Jennifer Horseman (51 page)

There it was, all the evidence she needed of impending insanity. She ventured a sideways glance at her surroundings. From far away a morning sun shone behind the thick overcast sky. A man rode past on horseback, the sound alerting her to the danger.

They would be looking for her, anxious and mindlessly worried, her disappearance adding to the unbearable anticipation of waiting for word of Garrett's execution.

Time marching unto death ...

No one would understand. She didn't understand completely. She only knew that without Garrett there was no light at the end of the tunnel, no purpose and no end, that she could not wait for word of Garrett's death because she could not survive it. The tunnel had never been darker, but blind faith still pushed her forward, always forward. She would not give up now, that was all she knew. She had no idea how she would save Garrett, but the possibility existed only by reaching Toulon before The Raven.

So she had stolen a fine mare from the admiral's stables and had ridden her alone through London's streets to the port, only to find the port master's office was closed, which made perfect sense if only she had thought about it. After all, it was the dark dead of a London night, and so she had stopped at this corner, tied her horse, and sat down to wait for morning.

The old beggar was making a great list of all the reasons why he liked this spot at the corner of the alleyway between Lord Jim's Tavern and the coin exchange. "For one thing, plenty o' people pass with loose coins from the window. I use me 'ead, I do. A bloody good spot all round. A good day gets me as much as 'alf a pound, whereas thebad gets at least 'nough to fetch some day-old bread and maybe a cup o' broth. Then too, plenty o' sights to pass the time with: ships and sailors and more than a dozen pretty ladies too. . . ." and on and on, but Juliet no longer considered him, much less listened to his rambling. Anxiously, she cast her gaze to both sides.

"My horse . . . what did you do to my horse?"

"Me? I dinna do a thing to ye horse. Did ye 'ave one lass?"

She tried to stand up. Two hours of sleep changed the aches of a fifteen-hour ride into pain, pain that shot through every limb and part. Sore and bruised, hungry and exhausted, she used all her strength to overcome her fatigue, just as she would overcome every large and small obstacle she encountered in the long journey to Toulon. She forced herself up.

Juliet kept the long pistol leveled at the horrid looking man. She needed that horse to trade for the coin to buy passage on the first ship leaving for Amsterdam. "What did you do to my horse?"

"Nothin'! I never saw ye bloody 'orse an that's a fact. Did ye tie a bit a 'orse flesh to the pole there? Dumb, plain dumb, as dumb as plantm' sunflowers in snow. Got 'ere a little late, I guess. Bad luck, the devil's own, keeps gettin' in the way of things. Ye think I'd be used to it. ..."

To her horror, the old man seemed to be lamenting the fact that he wasn't quick enough to steal her horse. Which seemed to indicate he hadn't had a thing to do with it. "Oh God," she lowered the pistol. "I need that horse to pay for my passage."

"Where ye 'eaded to?"

"I'm going to Amsterdam."

"A fine place, so I've 'eard said. Not that the likes o' me ever saw it. I never 'ad much cause to travel. To tell truth, I 'ave not been more than five streets in any direction for years—"

"I need that horse. I don't have any means without it. I need a militiaman—"

"Oh no, not a smart move," he shook his head. "The devil that stole ye 'orse is riding it and they be long gone. Callin' the militia willna' do a thing but call attention to yeself and, well, I'd wager that is 'bout the last thing ye be wantin' right now."

She searched his face. "Just how is it you know that?"

"Same way I know ye not common. Too pretty by far. Ye desperate, too, all this is plain—"

"But I need money, I — " Dear God, what now? She couldn't write a bank note without proper introductions. No one would take her word for it. She needed that horse. . . .

"How much ye need?"

She felt ready to cry. "Well, I don't know ... exactly."

"Well, first off, seems to me ye ought to find out. Go on up there an get an answer."

Another good idea, find out how much she had to steal. Juliet cast her gaze across the way to the port master's office. Three people, an older man with a boy and young man, waited in line on the wide planklike stairs that led to the office. Desperate but determined, she crossed the street like a blind person. The horses of an oncoming carriage reared up, bringing the vehicle to a dead stop. The driver swore at her but she hardly saw and didn't care. She stepped in front of the line, not bothering to excuse herself. Brows lifted but neither man said a word.

