The Stillwater Conspiracy (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 4) Page 26

  “This leg first, Captain. Swing it down here.”

  Neville and Foyle struggled up the main companion. The lively motion of the ship added to Neville’s unsteadiness, and when Neville’s eyes came above deck, they beheld a scene very unlike the one he had departed after being wounded. In place of ships fighting ships, men and flotsam in the water, clouds of acrid smoke and cheerful little waves flicking sunbeams back into his eyes, there was clear air and eight-foot waves with white spume flying off their tops. When his foot first touched the deck, the foretopsail exploded into ribbons of canvas, no longer able to withstand the stress of a dozen holes.

  “Tie me into the mainmast bitts, Mr. Foyle, that I may view long enough to understand.”

  Lt. Towers walked over to them. “Several prizes appear to have been retaken, Sir, and they are running off,” he said. “It would be reasonable that a small prize crew could not hope to sail a strange ship under these conditions. Others without control are certain to find themselves upon the rocks. Vice-Admiral Collingwood has taken his flag over to Euryalis because his Royal Sovereign is dismasted. He is ordering our fleet to tow any others they can assist.”

  “Can we help?”

  “We cannot tow a seventy-four or anything larger, but there are men in the water ahead. We will try to fish them out. In this gale, even that will be difficult.”

  “Can we anchor here, lieutenant? We are quite close in.”

  “We might do. I’ll get the lead going. If it is not too deep, we shall anchor by the drowning men and see to the boats, aye?”

  “Aye.” Neville began panting, and soon he was sprawled unconscious on the deck.

  17 - “Paris”

  “Easy, there! Easy!” yelled Master Reynolds as the Lady Spencer edged up to the wharf in Marseille’s harbor under the guns of Fort Saint-Jean. His ship thumped roughly against the stone and stopped.

  He yelled again: “You’ll be painting that personally tomorrow, Mr. Poole.”

  “Not in a good mood, is he, Mr. Mason?” queried Stearns.

  “I’d say not, but I can’t blame him for it. Four men gone. Three times boarded. Probably no prospect for a cargo home. It makes me wonder how we’ll get home from here.”

  “Mmmm… Where do you go from here?”

  “My business is here in the ports of Marseille and Toulon. My contacts will have connections for American farm products throughout the country. And you?”

  “I wish you luck. I’ll do some touring before September when I must be in Paris. France may be at war with England, but away from the coast I expect life to be simple and the people at peace.

  It took Stearns almost two weeks to find Monsieur Giroux, the contact suggested by Mr. Fordson in Washington. “I have come in a very different capacity,” Stearns assured Giroux. “I won’t be troubling you with the business we had before. I only need a contact for the sale of certain items in Paris, and your personal suggestions for a pleasant holiday in the Loire. Our mutual friend in Washington assured me you would know some people in military purchasing.”

  “Here are the names you will need, Mr. Stearns,” said Giroux. “You will forgive me, please, if I am somewhat suspicious. When we last met I thought you would not be back to France.”

  Stearns spent the months of July and August in central France, leisurely traveling slowly north and testing the local food and wines. By the end of August he reached Paris and found his contact. “Bonjour, Monsieur D’Aubigne. I have two requests. First, I will need to know how I might sell American rifles to Napoleon. Second, I am looking for a very beautiful American woman here in Paris whom I expect will be trying to sell rum to the French navy.”

  “No more? I was told to be discreet with your requests, but these two are quite simple. The purchasing organization for Napoleon’s army is this,” he said, sliding a paper across the table.

  “As for the second, you must mean Miss Stillwater. We have few American visitors to Paris these days, and even fewer who are women. Certainly none that both seek to sell rum and are beautiful. I have seen her, and she is as you say. But let me caution you: just because your requests are so simply answered doesn’t mean you should not be careful about your business. You will be watched. I do not know your intentions, but she is very much in the public eye.”

  “Yes, yes, M. D’Aubigne. Miss Stillwater. She is... a close friend of mine, and I look forward to seeing her.”

