The Barbed Crown

Chapter 24





What I lack in combat prowess and conspiratorial instinct I make up for in timing. I was saved from French execution by the emperor of Austria, or rather the decision by Francis II in August of 1805 to join Britain’s Third Coalition, declare war on France, and march for the Rhine. In an instant I turned from condemned spy to expendable emissary.

My destiny, it seemed, was to bounce endlessly between the two sides like a tennis ball in a king’s court, trusted by none and manipulated by all.

Thanks to the indecisiveness of French admiral Pierre de Villeneuve and the relentless pursuit of Villeneuve by British admiral Horatio Nelson, the last French opportunity to seize control of the Channel had been lost. Villeneuve claimed to have defeated Admiral Robert Calder in an inconclusive and foggy skirmish near Cape Finisterre in July, but followed up his “victory” by sailing away to refuge in Spain, an act of caution that infuriated Napoleon.

News of their navy’s failure, and the new Austrian threat, threw the army camps around Boulogne into frenzy. Even though Fulton’s torpedoes and Congreve’s rockets had not achieved any decisive result, Napoleon was forced to wheel his Army of England east to march for Germany and Austria. As his divisions departed, he got an idea to use me yet again. Instead of being shot I was being sent back to the enemy to keep England off-balance.

I was brought under guard to Bonaparte’s Boulogne pavilion again, which gave panoramic confirmation that the British attackers had drawn off and the French defenses were almost fully intact. Fulton’s and Congreve’s torpedoes and rockets had not proved decisive.

“Your diabolical attack was a failure, and Pasques has testified to your incompetence,” the emperor told me. “You’re lucky you were unsuccessful, Gage. Otherwise, I might have to make an example of you by executing you as a dangerous saboteur.”

“Yes, no need for that. I’m a simple sailor, fighting fair and square for passage to Venice.”

“Painted black and squatting in the water, as soulless as a snake? A sailor with no honor, I judge, with the manners of a murderer. Always I am tempted to shoot you, but your questionable character becomes useful when necessity intervenes. I need you to carry a message to the British Admiralty.” He glanced out the windows at the Channel waters, gray even on this day of August 29. “Besides, I haven’t forgotten you saved my life.” Napoleon had turned thirty-six two weeks before, more than eight months after his coronation.

“I haven’t, either,” I said, ignoring his insults and exhausted but vaguely hopeful at my reprieve. I’d caught Napoleon in a charitable mood. He was actually energized by the need to abandon his invasion plans and break camp. And why not? He’d been waiting for three tedious years for a chance to land a blow at his archenemy across La Manche, and his navy had delivered only frustration. Now he could fight a land war against the Austrians, the kind of scuffle he was comfortable with. “I only tried to blow up your fleet because I’m worried about my family.”

“Réal has briefed me about their escape, and how you put them in peril with your clumsy attempt to sabotage my coronation. Thanks to our double agent Catherine Marceau, we manipulated you instead of you manipulating us. Did you really think such a harebrained scheme could befuddle all of Europe?”

“We were led astray by bad advice from all sides. Say, do you know a fellow named Palatine, an elderly gentleman who scuttles about the catacombs?”

He didn’t bother to answer. Great men become accustomed to listening mostly to themselves. “Still, your temerity proved useful. My self-crowning became the talk of Europe. I’ve commissioned a painting of the dramatic moment. Maybe I’ll have David draw you in.”

“Looking resolute, I hope.”

“Surprised by my mastery. The painting is about me, not you.”

The fields around Boulogne were liquid with movement. The vast military camp was being dismantled, wagons loaded, arms slung, and regiment after regiment was tramping east. The terrifying threat of invasion was over! Villeneuve was hiding in the Spanish port of Cadiz, and the white cliffs of Dover remained as remote as the moon. Yet English ships dared not come closer, having been stung by the resolute French defense the night before. I’d hoped for peace, and here was stalemate. “Since I’ve failed so conveniently, would it be possible for you to send me in search of my family?”

“No. You can hunt for your relatives when my nation has secured a favorable cease-fire. I need a truce with Britain while I fight the Austrians, so I’m making you my special envoy. Our navies are disengaged, Nelson is reported to be sick, Villeneuve has betrayed my every plan, and no naval resolution is possible or necessary. You can save countless lives by telling England that my ambition to invade is over. Nelson can stand down. The game is a draw.”

Only over for the expedient moment, of course, and England would regard any truce as tantamount to a defeat. My mission was thus hopeless, and surely Napoleon must know this. So why was he sending me back to England? To buy time to keep his combined fleet of French and Spanish ships safe from British attack until the Austrian adventure was over. I was hardly worth a bullet to shoot, and even if I tangled only a few diplomatic threads, I might keep the naval contest in confusion until winter made a major showdown unlikely. So I’d use Napoleon as he was using me. I’d deliver any message he wanted and, rather than wait for a reply, demand passage to Venice from the English as reward for my heroic torpedo attack. I would squeeze everything I could from these scoundrels, and this time stay out of the line of fire and keep my money tucked under a mattress.

I am adept at making stern resolutions.

“Agreed,” I said, “but my investments have hit a rough patch. A diplomatic fee would let me better entertain key officials in London to press your case.”

“Always you are asking for money.”

