Rebellion

Chapter 4

“Well, you were right,” Brooke said, raising the coffee cup to his lips. “He’s certainly a recalcitrant devil.”

“That’s been said before,” James Read responded wryly. Brooke took a drink and set his cup down.

“He achieves results,” Read said. He took a slow sip from his own cup. “That’s the main thing.”

“Set a fox to catch a rat, eh?”

“Indeed.”

The two men were seated at a table in the first-floor coffee room in White’s. They were by the end front window, through which they had an uninterrupted view over the narrow balcony down on to the northern end of St James’s Street. There were other club members around them but the tables on either side were unoccupied so both men were able to converse freely without the likelihood of being overheard.

“Y’know it was Sidmouth who first brought me here,” Brooke murmured absently as he gazed down the long room. “Just as well he’s a Tory. If he’d been a Whig I’d have ended up in that other place, which would have been rather amusing. Mind you, it would probably have guaranteed a decent table for supper.”Read acknowledged the remark with a polite smile. He didn’t have to look to know that the building being referred to sat almost diagonally across from them on the opposite side of the street. The premises housed a similar retreat called Brooks’s.

James Read was a private man and not, as a rule, a patron of gentlemen’s establishments. He found them somewhat claustro -phobic, though he acknowledged that they did provide a convenient forum in which to conduct business, especially business of a clandestine nature. The staff was uniformly efficient and discreet which, given both Brooke’s and Read’s professions, was a decided advantage and, despite his cynicism, the dining room could usually be called upon to produce an acceptable bottle of claret and a competent lamb chop at relatively short notice.

“An interesting fellow, though,” Brooke said, still musing. “What’s his full story? What was he doing before he took the king’s shilling? Do you know?”

“I’m not sure I’d consider that relevant,” Read said.

“But . . .?” Brooke pressed.

“You know, I was thinking that I may well stay on for luncheon,” James Read said, looking off towards the door to the dining room. “I hear the new chef serves a rather fine truffle sauce with the turbot.” He dabbed a napkin along his lips.

The superintendent, who was well aware of Read’s antipathy towards the surroundings, sighed. “All right, point taken.”

Brooke studied Read over the rim of his cup. “You knew he’d accept, though, didn’t you?”

“He responds to a challenge,” Read said. “It’s what drives him.”

“There’s no family, I take it?”

Read shook his head. “No.”

“Mmm, probably just as well, in the circumstances. Not many friends either, I suspect.”

“They’re few in number, but impressively loyal.”

“And demons? I’d hazard a guess he has his fair share.”

“Show me a man with twenty years of soldiering who hasn’t,” Read said.

“And I’ll wager those scars could tell a few stories,” Brooke said.

Read, refusing to rise to the bait, made no reply.

Brooke smiled, finally accepting defeat.

Both men took another sip of coffee.

“How much did you tell him?” Read asked.

“What we agreed. That we’d provide him with all document ation and a meeting point. After that he . . . they . . . are on their own.”

“Can I assume you did not reveal the correspondent’s identity?”

“You can. That omission was covered by the need for secrecy.” Read reached for the coffee pot, drew it towards him and proceeded to refill his cup.

“You look . . . worried,” Brooke said.

Read put the pot down. “Merely pondering upon their chances of success.”

“It sounds as if you’ve a soft spot for the fellow.”

“He’s a good officer. He’s my officer. I don’t relish placing any of my men in harm’s way if I can help it.”

“Well, he’s mine now, or at least for the duration. And the opportunity’s too good to pass up. We’d be fools if we didn’t try to take advantage.”

Read tried to quell the feeling of disquiet prompted by Brooke’s crass proprietorial comment. “I believe that’s what was said the last time this was attempted.”

“Ah, but the bugger was in Spain, remember. This time, he’s in Russia; not so close to home. It’s an entirely different kettle of fish.”

“Then let us hope it is to our advantage,” Read said. “Have you informed the Prime Minister, by the way?”

