The Gathering Storm (11 page)

'Scurvy.'

'Scurvy! That is nonsense, when we've had fresh produce
all the way from Portsmouth until now. There ain't a single
scurvy case in the ship.'

'I know it, sir, and you know it. He don't. Or won't.'

'Then I must attempt to persuade him myself. I don't want
to lose another man so soon in this commission, Doctor.'

'Then I wish you good luck, Captain. Mr Souter has a
certain stubborness of character and perception that I have
noticed before in his race.'

'Have ye, indeed? Leave him to me, Dr Wing. Leave the
fellow to me.'

'What does Dr Wing say?' repeated Captain Rennie now
in the lieutenant's cramped cabin.

'I do not think Dr Wing knows what ails me, sir. He –
pretends that he does. But I am not persuaded. I believe,
myself, that—'

'Not persuaded?' Over him. 'I see. Will I tell you something,
Mr Souter, about Dr Wing?'

'As you wish, sir.'

'Dr Wing, in my opinion – arrived at from long direct
experience of his activity – is very nearly the best doctor-surgeon
the Royal Navy has produced in thirty year. He
believes you to be costive, Mr Souter.'

'I am certainly not—'

'He believes it, and so do I. The cure is a ball pill. You
will oblige me by swallowing it now, without the loss of a
moment.' Producing the ball pill from a twist of paper in
his pocket. He picked up a glass from the cabinet beside
Mr Souter's hanging cot, and held it out with the pill.

'I am afraid I must refuse that request, sir. I have no need
for a ball pill. I am suffering from—'

'You are suffering from disobedience, Mr Souter. Y'will
swallow this damn' pill right quick, or know the consequence.'

'Captain Rennie, I decline to submit to bullying.' Very
pale, but holding up his chin.

'Decline to submit! By God, sir, you are impertinent! You
there!'

'Sir?' A ship's boy, attending.

'Find the lieutenant of Marines, and ask him to come to
me here, at once, with his sergeant and two men. Jump,
now.'

'Aye, sir.' Touching his forehead, running up the ladder.

'You – you intend to place me under arrest, sir?'

'I intend to teach you a lesson, Mr Souter. A lesson ye'll
never forget. Unless ... unless, in course, you wish to swallow
your ball pill?'

'And – if I don't?' Still stubbornly defiant.

'You will be marched in full view of the ship's company
to the head, and there deprived of your breeches. And there
you will sit, sir, upon the seat of ease, until you are eased.
Do you apprehend me?'

'I – I do not believe that you would do—'

'You don't believe me?' Looking out of the cabin. 'Ah,
there y'are, Lieutenant Melly. Your sergeant is with you, and
two men?'

'Very well, I will – I will take the pill.' Mr Souter, sitting
up in his coat.

Captain Rennie ducked back inside the cabin, handed the
pill to the lieutenant, and the glass of water, and the pill was
duly swallowed.

At first light of the following day,
Expedient
weighed and
proceeded south through the Chenal du Four toward the
Pointe du Raz. The initial part of her mission had been
accomplished, but the pretence of survey would have to be
maintained for the time being.

*

He woke. The blindfold at last removed, and his hands
untied. His captors gone. James blinked in the painful brightness
of light, and saw that he was in a simple bedchamber,
with plain walls, a high ceiling, a fireplace, and a tall double
window with open shutters, overlooking ... what? He stood
up and went to the window. Below lay a stone courtyard, a
high wall with a massive gate, and beyond a solid round
tower with a conical roof. He rubbed his wrists, and pins
and needles prickled through his arms as feeling returned.
He pushed open the windows, and smelled hay, sweet
chestnut, and roses. Yes, roses, he thought, or perhaps it was
another bloom.

He turned to look at the bed on which he had been placed.
It was narrow, as narrow as a hanging cot. There was no
other furniture, save a commode half hidden by a screen in
the far corner. He strode there, availed himself gratefully
of the commode, and returned to the window. Peered out
and down, and tried to assess where his room was in relation
to the rest of the house. Obviously a large house, very
large – a château. He put his head out and glanced upward,
and saw that the window was in a mansard roof, very steep.
Glanced down again, and judged the drop to the stone flags
to be sixty or seventy feet. He was high aloft here, and no
backstay to clap on to and slide down, nor shrouds neither.
To himself:

'Trapped, my boy. Imprisoned. Christ's blood, if these are
my friends let me find no enemies here in France.'

