Time of Terror

by Hunter, Seth

  Lady Catherine was notably abstemious in her diet, her normal breakfast consisting of two cups of coffee and a small roll with a delicate smearing of butter; it was a great concession that she permitted anything more substantial and doubtless owed much to Nathan’s supporters in the kitchen, although they had rather overdone themselves this morning. The dishes on the heaped sideboard contained, besides those he had already sampled, oatmeal with cream, smoked herrings, sardines with mustard sauce, grilled kidneys, a cold veal pie, beef tongue with horseradish sauce, three kinds of fresh-baked roll, butter, honey and three different kinds of jam made from raspberries, cherries and apples. It seemed a pity to spurn such thoughtfulness, and his mother was engrossed in her newspaper. He heaved himself from his chair and crossed to the sideboard, selected two slices of bacon and a roll, and added a spoonful of jam from each of the jars.

  He returned to the table to find the newspaper lowered and a critical eye raised over the top of the elegant pince-nez.

  “It were a pity,” he said, “to let it go to waste.”

  “I doubt the kitchen would permit such a tragedy,” observed Lady Kitty, “and there are those who have more need of sustenance than others.” She lowered her gaze impolitely to his waist and concluded, “You will soon be as fat as one of your father’s pigs.”

  “My father does not keep pigs,” Nathan informed her coldly. “He breeds sheep. And I have as much spare flesh upon me as one of his greyhounds.”

  “Sheep or pigs, it does not signify; they are all lambs to the slaughter,” she remarked obscurely. “And as to greyhounds, I have only a passing acquaintance with the breed but I confess I do not see an obvious resemblance.”

  “Has something upset you, Mother?” he inquired politely. “Or are you being gratuitously offensive?”

  “Offensive? You consider I am offensive? Pah. I will tell you what is offensive.” She brandished the paper at him. “That people should have their civil liberties taken from them on the ludicrous pretext that the government is engaged in a war against the Terror, as they call it, and if we do not cast innocent men in prison without trial merely for expressing their opinions we will have bloodshed upon the streets of London.”

  “You would not be so dismissive if you saw what was happening on the streets of Paris,” replied Nathan briskly, though his personal experience of the French capital was not something he cared to share with her.

  “You should not believe what you read in the newspapers, Nathaniel,” she admonished him, “especially those you read at your father’s house.”

  She raised her own like a barrier between them. He considered the bacon still reposing on his fork but he had lost his appetite.

  “What happened to your Frenchman?” he said eventually.

  “Which Frenchman?” she responded provocatively.

  He sighed. “The one with the limp and a face like a corpse.”

  “Talleyrand?” She lowered the paper for a moment and frowned as if she was trying to remember. “I thought he looked pale and interesting. He’s gone to America. He said England was getting worse than France before the Revolution.”

  “There’s an indictment. And from a man of God.”

  “ ‘Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.’ Do you know who said that?”

  “No, but I fail to see—”

  “Benjamin Franklin,” she informed him firmly as if this ended all possibility of dissent on the subject, or any other. “But do they heed him? Ha! You would think that the loss of the American colonies would have taught them that you cannot stifle people’s liberties without risk of an explosion but no, they think they can bully and browbeat us into submission. I tell you we will have the King’s German Legion camping out there in St. James’s Park”—a wild hand thrown towards the window—“and Hessians riding us down on the streets of London just as they did in Boston. Not that he needs mercenaries,” she added darkly, “when he can call on loyal British subjects such as yourself to make the world safe for tyrants and their minions.”

  And back she went behind her impenetrable barrier of print. He marshalled his arguments for he was not a little troubled by hers.

  “There is no comparison, madam,” he began, “between the present state of France and England. We still, thank God, have freedom of speech, the right to a fair trial, to the judgement of our peers. It is these that I am fighting for, not—”

  “I will tell you what you are fighting for.” She brought the paper down on the table with a force that rocked the cups in their saucers and spilled a quantity of coffee upon the cloth. “You are fighting for the banks.”

  “The banks?” Nathan repeated in some bemusement and a vague notion of the Dogger or the Bullock or possibly the cod banks off Newfoundland.

  “Aye, the banks. As we were, in America, though many did not know it at the time.”

  “I am sorry, Mother, you have lost me.”

  “I am speaking of the conspiracy of gold which is behind most wars, including our own, which we mistakenly call the War for Independence. Did you ever visit the George Tavern in Wall Street?”

  Nathan was familiar with his mother’s scattergun method of debate but this appeared random even by her standards. He shook his head in bemusement.

  “Well, throughout the war—as the British Army was in occupation of the city—the portrait of King George remained conspicuous outside the inn but the day the British left, a portrait of George Washington was hung in its place. Conveniently, the landlord did not have to change the name.”

  “I am sorry I do not think I have quite grasped the point.”

  “The point is that we beat the British Army and we won our so-called independence but nothing changed. Nothing fundamental. We did not beat the gold.”