  “I would imagine. I envy you, Monsieur. She is staying at the Hotel Le Pont Noir.”

  “Merci, merci, M. D’Aubigne. One more question, if I may? In order to sell rum to the navy, there are particular people she must meet, est-ce pas alors? Might you might know who they are?”

  “Oui, oui, Monsieur. Of course. It would be M. Vasser. I think she has a meeting tomorrow evening for the dinner. It is there, at the hotel. Oh, you will excuse me, of course. I talk too much, Monsieur. I am not so used to the English.”

  Stearns did not have much difficulty finding the Hotel Le Pont Noir. It was in the center of the city. Even though Paris was near the size of London, the better hotels were grouped in a relatively small section of town. The carriage driver knew his way through the dirty little streets that led from the seedy area where he’d met M. D’Aubigne to the grandeur of Napoleon’s new capital.

  He decided to surprise her at dinner rather than interrupt her day. He wanted his first view of her to be when she was dressed at her finest, and that would be for the meeting, naturally. He needed the rest, anyway, after a long two months of travel, and might also need to have his better suit of clothes cleaned or pressed. He checked in and went to his room, which he found quite acceptable.

  A thought struck him: Why did M. D’Aubigne seem to know all the details of Marion’s visit? Was he not part of the Americans’ network here in France? Why would they be interested in the selling of Jamaican rum to the French navy?

  Curious, he thought, but of no consequence. Marion will be surprised at my ability to find her, and I will no doubt impress her with my ability to get things done here in France. Things should go well from there.

  Stearns slept well that night. In the morning, he made his preparations for a grand entrance, which included a substantial tip to the bell boy to determine the time of Marion’s evening dinner.

  It was the smells he noticed first when he descended the stairs to the lobby floor and turned toward the dining room. Quite unlike the smells of raw sewage and horse dung outside, these smells were of perfectly cooked pheasant and lamb, cheese sauces and roasted garlic. They wafted out into the lobby from the dining area, beckoning hungry guests to come eat in the hotel rather than finding a fashionable restaurant elsewhere. As usual, Marion had made a wise choice – if it had been her choice to make.

  Stearns was greeted at the entrance by the maître d’ hotel in his black suit. Marion’s party was visible at the far side of the room. Despite her hair being up in a rather curious ‘horizontal bun’ style, there was no question that it was Marion. He saw her in profile. The Paris fashion of the day, no doubt. Without claiming to be a member of the party, he indicated that he was there to visit with them, and was allowed to pass.

  Marion sat with three men and Miss Aughton at a large round table. They had apparently not gotten far into the meal… only to starters, perhaps. One man had his back to Stearns and was therefore not available for observation. The two others were ordinary-looking for Frenchmen – not particularly handsome.

  All the better, thought Stearns. I will let her know I am here. She can make short work of her business and after dinner we can send these creatures away and enjoy a wonderful evening. But what do I do with Miss Aughton? I had forgotten her. And why does she sit with them as an equal? That’s not the place of a lady’s maid.

  He advanced nonchalantly, as if he didn’t know she was staying in the same hotel. His movement caught her eye, and she looked up as one who might expect a waiter to pass by. He stopped walking when she saw him. She obviously recognized him. She stopped
talking and her eyes opened wide. Her lips formed a small ‘o’. Ellen and the two men visible to Stearns noticed her distraction and followed her gaze. The third man began to turn toward him as well.

  Stearns advanced to within a few feet of the table. “Marion,” he said in as surprised a tone as he could manage, “I cannot believe I discover you here at the same hotel! What amazing luck.”

  Marion had so far said nothing to him. She was obviously trying to collect her thoughts while she continued to stare at the unexpected apparition.

  Ellen rose, which required that all the men do the same, her hand apparently feeling for something at her side. The unidentified man stood and turned to face Stearns. He seemed vaguely familiar. “Marion,” he said, “this is quite a coincidence, meeting one of your countrymen here in Paris. May we be introduced?”

