, spiteful wish. “Now, monsieur . . . tell me what . . .”

  Fouché 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 bouchée à la reine, and their sauté à la provençale 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 with 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 Charité de Guilleri’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 Fouché and Réal 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.

  “Will you believe me, sir, madam . . . for your lives? Will you trust me to see you safely out of France, and home to England?” Plumb pressed them.

  “Christ, I . . . s’pose we must,” Lewrie gravelled, still unable to take it all in. “Trust someone, at any rate. Though it beggars all belief that Bonaparte’d go t’such lengths, knowin’ such an act would re-start the war. ’Less . . . that’s what he wishes . . . ,” Lewrie trailed off, his mind reeling.

  “You didn’t insult him, Alan, I don’t think,” Caroline said in a distraught whisper, looking deep into her husband’s eyes. “It was more our government’s delays that irked him, but surely he can’t hold that against you . . . against us! Oh, why did I ever insist that we come to France? This is all my fault!”

  “Still, sir and madam . . . do you trust me to make good your escape?” Sir Pulteney pressed with uncharacteristic sternness.

  “Don’t see how you can, yet . . . they say drownin’ man’ll clutch even the feeblest straws,” Lewrie decided, puffing out his cheeeks in frustration. “Aye, I s’pose we must. . . . We do. Though, how . . . ?”

  “We have our ways, stap me if we don’t!” Sir Pulteney assured them, then cackled out loud. “Begad, but we do have our ways!”

  Charité de Guilleri, in the meantime, had been having a grand few days. Firstly, she had finally allowed the dashing Major Clary of the Chasseurs to have his way, discovering that Denis was a most pleasing lover. Secondly, her beloved New Orleans, her Louisiana, was now rumoured to almost be back in France’s grasp. While she could not fantasise that her continued hints, suggestions, or pleas for France to reclaim Louisiana from the dullard, corrupt, and incompetent Spanish had been the sole cause, Charité had, in the best salons, found allies who felt the same as she. A couple of Napoleon’s brothers, Talleyrand (though that had taken an affair with the crippled, arrogant, and dismissive older fumier—an aff air which had become almost unendurable before Talleyrand had discovered Madame Grand!), and a few others—all had coaxed, cajoled, and spoken favourably for an expansion of empire on the American continent.

  Two years before, soon after Napoleon had become First Consul, talks had been opened with Spain for an exchange. Charles IV of Spain desired a kingdom for his new son-in-law, and Bonaparte had offered Tuscany, now firmly occupied by French troops, in exchange for Louisiana. An agreement had tentatively been signed then, at San Ildefonso, yet it still lacked the formal signature and approval from the dilatory and suspicious Charles IV.

  Now, though . . . wonder of wonders, Talleyrand had dropped her a hint at the levee where she had confronted that imp of Hell from her past, Alan Lewrie, that Charles’s final approval would soon come!

  She could go home in triumph, not as an escaped felon from Spanish justice for piracy, not as a failed revolutionary, but as a confidante of Napoleon Bonaparte himself, a member of the official delegation which would accept the turnover in the Place d’Armes, before the Cathedral of St. Louis, to the cheers of her fellow Creoles, her fellow Frenchmen and Frenchwomen! She would be a heroine at last!

  So it was that Mlle. de Guilleri felt as if she could float on air as she breezed into the quay-side entrance to the offices of the Police Nationale, at Fouché’s invitation. After all his sneers at her pretensions, let him eat crow that she had succeeded in reclaiming her dear home!

  “Citoyenne,” Fouche began with his usual grouchiness and testy impatience. “You have met Citoyen Fourchette.”

  “Indeed, Citoyen Fouché,” Charité sweetly replied, dipping one brief curtsy to the slouching, greasy-looking agent who had questioned her about that salaud, Lewrie. “A pleasure to greet you again, Citoyen Fourchette.”

  “My pleasure to see you again, Citoyenne de Guilleri,” the man replied with an appreciative, up-and-down stare, openly leering at her. He did not fully rise from his chair, though he did sit up straighter and continued to draw on his cigarro.

  “Fourchette has had this Lewrie gars under constant watch for the last few days, citoyenne,” Fouche gruffly told her, waving her to a chair, a touch too uncomfortably close to the lusting Fourchette for Charité’s comfort.

  “Indeed, Citoyen Fouché?” Charite asked, with one brow up.

  “His presence in Paris . . . his history of involvement with the British spy establishment . . . what the Ministry of Marine knows about him from their dossiers,” Fouché grumbled. “My thanks to you, citoyenne, for alerting us to him. For a time, we suspected he was here to kill the First Consul. How close he got to him during the exchange of old swords?”

  “I was there, C
itoyen Fouché,” Charité pointed out, letting him know once more that she travelled in the best circles.

  “Thankfully, we escaped that, but . . . perhaps you also witnessed how angry the First Consul was, as well, n’est-ce pas?” Fouché went on with a mocking grin over her comment. “Later, he gave me orders that this mec should drop dead of something, hein? Since you already know—”

  “He will be done away with at last?” Charité exclaimed in sudden joy. Could her prospects be even more blissful? “Bien! Très bien! You have just made me the happiest woman in all of France!”

  “Despite Citoyenne de Guilleri’s enchanting beauty and seeming innocence, Fourchette, she is a fire-eater, a veteran of armed revolution back in Louisiana, hein?” Fouché told his agent, almost winking on the sly even as he praised her. “She and her brothers went to sea to pirate Spanish ships . . . raised funds and took arms so the patriots of Louisiana could rise and throw off the Spanish yoke, comprenez? I assure you, Citoyenne de Guilleri is a very dangerous young woman.”

  “Then all France must owe you a great debt, Citoyenne Charité,” Fourchette said with slow and sly surprise, and an incline of his head to her, in lieu of a bow. “A slim sword, hidden in a silk scabbard.”

  “How? When does he die?” Charité demanded impatiently, feeling irked by Fouché’s sarcasm and Fourchette’s suggestive ogling. “May I be there, when it’s done? My brothers, my cousin, must be avenged at last,” she insisted, shifting eagerly on her chair.

  “Not here in Paris, non,” Fouché told her. “That’s too public. Fourchette’s watchers say that he and his wife will soon take coach to Calais, now the exchange is done, and their touring is over. The last trip, Fourchette?”

  “Two days in the forest of Fontainebleau. Very romantic, I suppose,” Fourchette answered with a chuckle and roll of his eyes. “They pay the concierge the final reckoning and may depart by the end of the week. A highway robbery may be arranged . . . tragique, hein?”