Chapter Nine: The Marquess of Wellington

Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington had his eyes closed. A rare, and warm ray of sun had found its way through the thin clouds scudding across the summer sky and into his new offices over-looking the Thames. He savoured the sensation of the golden light illuminating his eye-lids from without, and leant forward into the glow, so that he had his head pressed up against the imperfect glass. Down below, among the barges and dock workers, he could hear them, the unmistakable broken, and heavily accented orders, being barked by self important officers and the laughter of sailors as they worked. He was loathe to open his eyes. To open them would reveal the hullabaloo of the French soldiers as they continued in their transport of goods from the Empire to London's doorstep.

London was being rapidly transformed by his defeat, not only by the obvious change of Government and the exile of the King, but in the architecture, the fashion, and the whole damned feel of the place! This was no longer his Britain, this generation was quickly turning the other cheek, putting the conflict behind them, and the people of Britain, young and old didn't seem to mind very much that they had fallen under the Tyrant. Why, some outwardly welcomed it! To them Britain was no longer the Island removed from the great goings on in the Continent, but a far greater thing, a Province, part and parcel of Glorious France, and the greatest Empire since the time of Rome.

He grimaced and massaged his temples against the confusion below, and then snorted with irritation at this humiliating pretence of keeping him in the public eye. Napoleon had no intention of allowing him any real power within the military, Devil take him! He was now a figurehead of all that had been lost, a fallen leader left to oversee the transition of his beloved troops to those of Bonaparte. He was being made to capitulate, and all he wanted to do was fight back.

Turning away, he glared at the equestrian portrait of a smug Napoleon upon the wall, and then smacked at a pile of documents that had been laying idle upon his desk, scattering them over the gleaming hardwood beneath his boots.

'Damn Bonaparte, and damn this situation! God, I could use a drink.'

He ran a frustrated hand up over his chin, rough with stubble, and into his brown hair, digging his nails into his scalp. Staring off into space, he glanced at the clock on the mantle, and made a sudden, violent gesture at no one in particular. 'Damn the man!' He swore under his breath. His mind had been made up. He strode to the door, and yanked upon the great brass handle.

Bother.

He was blocked by a set of strong backs clothed in dark blue cotton. These backs were as curiously alike from behind, as they were from the front. They belonged to guards, French guards, with faces that were unique in their shared noses of distinction. The noses were both screwed on at such awkward, and exact, angles that only a shared calamity could account for the coincidence ... the rumour among the men, being that they had both sneaked off during battle when a cannonball did a clever ricochet off a nearby wall, and skipped across their faces at the exact same angle. Much like a stone might across a country pond, thought Wellington with a little smile.

Wellington raised his hand to his mouth, and coughed to get their attention. The guard on his left glanced over his shoulder and squinted at him through long, dark, unusually feminine lashes. That one was called Francois, and was the kinder of the two. The second, perhaps slightly shorter, but no less feminine in his manner, was Louis. Louis shrugged and muttered something to his colleague under his breath without so much as an acknowledgement of the man behind him. Wellington coughed again, and this time cleared his throat, not once, but three times, so violently he worried himself with sudden thoughts of Egyptian malaria, but the two held their ground.

He glowered at them, and then made a tactical decision for freedom, aiming for the point of least resistance between the two uniformed shoulders, he hammered through them, and into the bright corridor beyond. Francois and Louis, used to his tantrums, quickly unruffled themselves and fell in step behind him.

The trio navigated the twists and turns of the elegant, marbled hall. Wellington didn't bother looking over his shoulder, he could hear the foot-falls of the French boots, and the occasional whispered comments that passed between them. God he hated being baby-sat!

The corridor was full to bursting with officials and soldiers carrying on gay conversations, all of them doing their best to not look as though the one man chiefly responsible for the biggest military disaster since Hastings, walked among them.

The Duke glowered at the men. 'What this country needs is a good kick in the pants,' he sniffed. A busybody fell in step beside him, and, with a tad too much self-assurance, offered him a half-cocked salute and an armful of fresh papers to sign and letters to read. Startled at the sudden appearance of this little bureaucrat's interruption upon his silent reverie, and seizing the opportunity provided, Wellington turned on the man with a snarl, and elbowed him out of the way, sending another sheaf of papers flying through the air and across the floor in as many minutes.

He smiled at the confusion caused, and at the sight of grown men upon their hands and knees, frantically restoring order to the turmoil of documents strewn up and down the corridor. Wellington turned on his heel, and with a quick glance to ensure his guards weren't watching, he grabbed at the brass handle of an inconspicuous side-door and quietly slipped inside.

