So Near So Far (28 page)

“Because of the interference to be expected from British men-of-war?” asked the Captain.

“It would still be impossible if all the enemy ships were to stay in port.”

“You mean the weather conditions likely …”

“It couldn't be done in any conditions. The whole plan breaks down on
time!”

“But surely,” said the General, “with discipline, with staff-work, with sufficient activity?—”

“Look, General,” said the grey-haired Colonel, “we have worked on these tables for days. We have done our utmost and we have assumed that everyone else will do the same. But the time-table is still impossible. Embarking the troops, horses, and
guns cannot be done in less than eight days. That means that those embarking first will have been seasick for a week before the voyage can even begin. Having landed in England, the troops first ashore must hold out against superior numbers until the boats return to fetch the other half of the army which will take another eight days to embark. We are not being defeated by our own idleness, still less by the enemy's vigilance. We are being defeated by mere arithmetic. Look at the figures, General, and tell me that our calculations are mistaken. I shall be happy indeed if you could reach a different conclusion, proving me wrong. The figures are there, sir, however, and I cannot make them tell a different story.”

“But the time allowed for embarkation could be improved upon. You admit that yourself, Colonel,” said the Captain, “and each exercise led to a better result.”

“I know that, but it makes no difference. Suppose we have allowed five hours for the embarkation of a division under ideal conditions. By threats and promises we reduce that time to four and a half hours—more easily said than done, but allow that to be possible—we can save that thirty minutes and as long, maybe, on the following day. But what have we then achieved? What we thought would take twenty-two days can be done, after all, in twenty-one. Does that really help us? And all our timing assumes that the sea is calm and the enemy inactive! Whatever we do with the figures we are brought back to the same conclusion. The operation is impossible!”

“And I am to tell the Emperor that?” asked the General with a hopeless gesture.

“He knows it already,” replied the Colonel. “After all his campaigns he knows better than anyone what can be done in a given time.”

”So the camps must be abandoned and the troops sent elsewhere?” asked the Captain.

“Not immediately,” said the General. “The Emperor will want to keep the British Army pinned down on the shores opposite us. The withdrawal will be gradual and it will be October before our threat is ended for the year. The British cannot be made to expect an invasion after 1st October.”

“The weather could be suitable in October,” said the Captain. “It sometimes is.”

“Obviously,” replied the Colonel, “but then the days are too short. All our calculations depend upon the available hours of daylight. We can't embark artillery by candlelight—we should be fools even to attempt it. No, our threat ends on 1st October. We can renew it, of course, next year. I suspect, however, that the Emperor has other plans. He will explain afterwards that this invasion scheme was only a feint.”

“Perhaps it was,” groaned the Major.

“It could have been,” said the Colonel. “But it seems a bit elaborate. A credible threat could have been posed with fewer diversions and less effort. I don't suppose that we shall ever know the truth. Do you know, General, I seldom read history. After my years on the staff I know that the truth will never be told about anything, and if it were told, nobody would believe it.”

“Well, then,” concluded the General, “I shall advise the Emperor that the invasion plan should be cancelled. I shall be lucky if he does not have me shot for disloyalty.”

“Oh, no sir,” said the Major. “I have been counting on his humanity. He will do no more, surely, than reduce me to the ranks!”

D
ELANCEY brought the captured gunboat ashore at a point below the windmill at Zuphen. With batteries a half-mile in either direction he was fortunate to avoid notice but the landing was timed to coincide with the sloop
Cynthia's
ineffective but noisy bombardment of Ambleteuse. All French eyes must have been turned northwards as the cannon could be heard rumbling in the distance, and as flashes lit the horizon in that direction. Who would notice the sound of a gunboat being dragged on shore over the shingle? Covered by this diversion, Delancey left Topley to hold the beach, placing sentries to cover the flanks and the gunboat itself.

“I shall try to reach a place called Raventhus,” Delancey explained, “and then push on a mile or so further to a place called Basinghen. I shall return here when my mission has been accomplished.”