The old man smiled toothlessly. 'Appens all the time. People just assume ye be mad to ignore pleasantries and politeness. So the men just roll their eyes and mumble 'bout the riffraff clutterin' up the streets as they let ye go on ye merry, mad way. . . .

Juliet stared at the map on the wall in the port master's office as she waited for the elderly gentleman to finish booking a passage to Dublin. The Raven set sail from somewhere off northern France, probably Calais, the closest port to Brussels. Depending on the weather, the ship would take between one and a half to two weeks to reach Toulon. If she could reach Amsterdam— one of the last ports open to English commerce On the continent—in two or three days, she could with luck reach Toulon by the week's end. Provided she came up with enough money for the ship's passage as well as for a horse, and horses were so expensive with the war going on, and also provided she traveled by night as well as day, and especially provided she kept safe—

Which was an immediate problem. Sailors and longshoremen passed on the streets. Shop and tavern keepers began opening doors to morning traffic, sweeping out the rooms. The calls of venders mixed with those of roosters and dogs. Four uniformed sailors appeared heading this way atop their mounts. More than one interested gaze watched the unescorted young lady standing in wait of a turn at the port master's window.

The elderly man left at last and Juliet stepped forward. The white haired man looked her up and down, which resulted in a disapproving frown. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

"I need immediate passage to Amsterdam."

"Amsterdam . . ." He examined his books. "Ship leaving at noon and one later, at four."

"Noon, please."

"How many traveling?"

She nervously bit her lip. "One."

He looked up from his book.

"Tis an emergency."

"Always is. Nineteen pounds, payment up front."

"Nineteen pounds? Why, it's only a hundred miles-"

"A hundred and twenty miles. Nineteen pounds, please."

What was she thinking of? Nineteen pounds and she didn't have a pence, yet alone a pound. Not without that horse—

"Nineteen pounds, madame."

"Ah, ah, I'll be right back."

She stepped outside, thinking, thinking. What could she steal before noon? Without getting caught? Oh God, what to do? What to do? Going back was out of the question, completely out of the question, she told herself over and over as she closed her eyes and clutched the rail, hearing again the ticking of the grandfather clock. . . .

"God . . . help me "

"Look, loverly, 'tis simple. That ring on ye finger. Fetch a pretty price, 'twill. Enough ta get ye on ye way to Amsterdam, with plenty left over, too, for what ye be needin'."

Juliet looked from the beggar to the ring he pointed at. Her ring ... her ring. For the thousandth time she pulled with all her might. She took a deep breath, pulling until her finger reddened, another pain added to ten others. "Oh, it won't come off! Tis Garrett's magic! He won't let me take it off!"

"Not ye but me. I 'ave a way with mere mortal magic."

This was said as if it were a jest as his hand went around her finger. She felt a warm tingling as the ring slipped off her finger. As if it had never been stuck.

He grinned toothlessly. "How long since ye last ate?"

Stunned, staring, from far away Juliet heard herself say dumbly. "What?"

"Aye, a long time, I can tell. Ye no doubt lost some flesh, that could explain it. Could I say. Tis a bloody shame to part with such a lovely bit 'o earth. But when I saw ye face come out of the office, I knew ye had to do it. Ye got no choice, do ye?"

Staring at the ring, Juliet shook her head.

"Well now, the most 'onest swap dealer around is Rosenberg. 'E be a Jew, but Jews be more 'onest than Christians, always 'ave been ifn ye ask me. Rosenberg's the only fellow who won't take ye shirt with the swap—"

"Where is his shop?"

"Two blocks south, round the alleyway and up the stairs. Small sign. Run on, lass, ye got to get on that boat 'eadin' to Amsterdam—" He stopped, grinning, for Juliet was already running. "Tell 'im Garrett will pay double to get it back ifn 'e waits on it!"

