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  They were joined by bellows from both topmasts, and another roar from the watchmen at the bow and stern. Armstrong burst from his scuttle in his nightshirt, followed instantly by Eliza in her gown. Within moments every hand was on the deck.

  Monsieur Ledru was not sheepish as he was conducted down below at pistol point. His sullen, bitter mood was back. With vengeance.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eleven Navy ships on close patrol sounded like a mighty force to people like Ledru, but to the seamen, given the conditions and the length of the indented coast, they held few fears. On a clear day, from the mountain peaks, a tall ship might be seen from twenty miles away or more. An unlighted vessel, on a moonless night, could be invisible, with luck. And this whole venture was a venture based on luck.

  Both of Tom Johnson’s submarines, as well as sails and engines, had oarlocks for long sweeps. When they were close enough to the coast to fear detection, they hove to long enough to unship masts and ship their oars. Fires for raising steam for the escape were kept well damped, to be flashed up at a moment’s notice.

  Armstrong in the Tamarind could not go in so far, and Cochrane had to hang off even further. At the point of danger, both captains hove their vessels to, and continued to the shore in boats. The Sea Wolf’s men were no longer dressed in uniform, while Armstrong’s might have been mistaken for buccaneers.

  When dangerously close to the rocks, Johnson and Arthur Preece manned the Etna and left the Eagle to other trusted men. When Armstrong and Lord Cochrane joined them on the beach with a team of hand-picked sailors, the ships’ boats hovered fifty yards offshore.

  Ledru, at Eliza’s insistence, was in an offshore boat, but under guard. He could not, she said, remain on Tamarind with Lucy Balcombe. The girl, indeed, was confined to her bunk with her baby, and Eliza had confided to her husband that she feared she was unhinged.

  ‘She needs a doctor, husband. Her love for Napoleon, her fear that Ledru’s stories might be true, her fear that he will rape her, have turned her brain. I am afraid she will run mad. Whatever else, Ledru must not approach her, ever.’

  Ledru, naturally, had no intention for his own part of staying on the brig. He found the guard oppressive, and deeply insulting, which he had told Samson Armstrong in no uncertain terms. But he left the Tamarind also under the closest of confinement. Armstrong had all cards in his hand.

  In the rocky little bay where they had landed, the leaders of the expedition laid down their final moves. Johnson had detailed maps and plans, and — “for the last time gentlemen, most positively” — told them exactly what must happen.

  ‘This spot that I have chosen has no name, and in any other circumstance only a fool would land a boat here. Arthur Preece will keep the Etna safe from crashing on the rocks as no other seamen could, and my spies have mapped a route for me. I have to climb a thousand feet or more, carrying a hammer and a spike, a tackle and light line. I had meant to do it on my own, but now I see the terrain makes it impossible. I need a man to come up with me, and I need a volunteer.’

  He raised a hand to silence them.

  ‘Before you jump, I can’t pretend that you are guaranteed to live. I don’t know if the contacts I have had with Longwood House are still secure, or if they are waiting at the top up there to cut my throat or toss me over like a doll. Arthur would come, I know it. But he has a wife at home, a new wife, and he has still yet to taste her fruits. Gentleman, that is a jest. I need Arthur on the Etna where I hope he’ll save us all. I need another volunteer then, quickly.’

  Before anyone stepped forward, there was a loud splash beside one of the boats offshore. A voice was raised, then violently hushed. Then the watchers saw the aftermath. A man was swimming, fast and elegant, forging a bow wave with his head. He was heading beyond the headland of their cove, so that they could not reach him without swimming themselves or clambering over steep and dangerous rock. Although he could not see him, Armstrong knew it was Ledru, the spy and murderer. The traitor in their midst.