“When am I to expect you, sir?” asked Topley.

“In about four hours, with luck. If I fail to return before daybreak, you must assume that I am dead or have been taken prisoner. Put to sea in that event and report back to the squadron anchorage. I shall have with me Northmore and Higgs, all of us in French artillery uniform, as you see, and our mission is secret, not to be revealed even to you. Remember to hoist the tricolour at daybreak and remember to keep silent in the meanwhile.”

The guns were still rumbling as Delancey marched inland, following the paths which would lead to Raventhus, passing near Zuphen on the way. All was quiet, the countryside seemingly deserted, and it was a warm summer night, suitable for a country walk. For a seaman coming ashore there was also the pleasure of smell, the scent of wildflowers merging with the scent of trodden hay. If Delancey and his men were nervous at first, knowing that they were on enemy soil, they soon gained confidence, feeling that they were the only people awake. Raventhus they never saw because Delancey made his way confidently to a cottage which stood in an isolated position on the western side of the hamlet. So clear was the description given him that Delancey boldly knocked at the door and knocked as loudly again. There was a long pause as Henri Jacquemard woke, lit a candle and came down from the loft where he and his wife, Marie, slept. When he opened the door it was held merely ajar while he asked who it was. When Delancey gave the password the door opened fully to reveal the cobbler himself in his nightgown, holding the poker. Henri, as Delancey knew, was a Catholic and Royalist, opposed to the Revolution on principle, almost as hostile towards Napoleon and for many years in the pay of Mr Xenophon. When Delancey, Northmore, and Riggs had entered, the door was secured again and Henri was joined by his wife and daughter. Madame Jacquemard was a homely woman, devoted to her husband but plainly terrified at the risks he was running. Henriette, the daughter, was a lovely nineteen-year-old brunette with fair complexion and dark eyes, who attracted the immediate and unconcealed devotion of Mr Midshipman Northmore. After Jacquemard and his family had put on some clothes, bringing in some more candles, Delancey could see that his host was evidently more
prosperous than the average peasant and that his cottage was correspondingly well furnished. The kitchen fire was coaxed into a blaze, some wine was produced, and they all sat round the fireplace while Jacquemard explained the military situation as it appeared to him.

“Yes, Captain,” Jacquemard was explaining in French, “the soldiers that were here have gone, the last of them six days ago. The infantry were camped in the meadows along the River Selaque, with a brigade headquarters at Parte. The cavalry were in camp around Lohen and there was an artillery regiment north of here on the higher ground, perhaps two miles inland. They all took the main road through Basinghen but told nobody where they were going. Come to think of it, I doubt whether many of them knew—none, maybe, under the rank of colonel. They could have marched ten miles or forty by now and we none the wiser.”

Delancey had still to ascertain whether the soldiers had gone for good. Jacquemard answered all questions readily and was at least able to identify the units that had been there. The infantry, he said, had included a famous regiment, the Legion of Elite Gendarmes, the soldiers of which had behaved very well. They had worn a blue uniform with red lapels and cuffs, red epaulettes, yellow breeches, bearskin caps, and leather gaiters. Several of them had come to the cottage with boots for repair and had talked quite freely over a cup of cider. They repeated rumours that the invasion plan had been cancelled but did not pretend to know anything for certain. Few of them had been enthusiastic about the invasion scheme and some of them (the bad sailors) were frankly appalled at the prospect. Jacquemard felt that the final departure of this particular regiment would be proof sufficient that the invasion was now no
more than a feint; it was not a unit that any French Marshal would willingly leave behind. It was an elite corps, Jacquemard explained, but formed quite recently. It must be a prime object to ensure that the Gendarmes should have at least one battle honour. They could not, surely, be left out of the coming invasion. This was, surely, a logical conclusion.