Brooke shook his head and used his fingertips to smooth a non-existent bump in the table cloth. “Not as yet.”

“Is it your intention to do so?”

“I’m of a mind to keep it between ourselves for the time being,” Brooke said. “Given that we’re still in the preparatory stages.” He favoured Read with an oblique glance. “Unless you have any objections?”

Read shook his head. “Whatever you think is appropriate.”

“I think it’s for the best,” Brooke said. “Besides, there’s no requirement for him to be privy to everything we do.”

“And our émigré friends?” Read asked.

Brooke shook his head again.

“Not even the Comité? Their collaboration’s proved of great benefit to us in the past.”

“Indeed it has, and my department is exceedingly grateful, but you can’t be too careful. We live in dangerous times. We must exercise caution, even where our so-called allies are concerned.”

Composed of émigrés drawn from the ranks of former government ministers, senior clergymen and a coterie of aristocrats all loyal to the French crown, the Comité Français was effectively the royalist government-in-exile. Its goal was the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy.

“Besides, they’ve been rather peppery of late,” Brooke added.

Brooke was referring to the rift between the heirs to the French throne: the Comte d’Artois and his brother Louis Stanislas. Having fled France in the wake of the Revolution, both were now resident in England. Although Louis was the next in line following the execution of his brother and the death of his nephew while detained in the Temple prison, it was the Comte d’Artois to whom the majority of the émigrés looked for guidance, a state of affairs that had led to deep mistrust between the two siblings.

“You’d have thought sharing a common foe would have put paid to the damned bickering,” Brooke said. “It makes you wonder why we continue to support them. It’s costing us a fortune. It’ll only take one slip for Parliament to get wind of our special donations and they’ll be at our throats. They’ve been looking for excuses to reduce our funding. If that happens, we’re all out of a damned job.”

“In that case, we must pray that Hawkwood and . . .” Read paused “. . . your correspondent . . . are successful in their endeavours.”

“Indeed,” Brooke said. He smiled silkily and raised his cup. “Here’s to good fortune.”

“When does he embark?” Read asked.

“Tonight,” Brooke said. “A private coach is transporting him to Dover. There’s a vessel waiting. If the weather’s kind to us, he’ll sail on the evening tide.”

“Then we should pray for calm seas, as well,” Read said. Brooke kept his cup raised.

“Amen to that,” he said.

Maddie Teague watched silently from the open doorway as Hawkwood rolled the spare shirts and breeches he had removed from his army chest and laid them on the bed next to a battered valise. The lid of the chest remained propped open. Inside it, a curved sabre lay sheathed atop a dark green tunic. Even though it was folded, it was obvious that the uniform jacket had survived many campaigns and had been repaired innumerable times. Next to the tunic was a pair of grey cavalry breeches and a waist sash the colour of dried ox blood. Below the tunic and breeches lay an officer’s greatcoat and under that, partly hidden, was a long bundle wrapped in oilcloth. One end of the oilcloth had worked loose, revealing the polished walnut butt and brass patch-box cover of an army rifle.

“Matthew?” Maddie said softly.

Hawkwood turned.

Maddie lifted her gaze from the contents of the chest. Her eyes held his. “Should I keep the room?”

Hawkwood found himself transfixed by her look.

“It was a jest,” she said, though her emerald eyes did not hold much humour.

Maddie was tall and slender. Her auburn hair, pale colouring and high cheekbones hinted at her Celtic roots, while her strength of character could usually be measured by the depth and force of her gaze. On this occasion, however, there was only concern on her face.

She continued to stare at him. “What are you thinking?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Nothing.”

Maddie stepped forward and placed her right hand on his chest. “You’re a poor liar, Matthew Hawkwood.”

Hawkwood smiled. “I was thinking yes, you should definitely keep the room for me.”

Her face softened. She tapped his waistcoat with her closed fist.

