The Moonless Night (8 page)

“Very likely,” Sanford agreed, to everyone’s surprise, till he added, “when your father has called off his watchmen.” Then he walked forward and looked into the glass. “They’re kept at a good distance, I see.”

“A hundred yards,” David informed him—really Mr. Benson, though Sanford, of course, heard it as well.

“Too close,” the latter said.

“Admiral Keith doesn’t seem to think so,” David said at once, not to let the meddler get away with anything.

“I don’t see how any of those little boats could hope to effect a rescue,” Sanford said next. “We’ll have to run into Plymouth and get a better look. Your father said the
Fury
was ready to launch, Mr. Boltwood. We could hack into Plymouth and back before lunch. Shall we go now, and take
Fury
out this afternoon?”

“That’s up to Mr. Benson,” David answered, liking the suggestion nearly as much as he disliked the speaker.

“Excellent,” Mr. Benson agreed, and the men turned away, but Marie had not had a look yet, and went to the telescope. There was little enough to be seen. Even with the powerful telescope, one could not hope to actually recognize a face aboard
Bellerophon
. There were men there, but if one of them was Napoleon there was no way of telling it. Still, the very idea of his being so close to them sent a shiver down her spine. During the whole of her remembered life, the name Bonaparte had been an evil charm, a bogey to strike fear into a child’s heart. He had been a favorite threat of an old nanny. “I'll turn you over to Boney,” the woman used to say at the first sign of recalcitrance. And now he was here, a prisoner. How she’d love to see him.

“Hard to believe he’s really out there, isn't it?” a voice asked at her shoulder. She recognized it to be Lord Sanford's voice, and was annoyed. “I wish we could get a better look at him,” he added.

“I can't think why anyone would want to see him,” she replied, lifting her chin and immediately turning away, to lend credence to her lie.

“No doubt that is why you were using the telescope, to avoid seeing him.”

She racked her brain for a setdown, and found none. “Shall we go?’ she asked instead, directing her words to Mr. Benson.

They returned to Bolt Hall to inform Sir Henry of their destination, but he had gone off to round up more signers for the petition, and it was Biddy they had to deal with. “You won’t be back in time for lunch. We eat at twelve-thirty,” she said.

“So early? We’ve just had breakfast,” Sanford exclaimed, being an urban bird.

“My aunt had her breakfast at eight o’clock,” David told him.

“Go ahead without us. We’ll eat later in town,” Sanford decided for them all.

“Marie, you’ll not go with them. You won’t want to eat at the inn at such a time as this,” Biddy said at once. Marie was dismayed. She loved to eat at the inn any time, most especially at such an exciting time as this.

“Three gentlemen must be sufficient protection for Miss Boltwood, even at this time,” Sanford said with an authoritative air. “Come along, Miss Boltwood. I shall hold myself responsible for her,” he said to Biddy, and the matter was closed.

Marie had never been closer to feeling in charity with him, and if only he had then fallen back with David for the trip, she would have forgiven him all. But he kept by her side the whole way, pestering her with a dozen pointless questions, and keeping her away from Benson.

“Are there many Frenchmen about the quay?” he asked.

He had been there himself—he knew, but an answer was required. “Yes, swarms of them. I never saw most of them before. They are trouble-makers, rough looking types, every one of them.”

“Are there any amongst them who strike you as gentlemen?”

“No, I just said they are all rough, common people.”

“Gentlemen in disguise is what I meant. A rescue would take money and brain power.”

“There are no gentlemen. There is one lady,” she added, her mind flitting to Madame Monet “But of course a woman would not be actively involved in it.”

“What is her name?”

“Madame Monet.”

“Pretty?”

 “That depends on your taste. Some people seem to find her so. She is of a certain age—blond, full-figured. Rather attractive, in a vulgar way.”

Sanford nodded with a little smile, apparently liking this type very well, Miss Boltwood thought. “Madame Monet, eh?” he asked. There was an odd tone to his voice, but as Marie was more interested in the other half of the party, she took little note of it.

