Another Small Kingdom (6 page)

Chapter Nine

T
he night following Bentley's violent visit to his friend Darcy found Macleod sitting in his library, complete with blanket and night-cap.He was not reading. No book was needed tonight to occupy his mind. He was drinking and steadily cursing the events of earlier that evening when he had been betrayed by Bentley and made to look a fool by Darcy. In a muttered but intense undertone he cursed them both until he found he could curse them no more. Moving on he cursed life in general but, feeling his choice of mark too impersonal for any real satisfaction, he changed to cursing the God he didn't believe in. However, he soon found a non-existent God as unsatisfactory as life in general and finally settled to cursing just about anything he could bring to mind. At last, having run out of things to curse, he drank his whisky and reviewed his life in silent fury.

Reviewing his life was a thing of last resort which he did when the hate inside him had swelled up and threatened to engulf his very sanity. On such occasions he knew that madness and even self-destruction were very near. It was as if they were in the shadows of the room waiting their chance in the darkness, looking at him, knowing his strength to hold them off was fading. His only hope at such times was to slowly confront his life, beginning with childhood and youth, passing on to manhood with its war and loss, and then his coming home to Boston and what, over the years, had passed for living. Such remembrances served a single vital purpose, they reminded him how the hate had been born, why it had thrived and blossomed, and at whom it must always be directed. In this way he was still just about able to force the hatred back into the black and terrible centre of his being.

He picked up his glass, took a long drink, gazed into the blackness of the fireplace and began in the same place that he always began, with the ‘French Girl'.

It was that name, and all that he had endured because of it, which had turned the hate that the child Jean Marie had been taught by his father into a hate which was all his own. A hate that he felt burned into his very soul.

By the time Jean Marie's schooling was complete and he returned home for good, he was a solitary young man with few social graces and no social ambitions. He had learned much at school and been an able scholar but he held two things as the most valuable lessons of his education. First, that there were much worse things than physical pain. This lesson he had been taught as he fought with, and was at first badly beaten by, older, bigger pupils when he refused to submit to the name which they had given him, and with which they enjoyed taunting him. The lesson had stood him in good stead when he was older, stronger and with long experience of school brawling behind him. Very few times in his last two years at school did ‘The French Girl' raise her head and when she did it was never Jean Mary Macleod who regretted it most.

The second lesson was that the only certain thing about friendship was that it would, sooner or later, be betrayed. How was the young Macleod to know that school friendships, the friendships of children, were no more a pattern for life than were the lessons in the classrooms? The school Macleod attended was considered to be one of the better sort and it showed itself deserving of its reputation. The Jean Marie Macleod who left school was thoroughly and singularly marked by his experiences there. The school could rightly claim to have had no small part in making Jean Marie Macleod into the man he would become.

Macleod's mind returned with a hazy jolt to the present, he wanted a drink and his glass was empty. He looked at the table. The empty decanter was gone and a full second decanter stood beside the lamp. Amélie had come and gone unnoticed. Macleod poured whisky into his glass, took a drink and slowly recited in his mind the formula he had laid out for himself.

‘There is yourself, and there is your immediate family who can be trusted. Outside that there can be no trust worthy of the name. And as their most loving and merciful God has kindly chosen that I should no longer have any living family it seems divinely ordained that I shall be utterly alone in seeking out the path of my life.' And he made a fist and held it up and shook it and shouted in French.

‘Thank you, oh most kind, loving and merciful God.'

He lowered his hand. He would trust in himself and, beyond that, only in his country, America.

But although railing at a God whose existence you doubted might give some temporary satisfaction, it was no more than a gesture. Any satisfaction it brought was at best fleeting. However it did serve one purpose. The explosion of sound into the gloom finally brought Macleod's anger under some sort of control. Now, with a cold calmness, he could reflect on what had happened earlier that evening.

He had promised Bentley he would wound Darcy in a duel and the deal had been struck. He had gone to the club to seek out his opponent and challenge him in public. Done before those men who mattered most in Boston, Darcy could not have wormed his way out of accepting. But he had been made to look a fool and it was all deliberately done, all planned by Bentley to humiliate him.

Darcy had carefully stood with his wounded hand behind his back when Macleod had come into the club room where he and his friends were drinking. Darcy had been expecting him, had known he was coming and what it was he was coming for. Darcy had only brought his hand from behind his back after Macleod had slapped his face in front of his friends and said he was ready to give satisfaction as and when Darcy cared to meet him. Darcy had then raised his bandaged hand and showed it to the room and finally held it in front of Macleod.