“It’s my job, Maddie. It’s what I do,” Hawkwood said.

“I know.”

She rested her palm against his cheek. Her hand was cool to the touch.

He thought back to the first time they’d met. It was not long after his return to England from Spain. He’d been in search of a roof over his head and Maddie was the landlady of the Blackbird Inn, with two empty rooms in need of an occupant. The financial arrangement had suited both of them; Maddie in particular. Her husband had been a sea captain and he’d bought the inn to provide an additional source of revenue when he retired. But Captain Teague had perished when his ship had fallen prey to the storm tossed waters of the Andaman Sea, leaving his widow with a string of unpaid bills and a lengthening queue of creditors. Hawkwood’s timely arrival had kept the wolves from the door and given Maddie the time she’d needed to turn the Blackbird from a debt-ridden back-alley hostelry into the respectable establishment it had become.

It had taken some months before their business partnership developed into something more; for the trust between landlady and lodger to grow into a bond of friendship, and it had still been a good while after that when Maddie Teague had first visited Hawkwood’s bed. Neither of them had ventured to translate feelings into words and yet it had become clear over time that what existed between them had long since transcended the need for mere physical gratification. There had been dalliances along the way, on both sides, and yet the affection and the closeness had endured.

“If you don’t hear from me and you need help, go to Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said. “You know how to get a message to him?”

She removed her hand and nodded. “Yes.”

There was a silence, mirrored by the look in her eyes. “How long should I wait for news?”

“You’ll know,” Hawkwood said.

She absorbed that. “Does Nathaniel know where you’re going?”

“I’m not even sure I do,” Hawkwood said.

She lifted her hand again and ran a fingertip along the line of his cheek, below his eye, tracing the scars. “Your wounds have barely healed.”

“No rest for the wicked, Maddie,” Hawkwood said. “You should know that by now.”

Her green eyes flashed. “That’s what you said the last time.” She stepped back and folded her arms about her, as if warding off a sudden chill. “Just don’t expect me to cry myself to sleep. That’s all.”

Hawkwood had always suspected Maddie Teague was too strong a woman for that, though in truth her comment made him wonder; was she still jesting, or not?

“Curious,” Hawkwood said. “That’s what I was going to say.”

She gave a wan smile and waited as he placed the shirts and breeches in the valise. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned.

“Take care, Matthew,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Always.”

Maddie lowered her arms and smoothed down her dress. “I’ll have Hettie find something in the kitchen for your journey. We don’t want you going hungry.”

“Perish the thought,” Hawkwood said.

She frowned. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

He shook his head. “I’d never do that.”

She gazed at him intently and took a deep breath. Then, without speaking, she leaned forward and kissed him fiercely before turning on her heel and exiting the room.

Leaving Hawkwood to his packing, alone with his thoughts.

There was something eerily familiar about her lines, even by moonlight, and as he drew closer Hawkwood saw why. She was a cutter. The long horizontal bowsprit, the sharply tapering stern and the preposterous size of her rig in proportion to her length and beam were unmistakable. The last time he’d boarded a similar vessel it had been at sea, in the company of Jago and the French privateer, Lasseur, and he’d been fully armed with a pistol and a tomahawk and screaming like a banshee. This time, his arrival was a lot less frenetic.

The journey from London had taken four changes of horses and the best part of the day, so it was late evening when the coach finally made its bone-rattling descent into the town; by which time Hawkwood’s throat was dry with dust, while his spine felt as if it had been dislocated by the constant jolting.

Even if it hadn’t been for the silhouette of the castle ramparts high above him and the lights clustered at the foot of the dark chalk cliffs, it would have been possible to gauge his proximity to the port purely by the miasma of odours arising from it; the most prominent being smoke, cooking fires and sewage, the unavoidable detritus of closely packed human habitation.