  ‘I’ll come,’ he said. ‘Mr Johnson, I fear we have but little time. Gentlemen, I think you’re safe from attacks from seaward, because the other landing places are at James Town and Lemon Valley, and Rupert’s Bay and Sandy Bay. They’re well protected, they even have furnaces to heat up shot red hot, but they are no threat to us. The way to here by land is also fearsome difficult, but if we’re spotted they can roll down rocks on us. As Tom Johnson says, speed is of the essence. I wish you all luck, as I’m sure you all wish us.’

  ‘What about the swimming Frenchman?’ someone asked. ‘What if he gets up there first? Shall we try to run him down?’

  ‘Anyone who thinks he has the legs is more than welcome,’ Samson said. ‘But what we really need is men down here to receive us. Even if only Napoleon himself makes it to the bottom, he must be got to the Etna, then to the Eagle. At worst, get him to the Tamarind or Lord Cochrane’s ship.’

  Lord Cochrane walked across to both of them. He shook them warmly by the hand, first Johnson and then Samson Armstrong.

  ‘By Christ,’ he said, ‘it’s good to be alive with men like you! For my part, I will take my smartest men, who I guarantee swarm mountains in Peru like monkeys! We may not run the Frenchie cut-throat down, but if there’s fighting at the top we’ll get amongst them! They don’t call me Sea Wolf just because I’m fond of sheep!’

  Embraces were exchanged, but Tom Johnson was already at the climb. Despite his age — considerably older than most adventurers, much older than the captain of the Tamarind — he went at it like a mountain goat, treating his burdens like so much chaff. Samson, with his share, hardly dared to pant in such a company.

  From time to time, when they had to join together to surmount a certain obstacle, the two men talked. Johnson admitted that however clear the plan was in his head, the details might change, the promises he thought he had received from men on the island might be false, or fail, or lead him to a sudden death.

  ‘I am due to meet a man called Cipriani at a certain date, a certain time, a certain phase of the new moon. The date and time is now, the rest is to the gods. The man, if he is there, will go back to Longwood and explain to his Imperial Majesty that the time is ripe. Who will then be provided with the livery of a groom and told that I await. Cipriani will convey him through the household secretly. We will then come back to you, who by which time will have driven in the spike and dropped the tackle and the falls down to the beach.’

  Armstrong knew the rest. At the bottom of the cliff, the sailors would hitch on Johnson’s bosun’s chair to the tackle, and haul it up to him. Napoleon would be strapped into the seat, Tom Johnson would stand behind him on the foot-ledge, and the men below would lower them away.

  ‘Yours is perhaps the most dangerous part,’ the Irishman told him. ‘There is only room for two on my special throne — and you ain’t one of them!’ He chuckled. ‘Us Irish ain’t so green as cabbage looking, Mr Honey!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ledru, streaming water and with only his long knife as protector, scrambled up the sheer rocks faster than seemed possible. He knew the route, he had climbed it many times as a reconnaissance. He could be at Longwood before the raiders even reached the top, he thought, to mobilise a guard in case of any treachery. Cipriani would be waiting, one man in the world he trusted as himself. Between them, whatever opposition, they would get the Emperor to safety.

  ‘They think they have it all in hand,’ he told himself. His heart was flooded with a sense of triumph. Napoleon would rule the world again, from North America!

  But the man he met as he breasted the highest rocks was not Cipriani, but another fearsome bodyguard, Louis Marchand. They met, and briefly they embraced. But a knot of fear had formed in Ledru’s gut.

  ‘Cipriani? Louis, mon brave, où est Jean-Baptiste?’

  ‘Dead,’ said Marchand. ‘Poisoned. The Irish surgeon says it was an illness, but his patients have been dying off like flies. Cipriani. Madame de Montholon’s
little daughter. Others in the town.’

  ‘And is it treachery? What does it mean? Their ships are waiting to take away Napoleon. Are we to risk it then?’

  Below them down the cliff they could hear men scrabbling, the chink of metal, laboured breaths. And out of the darkness appeared another man, and Ledru gave a gasp of shock.

  ‘Mon Empereur! Mon Dieu! Lord Bonaparte!’

