Authors: Rob Griffith
My next artiste gave a virtuoso performance that was so quick that I almost missed it. Again I hadn’t been given the little imp’s name but he must have been twelve at the very most, possibly as young as ten. When a child has so obviously been malnourished for so long it becomes hard to tell. He barely came up to my chest and was a tousle-haired street urchin with rags for clothes and a misshapen left hand that looked as if it had been crushed in some accident. Where Dominique knew him from I could not imagine, or at least not until much later when I came to appreciate that those from the invisible underclass of any city make the best informers and watchers. They also work for pennies.
I saw our little fellow weave his way through the crowd, asking for money and getting a cuff around the head for his pains. When he came up to Fulton he pulled all his best tricks, the snotty nose, the big brown eyes and even held out his claw of a hand. Fulton fell for it and reached for his purse. Instantly the tyke’s demeanour changed and he dangled Fulton’s own purse before his confused eyes. Even I hadn’t see him take it and I knew he was going to do it. Fulton’s mouth dropped open and the scallywag hotfooted away with all the dash of Captain Barclay on one his famous sporting wagers.
Fulton shouted and stumbled after him but two of his watchers were quicker on their heels and they were after the little scoundrel like Bow Street’s finest. I have always found it strangely comforting that officers of the law are so reliably stupid. Whilst what I fervently wished were the last two of Fulton’s shadows were disappearing around the corner on a chase that they had no hope of winning I was ready to make my move.
Now, at the start of this chapter I noted that Dominique didn’t have quite so much confidence in our plan as I did, well she was right and I was wrong. You see if I had really thought things through I might have considered the possibility of that dog Lacrosse personally supervising the observation of Fulton and so it was with some shock that I saw him in the crowd as I approached the American. He was wearing his habitual malevolent grey, like storm clouds in summer, and his eyes peered from beneath the dark brim of his hat. He glanced in my direction and then looked away, but looked back instantly and caught my guilty expression before I could lose myself in the throng. He was not fooled by the uniform and whispered a command to his burly companion. A pistol was produced and fingers pointed. All thoughts of a secret approach to Fulton were abandoned and I grabbed him as I ran past, he was still out of breath from his abortive run after the miniature thief and tried to shrug me off but I held on for dear life and shouted at him.
“Come on, damn it. Run you fool!”
He opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish, utterly confused. It was only the report of a pistol that galvanised him into action. The ball smashed into a shop sign above our heads and he was off. It was all I could do to keep up with him, the sabre I wore slapping against my legs and threatening to trip me up. His thin legs were pumping like one of those steam engines of his and his eyes were wide with fear. I pushed him into a side alley and he kept on going. I risked a glance back at the next corner and saw Lacrosse’s ugly companion lurching after us. On his tail were a gaggle of municipal guards and some of the agents that I had misdirected with my ludicrous plan. Lacrosse himself was at the head of the field swearing and cursing encouragement to his minions.
I burrowed in the thick sash around my waist and drew my own pair of pistols. They would be useless at this range, even with their rifled barrels, but they might slow the pursuers down a bit. I took aim with both pistols and let off two quick shots, firing each gun in turn. It had the desired effect. The policemen dived for cover, slipping and sliding on the filth of the alley. One lucky ricochet winged one of them but the rest were unharmed and were soon on their feet, helped along by Lacrosse’s boot.
I looked around for Fulton, just in time to see his arse disappear around the next corner. I sprinted after him, overhauling him easily enough now that he was tiring and the initial terror had faded somewhat. He slowed as I caught up but I just grabbed him and towed him behind me. Dominique was waiting for us with a carriage around the corner. We were almost home and dry.
Just as we entered the street we’d agreed on for the rendezvous Lacrosse and three of his men ran out from an alley ahead of us.
“Stop, Blackthorne,” he said, levelling his pistol at us, his men next to him doing the same. We were done for. I slid to a stop only yards from him. I looked left and right. Fulton’s eyes were wide with terror. I aimed my own pistols at Lacrosse. With only two shots I was sure to die but maybe I could take him with me. He looked into my eyes and saw I had made my choice. We both began to squeeze our triggers. Lacrosse opened his mouth and I saw his lips begin to form the word ‘fire’. Someone pulled a trigger, a loud report echoed around the street.