‘Dam'me, Macleod, I dare say you feel very brave calling out a man who can't shoot you dead as you deserve. Would you have hurried here so quickly, I wonder, if someone hadn't told you that with this confounded hand I won't be able to put a ball in your wretched hide for at least a month?'

And Macleod remembered how he and his braying friends had laughed, stood there and laughed at him, as Darcy had gone on to warn him not to run off when he saw the bandage was ready to be removed and the day of satisfaction near at hand.

As Macleod had stormed out of the club the laughter had rung in his ears and he heard, as was no doubt it was intended, what Darcy had loudly declaimed. That he normally wouldn't dream of putting a ball into a nice French girl, but as soon as his hand was better he would, in this special case, make an exception.

Chapter Ten

‘
W
ell, Bentley, I hope you can be sure to get Macleod away from here within the month.After this evening's little play I wouldn't want him around when this bandage comes off and I can hold a pistol.'

Darcy held up his bandaged hand and Bentley laughed.

‘I heard all about it and the whole town will know tomorrow. You certainly carried it off well enough. I congratulate you. For a coward you certainly seem to have cut a dashing figure.'

‘More careful than coward I would say but I did the thing well enough. In fact I did it so damn well that Macleod won't cool down on it. He'll want his satisfaction the moment my hand is well, and if he gets it I guarantee that I'll be as dead as mutton whether he shoots me through the head or the body. There'll be no wounding now.'

‘He'll be gone, don't worry about that, and as soon as he has gone you will leave for Washington to deliver this.' Bentley pulled a sealed letter from an inside pocket and held it out. Darcy put down his cup and took the letter. There was no name: only the address of a government department. ‘You will go to that address and ask for an official named Jones, Jeremiah Jones. They will tell you no person of that name is employed there. You will then return to your hotel and wait to be contacted. When Jones contacts you, you are to say that you have been sent by his friend in Boston with a private letter. Don't say who you are and, even if there's not another soul present when you meet Jones, you must mention no names at all.'

‘And if Jones asks?'

‘If Jones asks for names then get out if you can and run as fast and as far as you can because you will have been discovered and the man asking you for names will most certainly not be Jeremiah Jones. Although I have to say that if you do get discovered I wouldn't give a bent pin for your chances of living very long, never mind getting out and running.'

There was alarm on Darcy's face.

‘But surely we're safe aren't we? Everything is going to plan, why should any of us be discovered?'

‘Because, you simpleton, we're playing for very high stakes and no one is going to hand us the winnings on a plate. I think we're secure, I believe we're secure, but out there somewhere are those who are playing against us and they are as careful, determined and as well organised as we are. We have the advantage because we were playing for a long time before they even became aware there was a game up and running. But they're not fools, not by any means, they'll catch up as they go along, oh yes, they're catching up already. They won't catch up in time, that's all. The game will be over and they will have lost before they have discovered all the rules or even, perhaps, what the true prize is.' Bentley put his cup and saucer on a table. ‘When you've shown Jones the letter and he's read it, take it back and destroy it there and then by whatever method comes to hand. Do you understand? You must destroy the letter and he must see it totally destroyed.'

Darcy nodded. He hated Bentley, but he had complete trust in his organising abilities. If Bentley said it was safe then it was as safe as it could be made. One day he would settle with Bentley, but that day was still a long way off and, until it came, Bentley must think of him as obedient, reliable and thoroughly to be trusted. He raised his bandaged hand and looked at it. Then he looked at Bentley and smiled.

‘I must admit you caused me no small pain and fright when you stuck my hand this morning, but I can see now that it was the only way. When I showed it to the doctor he no more believed the glass story than my man did. But as it was the story I chose to tell, he chose to accept it. After he sewed me up he told me I was lucky to have got away with such a very clean cut, missing anything that might have done permanent damage.' Darcy examined the bandaged hand. ‘It'll be out of action for a month at least and it will be at least another month before I get any real use of it back.' Then he looked at Bentley and smiled. ‘However, being the kind of wound it is, shall we say an interesting wound, I trust the doctor's confidentiality enough to believe an accurate description of it could be had from at least a couple of dozen people by tomorrow. No one can doubt that I couldn't fight even if I wanted to and it gives you two months to get rid of Macleod.' He paused. ‘Just as a matter of interest, why couldn't you have just arranged for Macleod to have been the one to have an accident? Boston isn't exactly free of ruffians and footpads. If a couple of them set about Macleod one night who's to say they might not hit him on the head a little too hard or stick a knife in some vital spot?'

