The Flag of Freedom (13 page)

‘And then march overland to India.'

‘That was the plan, yes.'

To march in the footsteps of Alexander the Great
. That was how Junot had put it.

‘And this had met with the approval of the Directory in Paris?'

‘Apparently so.'

‘So it would surprise you to know that Bonaparte has negotiated a truce with the Austrian Emperor, shortly to be announced as a peace treaty, and is now in Paris preparing to march – not on India, as you suggest, but on London.'

Nathan stared at him. ‘Yes,' he began uncertainly, ‘it would, but—'

‘And it would be considerably to his advantage,' Scrope continued, ‘if a large portion of the British fleet was despatched to the Mediterranean – in the belief that he was planning to invade Egypt.'

So that was it. Nathan struggled to take in the implications.

‘You met this Colonel Junot in the Veneto, I understand?' Scrope was shuffling about among his papers.

‘Yes. That is also in my report.'

‘Pray remind me – what precisely was your business in Venice?'

‘I was under orders to enter into negotiations for the surrender of the Venetian fleet – to prevent it from falling into the hands of the French.'

Scrope observed him in his clinical way. ‘Orders from whom?'

Nathan was taken aback. ‘You must surely know.'

‘If I knew, why would I enquire?'

‘But their lordships must be aware of the nature of my mission to Venice!'

Scrope said nothing. The room had grown darker. It
was difficult to read his expression. In his black cape he looked like a hooded crow, a raven.

‘I had a direct order from the Viceroy of Corsica, Sir Gilbert Elliot,' Nathan insisted. ‘Given me in the presence of Commodore Nelson, who was then my commanding officer. I had assumed that their lordships knew of this. And that if they did not, then Admiral St Vincent had been informed.'

‘And these orders were given you in writing?'

‘Yes, but …' Scrope inclined his head in a pretence of patient enquiry ‘… naturally I did not take them with me to Venice.'

‘So where are they now?'

Nathan was beginning to lose his temper. He recalled Dr Moll's advice. ‘I left them in my cabin in the
Unicorn
, but—'

‘Ah yes, the
Unicorn
.' Scrope turned over another paper. ‘Which we were given to understand was sunk with all hands off the Rock of Montecristo.'

‘What do you mean “given to understand”?'

‘We now have information that she was taken by the French.'

Nathan stared at him. ‘But – it was reported that she had run upon the rocks. That – that she was fleeing from a Spanish squadron and—'

‘That is as may be. The details of the action are confusing. All we know for certain is that the
Unicorn
is now in the hands of the French. In Corfu, to be precise.'

‘In Corfu?' Nathan tried to make sense of this. He had been totally convinced that she had been lost on the rocks of Montecristo. Lost with all hands.

‘And her crew?'

‘Are held as prisoners of war. Those that have not already been exchanged.'

So they were alive. All those men he had thought were lost. Men he had served with for the best part of two years.

‘Where …' he began, but then he took in the last part of Scrope's reply. ‘There has been an exchange of prisoners, you say?'

‘Of certain of the officers, including your first lieutenant, Mr Duncan, who was in command during your unfortunate absence.'

His unfortunate absence
. Nathan let this go for the moment. ‘And the others?'

‘I have no idea,' Scrope replied indifferently. ‘They are not my concern. However, I am told that Lieutenant Duncan had no knowledge of your reasons for going to Venice.'

The significance of this was lost on Nathan.

‘But why should he? My orders were marked
Most Secret
. I had specific instructions not to discuss them with anyone – not even my first lieutenant.'

‘So it is to be assumed that – if they exist – the French now have them?'

‘I suppose they must, but what do you mean, “if they exist”?'

‘I mean that it would be difficult for you to
prove
that they exist in a court of law,' Scrope replied smoothly, ‘if they are in the hands of the French.'

‘I am sure Admiral Nelson can confirm the order,' Nathan assured him coldly.

‘Unfortunately, we are unable to consult with the Admiral at present, the seriousness of his injuries having obliged him to return to England.'

‘His injuries?'

‘Admiral Nelson was badly wounded in the attack on Tenerife. It was necessary to amputate his right arm.'

‘No.' It was a groan deep in Nathan's throat. ‘But he is recovered?'

‘As to that, I cannot say. But he is a very sick man and is unlikely to continue in active service. It is certainly impossible to consult with him at present about any orders he may or may not have given to a junior officer in Corsica over a year ago.'

The shock of this news deprived Nathan of rational thought for a moment. He put his hand to his head. Dimly he was aware that Scrope was still talking.

‘However, these “confidential orders” – whether they were given or not – are not the most pressing of the matters that concern us here. What concerns us is the advice you gave to their lordships that the French were contemplating an invasion of Egypt as the preliminary to an attack on India. Their “Grand Design”, as you called it in your report.'

Nathan looked up. ‘You think that I was duped?'

‘Either that, or you were a willing partner in the conspiracy.'

It took a moment for this to sink in.

‘You are accusing me of being a French agent?' Nathan's voice was dangerously calm. Even in the gloom he could see the hint of a smirk on the man's face. It was enough. He launched himself forward.

He was not precisely sure what was in his mind. Probably nothing more than to seize the man by the scruff of his neck and shake him like a rat. But the desk proved a serious obstacle to this intent. That, and the fact that the Commissioner, in his panic, threw himself to one side, upsetting his chair and precipitating himself to the floor. The inevitable delay while Nathan climbed over the desk to get at him permitted him to utter a frantic cry for help.

