The Emperor's Assassin (28 page)

“Then we must go on with all haste.” Westcott turned to the man, still standing with his lantern. “Lift the bar,” the navy man ordered. “We are on the king's business.”

T
he moonlight brightened as they passed out of the city of London, the sky overhead clearing until it was bright with stars. The Great West Road curved away before them beneath rows of swaying trees. Morton sat up beside Westcott, who had donned a greatcoat and gloves in imitation of the mailcoach drivers.

For a seaman he was a skilled driver, Morton thought, though among a certain set this was a mark of some distinction. You could see them in Regent's Park on Sunday afternoons, gentry who aped not only the dress of the mail-coach drivers but their manner of speech and other habits as well—not all of these habits worthy of gentlemen. A few young men of good families had gone so far as to take positions driving mail coaches, and one titled gentlemen was said to be planning the purchase of the London/Brighton route so that he might drive whenever the desire struck. It appeared that Westcott was a follower of this fashion, though Morton would not complain of it this night.

The moonlit country sped by, the carriage rocking and jouncing along the wide white road. Occasionally the coach lamps of a London-bound vehicle swam up out of the obscurity on their right. The clatter of the team, the rattle of wheels, and the other coach went by, its driver cocking his whip in brief salutation. Then solitude and the dark again, into which Westcott sent them plunging steadily. Morton was all but falling from his perch with fatigue but was not ready to sleep yet. He still hoped to catch the carriage and the men who had taken Boulot.

“You think these men are going to Plymouth?” Westcott asked over the pounding of the horses' hooves, the squeaking of the carriage springs.

“Yes. I wonder if we should try to alert the port admiral there. Can we use the telegraph?” The Admiralty's semaphoric telegraph had been stretched to Plymouth a decade before, the tall, boxy towers set on high points of land, each about ten miles from the next.

Westcott shook his head. “No. We should have done that from London. The men in the towers will not let even an officer send a message.” Westcott shifted in his seat. “You asked if I thought Bonaparte could be shot on the deck of the
Bellerophon
. Do you have some basis to believe that this is planned?”

“None. But these Bonapartists are killing royalists for a reason. You wouldn't be sorry to see the Corsican shot, I collect?”

A dark smile crossed the seaman's face. “I confess I would not, but it is my duty to stop such a plot. And I shall do my duty. It is not for Geoffrey Westcott to decide the fate of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Quite so.” Morton rubbed his burning eyes. “Friends went out into the sound to see the little general. Their
description of the press of boats and people about the
Bellerophon
was nothing less than astonishing.”

“It is peculiar, isn't it? They say he's not shown the least animosity. As though he were really an emperor on an imperial visit, rather than the scoundrel who has spilt English blood on countless battlefields and in all the seas. He is a wonder, I will admit that. Have you ever raised horses, Morton?”

“I confess I have not.”

“My father bred horses for racing for many years. It was instructive, I will tell you. Every once in a great while a horse of no particular bloodline would appear and beat all the best horses of its day. The odd thing was, the greatness of this beast was almost never passed down. The blood did not run true. Bonaparte is like that, I think. There will be no one left to follow him. This son of his will come to nothing, mark my words.”

“The republicans don't much like to hear such arguments.”

Westcott cracked his whip over the head of one horse—“the laggard,” as he called her. “No, I suppose they don't, but I can make the argument work from the opposite direction just as well. I have been closely associated with the French royalists for much of the war. There are exceptions, of course, but for the most part it is as though they have been breeding the worst stock to the worst, creating a race of idiots who have no concerns beyond honour and privilege.” He was silent for a moment. “But I was in France in the early days of the Revolution, during some of the Terror, even. I saw what men, ungoverned, were capable of. I fear for France, Morton. I fear for the land of my mother. The Bourbons are doomed. They will not hold the nation. France is a ship without a captain. The officers will squabble
amongst themselves, and the men before the mast will cease taking orders. Such a ship is bound for the rocks, Morton, bound for the rocks.”

“You think Bonaparte will come back?”

“I do not count him out. The man is a phoenix. But he has made war on England and her allies for far too long. It's time we put an end to that threat.”

“Hang him, then?”

An odd, shrugging grimace was all the answer Morton received.

They arrived at the first posting station then and swept into its dim yard beneath a veil of dust.

Jimmy Presley tumbled out of the carriage, an unlikely-looking passenger of such a conveyance. The dark mass of the inn leaned over them, blocking out the moon. The smell of horses and dung was strong here, mixed with the sweeter smell of hay and grain dust. Three barking dogs appeared, wagging their tails. Presley immediately made friends with them, and they fell silent. An ostler and two boys roused themselves in a few moments; one of them carried a lantern that sent the shadows fleeing and then rushing back across the yard as it swung in his hand.

“No rest for the deevil or the ostler,” muttered the ostler, a heavy, slow shadow of a man.