  ‘Cochon,’ the new man grunted. ‘C’est moi, Robeaud — you’ve been away too long, Ledru. There’s been some changing of the plan, also. Napoleon awaits la-bas, because he will not dress as a groom or footman, he says that we can rot in hell for that. He is the Emperor, and as such he will behave.’

  As the Frenchmen turned to bring Napoleon, Armstrong and Johnson pulled themselves onto the flat. Robeaud spoke to Tom in rapid French, then disappeared behind the others. Johnson seemed not a whit upset.

  ‘Come on, Samson,’ he said. ‘Get out the hammer and the spike and let’s begin. The French love chaos, it makes them feel secure. They can have chaos all the way. At end of all, we will have our objective.’

  At that moment, a new party of ruffians appeared. To Armstrong’s astonishment he recognised the pistol in the leader’s hand. It was double-barrelled, cocked, and deadly dangerous.

  ‘As I live and breathe,’ he said, ‘Admiral Cockburn, what a surprise. To what do we owe the signal honour, sir? Have you come to help or kill us?’

  ‘That, young man, is in your own hands. We are out to seize Napoleon, and take him down. I represent the English Crown. If you are traitors, you have everything to fear.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  To Samson Armstrong, the next few minutes were a vision of the utmost hell. It was a pitch black night, on every side there were the steepest, sheerest drops. As Johnson hammered in his spike, attached his pulley block and hurled his coil of light whale-line to whoever was on watch below, men emerged out of the darkness from every which direction.

  Some knew each other, some did not, some were French, Peruvian, English, some from God knew where. There was a cacophony of shouting, shoves and pushes surged in each direction, and two short men with surly faces and unruly hair appeared and disappeared like wraiths in the seething black. Two of them.

  And suddenly, like some imp escaped from Hades, Tom Johnson pushed Samson briskly in the lower back, muttered ‘that’s our man, now grab him!’ — and joined him in a double clutch that pulled Napoleon from the hands of all who sought to keep him, twirled him round, and dropped him neatly into his bosun’s chair. Then Johnson, with a cry of ‘keep them off me, Samson!’ jumped onto the chair-back, kicked off from the rocks, and disappeared.

  Armstrong was turned to stone. He did not believe it, he could not take it in. But the men around him, as the word spread through them what had happened, went bedlam mad. He saw the blade of Ledru slide across another’s throat, he saw black blood go throbbing through the air. Other blades, and other throats, and now the crash and flash of pistols.

  There was screaming, also. The screams were terrible. And all the while he saw the line go running through the block and knew the chair with its rich cargo was plunging to the beach. He wondered how he would ever make it down to the sea himself.

  The fighting was fierce, and there was hunting through the meagre undergrowth. Armstrong did not recognize many of the men, but now and then he thought he knew a face. One was Napoleon, although it could not be, and he saw him chased across a barren patch of rock by two men who ran like terriers.

  And then he saw Louis Marchand, huge and impressive as a Roman champion, chasing a man who chased the Emperor, catching his head in one huge hand, twisting his neck and breaking it with a crunch that rose above the normal din. At which another group burst forth from the ruck, swarthy men from South America whom he thought were led by Cockburn. They fell on Marchand, who fought them like a baited bear. More and more men piled onto him, and as they bore him under, his cries were sickening.

  But more Frenchmen joined the fray. The fighting spread across the clearing, coming very close to Samson’s hiding spot. Cockburn appeared on one side with his pistol — empty now, but wielded like a club — and on the farther side, Napoleon again.

  With a roar, Cockburn directed men to seize the Emperor, and another swarm of Frenchmen clashed with them. Samson could not see the end too clearly, but he heard it come. A small man and a large were barged and banged towards the cliff edge, there were screams, there was a pistol shot or two. And suddenly, a dark form was flying through the air, bounced and shoved from man to man and rock to rock until it reached the outer rim.