  Nathan slid his eyes about the room as if in search of it. “Whose gold?”

  “Well, I have forgot exactly who owns it—and so have they—but it is the bankers who are the guardians of it, and lend it back to us at such and such a per cent. And everyone seems quite happy with this arrangement for they will lend it to anyone who has the means to pay the interest—even Americans. It was gold that fuelled our revolution and when we had ‘won,’ the bankers came to us and said: ‘Now would you like some more to build the new nation, to build roads and bridges, and ships and shops and banks? And while we are about it, is there anything else you would like? Let us lend you a bundle to fight the Indians on the frontier or the pirates in the Caribbean or the Quakers in Rhode Island, for Quakers are a troublesome crew . . .’ And with the profits they made on these transactions they bought up all the properties that were going cheap and all the farms and all the land that was going to waste and by the time they had finished it did not matter whose picture was hanging outside the George Tavern in Wall Street for it is gold that rules, my love, and the banks that possess it and those that have access to it—not King George or President George or Farmer George who gets to sell his vote every five years to the highest bidder—just like his pigs.”

  She raised her newspaper again as if that was the end of the debate and she did not have to wait for the votes to be counted to know who had won it.

  “Well, thank you, Mother,” said Nathan after a moment, “for giving me a better knowledge of the world.”

  Nathan was not disposed to take his mother’s views on politics too seriously, unlike the government of Mr. Pitt who still kept her house and its guests under strict surveillance and appeared careless of concealing the fact. Indeed Nathan strongly suspected that they used their agents as a form of intimidation. Few guests dropped by these days to partake of the hospitality and the spirited conversation available to them at Chez Kitty. Even Nathan had considered staying elsewhere whilst in London but it would have upset his mother grievously had she found out and, besides, he share
d some of her indignation that political dissent was now equated with treason, though he would never have let her know it. Still, it was probably not tactful to have used her address on the confidential report he had sent to the First Lord and might explain why he had been waiting five days for the reply. It was now above a fortnight since he had left Paris and Imlay had stressed that there was not a moment to be lost. The political situation was as volatile as he had ever known it and if Danton did not act swiftly he would not only miss the tide but risk his neck upon the guillotine and all his friends with him.

  While Nathan shared this concern, his greater anxiety was for Sara. The longer the Terror continued, the more likely it was that her true identity would be discovered and she would undoubtedly suffer the fate of every other aristocrat who had friends or relatives fighting with the enemies of the Republic. It seemed strange to be here in London eating a large breakfast—or as large as his mother would allow—while Sara lived off scraps and might at any time be taken up by the authorities. He was thinking about this when he stepped out of the house for his morning walk and did not notice the gentleman in his path until he had almost walked into him.

  “Commander Peake,” said the fellow, touching his hat.

  Nathan was instantly transported to Paris for the man had the look of a policeman or at least a government official. But as his mother would doubtless have informed him, London was not immune from either.

  “I do not think I have had the honour—” he began, stepping back a pace.

  “I am sent to give you this, sir”—thrusting an envelope at Nathan’s breast—“and to beg that you will attend upon the gentlemen at your earliest convenience.”

  “Well,” began Brother William, easing back in his chair and inviting Nathan to sit in the one going spare, “I think you have once more exceeded your duty, sir.”

  He flapped a paper at Nathan much as Lady Catherine had save that this was the paper Nathan had written for the Admiralty, containing details of Imlay’s proposal.

  “I am sorry you should think so, sir,” replied Nathan coolly. “But when Mr. Paine was arrested I was at a loss to know how to proceed and being reluctant to return empty-handed—”

  “You thought you would come back to us with this preposterous request.”

  “If you consider it preposterous, sir, then I must apologise for wasting your time but given the importance you attached to the gentleman’s goodwill . . .”

  Pitt made a dismissive noise through his nose which nonetheless betrayed a certain ambiguity of decision. He glared down at the document in question. “You say it is to purchase the support of the mob.”

  “That was how it was put to me. The mob and the Garde Parisienne.”

  “Dear God, what a country! What a people!”

  He shared his contempt with his brother who shook his head briefly and returned to his contemplation of the rug, though it appeared to be no more or less interesting in Nathan’s view than when he had last given it his attention.

  “And can Danton be trusted to deliver, do you think?”

  “I am not a diplomat, sir, nor an oracle, but that appeared to be your own opinion when last we met.”

  “Whisht, sir, I did not then know the fee. One hundred thousand pounds—in gold!”

  “It was put to me that it is a small price to pay for peace.”

  “Was it indeed? And if I was to put it to the House of Commons, do you think they would agree? Or do you think I should ask the King to provide it from his Privy Purse, explaining that it is for the man who provoked the attack on the royal palace and voted for the death of the King and Queen of France?”

  Nathan said nothing.

  “Or perhaps you thought I might provide it myself, or borrow it from some obliging banker?”