The room was most notable as having once been a repository for brooms, buckets, brushes, mops and other cleaning bric-a-brac. Now, its most notable features were the complicated myriad of glass and gold tubes that ran up, down and around, covering the entire length, and breadth of the wall, and most of the ceiling. These tubes were designed to pneumatically carry and deliver messages from anywhere in the building to this very spot, and for the moment, were Wellington's only means of sending and receiving any uncensored mail. He shoved one of his hands into the too small pocket of his waistcoat and dug out his much loved pocket-watch, a Breguet with a decorative, pearl inlay, and flipped it open to confirm the hour. The second hand made a satisfying clicking sound as it wound its way around the face, and when it reached the O'clock position the room came to life. The pipes started to stutter and hum as a tube was shot forth from the dark bowels of the edifice, negotiating all the tricky twists and turns, rocketing up, and up until it smacked into a brass container at his feet with the satisfying clang of a job well done.

Wellington opened a curved metal door in the side of the tube and pulled out a small elliptical cylinder, roughly the shape of a baguette, and screwed a cap off one of its pointed ends. Inside were some tightly rolled sheets of parchment with a barely legible hand-written scrawl running down their edge and a cracked, but not broken, distinctive seal in vermillion wax. Slipping them inside his jacket with one hand, and pulling the door open with the other to reconnoitre, he deduced that the calm had been restored, and, as it was time for tea, the corridor was virtually empty. He slipped out and shut the door behind him.

***

Looking up and down the length of the corridor, he saw only a small group of men laughing about something near an open window, his guards, not around, offered him another happy opportunity. He quickly jogged down the length of the corridor, being extra careful to avoid any French soldiers. His guards were doing an exceptionally poor job of it today! He smiled. He would have had them thrashed if he were put in charge of those watching him! ... Idiots. He certainly wasn't going to make their lives any easier, and he certainly wasn't about to enquire after them either. Damned French!

Taking the first turning, he made a bee-line for a large oak door carved all over with ornate curlicues, and other nouveau French nonsense. He leant against the door and listened for any ruckus from within, and hearing it was blessedly quiet, he let himself into the comfortably upholstered room. Treading softly over the thick and simple rug upon the floor, he passed some straight back chairs and looked wistfully at the walls decorated with banners won in past campaigns. This room had yet to be overhauled, and still reflected the British pride in her achievements. Fat lot of good they did her now. He thought to himself, as something caught his attention. A few, grey whorls of tobacco smoke lazily rose up from behind a chair in the opposite corner. He stood still. So, the room wasn't completely deserted after-all ... no-matter. He decided it safe, and would still provide some comfort, as well as some much needed, and appreciated privacy.

Sighing contentedly, he settled into a chair adjacent a tapestry of Oriental design, something he imagined had probably been purloined during one of the crusades. He shifted his bottom in-order to place it in the most satisfactory spot, and, as the soft leather groaned and creaked beneath him, a quick side glance at the table beside him revealed a decanter of something ... he poured himself a glass and tasted it, closing his eyes. 'Bless me, if it isn't port' He smiled, stretched out his legs and broke the seal on the letter.

My Dear Arthur,

I apologise for the hastiness and brevity of this communiqué. The copied bulletin I have enclosed demonstrates Napoleon's most recent troop movements. I became suspicious after such a large force was uprooted and transferred North of here, and I apologise for not having more news, as my spies were unable to get any pertinent information from their usual sources. The Armee, it seems, had already shot three of their own for suspicion of treason, and the lure of gold wasn't enough to loosen more tongues, but, if I may be so bold, I think you can see where they may be headed.

Things down South have taken a turn for the worse. The Italians want to revolt, but are too frightened to do so, and news of Napoleon is everywhere, I fear coming events cast their shadow before I hope to be able to assist our cause by convincing and liberating the Fantôme Queen - no small task, you may well imagine. To that end I have taken a berth on the first airship out of here, and I can only hope it has not been in vain. I will need you to rendezvous at the Ponte Vecchio in exactly one week's time, it is imperative that you leave now and present yourself by way of a disguise familiar to me, and me alone - he has agents everywhere - and you are too well known a figure abroad. At any rate, it is an opportunity for you to rally the troops, should you need it! I am sending you my man, please be kind to him Arthur, his birthright is not his fault. So, I hope to see you soon old friend, this may be our last chance.

Yours,

LT

Wellington lay the letter down in his lap and poured himself another glass of Port. God, he hated disguises. They made him feel like he was back in some fool drama at Eton! Costumes, disguises ... is that what fighting has come to? He was a commander of armies, damn it all! He scowled, crossing and re-crossing his legs. What was worse, if he expected to be anywhere near Florence in the time allotted, he'd have to ride several horses to death.

