Authors: Rob Griffith
I didn’t know if my summons to meet Brooke at Walmer had anything to do with my father’s letter or if it had just been a coincidence but at Lucy’s insistence, I had written an obsequious letter of thanks to him. Whomever was due the credit I was glad to be back at the castle and hopefully on my way to France. My instructions had been to come with a valise and to come armed so I assumed Brooke wasn’t just inviting me for a game of whist. I followed the circular walls around to a small clapboard building nestled beneath the thick Tudor walls like a lamb sheltering next to a ewe. I walked through a doorway into a small drab room whose only virtue was a large and blazing fire. I dropped my bag and took off my cloak, resting the latter across a chair to dry. I stood as close to the fire as I could and took a quick nip from a flask to warm myself; by the time Brooke entered, I was steaming nicely.
The last time I had seen him Henry Brooke had looked younger than the cut of his clothes had suggested. This time the fashion of ten years before and the slightly worn cloth suited him. He looked tired and drawn, older than his years instead of being full of youthful vigour. There was no wig and perhaps he thought his rapidly greying hair afforded him the same gravitas. However, for all their rheumy and bloodshot surroundings, his eyes were still as sharp as ever, as was his mind and his ability to read that of others.
“Well, Blackthorne. As you have no doubt surmised from my appearance things go ill for us in France”, he said as he shook my hand and stood beside me at the fire.
“Indeed they must if you need to call upon my services,” I said.
“Do not be so hard on yourself. That is what family is for. Your last adventure across the channel was not a completely unmitigated disaster.”
“Thank you, sir. I think.”
“You showed courage if not intelligence, and it is courage we need now. Pray, sit yourself down and I will tell you what we need of you.”
I sat as I was asked and listened to Brooke outlining what has since become known as the Grand Conspiracy – an ostentatious name for a group of mercenary, ambitious and self-serving plotters who wanted rid of Bonaparte. Even as I was being briefed, the plan was already threatening to unravel faster than a cheap set of unmentionables.
“The problem is of course Bonaparte,” began Brooke. “He has brought order to France and, more importantly for the rest of us, success on the battlefield. He has to go.”
“You’ve tried to remove him once already haven’t you, sir?”
“Yes, and failed. Damned bad luck. We nearly had him. He missed the explosion by a whisker and still made it to the opera on time. We have to try again. Now, there are two methods for deposing, what for all intents and purposes, is a king. We can raise massive armies and navies and fight a decade long war and occupy his country, thence installing our own choice of replacement. It would have to be one of the Bourbons I suppose. Or we can assassinate him and replace him with someone more to our liking. Obviously, the second plan has the benefit of being cheaper and would result in a few less hundred thousand soldiers being slaughtered on either side. We must face facts. Bonaparte appears to be unbeatable on the battlefield,” Brooke said.
“Who would replace Bonaparte? I saw him in Boulogne, the man is quite popular with the people,” I said.
“General Moreau. If one French General can rise to power so can another, we hope. Moreau will depose Bonaparte in a palace coup, and then invite the exiled Bourbons back. He’s got some support amongst the other generals, who really don’t like the Corsican upstart, and is well known enough to not have mobs baying for his blood the moment he is in power. What France really wants is peace, and Bonaparte isn’t giving them it,” Brooke explained as he stood to warm himself nearer the fire.
I presumed that the wishes of the French population, who had risen up to get rid of the long line of increasingly ineffective kings called Louis and may not like another, were deemed unimportant and had in any case probably caused the whole mess in the first place.
“What’s this Moreau like?” I asked.
“Devious, two-faced and ambitious, or at least his wife is, which is all that matters as she wears the breeches. He made his name on the Rhine, trouncing the Austrians but hasn’t really done that much since. Been involved with plots before. Helped Bonaparte take power, strangely enough.”
“Will the plan work?” I asked.
“We’ve got agents around Boulogne and Abbeville who have been channeling funds to Moreau and sounding out possible supporters amongst the French government. They’ve fed on the anti-republican feeling in the Pas de Calais and have the makings of a conspiracy. However, there are two problems. Firstly, Bonaparte despite, or maybe because of, the dismissal of Fouché has an effective secret police that consistently manages to infiltrate the Royalist and Anti-Bonapartist cabals. Secondly, there is dissent within the conspiracy.”
“Dissent?”
“Yes. The main cause of disagreement is precisely when General Moreau would invite the Bourbons back to the throne. Would it be immediately, or perhaps after a period of transition? The fear is that Moreau gets a taste for power and we would have replaced one power-hungry general with another. Also the Bureau Particulier of the Haute Police, the bunch of ruffians over which your friend Lacrosse presides, have already made arrests amongst the plotters. I am becoming increasingly fearful that the whole house of cards is about to tumble down, but we have to see it through. It has to succeed.”
“Which is presumably where I come in?”
“Yes, you’ll go over tonight with General Pichegru and a few others. Pichegru is another French general I’m afraid, but he has been a bit more consistent in his opposition to Bonaparte. He’s going to try and talk some sense to Moreau and get the conspirators more organised. He’s also taking over rather a lot of our money, 30,000 in bills and bonds.”
“To buy loyalty?”
“Essentially, yes. We need to secure the participation of a number of Moreau’s colleagues in the army. We need to pay bribes to officials and we need to make sure that if Lacrosse is offering gold to some of our people that we are in a position to outbid them. It is not pretty, I will be the first to admit, but we no choice. We dominate the seas but Bonaparte dominates the land. It would take a long and bloody war to achieve what we could do in one dark and dirty night.”