As they approached the city, David began outlining the obvious to Mr. Benson. Bolt Hall lay to the east of Plymouth, and as they approached the city, it was seen sloping down the hill to the Plym. Boats of all sizes and degrees lay in the harbor, some arriving, others leaving, and still others with activities going forth aboard—men seeing to sails, ropes and supplies. Already the quay was stiff with people coming to see the
Bellerophon
riding anchor within view, flying the white ensign of the Royal Navy, and signal flags of various colors. Sanford studied the signal flags with interest, but said nothing.

“This is the estuary of the Plym River,” David explained. “Plymouth is situated between two rivers, the Tamar on the other side. This inlet is called Catwater, and on the other side it is called Ham-Oze. This is the more picturesque in my opinion. We’ll ride into town and walk along the Hoo, if you don’t mind being crowded. You will get the best view of Billy Ruffian from there.”

“Billy Ruffian, that is another name for the
Bellerophon
I take it?” Benson asked, nodding at all the odd scraps of information thrown to him.

“Yes, it is what the crewmen have named her, and of course the whole crowd of landlubbers have become sailors since the ship anchored within view. Anyone in town could tell you she carries seventy-four guns, and is under the command of Captain Frederick Maitland.”

They dismounted and walked along, enjoying the sun, which was dissipated to a glow by the hazy air, but still warm enough that the salt air from the ocean was welcome. They jostled elbows with fishmongers, sailors, children, soldiers, ladies and housemaids till they had reached a good position on the Hoo, an elevated esplanade that ran along the edge of the sea, and was the favorite spot for regarding the ship. David, who always brought a small hand telescope with him when he came into the city, handed it to Benson to train on
Bellerophon
, but its ineffectual lens showed no more than the same view seen from the point, a large ship riding the waves, with indistinguishable shadows moving about on board.

Unaware of the machine’s weakness, Sanford reached for it. “I think we could get a look at him if he came out on deck now,” he said, training the glass on the ship.

“He is nothing to see I promise you,” Benson remarked casually.

“What—have you seen him?” David asked.

“Yes, I was in France when he escaped from Elba, and met him once. He is a short, obese, unkempt gentleman with thinning hair and bad teeth. Awkward in his movements, and slovenly in his dress. He wears his uniform open at the neck, and can be rude to people when he wishes.”

“Petty complaints about the greatest genius of our age,” Sanford said.

“Ah, do you put him a rung above Beau Brummel?” Benson asked.

“Several rungs below in toilette, from what you tell us. I begin to perceive I must invite Beau to Wight to smarten the Emperor up.”

“I made sure his toilette would be of interest to yourself, Sanford, so interested as you are in your jackets. And with what other detail can you cavil? He is short, certainly. Five feet six inches, to be precise.”

“But somehow, you know, it seems inappropriate to measure Napoleon Bonaparte in inches,” Sanford objected.

“How would you measure him, milord, in pounds?”

“No, it is not my practice to assess people in pounds and pence. I assume that was your meaning, Mr. Benson? You are interested in the fortunes of your friends, one hears.” He just glanced to Marie as he said this, a meaningful look, though it meant no more to her than that Sanford was extremely rude indeed.

“It was pounds and ounces Mr. Benson referred to,” she said angrily.

“Ah, was that it?” Sanford asked with a light laugh. “It was giving us the figure in feet and inches, but not in pounds and ounces that led me astray.”

Benson ignored the whole pass, like a gentleman. “He is aging besides,” he added. “Forty-six years old.”

“And how many months and weeks?” Sanford inquired courteously. He was again ignored by Mr. Benson, and the rest of the party as well.

They fell silent, looking across the gray-green water, shimmering with a silvery-gold light, and flecked with white caps where the wind ruffled it. “The wind’s rising. We’d better be getting on if we want to take
Fury
out,” David said.

“In a moment,” Sanford said, again trying to adjust the telescope to give a clearer picture, but with no success. “What is that island there, just off the coast?’ he asked Marie.

“St. Nicholas Island,” she told him. “One of Cromwell’s officers was imprisoned in the castle there. General Lambert. And the other large stone building on land facing it is the citadel of Plymouth, very old. The lighthouse there in the sound is to warn sailors off from the Eddystone Rocks. Very treacherous, for they are concealed at high tide. There have been some dreadful tragedies caused by them, but they help protect the harbor and can be navigated well enough with the help of the light and a little familiarity.”