While this conversation continued Delancey was observing the daughter, Henriette, who had coloured a little when her father mentioned the soldiers of the Elite Gendarme Regiment. Looking away from her again, he told Jacquemard that he would now go on to Basinghen where Mr Xenophon had another agent called Lebrun. He might learn there what route the column had followed. Further than that he dared not go for he had to be ready to re-embark before daylight. On mention of Lebrun's name Jacquemard became rather reserved, saying vaguely that he knew Lebrun as a very respectable young man. Henriette coloured afresh at this point, looking uncomfortably at the floor, subdued by her mother's glance of disapproval. Guessing what the story had been, Delancey announced that he must be going. As he got to his feet he heard voices outside followed by a loud knock at the door. Drawing a pistol, he opened the door to find Higgs covering another man with his musket, the butt of which had done the knocking. The stranger, who had put his hands up, was impossible to identify in the darkness but there was something familiar about the voice. He explained that he was a friend of Henri Jacquemard. In answer to a question, he said that he was alone.

“Come in,” said Delancey, making him enter, covered now by the pistol, while Higgs remained at his post.

Once inside the stranger was recognised at once by Jacquemard, who assured Delancey that this was a friend. A minute
later the newcomer to the scene removed his hat, threw back his cloak, and stood revealed as Mr Xenophon. Delancey's first reaction was one of irritation. He had been sent on a mission and it looked now as if he was being superseded. Mr Xenophon's intervention had been no part of the plan.

“This is unexpected,” said Delancey rather coldly.

“My apologies,” replied Mr Xenophon, who then greeted Jacquemard in friendly fashion, bowing to the two women, and then turning again towards Delancey.

“I had to warn you, Captain. Pierre Lebrun, the agent you were to have met at Basinghen, is ready to betray us. Go nowhere near that place. We are in great danger even here.”

“How serious is this expected betrayal?” asked Delancey. “Has this man been against us for long? Has he much information to sell?”

“He knows very little,” replied Mr Xenophon, “and I do not think that he was disloyal to us until now. I suspect that he had some personal grievance against my friend Jacquemard.” The secret agent made reference to Henri but glanced towards Henriette, who looked more downcast than ever.

“Well, what am I to do?” asked Delancey. “Go further inland but avoiding Basinghen?”

“No,” answered Mr Xenophon, shaking his head. “That is far too dangerous. As I said, we are not even safe where we are.”

“And you came alone?” asked Delancey.

“No, I have two men with me but I left them out of sight when I approached this cottage.”

“I suggest that you call them in and add to our strength.”

“Agreed.” Mr Xenophon went outside and whistled. Looking over his shoulder Delancey glimpsed two dark and silent
figures, who vanished left and right after being given some brief instruction. When Mr Xenophon came back into the kitchen he spoke in English.

“Our friends here, whose guests we are, have no knowledge of English. I shall tell you now what we must do. Do not look in the direction of our host's daughter. To discover what we want to know there is no need to go further inland. The secret is here in the cottage. We shall discover it by interrogating the girl. She has a lover in the regiment that was here. I must assume that she knows where that regiment has gone.”

“Are you sure of that, Mr Xenophon?”

“Can we be sure of anything? But consider the situation. She is a beautiful girl, just of an age for romance and perfectly innocent, much admired by our friend Lebrun, to whom she may even have been betrothed. Along comes a crack regiment, comprising splendid young men who are starved of affection and who all fall in love with her. She chooses the handsomest of them—I should guess a sergeant aged about twenty-one. The romance is actually encouraged by her father, much to the fury of Lebrun, who decides on revenge. The regiment marches away, the young sergeant swearing that he will soon return and marry her.”

“And will he do that?” asked Delancey.

“I doubt if he will return at all. In the meanwhile, he will have written to her—that is as certain as anything can be—and I want to see the letter. The interrogation I leave to you. While it goes on I shall quietly leave the room, go to the loft, and search the place where she sleeps, returning after I have read the letter.”

“But how do you know that she can read?”

“Her father can and he should have taught her.”

”I expect you are right. Very well, then. Leave the interrogation to me.”