Now, there have been many slightly questionable propositions made to me before and since, but few less attractive. I was to travel to France with this Pichegru and a cart load of coin. Become involved with a plot to depose the most powerful man in Europe. A plot populated with Royalist aristocrats with all the good sense of a shaving brush and power-hungry Generals whose main reason for being involved was resenting the rapid rise of a Corsican artillery officer. A plot already exposed by the most efficient secret police in the world. A man with any sense would have shaken Brooke’s hand, feigned an attack of gout and been on the next coach back to London.
“What about the traitor, sir?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s the rub of course. We know one of our agents is working for Lacrosse. We suspect that is how he has made so many arrests, including Claude Calvet.”
“Have you had word of the Calvets?”
“I’m amazed you restrained yourself enough to ask that only now. Yes, Claude is well enough I hear. It helped that Lacrosse knew he was junior enough not to know anything. So as far as I know, he hasn’t been tortured.”
“And Miss Calvet?”
“She is still looking for the traitor, but without much success. Once you get to Paris you can help her. We have to find out who is betraying us, before it’s too late. This time we must win through. We must.”
“Does Pichergru know about the traitor?”
“No, best not to tell him either, unless you really have to. He’s got enough to worry about.”
“What happens when we find the traitor?”
“You kill him, of course,” said Brooke flatly.
“When do I leave?”
“Tonight. Pichegru and the others are on the boat already, as is the money. You’re to aid Pichegru, and protect him. Find the traitor. And if you manage to keep your romance with Mademoiselle Calvet from interfering with your tasks that would be appreciated. Dispel all thoughts of being her shining knight and rescuing her brother. The only way he will be released is if we change the government of France. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll do my best,” I said.
He sighed and thanked me, there was a look of relief on his face that all too briefly replaced the weariness. He put his hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples, his eyes closed. I took this to be a dismissal and said my farewell, picking up my cloak and valise. He looked up as I opened the door.
“Be careful, Blackthorne. I don’t know who you can trust over there,” he said.
As you can conceive, that filled really me with confidence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was too dark, too cold and the sea was too rough. Landing back in France during the summer had seemed daring and mildly alarming. Landing in the midst of winter seemed suicidal. The crossing was tempestuous and this time I wasn’t the only landlubber flashing the hash. All seven of my companions were various shades of green as well. When I had boarded the introductions had been perfunctory. I’d been escorted down to the tiny wardroom where the other conspirators were sitting at the table looking ill, despite the fact that we were still at anchor in the Downs. I was soaked from a trip out to the Vincejo and the climb up to her deck. Not just soaked but chilled to the bone. Wright was busy readying the ship and we didn’t have time to talk. I borrowed a cabin and changed out of my wet clothes, before going back and gratefully accepting a steaming mug of coffee heavily laced with rum.
I expected the crossing to take a single night as it had during the summer, but I wasn’t taking account of the fickle nature of the Channel in winter. The winds were against us and we were subject to five days as close to hell as I ever want to get. When the ship got under way the sea tossed the small ship about like a cork and the dash to the heads became a challenge of timing your run with the roll of the ship and hoping you got there in time. Not all of us did.
It may have been the sea sickness or the thought of what lay ahead that made none of us very talkative. The ceiling of the wardroom was very low, the space cramped and the air became fetid. Water dripped from gaps in the planks above us. The ship creaked and groaned like a living being and shuddered every time a wave crashed over the decks. The tiny cabins we were allocated were smaller than some wardrobes I have seen. Few of us opted to sleep in the narrow cots that seemed made for midgets. We sat at the table and scarcely spoke, but even so over those five tortuous days and nights I did get to know my companions, just a little.
If Brooke had looked tired, General Pichegru looked ready for the grave. He had risen from the ranks in the American war and led the revolutionary armies across the Low Countries but now he looked harried and tired. He had been exiled to Guiana with Dossonville and had also benefited from the Alien Office organised escape. I wondered how a man who had fought for his country for so long could work with the old enemy? Was his hatred of Bonaparte based on his patriotism? On what was best for France? Or merely on personal grounds; jealousy, envy or revenge? I supposed then that it mattered little what his motives were. I didn’t question him on them. His large eyes looked both kind and sad and only his large nose hinted at any hawkishness in his nature.
My other companions were a mixed bunch, united only by their high opinion of themselves. Major François Louis Rusillion was a former member Swiss Guard, the king of France’s bodyguard and so perhaps by definition a failure. He had obviously been involved in espionage for some time and dropped names into conversation that I was evidently expected to know. He soon judged all too accurately that I was a novice and worthy of little but condescension. Pichegru and he knew each other well. Frédéric Michel Lajolais was another French general and the one who had come over from France to persuade Pichegru to return and become involved with the plot. He had a long nose and chin, a high forehead, looking not unlike Mr Punch. The other travellers included the Marquis de Rivière, Pichegru’s aide-de-camp (whose name escapes me), and finally Armand and Jules Polignac. None of them spoke to me very much or played much of a part in this story later so I won’t waste either of our times describing them. Even then I was realising that if you get involved with treason, rebellion and espionage you probably won’t like everyone that you meet.
The weather was so bad that there was only one occasion when Wright and I could talk. It was just before dawn on the third day and the storm had abated enough for me to want to go on deck and get some air. There was still a heavy swell but the wind had died and the rain had stopped. No, I shouldn’t say stopped. It was the Channel in winter. The rain never stops, it only pauses. It was bitingly cold though, but scarcely colder than below decks. Wright was standing on the quarterdeck, shrouded in a canvas cloak. He stood with his legs apart, adjusting perfectly for every pitch and roll of the ship. I could barely stand. He looked as alive as the ship felt. Even in the pale grey light his eyes gleamed and he could barely keep from grinning.
“Wonderful morning, is it not, Ben?”
“Wonderful because we are still afloat and I’ve not been sick for the last few hours, perhaps. But I’ve had better,” I said, giving up my attempt to stand like him and grabbing a rope to keep me upright.