“Your robes cost a hundred times what I need, and I did inadvertently make your coronation something of a triumph. I hope the Crown of Thorns has been put somewhere safe, by the way.”

He was a hard man with a budget. “No purse until you achieve a peace I desire. Then maybe France will vote you a medal.”

“I’d rather have some coins.”

“Ask your rich English friends!”

“Perhaps Pasques would care to accompany me?” I’d like to drag the rascal back to England and have him thrown into the Tower.

“The policeman has rehabilitated himself. He shrewdly led you on, all the while reporting to Réal.”

“Pasques is shrewd?” The possibility had never occurred to me. “Is there no one in France who can be trusted?”

“Only me, Ethan. I’m going to remake the world, elevating half of mankind and vanquishing the other. Which half will you choose?”

“The half that stays out of these quarrels entirely.”

“Impossible. Come to the globe and I will explain what you must explain to the damned English.”

We walked to a corner of the pavilion. A globe an impressive four feet in diameter had been installed since I last visited, broadening Bonaparte’s strategic aids from maps of southern England to a view of our planet. He turned it so that the Atlantic was in view.

“My admirals have failed me, Gage. Brueys, Bruix, Decrés, Ganteaume, Villeneuve, they’ve all disappointed one way or another. The strategic situation has always been simple.” His fingers jabbed. His hands are quite fine, and he’s proud of them. “Our fleet is scattered among several ports, and inferior when divided. Each harbor is penned by the British. But if we could ever combine, France could achieve temporary superiority in the Channel. An enemy that defends everything is spread so thin that it defends nothing, and the British are trying to defend all the world’s oceans. Yes, they have the better navy, but not necessarily the bigger navy in a single place at a single time. That’s the only secret to warfare.”

“Nelson is famous for concluding the same thing. At the Nile, he attacked just part of the French fleet so he was always outdueling your ships two to one.” I’d first met Nelson when his men fished me out of the Mediterranean following the Battle of the Nile. Even back in 1798, shot and shell from earlier battles had already left a sleeve empty and an eye sightless. He was relentless in action. When ordered to break off action at the Battle of Copenhagen, Nelson lifted his telescope to his blind eye in order to ignore the signal. He was a ruthless glory hound, but also a man who endured constant pain and chronic seasickness. England used his ambition to drain him.

“Perhaps Latouche-Tréville would have had the courage to take on Nelson,” Napoleon said. “He was my best ocean officer, but had the temerity to die. Now Villeneuve cowers. Two weeks’ superiority! That’s all I asked. But Villeneuve continually worries about what Nelson is going to do, rather than forcing Nelson to worry about what Villeneuve is going to do. This is a fatal error. By trying not to lose, you guarantee that you cannot win. Imagination deserts you. So now my men march toward Vienna instead of London. The gods of history shake their heads in disbelief.”

“I’m sure your admirals did their best.”

“My plan was brilliant. Villeneuve escaped Toulon when a gale drove off Nelson’s blockade. He met our Spanish allies and led Nelson merrily across the Atlantic to the sugar isles of the Caribbean. We had the ships to seize British islands and outduel the English fleet! But the coward lost his nerve. So he scampered back across the Atlantic to Europe. Even then, if Villeneuve had joined Ganteaume at Brest, we could have thrown more than sixty ships of the line into La Manche, outnumbered the English two to one, and conquered London. Eighty ships, if our Dutch allies joined us. And what did Villeneuve do? Break off the action with Calder and retreat to Spain. This is why I’m not shooting you, Gage. Your petty treacheries are nothing compared to the incompetence of my admirals.”

“It’s good to put things in perspective.”

“Villeneuve says his ships are in poor repair and his crews are tired and sick. Men are always tired and sick in war. This is why I must replace the imbecile.”

“So your fleet was bottled up in southern France at Toulon and now, after thousands of miles of sea voyages and a victory over the English, it’s bottled up in southwestern Spain? Just to make the problem clear.”

“You’re a strategist, Gage, smarter than the fool you play.”

“I try to see things clearly.” I was wary of giving advice, however. Sometimes it’s taken. Too much responsibility.

“So bring your perspective to the British. I know they’re as weary of blockading us as we’re weary of being blockaded. I suggest a truce. I’ll call off my invasion plans if they call off their blockade. My ships will stay in port. My invasion craft will rot in harbor. London will be saved. If they leave me to deal with the Continent, I’ll leave them to deal with the sea.”

I was doubtful. Once a navy assembles ships, it longs to use them. And yet, perhaps I could broker a truce. The war was ruinously expensive. Avoiding a climactic final battle would save thousands of lives, dozens of ships, and millions of pounds and francs. Napoleon was offering, in effect, to divide up the world. The English had feared the anarchy of the French Revolution, but this new emperor had ended it, making himself a new kind of king. Why not let him have his way on land if the British got the oceans and trade?

I gave an obedient smile, marveling at how fortune can turn. The night before I’d been cannonaded by two navies. Today I was envoy for an emperor. “I’ll suggest it.”

Napoleon put his hands on my shoulders, squeezing until I winced. “Convince Nelson to stand down. Balance accounts, make peace, and then go looking for this wife of yours. Serve France, and you serve yourself.”

“I’ll do my best. Say, if I can’t get more money, would a proper suit of diplomatic clothing at least be possible?”