That's when Juliet knew there was something very strange about the beggar man, an impression that doubled when nearly an hour later he still waited for her as she emerged from the port master's office with passage booked. "The ship leaves in an hour. I'm off—"

"Not like that ye not. Ye look like trouble, too pretty by far, I keep thinkin', and ifn I be thinking it, so '11 the men who sees ye. Not that ye'd be safe even if ye were a sorry sight. No, what ye need now is a package o' new rags. Canna cut that hair, I know, but mayhap if ye stuff it inside a shirt and coat and with breeches and a hat, it might work. Aye . . . and lucky for ye, I know just the place."

He started off but stopped and turned around, realizing she had not followed. A stream of sunlight broke through the clouds and fell behind him, and with the smallest leap of faith and a great leap of imagination, Juliet witnessed a transformation too startling to be believed.

Admiral D'Villeneuve stood on the balcony of his chateau, staring off at the ocean beyond the Toulon hillside. The vista before him was an idyllic green hillside rising from the sea: grassy slopes interrupted by small groupings of beech trees and brackens of late summer wild-flowers. He saw another vista, though. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to escape the rows and rows of dead or dying men neatly lining the decks of each one of his ships. Yet even with his eyes closed he heard the pitiful screams and gasps of men in the quiet rustle of the breeze, smelled blood and burnt flesh over the scent of freshly shorn hay and salty air. ...

The sight of the British fleet on the horizon would haunt him forever. The British fleet had known exactly where they were, as he would swear they knew the battle they had planned. Admiral Nelson had been ready, each ship outfitted and readied for battle, the tables turned and the world changed. They sailed full sail into the cannon fire where Nelson's naval brilliance was demonstrated relentlessly, over and over again, as ships were picked off and sunk like so many carnival puppets. It was a bloody massacre, they were doomed long before they reached full readiness.

How? Dear God, how had they known?

From above and to the side, the fourth bell of the monastery's steeple interrupted the peace of the sleepy village of Toulon. For the first time, he realized why the church was the keeper of time. His two eldest sons had died in the battle. At age forty-nine, after a life dedicated to France and the military, after sending thousands of men into battle under great umbrellas of national platitudes and rationalizations, he finally understood the cost of each one of those lives. If God could be bargained with for past sins, he would die a thousand times for any one of those men. . . .

Boots sounded on the deck behind the admiral, but he did not turn around.

"Sir!"

"Yes?" came the whisper of his voice.

"Corporal Samone to see you."

The corporal held the distinguished honor of being Napoleon's personal messenger. A waste of service, the admiral knew well the message: no more bullion to rebuild the navy, yet not because his navy failed France and her emperor. For there would be no more bullion for the great army either. France was at last bankrupt. The world he had conquered had been bled dry; commencement de la fin: the beginning of the end.

"See him in," the admiral said wearily.

Within minutes, Corporal Samone stepped out onto the balcony, followed always by his four guards. "Admiral, sir," he saluted with his guards. The admiral started to go through the motion of greeting the younger man but was interrupted midsentence, "From the Emperor, sir, a matter of the utmost importance and urgency."

The admiral took the sealed envelope extended to him and quickly tore it open, ignoring the formalities to read:

Intelligence services discovered the personage by name of Black Garrett to be one and the same as Lord Ramon Garrett Van Ness, third earl of Brack-shire, a member of the English House of Lords and, most pertinently, a commissioned captain in His Majesty's Royal Navy. For five years, said personage has conducted espionage missions of high order against the French Empire, the Greater French Empire, the Kingdom of Spain, the Confederation of the Rhine, and the Grand Duchy of Warsaw.

The personage of Black Garrett and the English sailors of his crew are presently sailing en route to Toulon. Your orders are to tax every available resource, including the fourteenth regiment in Marseilles, to insure Lord Ramon Garrett Van Ness and every member of his crew's immediate capture and execution by hanging for war and espionage against the French Empire and her peoples. Nothing and no one is to be spared in the execution of these orders. ...

The admiral read the orders twice before he understood, an understanding reached only after he put the information against each and every encounter he had with Garrett, settling at last at Tangiers and the young lady Juliet. At first he couldn't believe the scope of the deception: that somehow Garrett had discovered his past with Anna and found her daughter to make him into . . . into what? What word described a man who traded hundreds and hundreds of lives, the very future of the French Empire, for a young lady's grand theatrical whim? There was no word terrible enough . . .