For Our Liberty (25 page)

“Thank you, no sir. I feel that whatever Mr Brooke has in mind for me will demand a clear head,” I said, recognising an occasion when toadying was called for in generous measure.

“Nonsense, a bottle of port enlivens the senses and calms the nerves.” Pitt said, and then added somewhat esoterically, “Don’t know anything about telescopes I suppose?”

“You look down the thin end I believe, sir?”

“Yes, yes. Had this cursed thing delivered last week, Herschel made it for me. You know, the Astronomer Royal. Fool delivered it in pieces and I’ll be damned if I can follow the instructions. Sure a drop of port won’t tempt you? You’ll need it where you are going,” he said, ominously.

“You have the advantage of me, sir. I have not yet been informed of my destination.”

“France, of course. Where else would we send a confidential agent? Don’t you tell your boys anything any more Brooke?” Pitt barked at Brooke. Brooke shot me a look that indicated I wasn’t toadying anywhere near enough.

“My pardon, sir. I am about to give Blackthorne the details. Would you excuse us?”

“Yes, I suppose I will have to won’t I?” Pitt said and muttered something about what he’d do if he was still Prime Minister. He took a sip of port and then shook my hand again. “Best of luck to you Blackthorne,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. Brooke motioned me to one side and introduced me to the other officers, who were still grouped around the useless telescope. They seemed to welcome the interruption to their fruitless attempts to make it work.

“Blackthorne, this is Colonel Charles Smith and his brother Commodore Sir Sidney Smith,” Brooke said. I shook hands with both gentlemen. Colonel Smith was the elder and looked it in his scarlet jacket and powdered wig. Commodore Smith I had met before in Egypt but he did not recognise me and I did not remind him of our meeting. Smith was somewhat notorious, not for his naval adventures but more for his nocturnal ones. Smith had been bedding Princess Caroline, to whom even the fat pig of a husband Prinny turned his nose up. German, florid, gregarious, coarse, and far from attractive, Princess Caroline was said to have a libido like a drunken sailor back from a circumnavigation.
 

Smith wasn’t the only one to enjoy her favours, if you can call them that, there were others who wanted to bed the future queen. However, there were rumours of a child, but I should say no more, apart from mentioning that since Nelson had Emma Hamilton perhaps there is something about naval heroes that means that they can’t keep it in their breeches. Anyway, Smith had his black hair cut short in the Roman manner, and this was only just becoming fashionable. His navy uniform was cut well and weighed down by a selection of gaudy medals and orders. He was not tall but he was well built and had the air of a coiled spring. James had told me that he had undertaken some clandestine missions in Egypt and I had read of other exploits in the papers including escape from the infamous Temple prison in Paris. I also knew from James that Captain Wright, the one who had gotten me into all this, had been Smith’s lieutenant in Egypt.

“Now, Blackthorne,” Brooke said when the usual formalities had been dispensed with, “where do you think we’ll be sending you?”

“France, sir, as Mr Pitt said.”

“Quite so, but why do you suppose?”

“I would not care to suppose, sir. I shall go where I am ordered and do what I am asked,” I answered, toadying still.

“A good but unimaginative answer Lieutenant Blackthorne,” said Commodore Smith. “However, can you not surmise what worries us most?”

“I would imagine that the army massing around Boulogne would be causing some concern, if the preparations I have seen are any judge,” I said.

“Indeed, Lieutenant, and what do think is stopping those French regiments from invading?” said the Commodore.

“The Navy, sir?” If his brother had asked I would have said the army, of course.

“Quite correct. The squadrons blockading the French ports are all that stands between us and French rule,” Commodore Smith waved his hand at the fleet anchored just off shore.

“We’d stop them before they left Kent,” said Colonel Smith, somewhat peeved.

“Perhaps, brother. Your confidence in our army is heart warming but would you agree Lieutenant Blackthorne?”

“I think we could give them a bloody nose, sir,” I said, for the Colonel’s benefit, “but stop them? No. Not if they got across in sufficient numbers.”

