The Moonless Night (3 page)

“Not yet,” Fitz answered in a significant tone. “But I have received word from a reliable source that plans are afoot to free him.”

Every muscle of the listener’s body was tense now, his glance trained on the speaker, and his head bent forward the better to hear the low words. No further words were forthcoming, however, and he thought a moment before speaking.

“This is impossible,” he said. “Napoleon is on a British ship in British waters, surrounded by Holsham’s navy. His army is defeated—he could not return to France if he did escape. He knows what happened to Ney. He gave himself up to England freely. You alarm yourself for nothing, Fitz. This is a bag of moonshine someone has delivered you.”

“Hear me!” Fitz interrupted, raising a finger. “I told you my source was reliable. He has just made a trip to Plymouth, and tells me the place is rife with Frenchmen. You may imagine for what purpose.”

“But the French émigrés are adamantly against Napoleon, surely. They would not help him escape. They will be preparing to return to France and make their bows to the Bourbon king.”

“No, no, you misunderstand me. I don’t speak of the noble families who fled the Revolution, though to be sure that was twenty-five years ago now, and there might be some younger sons with views different from their parents. They have seen Napoleon take on nearly the whole of Europe and come perilously close to conquering it. Hero worship. They might be happy enough to throw in their lot with Napoleon—but then this is hardly the time for it, when he is finished. I speak of quite a different sort of Frenchman, however. After Bonaparte’s escape from Elba some think him a superman, and believe he will one day go back and be Emperor again.”

“The Congress of Vienna expressly forbid...”

“Deuce take it, I know he’s done for. At least—well, there’s no saying with Boney. The crowd will spit on him when he’s down but only let him get a leg over his white horse with his three-cornered hat on his head and they’re ready to bend the knee to him again. He has something.”

“A certain
je ne sais quoi
,” the gentleman agreed.

“Eh?”

“He has a certain something, true. But still, how do they, these French upstarts, think to remove him from Maitland’s ship, with half the navy standing by?”

“It ain’t standing by. It’s loitering around France and strung out ready to blockade him if he tries to run for America. There are only three ships actually on guard—the
Daphne
, the
Slaney
and the
Myrmidon
. But they don’t mean to run him through the blockade. He had that chance with Besson and passed it up.”

“What then, get him to England proper? He’d like that well enough.”

“Aye, to become an English squire like his brother. We kept a close watch on him at Thorngrove, eh lad? You made an admirable footman.”

“And sometimes gardener, Fitz. You forget my dual role.”

“I forget nothing. However, I believe Napoleon has something else in mind now. He asked us for the safe conduct to America you recall, and he still means to get there. Knowing the seas are guarded closely at this time, he has in mind to hide out in either England or Ireland for half a year or so till the heat cools down, then go on a fishing vessel or some such thing. The Irish would be happy enough to give him a hand to spite us. They don’t love us, you know. There are rumors the Ribbon Society is re-forming, likely for this very reason. Our government is determined to get him well beyond reach this time and incarcerate him. While that man walks free, Europe is not safe. He has been shedding blood these twenty years, and it must be ended. Well then, you see the position. He is on Captain Maitland’s ship, the
Bellerophon
, with a few of his own men. Since the end of June he has known he was coming to England. With the General’s known ingenuity and attention to detail, it is absurd to think he has not been funneling money, men, and very likely arms, too, into England. These Frenchmen hanging around the wharf are not necessarily the penniless wanderers they seem to be. They might very well be trained soldiers and sailors. Bonaparte was known to have gathered his friends and chattels around him at Rochefort. If he made no arrangements himself, his faithful followers would have foreseen the need of their help. Yes, the coast of England is crawling with Frenchmen bent on rescuing their Emperor.”

“Yes, I see an undesirable situation exists. With Napoleon it is wise to take no chances. What, though, is it exactly you would have me do?”

“Get down to Plymouth at once. Keep that sharp nose of yours to the ground; use your ears to hear what you can, and keep in close touch with me. You’ll take that valet and groom of yours with you, I expect. Send one of them to me immediately if you hear anything, and if the matter is urgent—well, I don’t have to tell the Fox how to proceed to thwart a mutual enemy.”