Dover was home to both an ordnance depot and a victualling yard, and keeping the navy armed, watered and fed was clearly a twenty-four-hour operation, if the number of people on the streets – both in uniform and civilian dress – was any indication. The town looked to be wide awake. The public houses in particular, to judge by the knots of men and women weaving unsteadily between them, were still enjoying a brisk trade.

The coachman, clearly adhering to prior instruction, steered the vehicle away from the main part of the town and into a maze of unlit cobbled alleyways leading down towards the outer harbour. After numerous twists and turns, the coach finally drew to a halt and Hawkwood, easing cramped muscles, stepped out on to a darkened quay.

The cutter had the dockside to herself, her tall, tapering mainmast and canvas-furled yards reaching for the moon like winter-stripped branches. Lantern lights were showing above the closed gun ports and Hawkwood spotted shadows moving around the deck. He turned his coat collar up.

The concoction of smells was even stronger here and he guessed they were within spitting distance of the navy supply stores, for the combined aromas of unrendered animal fats, stale fish, offal, baking bread and fermenting hops hung heavily in the night air alongside the more familiar dockyard scents of grease, cordage, tarred rigging and mildewed timbers. Though, he supposed, looking around, it could all have been just an exaggeration of Dover’s natural reek.

Noise always seemed magnified at night and the thudding of hammers and rasping of saws floated across the ink-black water from the surrounding jetties. At the same time, from the opposite direction, a stiff breeze was coming off the Channel, carrying with it a soulful requiem of creaking spars and clinking chains from craft moored along the outer harbour walls. To add to the lament, a watch bell clanged mournfully in the darkness.

Behind him, the coachman, satisfied that his passenger had been delivered safely, clicked his tongue and the coach trundled off into the night.

As Hawkwood neared the ship, he noted that the vessel wasn’t displaying a man-of-war’s standard colour scheme. Instead of the customary buff-painted hull, he saw that all the external timbers, from bowsprit to counter, were as black as coal. As his mind deciphered the significance, a slim, uniformed figure stepped nimbly from the cutter’s gangplank.

“Mr . . . Smith?” The speaker touched the brim of his hat. “I’m Lieutenant Stuart. Welcome aboard Griffin.”

He hadn’t taken Brooke all that seriously when the superintendent had given him his boarding instructions. Brooke’s explanation for the false name, when he’d seen the sceptical expression unfold across Hawkwood’s face, had been that it simplified the process and avoided prevarication. Hawkwood had been tempted to ask Brooke what the procedure was if there was more than one passenger per voyage and then had decided against it. Brooke, he’d suspected, wouldn’t have found the enquiry amusing.

As he took in Hawkwood’s appearance, the lieutenant’s head lifted, revealing more of his features. He looked, Hawkwood thought, disturbingly young to be in charge of his own ship; though as vessels went, Stuart’s command was unlikely to see an admiral’s pennant fluttering from her masthead any time soon. She was too small and too far down the lists for that. Nevertheless, from the serious expression on his boyish face it was plain her captain thought no less of her for that.

The lieutenant led the way on board. A second officer, and the only other man Hawkwood could see dressed in uniform, was waiting by the rail.

“Lieutenant Weekes,” Stuart said. “My second-in-command.”

There wasn’t that much difference in their ages, Hawkwood thought. Weekes may have been a year or two older, but that was all. Though it might have been his deep-set eyes and serious expression that made him appear so.

“Sir.” Weekes favoured Hawkwood with a brief nod before looking expectantly at his captain.

Stuart obliged. “Prepare for departure, Simon, while I take our passenger below.”

“Very good, sir.”

As his first officer turned away, Stuart turned to Hawkwood. “Just as well you arrived when you did. The tide’s already on the ebb. Another half an hour and we’d need deeper water beneath our keel. We’d’ve had to anchor her outside the walls and ferry you out in the jolly boat. I don’t think you’d have cared much for that.” The lieutenant threw Hawkwood an unexpected and surprisingly roguish grin. “I’ll show you to your quarters. I apologize in advance; there aren’t too many home comforts.”