“I agree,” Commodore Smith said and Brooke concurred looking eager to regain control of the conversation.

“But, your pardon sir, they are not likely to be able to cross are they?” I asked. “The French navy is no match for ours and even if our squadrons were blown off station they could return before too many French landed. It would be a massacre; our seventy-fours would decimate the landing barges, would they not?”

“I would hope so too Blackthorne,” said Brooke, “but suppose for a moment that the French had weapons to defeat our ships. New weapons that we could not defend against.”

“Then I would suggest the good farmers of Kent begin to plant garlic, but with respect, sir, hasn’t someone been paying too much attention to Mr Ackerman’s latest set of prints?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Brooke. “Blackthorne, in Paris at this moment there is an American by the name of Robert Fulton who has designed and built a vessel that will travel under the sea and deploy an underwater mine sufficient to blow the keel off a first-rate. He calls these mines torpedoes, a kind of fish I believe. He is trying to sell his inventions to the French. If they are sensible enough to see their potential then I shall take up garlic farming myself,” It was the turn of the Smith brothers to agree with nodding heads.

“You are serious, sir?”

“Never more so.”

“Has this Fulton tested his contraptions?”

“Yes,” said Commodore Smith. “He sank a target brig off Brest and tried to go after one of our frigates but the wind was in her favour. More worryingly still he is trying to interest the French in a steam-propelled vessel that he has tested on the Seine. Imagine our fleet becalmed and the French merrily puffing their way across the Channel! The man has to be stopped!”

“Yes, indeed Commodore,” said Brooke, trying to calm Smith. “A task that we will entrust to Lieutenant Blackthorne, here.”
 

I hoped that no one saw my expression when he said this. I had thought my first mission might be something simple, like a quick jaunt across the Channel, meet a few royalists and then back in time for the last performance at the Haymarket. I did not expect to have such a weighty task to achieve and I was not alone.

“Mr Brooke, I have voiced my doubts about the suitability of Lieutenant Blackthorne to you before and will not fail to do so now that he is present. He has promise, no question of that, but he lacks experience. Captain Wright on the other hand…”

“Is known to half the gendarmes in France and practically has his own seat permanently reserved on the Paris mail coach. Blackthorne is new blood and we need someone unknown for this.”

“But…”

“But nothing, Commodore. Blackthorne is the best man we have available,” said Brooke and whilst I appreciated the sentiment I feared for our country if I was the best we had.

“He is practically the only man we have available,” muttered Colonel Smith, as he tinkered again with the telescope. A lens fell on the floor and cracked in two. The Colonel picked up the pieces, checked that Pitt wasn’t looking, and dropped them over the wall.

“Yes, well,” said Brooke, “we have been rather unlucky of late. I’m afraid, Blackthorne, that Lacrosse has captured several of our agents in the last weeks.”

My first thought was not of the implications of that news for the safety of the nation, or even of myself. Instead I feared for Dominique and for Claude.

“Is the Calvet family at liberty still?” I asked.

“Yes, Calvet has retained his position, with the support of Dossonville and his niece and nephew are in hiding. They are safe enough for the present” said Brooke. “Now, to your orders Blackthorne. You will sail for France tonight on His Majesty’s Ship Vincejo. You will be landed on the French coast where you will meet a Monsieur Devrieux. He will arrange for your onward travel to Paris. Once in Paris you will find and meet with Fulton and present him with this letter.” Brooke handed over a thick document sealed with the Admiralty crest. “You will then return to the coast with his reply, or if possible with him, and back to England. If you are able to you will also destroy any prototype vessels Fulton has made. Remember that there is a traitor in Paris so be careful whom you trust. Do not put your meetings with Fulton in jeopardy by pursuing the traitor yourself, we have another agent working on that problem. Any questions?”

Only about ten thousand, I thought. Who was this man Devrieux? How was I to travel to Paris? Where would I find Fulton? What did the letter say? Who was the agent hunting the traitor? What were the chances of me getting back to dear old England with my head intact?