Rubbing his eyes, he mused he could, with force, commandeer an airship ... wouldn't the French love that? He snorted at the notion and began to drum his fingers on the leather armrest. What was Leo up to? Could Napoleon have really found them out? Could he really be everywhere? Bother. He knew he could. Leo wouldn't be ordering him around otherwise. There was to be nothing for it, he sipped his port and scowled even more, it seemed as though it was time to leave jolly old England and fight back after-all!

A sudden, and pungent reek of cheroot smoke drew him out from his reverie. The tobacco cloud was clearly being exhaled over his head.

'Damn it Sir! Have you no manners?! Wellington coughed, craning his neck up at the man standing behind him. The man, no more than a boy, a boy in a French officer's uniform, placed his elbows upon the back of the armchair, and did his best approximation of a nonchalant repose, eying the page in Wellington's lap. Wellington quickly crumpled Leo's letter into the palm of his hand and jumped up. The youth met his gaze and slowly offered his hand to shake, and seeing there was to be no reciprocation, brought it up into a salute.

'Monsieur, I believe I have the honour of introducing myself to Arthur Wellesley, the 1st Duke of Wellington?'

Wellington grunted at him.

'Then sir, if I may.' He pulled out a pistol from his belt and offered it to him. 'You will be needing this, I think?'

Wellington suspiciously accepted the arm and checked to see if it had indeed been loaded.

'I believe you have me at a disadvantage, young man.'

'No, Monsieur Wellington, I have you at our most definite advantage.' The young man brushed a swath of blonde hair out his eyes and smiled, exhaling another cloud of blue smoke as he did so.

'You may call me Gaspard, Gaspard Épéé du Bois.' Gaspard gave a stiff bow. 'Now, if you will follow me?' He pulled a long thin rapier from his belt and walked to the door, opening it a little to peer outside, and with a sad glance at his cheroot, dropped it, and ground it beneath the toe of his boot. 'We are about to encounter a lot of trouble, I think.'

Wellington stared at the youth and levelled the pistol at him. Gaspard turned and smiled. 'Before you think of most dishonourably shooting me in the back, Monsieur, it would be to my advantage to inform you that Monsieur Leo Tigullio sent me. Now ... shall we?'

He stepped into the hall and motioned for Wellington to follow. 'Let us leave this dreary island of yours, I have not had anything remotely decent to eat for days.'

***

Gaspard's strategy was a relatively simple one, he would escort the Duke through the building as if he were a prisoner. If any questions were asked of them he would shout something typically rude at them in his best Parisian and be done with it. The French did not laze about talking about their duty, they did it ... and only complained about how inconvenient it was for them after they were done. He escorted Wellington across the hall and down through the path of least resistance - the cramped servant's stairs - and got them all the way to the cavernous backdoor before anyone of consequence questioned their exit strategy.

The room backed onto the Thames, and had a small canal for transporting goods to, and from the building. As they adjusted their eyes to the darkness within they noted the pervasive smell of damp and the quiet sounds of water rising and falling against the brick wall. A long, wood barge, still stocked high with boxes was gently rocking against its mooring, and occasionally intruded upon the calm by scraping up against the wet stone. Gaspard opened his mouth to make some wry comment, when the grinding of a key being turned in the adjacent door interrupted him.

The heavy delivery gate swung in on its iron hinges, and a quantity of sunlight temporarily blinded them from the figures entering. Recovering from the assault on their pupils, it was Wellington who noted with some dismay who it was. Having just done a circumspect tour of the building in search of their famous charge, Louis and Francois strode in, so you can imagine the feelings of surprise, luck and confusion at discovering their prize down at the rear of the building's exit, and in the shipping room! The four of them froze, waiting for the other to explain or apologise. Louis and Francois knew they were directly responsible for Wellington, but they were now faced with Gaspard, who, coincidentally, had his uniform tailored to a rank that suited, not so much his age, but his ego.

Louis and Francois, stared at Gaspard, unsure what to say, or do. Francois was the first to sigh, and clear his throat.

'Excusez moi?' He squinted at Gaspard's epaulettes. 'Mon Capitaine? But we see you 'ave found Le Duke.' He smirked at Wellington. 'He has been a naughty boy, our Duke, has he not?'

Louis suddenly grinned, making his crooked nose look rather crookeder. 'Ah oui! Our Duke, 'e has been a bad boy.' He giggled.

Chuckling together, Louis picked up a length of rope from the ground with which to secure Wellington. Gaspard watched them, his arms crossed, his rapier pointing up over his shoulder.