  Recalling what his mother had just said, Nathan was inclined to suppose the latter but he maintained his silence, merely inclining his head and waiting for the conversation to move on.

  “Well, and what did Imlay make of it?”

  “He appeared to find the amount reasonable, sir, given the risk involved and the number of people who would share it.”

  Pitt looked at his brother again but receiving no advice from this quarter other than another despairing shake of the head, he merely shook his own and repeated, “One hundred thousand pounds—in gold.”

  All three sat in silence for some moments.

  It was Nathan who, rather to his own surprise, broke it.

  “With respect, sir, you appeared to have some expectations of Monsieur Danton when you sent me to Paris in December. Has his importance diminished in your view?”

  Pitt sighed. “Perhaps I am become more cautious,” he confessed. “I always become cautious when I am asked for money.”

  The First Lord made a noise very like a laugh. Pitt glared at him. Clearly it had not been meant humorously.

  “Besides,” he continued. “Danton is a French patriot. He has a reputation as a man of action. He rallied the French against the Prussians and the Austrians when they were at the very gates of Paris. He might well rally them against us if the need arose.”

  This thought had also occurred to Nathan but he kept his counsel.

  “If we are to exchange the Tiger-cat for the Bull,” continued Pitt in the voice he used for addressing the Commons, “we must ensure he does not gore us.”

  Nathan bowed in acknowledgement of the prose as much as the sentiment behind it.

  “So. I will tell you what we will do . . .” Pitt selected another document from the small stack on the table beside him. “I have here a letter—I should say a copy of a letter. It is, as you perceive, sealed. However, I will tell you something of its content.”

  A secret exchange of glances between the two brothers.

  “In the year ’89—the year of the Bastille, as you will doubtless recall—the British government paid a certain sum of money to foster the disturbances in Paris.” He acknowledged Nathan’s surprise with a small inclination of his head. “It was thought then that they might be in Britain’s long-term interests and that at the very least they would embarrass the French government, just as the French government had thought to embarrass us in America. The sum was distributed by our agents in Paris to certain individuals thought to have influence with the Paris mob. This document”—he lifted it to his face—“contains the copy of a dispatch from the French Minister in London—which we intercepted—naming Danton as one of the recipients.”

  He watched Nathan’s expression carefully.

  “You do not appear surprised.”

  Nathan recalled Imlay’s remarks about Danton. It did not astonish him that Danton had taken a bribe from the British government. It would have astonished him more if there was evidence that he ever did anything to earn it.

  “Well,” Pitt resumed, tapping the envelope, “this also contains the copy of a letter written the following year by Count Mirabeau—who was then, you will recall, the King’s chief minister—referring to a sum of thirty thousand livres that had been paid to Danton to support the monarchy.”

  He brandished the document at Nathan and fixed him with his pop-eyed stare. “You will present this to Monsieur Danton and require him to sign a letter, also enclosed, acknowledging receipt of the correspondence and the consignment that accompanies it. In this way we may be reasonably sure that both items reach their intended beneficiary and not some other. We may also be reasonably sure that Monsieur Danton is aware of the consequences should he disappoint us in the future.”

  “And I take it you consider Imlay is to be trusted?”

  Pitt raised a brow and looked down his nose. “I do not believe we need to discuss Mr. Imlay,” he began, but then, after a slight pause, “All I will say is that while American and British interests are identical—and while he may profit from the venture—you may trust
him implicitly. Otherwise . . .” He shrugged.

  “And am I to take instruction from him?”

  Another exchange of glances between the brothers.

  “You are to be advised by him. But remember that strictly speaking Mr. Imlay is not answerable to us. Whereas you are.” He glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “Is that all?”

  “There is the practical issue,” Chatham spoke for the first time, “of how are we to deliver fifty thousand gold Louis at a time of war.”

  “We still have the vessel, do we not?”

  “Yes, but several chests of gold . . .”

  “Imlay proposed it should be concealed in soap,” offered Nathan.

  “Soap?” they said together. They stared at him with their pop eyes as if he were making game of them.

  “On the grounds that it will effectively disguise the coin and can easily be melted. Also, I believe that soap commands a high price on the Paris market.”

  “Dear God,” said Chatham wiping his brow. “What are we become?”

  As no one seemed prepared to answer him he added, “And where are we to find this soap?”

  “A chandler’s store would appear the most obvious location,” Pitt informed him, “but perhaps you might consult a purser on the subject.”

  He looked at Nathan and frowned as if there was something he had forgotten. Then his brow cleared.

  “I take it,” he said, “that you are willing to return to Paris?”

  Chapter 24

  the Artist’s Model

  Paris was having a spring clean. Gangs of labourers had begun scraping the filth off the streets and shovelling it into carts to use as fertilizer and in the gardens of the Tuileries the first buds were showing through the dead leaves of winter. In the new revolutionary calendar it was Ventose, the month of winds, but in defiance of the prevailing order the air remained stubbornly calm and was in danger of prosecution under the Law of Suspects.