One of Lacrosse’s men fell forwards. Lacrosse turned to look behind him. Dominique was standing in the open door of the carriage with my carbine, still smoking, in her hands. In the split second before Lacrosse turned back Fulton and I were off like scalded rabbits. I heard more shots and prayed Dominique was safe. I tried to get my bearings but we were floundering through a maze of pitch-black back alleys. I was fearful we’d end up running back into Lacrosse. I pulled Fulton to a stop and we both hid in a doorway, wheezing and gasping. I didn’t know what to do, where to run. A musket shot whizzed past my ear like an angry wasp and it became clear that staying still wasn’t an option. Fulton was all but done in but we had to run again, stumbling about in the dark as we tried to open the gap between us and our pursuers.
I saw the dim light of a lamp ahead, I hoped it was a street lamp but it was only a lantern in a grubby back yard. The pack was close behind but there was only one way to go. Beneath the lamp was a rickety door. I didn’t have time for subtlety and just charged it. The wood splintered, as did my shoulder I think, and we were through. I shoved Fulton in front and raced along a corridor hung with hams, sides of bacon and strings of garlic. We burst into the warm glow of a kitchen and the aged cook screamed and swiped at us with her copper pan. I ducked and pushed Fulton through the next door and up a small flight of steps followed by a jabber of outrage from the cook. The door at the top opened into a well-lit salon and I heard the melody from a piano fade as we blundered into the room.
The singer carried on for a few more notes and then stopped. The eyes of the twenty or so people in the room turned towards us. Fulton started babbling an apology and an explanation but I heard the ringing sound of copper pan meeting thick policeman’s skull behind us and knew we didn’t have time for pleasantries. I quickly readied my pistols, one barrel of each was still loaded. I waited until I could hear foot falls on the steps and then opened the door behind us and fired. At that range neither shot missed. The leading pursuer, one of the agents, was thrown back down the stairs on top of those following. A bloody tangle of limbs provided ample targets for the cook’s pan.
I grabbed Fulton, who was still apologising, and dragged him from the room. We stumbled through an ornate entrance hall, our muddy boots slipping and sliding across the marble like drunken skaters. It was pure luck that we reached the door still on our feet. I wrenched the door open and leapt down into the street. It was deserted, but I could hear the rattle and rumble of a carriage approaching at speed. Fulton looked at me imploringly but he knew we had to run again. I too was reaching the end of my endurance but we trotted along as best we could, away from the sound of the coach. I glanced back and saw a black barouche come around the corner. With relief I recognised it as Dominique’s uncle’s and saw her waving from the window. I shouted at Fulton to stop and then when the carriage had slowed enough, bundled him through the open door. I jumped after him and was dragged in by Dominique. I struggled up in time to see the pack of policemen stumble from the doorway to the household whose evening we had ruined. They looked forlornly at the retreating coach and I waved smugly, until one of them fired at us. He missed and I sank back in the thick upholstery. Fulton was still on the floor, gasping for breath.
“By the by,” he eventually managed to say, “were you the bastard that tried to destroy my boats?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
December 1803
Summer faded to autumn, and then the cold deepened into the heart of winter. Fulton was in Kent, content to be playing with his inventions again, unmindful of the fact that his paymaster had changed. Our escape through France and then Holland had gone smoothly after my initial bungling had jeopardised everything. After he’d listened to my report, Brooke had been less than fulsome with his praise. I was congratulated on returning with Fulton but chastised for involving myself with the hunt for the traitor, and he was deeply disappointed that I had failed to destroy Fulton’s craft. I could not argue with him and I had waited in vain for further employment from the Alien Office. After my fourth or fifth visit to Crown Street Brooke made it clear in no uncertain terms that they would send for me if I was needed and that I should stop begging to be sent back to France.
