Steam & Stratagem

by Christopher Hoare

“For her husband. What do I need to get the letter?”

  “You must pay ze postage, and show some proof who are you. Come with me—I show to you the office.”

  Lord Bond went to the counter and asked for the mail for Mr. Gideon Paine, an uncomfortable feeling running up his spine. He had almost ceased believing in the man’s existence, wondering if he were as mythical as Monsieur LaGarde. No, not only could he be real but he could be in Antwerp, a real sot-weed importer. He could be here as well, coming for his mail—or have an agent looking to pick it up.

  “Have you a proof d’identite?” the official asked, returning with a small package.

  Bond unfolded the parchment that constituted his passport and held it out. The official glanced at it. “Americain?”

  “Oui.”

  “Six francs, s’il vous plait.”

  Bond handed over the coins, pocketed the mail and hurried out. Elise stood outside and he took her by the arm to walk quickly into the crowd before anyone could challenge them. “We will return to our rooms to read this,” he said.

  At the pensione he locked the door before sitting at the table to break the seals of the package. Elise drew up the stool beside the bed to sit looking over his shoulder. “It will be in English,” he said.

  “So . . . you will explain.”

  Perhaps he would, perhaps he wouldn’t. It depended upon what the letter said. He didn’t answer as he drew the sheaf of pages from the packet, and then he was too startled to say anything.

  “What means ‘United States Minister Plenipotentiary to France’,” Elise wanted to know.

  Bond stared at the official letterhead. “It means . . . American Ambassador,” he said.

  “Why does ambassador write to Mistere Paine?”

  Bond didn’t answer—he hated to admit he didn’t know. The first words of the letter didn’t do any more for his state of mind than did the letterhead—“My dear Gideon . . .”

  Not only did Paine exist, he was on first name terms with the American ambassador to France. This was getting worse, more alarming all the time. Where did his Dutch friends lay their hands on this passport? Did they know anything more about the man they had stolen it from?

  He set the page down and turned to confront Elise. “Do you know the people who stole this passport? Do you know what happened to Paine after he left Amsterdam . . . ? He did leave Amsterdam, and not end up floating in the canal?”

  Elise stared into his eyes defiantly. “I know nothing of this.”

  He slapped her hard across the face. “You must know something! We could be in great trouble. Search your memory—you must remember something.”

  Elise’s cheek reddened, but she did not raise a hand to it. Her eyes turned fierce. “All I know is a man was robbed coming from ze card game. It happen in early summer. No one knew where he went, after.”

  “I was told it was perfectly safe. That the man had left the city.”

  “Certain. The man was gone from Amsterdam.”

  “Yes—gone to Antwerp, by damn!”

  “He is tobacco man—he could be in any port in France.”

  Bond stared into her angry eyes—quite true. The letter may only indicate that Paine was expected to arrive in Antwerp soon. He turned his attention back to the letter.

  It continued—“I was glad to be able to replace your papers when you came to Paris, and must tell you that someone claiming to be you was in Flushing during the month of July . . .” Yes—he had been in Flushing then. Good Lord—his moves had been discovered.

  He read the whole first page while still reeling from his narrow escape from discovery. It seemed mostly pleasantries and references to people in the Americas that both knew. It was only at the bottom that he saw something relevant. “Your wife is now in Paris and pleading penury. I have allowed her a small stipend, but need to learn from you if you intend going through with the divorce proceedings. I do not want to reiterate the reasons why I thought your matrimonial ideas were a grave mistake, but you could have found a better connected Frenchwoman than Mrs. Paine, or at least a more scrupulous one.”

  Bond ceased reading to glance at Elise—yes, he could understand what a mistake Paine had committed.

  “What does letter say?”

  “Mrs. Paine is in Paris, and the Ambassador has had to pay some of her debts. Paine apparently considers divorcing her.”

  “The beast! He bring l’Americaine to France and wishes to desert her.”

  “She is French, apparently.”