Sanford could not feel any attempt would be made to land Bonaparte here at such a crowded spot, nor was it likely a rescue operation would depart from here. “Let’s go over and have a look at Ham-Oze,” he said, again walking with Marie.

“It is not so picturesque here at the Tamar,” she pointed out. “The repairs and refitting are done here. Those ramshackle buildings are warehouses and storehouses and so on.” There was a good deal of busy activity going on, but again of a very public nature. Not a likely spot for conspirators.

“Maybe you’d like to have a look at the Royal Naval station while we’re here, Mr. Benson?” David asked.

He was not averse, but it was the thorn in their side, Lord Sanford, who suggested they go in and say hello to the officers. David suggested going along to the inn to await him, but Benson, too, was curious to go to the station, so they all went along. It was no less a personage than Admiral Lord Keith, commander of the navy in the area, that Sanford asked for when he stepped in. He was told the admiral was at sea, aboard the
Tonnant
, and the officer, Captain Wingert, asked if he could be of assistance. Wingert was a young officer, brown-haired, apple-cheeked, and very keen. It was his youth perhaps, or his relatively junior rank more likely, that set Sanford’s back up.

“Are you the second in command at the station?” his lordship inquired in a haughty accent.

“No, sir, Rear Admiral Rawlins is second in command, but he’s very busy. Can I be of assistance to you?”

“No, I will see Rawlins.”

“I’ll see when he’ll be free, sir,” Wingert said, and sent off a message, remaining with the callers himself till Rawlins’ arrival.

“I see supplies are to be put aboard tonight,” Sanford commented idly.

Wingert stared at him. “May I ask how you know that, sir? No one has been told outside the station.”

“I read the flags,” Sanford told him.

“Oh, you read semaphore,” Wingert said, satisfied with the explanation, but unhappy with the fact.

“In a shipping community, I cannot be the only to do so. Keith should have set up a secret communications system. Are there not tight precautions taken for the loading?” Sanford asked.

“Certainly there are.”

“Night seems a bad time to do it. Daylight would be better.”

“Are you sent down by the Admiralty, sir?” Wingert asked cautiously, feeling no other reason could account for his didactic manner, and that in this case Rawlins would wish to be told.

“No, I am here as a concerned citizen,” he was told, in a lofty manner. There was a plethora of concerned titled citizens making themselves obnoxious to Rawlins, and Wingert realized his duty was to be rid of this one as soon as possible.

“We are working under Admiral Keith’s orders, sir,” Wingert told him in a polite tone. “A pair of ships go out, both armed. Every precaution is taken.”

“How about the stuff put aboard, the food, the drink? Where are they procured?”

“From our own naval stores. It was the first move Admiral Keith made when we took Bonaparte, to set a guard on the storehouse twenty-four hours a day, to see nothing was tampered with. It would be easy enough to dope the wine or something of the sort, and set the stage for a takeover of the ship. But nothing is left to chance. The supplies will be taken aboard after dark when the sightseers are gone, and it will be done under close supervision. Only naval vessels are allowed within one hundred yards of
Bellerophon
. Fears of an escape are exaggerated. If any vessel other than a ship of the British navy were to get too close, they would be shot out of the sea in a minute, and it isn’t likely one of our own vessels would free him.”

The visitors listened closely to this, nodding their heads in approval of this strict surveillance. It struck Marie that any effort to free the General must die unborn, and her hopes of being engaged in some romantical adventure were very slim indeed.

“I expect the men who are used for any communication of this sort are hand-picked, too?” Sanford asked.

“There wasn’t time for that, unfortunately. It is the regular crews that are used. It all happened rather quickly, of course,” Wingert replied. “But I think the British navy is to be trusted.”

“What makes you think anything of the sort?” Sanford asked, his face a mask of astonishment “The crew of these ships you speak of, if they are like every other ship afloat, are made up of sailors who were pressed into service against their will. One can hardly imagine patriotism forms any small part of their makeup. They might easily be bribed to help Napoleon escape.”

“Still, they are Englishmen...”

“Yes, if they aren’t Yanks, pulled off American vessels during the blockade of America.”