The Barbed Crown

Chapter 28





At first I had no chance. The fleet hoisted its yardarms and unfurled topsails, laboriously hauled anchor, and worked its way out of Cadiz harbor, the ship’s boats swinging sluggish bows and preventing warships from accidentally drifting down on each other. The ships crawled past the fort at Puntal to the outer Gulf of Cadiz and looked ready to break into the Atlantic. But before they could do so the wind shifted as the Spanish had predicted, and the ships were forced to reanchor, this time in uncomfortable swells. For the next ten days a gale howled from the west, exactly where the Combined Fleet needed to go. Was this a reprieve?

A British frigate tantalizingly patrolled a few miles offshore to report our movements, but my pleas for a return, or a return to land, were ignored. Day after day crawled by with me still a thousand miles from my family. Beyond on the horizon was a second English frigate to relay any signals the first might make, and then presumably a third and fourth and so on out to wherever Nelson’s fleet was patrolling. Should Villeneuve ever break free, the English commander would know within two hours.

So we rocked uneasily at anchor, neither in harbor where we could resupply or at sea where we could fight. The dice of fortune finally came to rest for me as the gale began to die, Villeneuve got a shock, and I got a worse one. I was kicked awake at dawn.

“The wind is shifting,” said a French ensign of fourteen who unlocked my irons, hoisted me to my feet, and pushed me toward the admiral’s great cabin. “Soon we’ll be too far to sea for you to swim.”

“Can I stroll the deck?” I still might make a last-minute dive for shore.

“You’re unchained only to see Admiral Villeneuve. He’s had a letter.”

“Orders from Paris?”

“Details are not shared with ensigns, monsieur.”

“Might I tidy up first?”

“No need, if we’re hanging you.” So he pushed me again, and I was marched to the ship’s great cabin, stiff, grimy, and apprehensive. French marines ushered me inside. The admiral was seated at a writing table looking pensively at correspondence marked with the broken red seals of official communication. He surprised me by looking at me not as a prisoner, but as if we were comrades.

“Mail has come for both of us, Monsieur Gage.”

“A reprieve?” Might as well sound optimistic. Napoleon might free or condemn me, Nelson might bargain me loose, or I could get more bad news from the barristers I’d consulted in London.

“I’m afraid it’s about your wife. Given the demands of war I was obliged to read your correspondence before sharing it with you. The letter comes from a woman whom I assume is a friend of yours, but the news is not good.” Grimly, he handed it over.

“Dearest Ethan,” the missive began. It was on fine paper, the calligraphy elegant, and it smelled of perfume. For a moment my heart hammered, eager that it be from Astiza, but then I recognized the hand of Catherine Marceau. “It was a pity that things turned out so awkwardly at the coronation, and a tragedy that you were separated from your family. None of that was intended; we still had use for you. But you and your wife panicked. In the long months since our parting”—a nice euphemism for knocking her over an altar—“I’d often wondered what became of you. The return of the policeman Pasques confirmed that you lived and were in custody, likely to be condemned. Then Talleyrand informed me that you’d once more been pressed into our own diplomatic service. How able is Bonaparte, to find a use for even the most miserably confused of his empire’s minions!”

I wish people could be more flattering in their assessments.

“I understand you’re once more pressed into being a go-between and will shuttle between the French and British sides. Accordingly, I’m putting this letter in the care of Admiral Pierre Villeneuve on the chance you find yourself in his company. My purpose is to suggest that your real service is returning to me.”

The cheek! But of course she missed me, too, the heart-sore girl. I read on, annoyed but curious.

“I know we have a troubled history. But we always got on well when your wife didn’t insert herself, and you do exhibit a certain pluckish charm. The grand chamberlain confides he entrusted you with a mission to discover a medieval artifact in kingdoms to the east.” Here it was again, the legendary Brazen Head. “Talleyrand suggests, and I concur, that at this juncture we should combine our talents for such a quest. You may have learned something from Astiza’s research you’ve not yet confided, and you must admit that I’ve demonstrated resourcefulness of my own. I stay several steps ahead of you.”

She was as bad at modesty as I am.

“The grand chamberlain’s offer of monetary reward still stands, and even Pasques is curious about continuing what he calls a treasure hunt. I’m not sure what you told the poor man. In any event, should we not forge a new partnership that saves your life, and perhaps consummate it in ways implied by your clumsy attempts to seduce me?”

She also had a tendency to rewrite history.