I spent my days reading and walking alone through the parks of London, worrying about Dominique and longing to be back with her. As the trees began to shed their leaves Hawkshawe and my sister Lucy had attempted to cajole me into a semblance of my old self but rapidly admitted defeat in the face of my implacable melancholy. Of course, I now knew of their attachment to each other and I should have been happy for them but even though James was my dearest friend and Lucy my only family I was uncomfortable around them. This was not only due to the fact that no brother is really ever comfortable with his sister’s lover, but also of course that I was jealous of what they had. I was under no illusion that there was little chance of such happiness for Dominique and I. The only positive point that I can make of this black period was that I managed to resist the temptation of both bottle and cards. I had looked into the mirror and seen a person I liked. That and the tirade Dominique would treat me to if I fell back into my old ways kept me sober.
It was, as always, Lucy that rescued me from my self-imposed wretchedness with an appeal for aid that could not fail to engender the compassion of a loving brother, even one who was being so selfish as to imagine that the world was coming to an end just because he had an aching heart. We were walking through bleak and windblown Mary-le-Bone fields. In summer they were full of couples walking arm in arm or families pic-nicking but now that the trees were bare and a deep frost made the grass brittle under our feet we had the paths to ourselves. Lucy was holding my arm with both fur-mittened hands and resting her head on my shoulder. I knew something was wrong because she had learned to let me walk alone but that day she had brooked no argument and insisted upon accompanying me.
She had started to say something several times and eventually I had stopped and sat her down on a bench and just asked what she wanted to talk about. I said it harshly, just wanting to be left alone, but regretted being so mean-spirited as soon as she started to speak. She and James had hatched a plan to introduce her to his family, one in which I played an integral part. James was going to invite me to spend Christmas at his home in Warwickshire and Lucy was to accompany me. They hoped that Lucy would charm his parents. Having met his formidable mother, a member of the influential Fox family who had harboured a deep bitterness ever since she married beneath herself, I suspected that no amount of wit and charm on my sister’s part would ever reconcile them to James marrying anything other than money or title. Despite my misgivings, there was nothing I could do but acquiesce, and wipe Lucy’s tears from her face before they froze there. She and James loved each other so much I did not have the heart to tell her that there was no future in it, or so I thought at the time.
So it was that we arrived in the village of Leamington Priors just before Christmas. We were frozen with cold and bruised by the shaking of the mail coach but we were both putting on our bravest faces. The Hawkshawes’ small and rundown estate was just outside the village and not far from the county town of Warwick. The small manor house of honey coloured stone sat in parkland deep with snow. Our reception had also lacked warmth. Sir Tristan and Lady Arabella Hawkshawe knew enough of my history to not want James to catch any of my dissolute habits and I only hoped that in comparison to me Lucy would appear the very model of virtue. Isobel, James’ sister, displayed admirable independent spirit by taking Lucy to her heart and the two of them were soon as thick as thieves. Even I warmed to her, despite some initial awkwardness when the four of us were together and Isobel and I felt very much the gooseberries. Fortunately, I knew that James would have had the good sense to warn her about me and so there was no risk of her getting the wrong idea, no matter how much time we spent together.
The days were spent pleasantly enough; a late breakfast followed by a ride, a walk or a visit to the ruins at Kenilworth. The afternoons were spent reading or writing letters, then dinner was early and frugal, but a better supper followed charades, which were amusing only because James was so awful at acting out. On one occasion we played a game of hunt-the-squirrel and I spent an unpleasant half hour in the boot cupboard with Lady Arabella until we were mercifully found. After supper James and I occupied ourselves with brandy and billiards until the small hours.
The letter came on Christmas Eve, forwarded from Lucy’s house in London, the address that I had left with the Alien Office. I knew what it was immediately, I don’t know how. I just knew. It arrived just as we were finishing breakfast. The maid placed it at the side of my plate and my chops and my heart went cold as I stared at it. Lucy caught my eye with a concerned look but I just smiled back, weakly, and tried to resist opening the letter until I could leave the table politely. I ate a few more mouthfuls, forcing the food down, and then made my excuses.