Bentley laughed out loud. Darcy had let his feelings for Macleod show through.

‘By God, Darcy, you take all this too personally. Why kill Macleod when I can use him?'

‘Use him?'

‘Aye, use him. Macleod is going to play a very pretty part in our little game. He won't know it of course, he may very well think he is playing against us rather than for us, but it doesn't much matter what Macleod thinks because he will be thinking exactly what we want him to think. Kill Macleod!' And again he laughed, ‘Why waste him? With all the hate that man carries he's too powerful just to scrap. We're going to fuel up our precious lawyer Macleod 'til he blazes and then we're going to sit back and watch him roar. Oh yes, lawyer Macleod is in for some ride I reckon, some considerable ride.'

Chapter Eleven

I
n America's new capital, Washington, a young man sat at his desk and asked himself, and did his best to answer, many of the same questions about the little game that Bentley and Darcy had discussed in Boston.Although it was past midnight he was busy reading reports which had been heavily annotated. It was the young man's task to consider these annotations and compile a list of suggestions for actions he thought should be taken. Through a door of an adjoining office an older man, the author of the annotations, was also busy.

The young man was unexceptional, certainly not a man of fashion nor at all striking in features or bearing. He was a government clerk and fully looked the part. The same could not be said for the man in the adjoining office. Though plainly dressed he had a distinctly military air and his manner, as he read, conveyed intense concentration. He came to something in the report he was reading which made him pause, look up and stare sightlessly ahead in thought. Had you been able, at this moment, to look into his face you would have seen that his eyes ill-fitted his years. They were the hard eyes of an alert and vigorous mind, of a man used to command, who had many times made difficult decisions knowing that others would live and die as a result. And his eyes were not deceptive, he had not flinched from making life–and-death decisions in the past and would not flinch from making similar decisions again.

His thinking came to an end and he looked through the open door into the next office.

‘Jeremiah, come here for a moment.'

The young man took hold of a stick which leaned against his chair, got up and walked as quickly as his limp would allow through the doorway into the office. The older man gave him the page of the report he was reading.

‘Halfway down, the line begins “and will certainly mean …”'

The young man took the page, turned it to catch the light, found the line and read. After a minute he handed it back.

‘Well, General, you wanted corroboration and this gives it.'

‘Not completely, but with all the rest it is enough, I think, to justify some definite action.'

‘What action will you take, sir? Assassination?'

The General gave a small laugh. ‘Good God, man, nothing so drastic. What a bloodthirsty young devil you've become, Jones, always looking to kill people. A few sudden arrests and some deportations might be in order.

‘This, Jones, is one of those cases which shows how right I was to have Adams put the Alien Act through Congress.'

‘Yes, but it's Jefferson who's President now and I don't think he'd be pleased to see the Alien and Sedition Laws used.'

‘Jefferson is fully aware of what's going on and knows well enough what needs to be done. This trouble isn't any part of some domestic squabble between Jefferson's Republicans and Hamilton's Federalists, although it has been very cleverly framed to look that way. This is aimed at the very liberty of America, and I didn't serve in the late War just to hand my country over to the English crown nor the French Republic. We've got to stop whoever's organising all this.'

‘If that's your assessment, sir, then I would have thought a little blood-letting was entirely appropriate.'

The General was pleased.

‘I think you're coming on in this business, Jeremiah, still a bit too keen on bloodshed, but maybe that's no bad thing as matters stand at the moment. Perhaps you're right and just arresting a few citizens and sending a few foreigners packing back to where they came from won't do all that's needed. So, before we pick up our foreign friends we'll make the arrests and have a couple of quiet executions. That way the right kind of message will get taken back.' The General pulled open a desk and took out a sheet of embossed paper. He signed the bottom of the sheet and held it out. ‘Fill in the details and arrange for two of those we know about in Philadelphia to be arrested. Have them tried by a closed military court and then executed. Something for you to enjoy, eh, Jeremiah? A bit of your blood-letting.' Jones smiled but didn't speak. ‘Losing the Philadelphia men should put a little sand in their axle-grease. They're not at the centre of things nor probably even near it, of that I'm sure, but they're important enough in their way. More important to me is that it will take time for them to be replaced and that's what I need more than anything else, Jones, I need time.'

‘Have we heard something new, sir?'