He yawned, stretched, and realised now that most of his
clothes had been stripped from him. His coat, waistcoat,
stockings and shoes. His hat. He clutched at his head. His
peruke. He was bareheaded, exposed, chilled, in this great
stone house. He was thirsty, and hungry. What o'clock was
it? He glanced at the sky, and at the angle of the light across
the courtyard, and again sniffed the air. Unless his senses
deceived him it was early morning. He had lain here all
night. He sighed, stretched his arms above his head, flexed
his knees, and then on a thought strode across the chamber
to the heavy door. Tried the iron handle. Found it locked.

'In course it is locked, you damn' fool.'

He sat on the bed, and after a moment lay back and mused
on the questions Mr Mappin had never properly answered.
Why must he go to a remote part of the Breton coast,
disguised as a silk trader? Who were the 'friends' in France?
Why had he been sent to meet them? What was the true
purpose of his task, of all this subterfuge and discomfort?

He had been brought here last night, after two days – or
was it three? – in a hovel, or a barn, a place anyway of richly
pungent farmyard odours, then a further arduous journey
over long distance across fields, and ditches, and then along
rough tracks in a cart or trap of some kind. He had been
fed meagrely, and given only water to drink. The water he
had been given last night tasted of stone, and earth. Well-water.
His captors – he was unable to think of them in any
other distinction – had refused to answer his questions, had
indeed enjoined his silence. His anger, confusion, dismay –
all vehemently and repeatedly expressed – had been resolutely
ignored. The thought of his treatment at their hands fired
his anger all over again, and he jumped up off the cot and
strode round the room. There was no looking glass. He had
no real sense now of his appearance. He touched his face –
and found that his beard had been shaved off.

'Good God, then they have removed all of my disguise.
They know I am not Henry Tonnelier, not a silk merchant,
and they believe I am a spy. I am trapped here a prisoner, and
very probably they mean to execute me. Christ Jesu, what a
fool I was to agree to Mappin's scheme. Four hundred a year?
You ninny. You bloody blockhead.'

The ratcheting click of the lock, and a woman's voice:

'
Le petit déjeuner, monsieur
.'

A pretty young woman of perhaps eighteen years, dark-haired
and black-eyed in her apron and cap. James took the
tray from her, sat on the bed and ate rolls, butter and sweet
preserve, and sucked down a large bowl of dark, fragrant,
reviving coffee. Presently the girl returned with ewer and
basin, face cloth and towel, the water steaming hot.

James smiled at her. '
Merci, ma'm'selle
.'

'
Monsieur
.' A little curtsey and she withdrew, but not before
her black eyes met his.

He stripped, washed himself, dried himself with the towel,
and pulled on again his shirt and breeches.

'What may I take ashore in the way of baggage?' he had
asked Mr Mappin.

'Take nothing.'

'Nothing, Mr Mappin? Not even a valise?'

The eyes closed, the neat head shaken once. 'Nothing.'

'How long am I to remain in France?'

'Mm... a short time. Anything you may need will be
provided for you. You will want for nothing.'

'Indeed? Not even fresh linen?'

'Not even that. These are civilised people, you mark me?
You will be treated handsome on all occasions.'

'Handsome!' With irony, glancing round the bare chamber.
He wandered to the window, and gazed disconsolately down
once more. And leaned forward. The great gate was open,
and a carriage had just come into the courtyard. The echoing
clatter of hooves and wheels. The doors of the carriage
opened, and the people stepped down. A gust of wind from
the open gate sent straw swirling and scattering round their
legs, and lifted the ribboned bonnet of the lone woman among
them. She clutched at the bonnet, turning away from the
wind in her waisted silk jacket and petticoat, and James saw
her face. Even at this distance from her, and high above, she
was the most strikingly beautiful creature he had ever seen.

'Good heaven ... who is that?'

