T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

Morton took out his own pistols and laid them on the table.

“What is it you do, Bow Street?”

“What every constable has been trained to do: assure himself of his weapons at such times. Where are d'Auvraye and Rolles? Do they really think they can shoot Bonaparte on the deck of His Majesty's ship? They will never escape!”

Boulot closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “You do not see it yet, Bow Street. You come all this way doing your duty, but you do not understand. My betrayal is more complete than that. It is almost glorious in its scale. You remember that night outside my rooms, the men you met? You know that Bonaparte 'as agents in England, yes?”

“They were spies?”

“Well, once they were, now they are nothing. Men with no country, no leader, no cause. They are like Jean Boulot, but they don't yet know it. I tell them I will do anything if they will get me a pardon from Fouche, but they never do. They tell me Fouche always need a little more proof of my loyalty. Fouche, who is loyal to no one and nothing.” The Frenchman sat back, slumping against the wooden slats, the ‘ceiling, ’ that ran across the frames. He stared up at nothing. “Imagine that a little constable from the Magistrate's Court, a constable who never give up, would arrive here this night.”

“I'm growing impatient, Boulot. So far your story is nothing but a long denial that you are guilty of these crimes.”

Boulot fixed him with a bleary-eyed stare. “ 'Ave you not been listening? I am guilty of a hundred crimes. This is my confession-and you are my priest, Bow Street.”

“How will they kill Bonaparte?”

“Kill him? They plan to save him first.”

“You are mad,” Morton said in disgust.

“No, I tell you the truth, Bow Street.” He leaned for ward again, planting his elbows on the table, hands pressed against his cheeks, distorting his sweating face. “What is the hour?”

Morton took out his brass repeater. “It is past eleven.”

“Then per'aps there is time. Per'aps.”

“Start speaking, Boulot. The simple truth!”

“As if anyone could! You say five persons have died? But what is that, Bow Street? What is that? Millions have died. You know this. But don't look so impatient. I tell you.”

Boulot breathed deeply and looked down at his chest again a moment, thinking. Somehow he was different, it seemed to Morton. More a man and less a clown.

“The smugglers here on the Nancy , they think Rolles and d'Auvraye are my friends, friends of the Bonaparte loyalists who 'ave come here to 'elp. They tell them the exact hour, the exact location… that they bring him ashore.”

Morton and Boulot stared at each other a long mo ment.

“It is not possible, Boulot. It can't be managed.”

“Eh, oui , they think they can do it. The others, that is, my old friends. They are desperate, they gather up lovers of the emperor from everywhere, from the strangest places. This botiment , this Nancy that we are in, it belong to an English, a smuggling-man, name Rattenbury, from somewhere there on the Devon coast. I know him from before, from the wartime. They have some soldiers also, as 'ave escape from the prison on the moor, and they have some other men, brave and mad, who have pistols and swords.”

“The Royal Navy will take the most absolute care. We are in a harbour full of warships. You are talking nonsense.”

“They don't plan to sail away with him. No, no. They need only to get him ashore. They have a lawyer there, an ecossais , with papiers , court documents, there will be a proces , a trial. The very moment he put one boot on English sand, then he is saved.”

“They cannot get him off a ship of seventy-four guns with over two hundred men aboard!”

“They say to do it by stealth. They have two boat, about a dozen men. One boat create la diversion, la ruse de guerre , and talk to the cutter that patrol. Then slip in the other and bring him out rapidly through the window of the great cabin, in the stern of le navire . They are prepared there, Bertrand and the others. They know, and expect. They will lower him on a rope, and Bertrand will impersonate him. Then all the others need do is row so fast as they possibly can to the beach and arrive there before the Britishes. On the beach they light a fire, to show the way.”

“It cannot prosper,” breathed Morton.

“ Bien , Bow Street, then there is no difficulty, is there?” Boulot was sardonic. “You may sit here the evening and agree with yourself that it cannot succeed, God bless the Navy Royale. And I may spare myself la crise de conscience . I will 'ave my reward, and all will be well.”

“If these royalists now know about this plot, they will be able to prevent it, they will warn the navy.”

“Oh no, Bow Street, pas de tout , not at all! That is why I say you do not see. They do not want to prevent it. They want it to succeed. So they can be there, waiting. They want him dead. No more prison. No more Elba. La mort. ”

Morton uttered a heartfelt curse. “Where, Boulot? Where will they bring him ashore? Is that where Eustache and Rolles will wait?”

Boulot placed his palms together and tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his lips for a moment.

“I remember. The smuggler left here to watch the ship, he say he take them to the beach at the place called Bovisan' Bay. Maybe someone know where that is. You will find who you want there.”

“The hour! Tell me the hour this is to happen!”

“An hour past midnight, Bow Street.”

Morton stared at the enigmatic little man a moment, then climbed up the ladder to the deck. The sky was bright with stars, the fog washed away by a small breeze.

“Bow Street!” Boulot called.

Morton turned and looked back down into the tiny cabin.

“Can you not release me? They will kill me when they find out what I have done.”

“Can you swim?” Morton asked.

“No.”

“Then best stay as you are.”

He turned away. “Did you hear all that?” he asked

Presley and Westcott.

They nodded.

“Is it possible? Can they do it?”

Westcott considered. “Yes, perhaps.”

“Then we must strike out for the ship and see if we can stop them.”

“The ship is distant,” Berman said. The smuggler perched on the rail, his feet dangling over the side. “You will not reach it in time. Bovisand Bay is near.”

Morton dropped down into the boat that rocked alongside. “Then it is Bovisand Bay.” He reached into his coat and took out one of his Parker pistols, handing it, butt first, to Westcott. “I expect Sir Nathaniel will forgive me.”

Westcott smiled.

They pushed off from the Nancy , Westcott and Berman at the oars.

“The beach at Bovisand Bay is narrow and meagre,” Berman said. “These Frenchmen will certainly see us approaching.”

“We will have to take our chances,” Morton said.

“Well, that is fine for you, but I'd be glad to keep living a few years yet. There is another small beach over a rise. A narrow track connects the two. I could land you there, and you could come upon them by stealth.”

“How much farther is it? Our time is short.”

“Not far. You will see.”

Bovisand Bay was far on the other side of Mount Batten, out toward the open Channel. The Nancy had been anchored in the sound near the eastern shore, but the bay was still some distance off.

Far ahead and to the left the dark coastline was featureless, lightless, empty, and Morton began for the first time to feel a low grumble of anxiety stirring within. He was in the bow, staring out into the night. Presley sat in the stern, a shadowy form clinging to the gunwales, none too comfortable about setting off into the dark Channel in such a small boat.