The guards must have been posted at the door. They came crashing in with the Governor's aide close behind. Nathan found himself in the ludicrous posture of standing on a desk while two Lobsters levelled their bayonets at him. Scrope climbed unsteadily to his feet. He pointed a shaking hand towards Nathan.

‘Do you see this man!' It was clear that they did, even in the gathering gloom, for Nathan's position was somewhat exposed. But the Commissioner repeated the question, his voice rising hysterically. ‘Do you see him? He tried to kill me!'

‘Nonsense. I intended only to teach you some manners.' Nathan climbed down from the desk, taking care to avoid the bayonets.

‘Watch him!' Scrope urged the guards. ‘Do not take your eyes off him for a moment. If he moves, kill him.'

‘This is ridiculous.' Nathan appealed to the Governor's aide, who looked at something of a loss.

‘What am I to do with him?' he enquired of the Commissioner.

‘Take him back to the prison, and hold him under close confinement.' Scrope was still tugging at his collar, his voice trembling.

‘On what charge?' Nathan fought to keep his own voice steady.

‘Treason,' declared Scrope, with all the considerable venom at his command. He flapped a hand in dismissal. ‘Take him away.'

C
aterina had played a great many parts in her life, but never a maiden in distress. Cleopatra was more in her line, or La Donna di Garbo in the play by Goldoni. The haughty beauty dangling her lovers on a string.

But vulnerability was not beyond her capabilities as an actor.

She took as her model St Catherine of Alexandria, her name sake in the famous painting by Caravaggio, leaning against the wheel they were about to break her upon. She did not have a wheel, but the chains helped.

She had been advised by her captor, Murad Rais, on what to expect.

‘They will call out your name,' he said, ‘and the foreign consuls will have an opportunity to speak up on your behalf.'

He thought there was still a Venetian Consul in Tripoli. But if there was not, then as a woman of God – he smiled sardonically – she might appeal to the Catholic Fathers.

Caterina knew of the Catholic Fathers. They were one of the charities supported by her convent with the profits of their various commercial enterprises. They worked among Christian slaves on the Barbary Coast and raised money to buy their freedom if they had no resources of their own.

It would be only just for them to donate something on her account.

She did not possess the formal habit of a nun – it was not quite the style in the Convent of San Paolo di Mare – but she wore the most modest of her robes and ensured that the crucifix was displayed prominently on her bosom. She also carried her rosary, though not solely for the purposes of deception. They had taken her purse but the diamonds were still concealed beneath their black blobs of wax.

Louisa stood next to her, similarly attired. Caterina had considered casting her as a nun, or at least a novice, but as the entire crew and most of the passengers knew her as the American Consul's daughter, one of them was bound to blab. And if her captors thought Louisa's father had the means of paying a large ransom to have her restored intact, it might protect her virtue rather more effectively than the cloth.

She had intended to position both Louisa and herself in the front ranks of the prisoners where they could not fail to be seen, but she had not reckoned on the misguided honour of Captain Fry. This tiresome man, not content
with having plunged them into this catastrophe in the first place, now ensured that the female passengers were corralled within a circle of his officers and crew, as if to protect them from the prurient eyes and grasping hands of the natives.

So to begin with she was hemmed in by broad male shoulders and obliged to crane her neck to see what was going on. She noted the foreigners, of course, by their distinctive dress. And the priests. Four of them, in a huddle near the back of the hall in their black cloaks.

When she heard the official call out her name, Caterina grabbed Louisa by the arm and began to force her way through the male phalanx, making judicious use of her elbows and dragging her chains after her.

She was about to make a direct appeal to the Catholic Fathers when she became aware that someone else had already appealed on her behalf. It did not take her more than a moment or two to realise that it was the French Consul.

Although the discussion was conducted in Turkish, she caught a few words of the translation that was afforded for the Consul's benefit. He was apparently claiming that the Venetian passengers should be regarded as French citizens, on the grounds that the French Army was presently in occupation of the city and the new government had yet to be recognised. Initially, Caterina was inclined to favour this approach – for the French Consul in Tripoli was unlikely to know of her activities in Venice on behalf of his country's enemies. But then she noticed the man standing next to him.

It was a considerable jolt. For she had last seen him at
the head of a mob of Revolutionists on the Piazza San Marco.

His name was Xavier Naudé and he had been one of the leading French agents in Venice.

But what was he doing here – in Tripoli?

For a moment Caterina wondered if he had followed her here. But it was impossible. He had no means of knowing she had been taken by corsairs. Unless he had arranged it.

It said much for Caterina's high opinion of herself – and of him – that she seriously considered this possibility.

For the last six months they had been deadly adversaries. Caterina on behalf of the Venetian Patriot Party, Naudé for the pro-French faction. He posed as a French diplomat but everyone knew he was a spy – an agent for General Bonaparte whose army was then sweeping through Northern Italy. She was not sure if Naudé knew of her own work as an agent for the British and the Austrians, but it had to be regarded as likely. And even if he did not, he knew her as a dedicated enemy of France.

He was a youngish man of thirty or so, and strikingly handsome. Perhaps she could appeal to his sense of honour. Honour among spies.

Better not. Better by far to put her trust in the

Church.

But the Church did not appear to be interested. There were mutterings among the four priests but no attempt to intercede for her. But then, of course, she remembered that they were a French Order and no doubt susceptible to the pressure of their countrymen, even since the Revolution. The Papacy itself had been forced to make peace with
Bonaparte and pay an enormous tribute in gold and works of art to avoid occupation.