And then he turned from the window and looked at the
door. Had that girl turned the lock as she left? He did not
remember having heard the squeak of the key, and the click.
She had carried a large ring of keys at her waist. Had she
forgotten to lock him in as she went away?

He ran to the door – and found it locked. And roundly
cursed himself.

'You fucking poltroon you! Why did y'not overpower that
slip of a girl and make good your escape? Hey? Hey? You
are too much the gentleman, by Christ! Instead of admiring
her dainty arse, you should have took her bloody keys, y'timid
dimwit, and locked
her
in!'

He kicked the door, and stubbed his bare toe. Wincing:

'A fine, upstanding spy you picked, Mr Brough Bloody
Mappin.'

James was left alone in the bedchamber until noon, and
he lay dozing on the cot because he was still tired after the
rigours of the past few days.

At midday he woke to the sound of footfalls outside the
door, and sat up. The lock was turned and the door opened,
and two men came in, the younger one carrying a plain
wooden chair. He placed it in the middle of the floor, and
the older man looked over at James and pointed to it. James
eased himself warily off the cot and limped to the chair. His
toe was still painful. He sat down. The younger man – powerfully
built, dour-looking – stood by the door, which he closed
but did not lock, as if he and his companion wished James
to attempt an escape.

The older man, who was perhaps forty-five, and dressed
very plain, with a simple, close-fitted wig, had a gaunt face
and an angular frame. In educated French:

'You have hurt yourself, monsieur?'

'No. Yes. I struck my toe, an accident.'

'You wish for a doctor?'

'A doctor? No, thank you. Will you please tell me,
monsieur, why I have been brought here, and held captive?'

'I will ask the questions, monsieur, and you will oblige me
with truthful answers. Lies I will not tolerate.'

'Ah, I see.' A grimace of a smile.

'How did you arrive in France?'

'How did I— You know very well, monsieur. I came ashore
at the Pointe de Malaise in a boat, as arranged.'

'Arranged? I did not arrange it. I have arranged nothing.
You are here because I wish to know why you have come to
France.'

'Again, you must know the reason. I do not. I was not
told. I am yet at sea, as to that.'

'You do not know why you came? Pfff. Do not play the
lackwit, monsieur. It will go very hard with you, if you do
not treat me with
respect
.' Cold eyes, a full-lipped, unkind,
sardonic mouth.

Fear curled in James's belly, but he lifted his head and
stared at his interlocutor defiant, and said nothing.

'What is your name, monsieur?'

'Henry Tonnelier.' Sticking to it, as instructed.

'You, a Frenchman? But no. No no, it is not possible.'

'I never said I was French. I am a silk merchant from
England. But your men knew that, didn't they? That is why
they asked me on the beach—'

'My people said nothing of silk.' A hint of irritation? Or
was it dismay? James watched him.

'They most certainly did, monsieur. I was challenged in
those words, exact. "Are you the silk merchant?"'

His interlocutor now removed his wig with an irritated
sigh, revealing close-cropped grey hair. James watched him
narrowly, and:

'I never saw the faces of the people who seized me on the
beach, and yet you have just admitted that they were your
men. I do not know if they were the same men that brought
me here. I was blindfolded three days, and there were
different voices all round me. I do not know this house,
neither. I have no idea where it is. But you
know
that I do
not. So why do you—'

'Be silent, monsieur. Do not make me angry.'

James now decided that he must attack, and ran out his
guns:

'Do not make
you
angry! By God, you arrogant wretch, I
will not bear this any more!' He stood up, and at once the
young man by the door came towards him. James grabbed
up the chair, lifted it by the ladder-back, and faced them
both.

'You attempt to do me harm, either one of you, and by
Christ I will smash skulls!'

The older man now smiled, and produced from his coat
a pocket pistol, which he cocked.

'I think you will not, monsieur. Please to put the chair
down, and be seated upon it.'

James saw the futility of further resistance, and did as he
was told. But he did not like it, and his face said so.

'Yes, Henry Tonnelier. Perhaps they thought in London
that it was a logical name for you, a man born in England
with a family background in France. But when we removed
your wig, and shaved off your grey-dyed beard, we saw at
once that you were not a man in middle life, but a much
younger man – in disguise. What is your real name,
monsieur?'