  Stearns thought he noticed the man’s brow tighten slightly. He was now face-to-face with the man. A hint of recognition flashed across Stearns’ mind. Surely it could not be, after all these years! Georges Cadoudal, the same man who killed my chances at advancing in the spy game all those year ago? Could it be Georges Cadoudal? If it is, why is Marion meeting with him? These others may be spies, too, or government...

  Marion was saying something. What he heard was “…doudal,” and he knew for sure it was the same Georges. Georges held out his hand, and Stearns heard Marion saying, “…Michael Stearns.” Stearns stood dumfounded. I’ll scream out who he is! Stearns thought. No, I can’t rat out Georges. Not here in France. Who are these other fellows? People from the government? They would believe Georges, not me. It would be the death of me, and possibly of Marion, even if I get rid of Georges.

  Stearns was rapidly collecting his thoughts. “I cannot, Marion,” he said to her, “This is not the first time I have met this man. He is a scoundrel.” His voice was getting louder, and speaking English.

  I could demand satisfaction ‘for old scores unsettled’, or something of the sort. “I cannot shake this man’s hand…

  “Good evening to all of you...

  “Marion, be careful in any dealing you have with this man. I will leave you a message at the desk. I apologize for this… this… inconvenience.” He turned clumsily, knocking into the next table, and sending silverware to the floor and a glass of water across the tablecloth. He strode rapidly from the room, his head spinning with questions and confusion. I must leave, he thought. Georges will suspect that I am on the old business, and who knows whose side he is on these days? It is dangerous for me to stay.

  Stearns passed through the blur of the lobby to the stairway, calculating the fastest way to depart Paris as he went.

  Let me think. Let me think. Marion doesn’t know that I have ever been a spy. I never said anything to her about such a thing, or that nasty creature Georges. Georges cannot possibly know Marion for anything but whatever this business is here. She might even be in danger. I may be a coward to leave her with the man, but Miss Aughton was there. Why was she dressed as Marion’s equal?

  Nobody knows I am here, other than Marion and that devil Georges now. Chester only knows I have taken a holiday, and surely he doesn’t know where his daughter is. Chester was ignorant of Marion’s movements before, so I should be able to continue ‘business as usual’ back in Jamaica and pretend none of this ever happened… but I must leave here now! That damn Georges has undone me again. I can only wonder what Marion thinks. And Miss Aughton… what is that?

  By morning he was gone. Marion received no note.

  18 - “Double-Cross”

  Neville’s head had ceased aching about a week after he woke up in Haslar Hospital in Gosport. His chest still felt as if an elephant were sitting on it, the sword-hole in his side pained sharply whenever he moved, and his old broken-leg injury was acting up.

  “You’re recovering quite well, Captain,” reported the doctor.

  “I am loathe to complain, doctor, but I don’t feel very recovered. I suppose I should be overjoyed that the sword wound was not mortal.”

  “Verily, Sir, you should. The stab wound may be the least of your worries, though. I am concerned about the crushed chest, although I see no evidence of internal bleeding.”

  “I shall pray it stays that way. Do you know how I came to be here, doctor?”

  “Other than that you were carried in on a litter, I do not. You were one of our lads brought home from the Battle at Trafalgar, I know. That in itself makes you one of our country’s heroes.”

  “Why do you say this, doctor, what news is there of the battle? It was quite fierce.”

  “We have been instructed not to talk about it with any patient who is not strong enough for some excitement, but it looks as though you may be well enough now. Admiral Nelson’s fleet carried the day, but he was killed in the fighting.”

  Neville immediately knew why the doctor had his orders not to speak of the battle. His heart rate increased, re-starting his headache. The tight bandages around his chest for the stab wound caused his breathing to labor.”