'Mes amis, Le Duke is now in my care, no need to worry yourselves ...' He gave his rapier a few "swishes" in their direction while admiring his boots. 'I am going to take Monsieur Wellington outside, and I think you two now have some time to yourselves.' He said this last bit with an eye on Wellington.

Louis and Francois both spluttered, 'Outside? Mais non! C'est pas possible! Le Duke is not to leave the building! Capitaine ...'

Gaspard bounced the sword off the toe off his boot. 'Nevertheless Messieurs, I have my orders, and you have yours, now go on, I am running late! He turned toward the door, leading Wellington by the elbow, but Louis swiftly sprinted out in front of them, his hands outstretched to block their way, a look of panic on his face.

'No, no, no Capitaine! I cannot permit this happening! I 'ave not received a change of orders, and you -' He implored. 'Sir, begging the Capitaine's pardon, you 'ave not the authority to walk out of here with Monsieur Wellington. We 'ave sworn to watch him with our lives!'

Sighing, Gaspard stared at the ground, and then, in one swift motion, grabbed the pistol from Wellington's belt and shot Louis full in the chest. A stunned silence followed the echoing discharge. He turned toward Francois. 'And you Monsieur? Have you also sworn to watch this man with your life? Because I can arrange to end that contract for you here and now.' Francois gaped open mouthed at his comrade's body upon the ground and shook his head in disbelief. Gaspard picked up the length of cord and walked toward him. 'Is that a "no" Monsieur?' - and didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed Francois by the arm, and pinning it behind his back, looped the rope around his wrists. 'Now, if anyone asks you what happened, you may tell them you were overcome by a band of English brigands, and perhaps they will let you live, hm?' Francois nodded, still staring at the hole in Louis' chest. 'Bon, said Gaspard. 'Now Monsieur, we cannot allow you to alert the others of our departure, so ...' Gaspard knocked him unconscious with the pommel of his sword, and rolled him behind a stack of barrels. He turned to Wellington. 'Now -' Wellington cut him off.

'Young man, it is unconscionable to shoot a man in cold blood! You Sir, are a murderer!' Gaspard unbuttoned his coat, revealing an English Navy jacket underneath and tossed it at him,

'No Sir, I am not. I am a spy, and so too are you, if you want to leave here alive that is. Now put this on and get on the boat ... if you please!' He glanced back at the door, had he heard something? He turned back to Wellington. 'You are now a Captain in the Royal Navy, Sir, and we have a rendezvous with Monsieur Tigullio, so ...' He bowed before Wellington, and nudged him onto the deck, with a grin. 'This boat will take you to meet your comrade in no time at all, you know how to navigate a craft such as this?' Wellington stood unsteadily, the boat rocking beneath his feet.

'I have as much idea of piloting this boat, as you have of social graces!'

'Well, then,' said Gaspard as he uncoiled the rope holding the barge, you shouldn't have a problem then.' Just state your destination to the pilot and off you go.' He smiled. 'Sir.'

'Pilot? What Pilot?!' Wellington was turning pink in the face by now.

'Ah, sorry,' said Gaspard, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, ornate women's compact mirror and tossing it at the flustered Duke. 'Catch! Now open it up and state your destination, got that?' There was a sudden sound of footsteps approaching from the stairs leading down into the room. Gaspard placed his sword back in its scabbard and tossed the pistol back to Wellington 'And you may need this too!' He jogged toward the door and turned around to give Wellington a last salute. 'See you later ... Captain!' And then he slipped outside into the daylight beyond.

Wellington stood there, staring at the door Gaspard had just exited through in disbelief when three soldiers clattered into the room. One of them immediately spied Wellington on the boat and shouted at him. Wellington threw himself at the deck, aimed his pistol, and fired at the first soldier, sending him down to the ground with a flash. The others dove for cover, firing a volley of shots over his head. Wellington swore again. I'm pinned down like a blasted butterfly in a collection! He thought. But then he remembered the compact. Opening it up he only saw his agitated complexion grimacing back at himself.

'This is madness, Leo, madness!' He growled at it. The mirror shimmered ever so slightly and said quite clearly in a feminine voice. 'Pardon me? Ohhh hello there! Where will you be going today ... Captain? Wellington dropped the thing in shock, jumped away from it, which occasioned another volley of shots to be fired in his direction, one of them catching him in the shoulder. 'Devil, be damned!' He swore, as the impact spun him down to the deck. The soldiers shouted, running as one at the barge. Wellington grabbed the compact up, and yelled at it. 'Take me to the rendezvous, damn you!' And he, the barge, and the compact suddenly disappeared in an incandescent flash that shook the air, leaving the startled soldiers jumping at nothing ... nothing but empty, crackling air over the canal ... which they fell into, with a resounding splash.