“None, sir.” I said.

“Good,” said Brooke. “I don’t have to tell you how important this mission is, but I have every faith you will succeed. In your last little escapade you displayed courage and resourcefulness.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, reflecting that whenever someone tells you that they don’t need to tell you something they always do so anyway. I wasn’t fooled by Brooke’s praise either. I knew they had to be pretty desperate to pick me for the Fulton mission.

I said my farewells to the brothers Smith and Mr Pitt. Brooke shook me by the hand and the orderly appeared again to direct me to a room where I could rest before the evening tide. I was led into the dining room where servants were still arranging cutlery and crystal and then into a long wood-panelled corridor. Daylight flooded in from above through a glass lantern in a central hub connecting the rooms of the inner part of the castle. I had just passed a door when a pleasantly familiar voice made me turn.

“Mr Blackthorne. I trust that you found Colonel Smith?”

“Yes, thank you Lady Hester,” I said smiling, but the smile froze upon my face when another figure came through the doorway with her.

“Mr Blackthorne, may I present General Moore.”

“It is all right Hester dear, Lieutenant Blackthorne and I have met before.”

“Kind of you to remember, General,” I said, wishing he hadn’t. I had last met General Sir John Moore in Egypt. Indeed I think the last time I had stood before him I was swaying from the drink and had to turn and vomit halfway through a particularly sharp dressing down. Moore did not like me. He was youthful, successful, handsome, and a born soldier so naturally we had little in common. He was always well turned out and cut a fine dash in his scarlet uniform. Lady Hester must have sensed the atmosphere but just smiled and continued on regardless.

“Mr Blackthorne is one of Mr Brooke’s gentleman, Jack,” she said taking Moore by the arm.

“Then I fear for our country. Are you sober today Blackthorne?” Moore glowered at me.

“Yes sir, those days are behind me,” I said, straining to keep my tone civil and smiling at Lady Hester. Moore wasn’t my superior officer any more but he was influential and whilst he definitely wasn’t a friend it wasn’t worth making him an enemy.

“I doubt it. Once a drunkard…”

“Jack, you are being uncharitable. Mr Blackthorne was perfectly charming earlier,” Hester said warmly, giving Moore another reason to hate me.

“No doubt. Come; let us be on our way Hester.” Moore and Lady Hester brushed past me and went out on to the battlements. Hester turned and winked at me as she left. Moore was far too big a prig to cope with a girl of her spirit ,I thought.

Still, Lady Hester was too good for me as well, so I did my best to put both of them from my mind as the orderly showed me to my room. In a few short hours I would be on my way to France. I needed rest, hot food and a drink. I got the first two but did my best to abstain from the latter, despite Mr Pitt’s assurances about port calming the nerves.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Vincejo wasn’t much of a ship. Even a landlubber like me could tell it was small and ill-favoured. She was the size of a brig or sloop but had the quarterdeck and the forecastle of a bigger vessel. The effect was to make her seem ungainly, like a puppy with oversized paws. After a couple of hours of supposed rest at Walmer Castle I had been roused from my room and taken down to the beach where a boat was waiting for me. A brief soaking in the surf and a brisk row saw me approaching the ship that would take me back to France. I must admit to being nervous, as nervous as when I left on a similar ship for the shores of Egypt. I had the same doubts that I had back then; would I die, be maimed, or worse, would I fail?
 

Thankfully the journey out to the Vincejo was short enough and I was soon pre-occupied with the prospect of climbing from a small boat to the ship without falling in or having to submit to the indignity of the bosun’s chair. All too soon the oars were shipped and we were alongside the slimy wall of planks and I was grasping at the wet rope netting. In the end a shove from beneath carefully timed with the swell landed me on the deck like a gasping fish. A hand grasped mine and hauled me up. I looked up to thank whoever it was, but when I recognised him I couldn’t believe it. Captain John Wesley Wright stood patiently while I exhausted my vocabulary of curses and made up a few of my own for good measure.