  “Ah, you see,” said the doctor. “Your stab wound bleeds. But you have heard it now, so I will continue…

  “Admiral Nelson was shot by a sniper. Admiral Collingwood’s ship, the Royal Sovereign, was dismasted, so he moved his flag to the frigate Euryalis. He and Captain Blackwood did not break off at all, and the French and Spanish were confounded. A great storm came up directly after, causing several of the captured ships to be lost on the rocks. Casualties were great, as you may learn from others in hospital here, but no British ship was lost. It was a great victory, indeed.”

  “That last is wonderful news. It means that my ship was not lost. The last I remember is that we anchored to save the ship and dozens of drowning men.”

  “Yes, Sir. Well, you’re here now,” said the doctor. He patted the bed twice and departed, leaving Neville to lapse back into sleep with mixed emotions.

  “You needn’t treat me like a child, Mother,” said Neville, “The King thinks I can command one of his ships, and the doctor at Haslar allowed me to travel.”

  “Well he shouldn’t have, should he?” his mother, now Mrs. Blake, shouted back from the next room. The travel from Portsmouth to her home in Bury St. Edmunds had been more difficult than Neville had expected. Although some autumn rains had softened the ruts somewhat, the jarring ride had loosened his recent scars. “You’ve bled again, haven’t you? Just shush a minute whilst I get you a fresh bandage and after that we’ll have some sandwiches.”

  “Shush,” he grumbled. “She tells a captain to ‘shush’. It’s a good job the men can’t hear it.”

  There was a rattle at the door below. He heard his mother tromp down the stair and a murmur of women’s voices. That was followed by footsteps coming back up.

  “Who was there, Mum?,” Neville asked.

  “Just me,” came the answer. It was not his mother’s voice, but Mary’s, and it was she who appeared at the door. “How are you, Neville?”

  “Suddenly much better, I think. You look much happier than last I saw you. You look very nice in that dress. No, you look positively beautiful. And I’m fine, thank you.”

  “That’s not what I hear. That’s just what we all say to each other, isn’t it? Some beast has stuck you through with a sword?”

  “Yes, but it’s got better.”

  “That’s not what your mum tells me either. She says you need a nurse, and you’re far too much trouble for one woman, so I’ve volunteered.”

  “A nurse - dressed like that? That’s quite a thing, I should say.”

  “I’ll go change before I get all bloody, but I wanted to make a good first impression. I was afraid you might not hire me.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you, Neville. You’re a hero come home, too.

  “I’ll go help your mum with the sandwiches. I am afraid she may already be having too much help from little Martin. I’ll start my duties tomorrow.”

  His mother and Mary returned shortly with
the lunch, and they ate together by the bed.

  “What’s this paper here, Mum?” he asked.

  “It’s a note for you from one of your men, I’d say. I found it in that dirty thing you call a uniform.”

  “You’re not my laundress, either, Mum, and I’m not penniless. I can have my things cleaned proper by someone else… but thank you for finding the note.” He opened it.

  “It’s from Midshipman Foyle. This is real news, it is,” he said after giving the note a quick scan. “He says that La Désirée had orders to remain on station with the fleet, with my first lieutenant Towers as acting captain, and that they put me aboard the little schooner Pickle to come back to England. She was the ship who first carried news of the victory home; that much I’ve learnt. He wishes me the best.

  “I’ve sent letters to Sir William and to La Désirée asking for the status of things, but I haven’t had answers yet.”

  A week passed pleasantly, with daily visits from Mary to help change the bandage ‘round his middle and to steady him when he took short walks. The coach ride from Portsmouth had set him back more than he would ever have expected, but he was finally mending. He could feel his strength returning, but he was not about to forego the opportunity to lean on Mary. She always kissed him on the cheek when she arrived, and again when she left; he could feel his distress rise with each kiss. Mary is a sweet girl, and I am very much attracted to her, but where is Marion? What had happened in France? Should I write her in Jamaica? Would she write to me on La Desiree? That might be it, he thought. Marion couldn’t know of my injury. A letter to my ship would probably go there before being back to the hospital and from thence on to Bury. It would take quite some time.

  Neville was sitting with his mother at the little table she had in a little nook by the kitchen when his sister’s knock came the next morning.