‘New?'

‘Well it's not like you to agree so readily to any suggestion of mine. I just thought that perhaps ….'

The General nodded.

‘Yes, we've heard something. Some time this year, and probably sooner than later, the French and the British will make peace.'

The young man showed surprise.

‘Are you sure of that?'

‘It's already agreed. The preliminaries for arranging a treaty are under way. I even know where it will happen. Amiens.'

‘I see.'

‘Do you, Jeremiah? This peace will not be any kind of real peace, just a mutually agreed pause for breath so both sides can re-equip and re-organise. They'll be at war again when either side thinks it's strong enough. Once the peace is in place they'll push to finish what they're up to here before the war resumes. That's the cause for our hurry on this side. So, Jeremiah, let's get the Philadelphia business done.'

Jeremiah Jones went back to his office and took the Philadelphia file out of a desk drawer. He selected two pages on which were five names, each with a brief biography. When he had made his choice, he prepared the official papers for the arrests. He then prepared the orders for the closed court military trial. In a separate, sealed envelope addressed as ‘personal and secret', he added the necessary instructions for the verdict and execution of the two Philadelphia men he had chosen, a businessman and a local politician.

As he worked, he thought about the man in the next office who could arrange for such things to happen. He knew that George Washington had chosen him personally for the role he now performed, and that when he was required to answer to anyone, he answered to the President in person, to Jefferson now, as he had so recently done to Adams.

Jeremiah's work was reports, endless reports. But from those reports and many sessions with the General, Jones had developed a firm grasp of the political landscape.

Washington had seen that powers outside America could use internal divisions to undermine not only the government but the very independence of the new country. He never doubted the loyalty of men like Adams or Hamilton, who so vigorously opposed each other over the way the new country should develop, a strong central government or strong state governments. But it was an argument which could be used to worsen the already growing North-South divide and Washington was only too aware that certain interests, even certain American interests, would want to manipulate America's growing pains so that power fell into their own hands. And he knew such interests wouldn't be too scrupulous about how it was done. It was to guard against any conspiracy which might grow out of legitimate dissent that Washington had established an agency, within the government but separate from it. Not secret but not official, it was given powers to gather information, interpret that information and, when necessary, advise and act upon it. The man he had chosen to lead the agency was a man who had commanded under him in the War of Independence. That man had finished the war with the rank of General. Now somewhat elderly, the General still had a mind like a steel trap and a loyalty to his country which was absolute and unshakeable. It was this man, the General, who now sat in his office while Jeremiah Jones finished his papers. Jeremiah went to the door and called out loudly into the darkness of the corridor, ‘Courier.'

He waited and after a minute the sound of boots could be heard approaching hurriedly towards the doorway.A man with a lantern and dressed for riding came out of the dark. He took the papers, looked at the address and put them into a satchel slung across his shoulder.

‘They're urgent.'

‘When are they not?'

The man disappeared down the corridor and Jeremiah Jones turned back and went to the doorway connecting the two offices.

‘I'll go now, sir, if you don't need me further.'

‘Not yet. There's a question I need to take your mind on.' Jeremiah went to the desk and waited. He knew the General's methods. If the question was of importance he would marshal his words as he had once marshalled men. ‘We know the game is being played for no less a prize than America itself and the strings are being pulled from Paris by their Minister of Police, Fouché.'

‘Agreed, and if Fouché is pulling the strings it means he has found some powerful and highly placed puppets.'

‘Just so. But what about the British? They're in this somewhere, but where and how deep? They wouldn't just sit back and let Fouché have a clear run.'

‘No, sir, they most definitely would not.'

‘How am I running in this race do you think, Jeremiah? Am I still up with the hounds or left behind while they're closing on the kill?'

It was now Jeremiah's turn to carefully marshal his words. Much, he knew, depended on his answer.

‘To answer that, sir, I think we must find out all we can about what is happening in New Orleans. From what we know that's where I should say the next move must be made. If I'm right the British will have someone there already or damn soon will have. It's time, I think, to send someone down there and see if we can't put some sand in
that
axle grease.'

The General nodded.

‘I think you may very well be right. Let me have your thoughts on who and how, a written outline on it tomorrow morning.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Left alone a chilling thought crept into the General's mind. Fouché might have the best secret service in Europe but who had the best in America? He forced such thoughts away from him. The game's not done 'til it's done. Jones was right. New Orleans, that was what mattered now. Get someone there and get the job done. But just as important, done by someone he could trust.