  Elise did not answer in words, but her expression signalled the information had struck a chord.

  Bond set the page down and took up the next. It contained some correspondence about Paine’s business interests, and information about other Americans in France who he might be advised to meet, and ended with the signature William Harris Crawford and below it a post script—directing him to a third, sealed page. He opened this to find—“Previous diplomatic messages have indicated that I can expect to receive a diplomatic package aboard the vessel Reaper leaving New Bedford before the end of August. It is very important that you should meet the vessel in Antwerp as the contents are highly sensitive and will be secured in the usual way. I must also inform you to expect Monsieur Le Duc d’Outrante in Antwerp in the first or second week in September on some official business. If you introduce yourself to him and inform him of the nature of our confidential papers he will dispatch them to me by secure messenger.”

  Elise’s fingers on his shoulder dug in sharply as she exhaled with a gasp. “Outrante!”

  “Yes,” Bond answered her. “Joseph Fouché—Napoleon’s Minister of Police—the spymaster who has caught almost every spy working against Napoleon. And I will be obliged to haunt the quays and dockyards to learn of the arrival of this American ship, Reaper, when I would prefer to be lying low.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  First Class Cabin

  When Roberta’s Thames Packet steamer arrived in the Medway she saw not only her destination, the frigate Medusa moored in the river, but a column of smoke from the direction of the royal dockyard marking the berth of her Spiteful. She felt a warm glow as she thought she might see Commander Worthington again before she left the harbour.

  Medusa had left London a day before she completed her negotiations for the sub-contracting of the second Thames-built spiteful. She had seen the frigate with new masts and yards, new standing rigging being tightened and adjusted, and new canvas gleaming white in the sun, as the crew took on victuals in the river from the Royal yard at Deptford, almost directly across from Charlie Napier’s shipyard. She felt a thrill as she contemplated sailing in her—she had been told that Lord Nelson had once hoisted his flag in her.

  The steamer blew salutes on its steam whistle as it passed between the naval vessels moored in the river on its way to the passenger dock on the quay at Chatham. On many of the ships, the crews responded, usually by climbing the rigging and standing on the main yard to wave their caps in answer. Roberta thought it a fine display of morale and seamanship. She had done her share of climbing the rigging, but Spiteful had a for-and-aft rig, and she had never walked out onto a yard of a square-rigger with no more than a single rope to hold onto.

  Lieutenant Farley, the new addition to the spy team, came out on deck from the nearby companionway. He walked with a slight limp, the result of an injury sustained when his gun brig, Marigold, had been blown aground on the Goodwin Sands off the Downs. His seamanship had been sufficient to save his crew even in the teeth of a gale that threatened to smash the little ship to pieces, but losing one’s command was a Court Martial offence in the Navy, and he had volunteered to undertake the spying mission while he waited for the Court Martial to convene.

  “That Medusa is a real fighting ship, Miss Roberta,” he said, staring across the water at the vessel—almost drooling at the sight, to her mind. “How I pine for a chance to command again and secure my promotion to post captain.”

  “Lord Bond has connections,�
� she said, “but I cannot say what opportunities for advancement await us as we embark for the Low Countries. I must admit that I will feel out of place under sail, since my seafaring experience has mostly been restricted to steamships. Are you an ardent partisan for sail or do you have some good regard for steam?”

  “I thought I was wedded only to the wind and sail upon a well found ship, but being helpless to avoid disaster when the gale chooses to play its worst upon a man’s best efforts has inclined me to a more neutral opinion. The admiral had ordered the location of my mooring with an eye to adding security for the rest of his squadron at anchor. When we dragged our anchors, the steam tug near us raised steam and got out of the way of danger. How I would have preferred to do the same.”

  “The tug did not offer assistance, then?”

  “The tug was ordered to help a seventy-four that was near to sharing my brig’s fate. ’Twas a correct decision to save the larger ship, but a bitter lesson for us.”