  And then a long drawn, shaking scream. He had the feeling time had stopped, but only for the shortest, frozen instant. He saw the man fly across the edge, then plummet out of sight. He heard the utter silence fall.

  Then from below, as if a part of it, a piercing cry rose up.

  ‘We have him, Captain Armstrong! The Emperor is here! Keep them away five minutes more, and the race is won!’

  From the massed ranks in the darkness, a cacophony of voices.

  ‘I have him here!’ a Frenchman shouted. ‘Napoleon is here! To pretenders, there comes only death!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ledru knew everything, apparently, but Ledru was the only one. At the bottom of the sheer cliff face, the short man was carefully released from the bosun’s chair, while Tom Johnson, who had come down on the back in stockinged feet to better keep control, conferred with Arthur Preece and helped him hustle their prize across the rocks, and then the half-seas deck of little Etna.

  With screams and shouting echoing round the cliff, with cries and crashes as rocks of many sizes clattered down, the man was placed inside the submarine, his arms still pinioned, and fires were undamped to give full steam. It was like clockwork. Before the beach was a quarter full of fighting, brawling figures in the darkness, the little sub had chugged and wheezed away. As Samson Armstrong reached the beach, he saw the Etna join up with the Eagle, and he watched the Eagle head towards his own ship, lying peaceful in the offing.

  Armstrong was determined he should not be caught up in the crush or in the mayhem. His boat’s crew, still ashamed perhaps they’d let the French spy swim ashore, saw him the moment he appeared, and pulled like heroes to pick him up. Wordless, he pointed to the Tamarind, and wordlessly they laid onto the oars. Eliza was waiting for him, and he nearly flew.

  Within five minutes more, there were more boats pushing outwards from the cove, and more boats’ crews were being lashed by tongue and rope’s end. No French boats yet, because the alarm onshore had not been fully raised. Even Sir Hudson Lowe’s great telegraph had faults, and this had been a cutting-out par excellence.

  But Cochrane’s boats were in the hunt, and so were Admiral Cockburn’s. Their rivalry, for whatever reason, was red hot. Cochrane wanted the Corsican to build an empire for O’Higgins, while Cockburn, it seemed, had played a game of double bluff and double cross. His aim had been to prevent any further glory accruing to Napoleon — and if this meant killing him, then death was more than welcome.

  Armstrong’s great advantage was that nobody knew exactly what had happened. Only he and Johnson and the strange, fey Arthur Preece could say for certain that a man from up the mountain had been slipped on board of one weird ship, then tucked on board the other. They had sailed in total darkness, only a foot or two above the surface of the South Atlantic. No one had seen, nobody knew, that he had been removed from both the submarines, and lay now in the warm saloon of Armstrong’s Tamarind.

  On St Helena, when the great ocean next morning appeared as wild and empty as it always was, when all eleven ships of the coast patrol had failed to get a sight or sniff of plotters — not submarine, nor brig, nor Cockburn’s schooner, or the Sea Wolf’s seventy-four — it was left to Lowe and Montholon to make the best of it they could. Which was only to agree that no one should ever know the truth, if indeed the truth were ever to be known.

  Down in the cabin of
the Tamarind, Lucy Balcombe, happy again as she’d thought that she would never be, lay nestled in the arms of her lost lover, and muttered French endearments in his ear. When he’d arrived back on the brig she’d rushed at him, and smothered him with kisses. No doubt now of his wild and pure love. She believes. She’s happy. Quite possibly she is mad.

  In a crib, the baby sleeps oblivious. And in their own warm nest, Armstrong tells Eliza of his secret doubts. Is it Napoleon they have put into the warm and waiting bed of lovely Lucy? Or another man, both lucky and discreet? He had heard the rumours. He has seen two short and brooding men up on the cliffs, and maybe seen one fall. He has always always doubted Lucy’s — Betsy’s? — truth.

  Somewhere in the world Ledru’s awake. And Ledru knows…

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