“Can’t imagine why you stuck me with that demmed silly name. It’s not as though I were cursed with a red thatch, and have not, I hope, a vulpine phiz.”

“Alphabetical. You were my sixth assistant. You’re now number one. Chapworth and Dillen and the others are either dead or retired. Oh, speaking of retirement, you’re to put up with Sir Henry Boltwood at Bolt Hall.”

The Fox’s face fell. “Not that rum touch who used to be at the Admiralty some several eons ago, ordering up woolen undershirts for Wellington’s men sweltering in Spain?”

“The same,” Fitz replied, with a mute rolling of the eyes that told his caller he shared this view of Sir Henry.

“Ah well, into every life some rain must fall. This promises to be a deluge. Does he know why I’m going?”

“He knows what he must. I had to give him a hint to explain billeting you on him. His place is always the rallying point at Plymouth for any trouble. You will meet everyone there, and there are yachts in plentiful supply should your work take you out to sea.”

“Couldn’t I put up at an inn, and hire a ship?”

“Full. And you know Boltwood, so your going will not appear unusual.”

“Precisely, I know him, and it must follow as the night the day that I not wish to be a guest under his roof.”

“The inn is chockful, and old Boltwood for all his prosy and missish ways knows everyone in the neighborhood. He’ll be useful for contacts. Has a nubile daughter, I might add.”

“Did you think to inquire whether the cellars at the inn are full, too?” the Fox asked with a sneer that was intended for a smile.

Fitz laughed lightly. “That I didn’t, but if you are too stifled with Sir Henry you might wangle a short visit to some other homes. You’ll be in touch with Admiral Keith in charge of the naval station in Plymouth and he’ll put any of his lads you require at your disposal. Rig up some story for the others to account for your being there. The old lad doesn’t entertain if he can help it.”

“He does not entertain at all, even if he has company.”

“The daughter might do as an excuse. You could make out you are interested in her.”

The Fox shook his head. “A footman, a gardener or a gypsy I could simulate. A suitor to Sir Henry Boltwood’s daughter is a role well beyond my poor capabilities. Leave it to me, Fitz. I did not come down in the last rain. Now, is there anything else?”

“One more tidbit. I’ve been saving the best for the last. What would you say if I told you Cicero is squatting down Plymouth way?”

“Ah—now there is a definite lead!” the Fox replied, smiling. “I have been itching to lock horns with Cicero. Missed out on all the fun in Vienna when Cicero led your boys a merry chase. But if it is Cicero who is to be watched, all your fine talk of the French admiring Bonaparte is chaff. Plain old money is what motivates Cicero.”

“And the rest of the world, by and large. These chaps who call themselves patriots only have an eye to self-advancement under a new regime. You must by all means keep a sharp eye on Cicero.”

The Fox felt a tingle of excitement and an impatience to be into his curricle. “Very well. I can leave within the hour. I’ll keep in touch.”

He arose to a height of six feet, straightened his exquisitely-cut jacket with a hunch of his shoulders, and lifted his curled beaver and malacca cane from the settee.

Sir George, glancing at the elegant creatures before him, found it hard to believe he was interested in anything but the cut of his coat. Having some familiarity with the Fox’s past exploits, however, he was not deceived by his bored smile and air of ennui. Fitz's army was not quite the scum of the earth, as Wellington had seen fit to describe his, but there was scum aplenty in it. But he had need of all manner of recruits, and an impeccable gentleman such as the Fox had access to places and persons denied to ordinary mortals, as in this case for instance.

The Fox performed a little salsaam, turned and left, walking at a lazy gait that did not for an instant fool FitzHugh as to his recruit’s eagerness for the job. When Sir George’s clerk entered the room a moment later, he was surprised to find his superior chuckling into his collar.

“Good news, Sir George?” he ventured to inquire.

“Good fun, Chipworth. Good fun. I wish I could go to Plymouth myself to see the Fox mix it up with Sir Henry Boltwood.” He shook his head in regret, and picked up a memo from Lord Bathurst, outlining the place of exile planned for Napoleon, frowning at the name of Hudson Lowe chosen as guardian.