“I suppose you still have loyalty to your little family, a sentiment I find droll but dear. Unfortunately, hope is shrinking that you will ever be reunited. Word has come that Astiza’s indiscretions have led to her imprisonment for witchcraft in a fortress somewhere in Bohemia. Presumably little Harry has been imprisoned with her, if he is alive at all. Your wife has a sharp tongue, and I think it will be impossible for her to defeat prosecution. Unless you seek my help I’m afraid she’s lost, likely to be burned as a sorceress.

Burned at the stake for witchcraft? What century were we living in?

“The burghers of central Europe are more backward in their superstitions than we people of enlightenment. Astiza sealed her fate when she fled from our care. It’s too late . . . unless, dear Ethan, you return to Paris to join me. Yes, we would have you back as prodigal son! You’ve exhibited cleverness in searching out old secrets, and it’s possible you can still be of service to the emperor and France. But only, dear Ethan, if you are also of service to me. So I’m writing to offer you opportunity. Come to Paris and surrender to my command, and perhaps we can learn something of your foolish wife together. It’s her only chance. It’s your only chance. I’ve enclosed a pass and documents with Vice Admiral Rosily to require you to do just that, under close arrest and armed guard. I’m so anxious to see you! After reunion, we can find or, more likely, avenge your family. Yours in affection and continued conspiracy, the Comtesse Marceau.”

The woman was clearly balmier than Emma Hamilton. Surrender to her command? Still pretending she was a comtesse? Returned under armed guard? I’d be tortured for information I didn’t have, and then disposed of.

The bigger question was whether she was telling the truth about my wife. Catherine had made a fool of me already, and I trusted nothing she said. But she gave my mission new urgency. It was even more imperative that I find and rescue Astiza and Harry on my own. Yet I was trapped in an anchored fleet. I looked wildly about, as if I might find an answer in the admiral’s great cabin.

“It’s distressing news, I know,” Villeneuve said. “This woman Marceau, she’s your lover?”

“Certainly not.”

“A political ally then?”

“An enemy. She wants me at her mercy in Paris.”

“Ah,” he said, as if such machinations occur all the time. Which they do. “My news is just as catastrophic. Word has come that Vice Admiral François de Rosily-Mesros has arrived in Madrid from France. Do you know what that means?”

“He has been sent to make peace?” I’m always hoping.

“Hardly. There’s no reason for a rival French officer to be in the middle of Spain unless he was en route to Cadiz, and no reason for Rosily, a senior and elderly admiral, to come all the way to Cadiz unless he has been ordered by Napoleon to replace the vacillating, hapless, Admiral Villeneuve—me.” His tone was ironic. “The new commander is delayed in the Spanish capital by a broken carriage and the need to assemble an escort against the bandits of western Spain, but still, he was only four hundred miles away when this letter of warning was sent to me. Even now he may be approaching. Which means Villeneuve’s career is over.”

The admiral was referring to himself in the third person, as if already obsolete. Not encouraging. “My commiserations.”

“Unless,” Villeneuve said grandly, “Villeneuve sails and proves his courage.”

Suddenly, I saw why the admiral thought our letters needed to be shared. We were both men in a hurry, he to salvage his reputation, me to save my wife if she could still be rescued. Honor and glory motivate the military world, and a man’s rank is fixed not just by the braid on his shoulders but courage to the point of rashness. Villeneuve faced a grim choice. He could take an unready fleet out to battle and risk the lives of tens of thousands of soldiers and sailors. Or he could meekly wait to be dismissed, disgracing a thousand years of family history.

“If you remain at anchor you’ll be replaced within days,” I summed up.

“Exactly. And you’ll be transferred in irons to Paris. But if we’re at sea, the Combined Fleet is still mine, and my future is still mine. So I put it to you, Ethan Gage. Should I put you under guard for escort to this schemer of a woman? Should I wait for Rosily to take my command? Or should we both sally against Nelson and trust to God that either victory or defeat will hurry us to our goals?”

“Death or capture?”

“Be optimistic, monsieur. Victory, and a prize to sail to Venice. A long shot, yes, but when the table is almost empty, does not the gambler stake all?”

I’d no choice, nor was I being given one. I dared not put myself under the mercy of Catherine. The way to Astiza was gunfire and glory.

I stood straighter than I felt. “Agreed.” Maybe I could swim to the British when our ship went down. “I’ll bet on you over return to Paris.”

Villeneuve seemed relieved by having his hand forced, as if a weight had been lifted. “Don’t be too pessimistic, Monsieur Gage. We’ve more ships than the enemy, I hope, and the winds of war can blow both ways. La fortune des armes, n’est-ce pas? Nelson will make clever plans, but who knows which fleet will hold the weather gauge, be closest to Gibraltar, or throw the initial broadsides? A first punch can be decisive.”