  “But it seems the storm threatened enough vessels with the same fate that the captains at the Court Martial may not find fault with your actions.”

  “That is my most fervent hope, Miss Stephenson, but I shall not cease any apprehension until I see who will sit in judgement of me. I am not a favourite of all the captains in the squadron.”

  “Would you like to visit my Spiteful, Lieutenant? A word with our Commander Worthington might be worth your while.”

  “You expect to visit the vessel?”

  “I hope there may be time for visits. Lord Melville gave me a letter of instructions for Captain Bell of the Medusa that may delay departure for another day. We will see what transpires.”

  When they disembarked from the steamer at Chatham a midshipman approached them. “Are ye the lady that is to come aboard the Medusa, Mistress?”

  She smiled as she answered, thinking he must be all of fourteen and yet with the bearing of a man. “That is correct, Sir. And Lieutenant Farley has also been ordered to take passage with us. I am Miss Roberta Stephenson, what is your name, Sir?”

  “I am Willis . . . very pleased to meet you, Miss Stephenson . . . glad to have you aboard, Lieutenant. Are you not joining the ship’s company?”

  “No, lad. I have detached duties. Do you have a ship’s boat to take us?”

  “I have the Captain’s gig and four oarsmen, Sir. It is moored downstream of the passenger dock.”

  “Can you have the sailors carry my luggage, Mr. Willis?” Roberta asked. “I have probably brought more than was needed, but am unsure of my actual destination.”

  The lad smiled, quite wide eyed as he led the way. “They says you might go ashore—is that the truth?”

  Lieutenant Farley frowned. “That is more than should be spoken of. We are on an assignment from the Admiralty—and that is all anyone should know.”

  Young Willis blushed and stared at his feet. “I will bear that in mind, Lieutenant. You may trust me.”

  They spoke little more as they descended the quay steps to climb into the gig, and only in polite commentary as they rowed out into the river after the sailors had loaded the luggage. They learned that vessels from no less than three Channel squadrons were moored within the harbour, some being revictualled, some delivering dispatches from or to squadron commanders, and some sending sick and injured ashore. Medusa, it turned out, was the only recently fitted-out warship present—a great rarity in a weatherbeaten and overstretched navy on continuous watch over the enemy coast.

  As they reached the Medusa’s side they found another ship’s boat already moored there. Roberta recognized it. “That is Spiteful’s cutter. Are men from Spiteful aboard?”

  “That they are, Miss Stephenson. Commander Worthington has asked Captain Bell that the Master of Medusa might show his young men the frigate where our beloved Lord Nelson flew his flag when he commanded in the Channel.”

  “Indeed? I must own to the desire that I too might prevail on the Master that he give me the tour as well. Was he master when Lord Nelson was aboard?”

  “That he was, Miss, but you shall have a tour that few others might share. I’m told the cabin assigned for you is the very selfsame cabin that the Admiral used.”

  “I do envy you, Miss Stephenson,” Lieutenant Farley said, “but perhaps little of the furniture is the same as the Admiral used—it must be thirteen years since he hauled down his flag on Medusa.”

  Young Willis had another answer. “Thirteen years and two months, Sir. But the Master do say that the cot in that cabin be the same as Lord Nelson slept in.”

  “Really?” Lieutenant Farley said. “I’m sure you will sleep soundly there, Miss Stephenson.”

  “I’m not at all sure,” she answered. “I should be fearful of not being fit to sleep in such hallowed accommodation.”

  “Ah, I doubts that,” Willis said. “’Tis only the Chaplain that you be displacing today, and I don’t doubt but that he have prayed so much in that cot as the Admiral his-self could hardly rate its shelter.”

  Lieutenant Farley glared. “Cheeky monkey! Get you about mooring your command here and do not speak so disrespectful of the Cloth.”

  Willis hurried to command his crew about mooring the gig and heaving them alongside the jack ladder, but he found the chance to exchange a covert grin with Roberta.