Chapter 3

Sir Henry sat at his polished mahogany desk admiring the trophies of a hardly illustrious career of five years duration with the Admiralty. His wife’s demise in 1808 had coincided with the departure of the fleet from Bolt Hall, and to find purpose in a meaningless existence, he had volunteered his services to king and country to help fight the menace of Napoleon Bonaparte. A corner had been found for him in the Admiralty, where it was thought (wrongly) that he could do little harm dispatching supplies to Wellington in the Peninsula. He had caused the Iron Duke more woe than the rest of all the body politic together, dispatching guns without ammunition, winter uniforms for summer campaign, and fruit from his orangery, perfectly ripe when it left England’s shore, putrid before it was a week at sea.

Wellington had managed to get him transferred to the office in charge of shipping goods to Canada to fight the Yankees, where his first act was to unload a cargo of much needed weapons and place in its stead hundreds of barrels of fresh water, to go to a country whose surface was largely composed of freshwater lakes and rivers. It was this carrying of coals to Newcastle that had led to his slightly premature retirement.

He was politely told that Bolt Hall was of more strategic importance to England than having such an accomplished supplies master, and sent home. But no one wished to hurt the old boy’s feelings. The Prince of Wales had given him not only an ivory miniature of himself, presently framed and propped in a stand that allowed it to tilt up and down, but had knighted him as well. Plain Mr. Henry Boltwood had been raised to Sir Henry Boltwood, K.B.E., retiring to Bolt Hall covered in laurels, and Wellington had been allowed to get on with winning the war. Lord Liverpool, too, had been pressed into tendering his thanks, for the chap had taken no pay after all, and came up with a certificate of merit, hung on the wall of the study. Bathurst had given him a very ugly inkwell with hammered gold lid that he wished to be rid of, and Sir Henry had had a little plaque made up at his own expense to go with it. He was well pleased with all these tokens of success, and spent what time his poor health allowed sitting at his desk, admiring them and explaining their significance to callers.

To spend more time in his study, he had accepted a post on the board of directors of the local parish board, and was further adding to his glory at the moment by wording up the petition demanding execution for General Bonaparte, when his mail was brought in. A smile formed on his thin lips when he saw the crest of the Admiralty on one long envelope. They were asking his opinion about what to do with Boney, he thought complacently. They’d know his opinion well enough when Bathurst got his letter! With a respect bordering on reverence, he slit the envelope open, taking care not to rip into the seal. The crested envelopes made dandy book markers in books he never read but left sitting occasionally on his desk. The smile turned to amazement as he read down the page. Dear sir: We seek your help in a matter of vital importance to the security of this country. We are aware of a plot to free General Bonaparte and ask your generosity in housing a special agent we are sending down to oversee this matter...” He read on, his heart beating tumultuously. There was much in it to please him, but the demand for complete secrecy sat poorly. Then, too, there was a certain insistence that the agent was to be master of the whole that discomfited him to no small degree. He was Sir Henry Boltwood, in charge of scotching Napoleon’s plans, and for Lord Melville to speak of Sir Henry “tendering aid” to another skated precariously close to being an insult. He considered the matter for full twenty minutes before picking up his quill and penning a reply. It was in the affirmative, of course—one could not refuse to do his bit when his country needed him, and as to “tendering aid,” there was nothing actually said of the fleet. He would remain in charge of the fleet, the captain of the ship that would put Boney in chains prior to drawing and quartering him. His reflections were not so far removed from those of his young son as he sat, pen in hand, staring at the Prince Regent’s likeness.

It was a busy morning for him. The letter from Melville answered, he jotted one off to Bathurst asking what he thought of the notion of a petition demanding execution. He was so sure of a positive answer that he went ahead and drew it up, putting his own signature at the top of the page—Sir Henry Boltwood, K.B.E., in an impressive scrawl. He then dashed off to get Biddy, David and Marie to add theirs. He was so busy trotting from house to house amassing signatures and dropping the crested envelope and oblique hints as to an important missive from the Admiralty that he didn’t spend a second overseeing the installation of the powerful telescope at Bolt’s Point, thus saving David a great deal of annoyance.