“I just make poor cannon fodder. I think too much.”

“Yes, I’ve considered your utility. You can read, and swim, and thus are unlike most of your shipmates. I suspect you truly meant well by coming here, and I don’t intend to keep you locked in irons as a condemned man while battle rages. I want you to fight with us with intelligence, courage, and free will.”

I liked the sound of that plan, given the alternative. This Villeneuve was not a bad sort, I sensed, just the wrong man at the wrong time. “What do you propose?”

He smiled wryly. “First, to lie down on the deck when the enemy broadside comes. We officers are required to stand tall to inspire our crews, but I allow the ordinary sailors to lie low to avoid the enemy cannonballs. If I were you, I’d kiss the planking in hopes of avoiding the worst of the flying splinters.”

“Thank you, but not entirely reassuring.”

“On the other hand, I’m reminded of your rather remarkable rifle. Such a gift from the emperor shows your talent as well as his favor. Consider being a sharpshooter for us in the rigging.”

“That sounds most dangerous of all.”

“Not entirely. Our navies employ different tactics. The British who are skilled at gunnery go for the guts of a ship, shooting hull against hull.”

“I saw that skill at the Battle of the Nile.”

“The French and Spanish have a different philosophy, necessitated by our rustier skills. The masts and sails are a target three times as high and almost twice as broad as the hull. So, with a less experienced navy, we shoot at the English rigging. There are three reasons to do so. First, it gives us a bigger target. Second, if we can bring down enemy masts, the English will wallow helplessly and give us time, with clumsier crews, to work around to stern or bow and rake them with impunity. Third, helplessness can simply encourage an enemy to surrender, so we capture an undamaged hull we can sell for more prize money, or press into our own fleet. There are two Swiftsures, one on the British side and the second our own, captured from the English.”

“Yes, that Swiftsure was with Nelson at the Nile. Now it is deployed against him.”

“So here’s my thinking, given your reputation as a marksman. The English will be shooting at our hulls while we are shooting at their sails. I wouldn’t want to be a topman on an English ship with all that French and Spanish iron whistling about my ears. But on a French ship, going aloft may be the safest place.”

I considered this charity, my mind followed the shrouds and ratlines of the rigging to the spars far, far above. There were platforms like little tree houses up there, but I don’t like heights any more than I like caves or catacombs. “So long as the mast stays standing.”

He shrugged. “Fortunes of war, again. But here’s my suggestion. I think a man of your talents is best employed by Captain Lucas of the Redoutable, which is a fine two-decker ship of seventy-four guns. It may escape the center of battle, while the Bucentaure will certainly be in the maelstrom.”

“You’d give me a better chance? I’m not used to kindness, Admiral.”

He shrugged. “The plight of your wife moves me. This letter makes me sympathize with your position; it’s terrible being at the mercy of a wicked woman. It’s too dangerous simply to put you ashore, where you’d be hanged as a deserter or put in irons for Paris, and too risky to allow you to carry observations back to the British. But Lucas could use you. More than any other officer he’s prepared to accommodate our weakness by attacking with boarders. He’s just four feet and nine inches tall, and jokes that low profile is useful for keeping his head attached to his shoulders as cannonballs come whizzing by. But his size makes him aggressive and innovative. He’s trained his crew in musketry and hurling grenades from the mast tops to sweep clear the enemy top deck. You could watch the battle from up high, escape the need to join his boarders, and climb back down when it’s all over. It’s the safest place I can think of. You may survive to seek your family.”

“You are a better man than your reputation, Admiral.”

“I’ve heard that Nelson is kind, too, constantly looking after the welfare of individual seamen. This is simple leadership. Kindness can infuse morale.”

I felt faint hope. I’d no intention of shooting at the English, but I could fiddle aloft while the fleets burned. This Lucas, no bigger than a boy, might be just the kind of captain to stay on the edge of battle. When it was all over, I’d go to the winning side—almost certainly, Nelson’s—and demand to be sent on my way.

It’s splendid how things work out, Sidney Smith had said.

Better to have remembered Franklin: Wise men don’t need advice, fools don’t take it.

“Thank you, Admiral. I agree, sailing is the best chance for both of us now.” Nelson wanted glory, Villeneuve to avoid humiliation, and I a way out of my oaken prison and a million miles from Catherine Marceau.

So battles become inevitable.

“If Captain Lucas has his way, you’ll win a great prize and have money to hunt for this wife of yours.” He shook my hand. “If she is not already roasted.”