“Did a big berlin come this way, traveling west?” Morton asked.

“Aye. A passel of Frenchies, wanting everything done double quick, as though they were the bloody Prince of Wales.”

All of them?
Morton wanted to ask. “When did they set out from here?”

The man rubbed his head.

“Pardon me, sir,” one of the boys interjected. “Just after three. I heard the inn's clock chime.”

The ostler gave the boy a sour look.

Morton could not read his watch in the poor light but guessed sunrise was not far off. “They're just shy of two hours ahead,” he told Westcott, “which means we are not closing the gap at all. In truth, they have gained a little.” Morton considered their situation. The mail coaches did not leave London until night. He looked over at Presley. “We'll have to hire horses and try to run Boulot and his captors down. Can you manage that?”

“I'll do what needs to be done,” Presley said. He was not much of a horseman, being born to London's working class.

“We can take my carriage,” Westcott said without hesitation.

Morton turned to the navy man. “The cost of hiring post horses would be too great, Captain. My magistrate would never countenance it.”

“Then the Admiralty shall pay,” Westcott said firmly. “And if they refuse, I will bear the cost myself. And I will brook no argument on this.” Westcott turned to the ostler. “At the risk of being mistaken for the bloody Prince of Wales,” he said, “we shall need everything done triple quick. But I shall make it worth your while.”

Morton reclined as best he could in the small carriage, falling into dream only to be shaken to wakefulness by the carriage lurching or shaking. He rolled down the curtain against the morning sun, but it still found its way through the cracks, throwing stark lines of light about the carriage in a mad race.

He had sent a note back to Sir Nathaniel telling him
what went on and asking that he alert the government to the possible threat to Bonaparte, but he was still not completely convinced himself. Oh, something went on, that was certain, and the man at the centre of it was the drunkard Boulot, who had once supported Bonaparte and had then become a friend of smugglers. A young woman was dead, and an old nobleman and his manservant. Lafond, a general of the Chevaliers de la Foi, was in London for the first time in years—perhaps. And Bonaparte was on a ship in Plymouth harbour. These were all threads of the same cloth, Morton was sure of that, but he could not weave them all together.

What made the most sense was that the royalists planned to murder Bonaparte. The Bonapartists had got wind of the plan from Madame De le Cæur, who almost certainly had learned of it from Angelique Desmarches, the count's mistress. The supporters of Bonaparte had then tortured Madame Desmarches to find out what the royalists were planning. They had then murdered the Count d'Auvraye in an attempt to stop the royalists.

And what of Boulot? He was the betrayer. He'd gone to the count and told him his mistress had passed information to the supporters of the Corsican. No doubt he'd offered some proof. Boulot would have known about Angelique Desmarches because he still had friends among the Bonapartists. But this betrayal hadn't swayed d'Auvraye, who refused to intercede with Fouché on Boulot's behalf, perhaps even out of anger at what Boulot had told him. The count had then cast off his mistress, thinking her in league with his enemies. It had then been easy for the Bonapartists to convince Boulot to help them assassinate d'Auvraye. The sot had provided the name of a waterman who could be involved
in such a scheme or who would give them a boat but not talk to the police. But what use did the supporters of Bonaparte have for the little drunkard now?

Before he could puzzle this out any further, Morton fell into a dream. Faceless men ran from darkened doorway to alley to doorway. On a balcony overlooking the street stood the Corsican, silhouetted by a dim light from behind. The shadow men became still, and when they advanced were as stealthy as spiders. Morton could see them, but he could neither move nor cry out. A loud report, and Morton was thrown hard against the side of the carriage.

He heard Westcott talking soothingly to his team, slowing it. The carriage jounced to a halt, and Morton stepped down to the ground. It was bright morning, the summer birds in full song, swallows swooping over a field of green hay. From the driver's seat, Westcott and Presley climbed stiffly down. The navy man crouched to look under his carriage, examining each wheel, handling the spokes to be sure they were not cracked.

“Sorry to give you such a shake, Morton,” the seaman said. “Found an abyss in the road. We seem to be in one piece.”

Morton offered to drive for a time, and after Westcott had assured himself that Morton could handle four in hand, he climbed into the carriage so that he might try to sleep. The two Runners sat out in the English sun, the breeze cooling them only a little. Morton pressed the horses on, but they were tiring, and the team would have to be changed if they hoped to catch up to Boulot and his abductors.

As they crested a hill, Morton saw a large carriage disappearing beneath the elms below and set the horses to race. Presley took out a pistol and sat grimly holding
on, staring at the road ahead. The carriage was soon overtaken and proved to be a very English family, their smiling faces filling the carriage windows.

Morton called to the driver: “Have you seen a large berlin, traveling west, and in a hurry?”

The man nodded. “Two hours ago. Perhaps a little more.”

Morton pressed the horses on.