T.F. Banks - The Emperor's assassin

“You are, Westcott. And the Admiralty will hang you for it. Did you not hear what Boulot said of these royalists? They've killed five people. Eustache d'Auvraye allowed his own father to be murdered.”

“Boulot is a drunkard and a liar.”

“A drunkard, yes, but about these murders I believe he tells the truth.” Morton went to step forward.

“Do not force me to fire, Morton!”

“No one is forcing you to do this, Captain. Let us see how deep your treachery runs.” Morton began to move slowly up the slope in the darkness.

In the quiet night the cock struck the steel, sending out a little fountain of sparks. No shot fired.

Morton turned around to find a pistol aimed at his chest. “I had hoped you would not do that, Captain.” He nodded to the pistol. “I emptied the pan and plugged the touch hole.”

Westcott looked at the pistol in his hand as though it had betrayed him. Presley raised his own weapon to cover him.

“Boulot said that I led the royalists to him, but we went directly from the Golden Apple to the White Bear, to Boulot's refuge. How could I have led them to him? And then I remembered-you sent your driver off with a message for dinner companions. But it was to Eustache d'Auvraye this man went. While we were at Bow Street finding arms, d'Auvraye and Rolles went after Boulot, whom they'd been searching for anyway. I should have suspected you earlier when Lafond, thinking I was some other, asked which ship I would sail on, but I thought that was meant for Boulot. Now you will give me your word as a gentleman that you will stay quiet and not interfere in this matter, or I will truss you up and gag you.”

Westcott drew himself up. “You will do no such thing.”

“Indeed I will. Jimmy and I have dealt with stronger men than you, and our pistols are primed and loaded, unlike yours. And I've the feeling that Jimmy's in no gentle mood toward you either. Your word, Captain. I shall trust that it is still worth something, though your own service will doubt it after tonight.”

A long silence in which, no doubt, Westcott had time to consider what these few moments meant to the remainder of his life. “You have my word,” he muttered.

“Lay your pistol on that rock, then go back and wait with Berman.”

Westcott stood a moment, staring at Morton. “When Bonaparte returns to France,” the navy man said, “when the wars begin again and the nameless dead are heaped by the hundreds into pits, then you will know which of us was the traitor, Morton. You are a little man, with a small imagination. I had hoped for more from you. Do your duty, Constable, and not one thing more. It is all you're capable of.” Westcott set his pistol down, turned, and walked back into the darkness.

Morton retrieved the pistol, cleared the touch hole, and reprimed the pan, then passed it to Presley to augment his own. If Westcott's words had touched him at all, Presley could see no hint of it.

In the end, it was not so hard to slither crab-wise across the top of the ridge. After a few awkward moments knocking knees against the stones on the far side, they were able to resume their feet and find the path again. As they began to pick their way down the rocky slope, they kept their eyes fixed on the little cluster of shapes by the fire on the beach below.

Morton whispered back to Presley as they went. “Steel yourself, Jimmy. We are about to enter battle against ruthless men.”

“Then what shall we do? Shoot them from the darkness? They've not been convicted yet.”

“No, we'll have to hail them, but they are standing in the light, and we will be in the dark.”

“They will flee.”

“Yes, almost certainly they will. Be ready. If they discharge pistols, we will fire to preserve our lives, but wait until we are near. Don't go wasting our shot.”

It hardly seemed a moment more before the two Runners had reached the level beach, their boots crunching troublingly loud on its pebbles. Now they must act.

But just as they paused, the men by the fire stirred, one rising from where he had been crouched. Then all three began to step away from the fire toward the small surf slapping the gravel shore. Two hundred feet out in the Channel a lantern flashed twice, then was covered or extinguished.

“Dem!” Morton cursed. He drew both his pistols and began to run.

Morton and Presley sprinted forward, beach stones sliding and grinding beneath their feet. The fire blazed up a little, and the light of its flames revealed the men standing on the water's edge, looking out, so far oblivious to the two Bow Street men. On the dark sound small white crests rolled and tumbled onto the shore, rattling the small stones. A dark shape rocked over the waves, not so far out.

“There, Morton! Do you see?” gasped Presley as they ran.

“I do. Save your breath, Jimmy.”

It could only be the supporters of Bonaparte and with them perhaps the fallen emperor himself. Morton tried to make his legs pump faster. Only a few moments more, unless they intervened, and the situation would slip beyond all control. Beside him Presley slipped and stumbled, falling in a spray of smooth, slick stones. Morton drove on, hearing his young companion scramble up to follow.

The shorebound boat could be seen clearly now, black hulled and bobbing among the small crests. Sweeps dipped and pulled in unison, lifting up into the air, then dipping again. Clearly the men in the boat suspected nothing amiss. Morton almost cried out to warn them, but over the waves and wind and distance he was sure they would not hear, and even if they did, they would not heed his warning.

The boat was barely thirty feet out, the oars backing now, controlling the craft as it slid toward the shore. He could see the men in her now: four at the oars, a man at the tiller, and in the bow a small man in a greatcoat, his collar up against the night.

Morton pushed himself harder, realising he would not reach them before the two parties converged. All he could hear was his own ragged breathing and the sound of his feet, hardly anything more.

A few yards out in the rising waves the boat ran aground, and as two of the oarsmen jumped out into the surf, the men from the shore waded out to meet them. One started to raise his arm.

Stumbling to a halt, Morton tried to call out, but his “Bow Street!” emerged more as a gasp than as a bellow. He raised a pistol and fired into the air, fearing at this distance that he would hit some other, perhaps Napoleon himself.

But he was ignored, or not even heard. The man from the beach levelled his pistol. A spurt of fire, the sound of a shot echoing off the cliff and out over the waves. The man seated in the bow tumbled back, the horrified faces of the oarsmen caught in the firelight.

“Dem!” panted Morton. Raising his other gun, he risked firing at them. But the distance was still too great, and his ball hissed wide. The closest man looked now toward Morton. Then he and his companions wheeled and ran, without glancing back, disappearing into the dark.

“Bow Street!” Morton bawled more audibly now, and Presley, coming up behind, added his great bellow.

But there was nothing to be done here. Whatever harm the attackers had inflicted could no longer be helped, and Morton's fury was up. He and Presley raced past the men milling about the boat, through the small island of flickering light, and then into near-total darkness. Morton cursed himself for glancing at the fire, which danced before his eyes now wherever he looked.

But then, from not far ahead, a pistol fired. Morton heard the ball cut through the air between them. Even without looking back, he realised the fire burned bright behind them. He reached out and pushed Presley toward the cliff.