  Midshipman Willis ordered his seamen to avert their eyes while Roberta climbed the jack ladder. Lieutenant Farley preceded her and helped from above, while she rued the necessity of wearing a travelling dress instead of the boiler suits she favoured at sea. She had ordered one packed in her shipping trunk and vowed to wear it when next she had to climb up or down into a small boat. When she reached the deck she was surprised to find quite a welcoming committee.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Stephenson,” Commander Worthington said, stepping forward to take her hand. “You caught us in the act of leaving Medusa, but if I may, I would be pleased to remain aboard to introduce you to all the Medusa officers.”

  “Why, thank you, Commander. I am pleased to be in your debt one more time.”

  He led her to a stocky man of middle height wearing a bicorn naval hat and a blue jacket with gold epaulets. “May I present Miss Roberta Stephenson, Captain? Miss Roberta, this is the captain of Medusa, Post Captain George Bell. Miss Stephenson is the manager and chief designer of her father’s yard that built the Spiteful.”

  “Welcome aboard, Miss Stephenson. I trust you will find us a gentlemanly lot, for all the necessary exigencies of war.”

  “I’m sure I shall, Captain Bell, but I expect Commander Worthington has spoken in confidence that I am not unaccustomed to living on a warship in the Channel.”

  Bell smiled. “He has intimated such, but I regret our need to prepare for our own departure means I cannot avail myself of his invitation to inspect your father’s craft.”

  Lieutenant Farley stepped forward to introduce himself to Captain Bell while Worthington took Roberta around the commissioned and non-commissioned officers, introducing her with great relish as a particular friend and benefactor. By the time the introductions were over she felt she could hardly have been paid more compliments if she had been royalty. She did walk with him to the jack ladder as he prepared to join his crew members below in the cutter.

  “I am deeply concerned to find you have been sent aboard a warship to join the blockading squadron, Miss Stephenson,” he said sotto voce. “Indeed I am beside myself to find His Lordship’s designs so furthered. Please tell me that you have not made any undertakings toward him.”

  Roberta was taken aback by his manner, but felt inclined to reassure him rather than dismiss his impertinence. “I have not seen His Lordship since my departure from Clydebank, my dear friend. You may calm your fears as far as my own intentions are concerned. My presence here is merely to fulfil the task of safely introducing Lieutenant Farley into His Lordship’s party if the Nederlander fails to make its planned rendezvous with the blockading squadron.”

  “Then, despite the Admiral
ty’s orders to keep the Spiteful away from the enemy coast, I will do all that I can to ensure the Spiteful is nearby at sea at that juncture, Miss Stephenson. I will never desert you . . . you may count upon me.” With that he took her hand most forcefully and kissed it before turning to set foot onto the jack ladder, leaving her somewhat flushed and flustered, looking out across the anchorage until she could compose herself sufficiently to contemplate rejoining the officers.

  Roberta watched the departing cutter before she moved away from the jack ladder. Would her dear friend turn for a departing look at her or maintain his stiff forward looking stance from his seat in the stern? She had to admit that she had not awarded him the attention and regard she should have while the other gentlemen used their positions to the fullest. She made herself a solemn promise—if it was in her power when she returned from the shores of France—she would rectify her mistakes.

  To Be Continued in Spies and Subterfuge

  About the Author

  Christopher Hoare was born in Britain three months before WWII started. Later, that resulted in a scholarship place for secondary education under the Butler Education Act and eventually to some engineering training at a Ministry of Supply establishment. While he appreciated the training, he really wanted to be a writer so he left halfway through the course for a stint in the Artillery, and then in the N. African oilfields, followed by a move to Canada and work in the Arctic and Northern bush. He had intended moving on but met his wife of 43 years and is still here–diligently writing at last, and turning all the life experience into somewhat contrarian fiction.

  Most of his published novels four out of six have early steam power as a factor in the plot, and he claims his previous work experience with gear manufacture, steam generators, and steam powered utilities makes him almost a founding father of Gear-heads.