The Launching of Roger Brook (75 page)

‘On the King’s service,’ muttered Gunston, bringing his heels together with a click and bowing. ‘So be it, Mr. Brook. Be pleased to come with me.’

Much as Roger disliked Gunston he had to admit that he was a good officer. Within twelve minutes he had his troop of Dragoons roused from their sleep, out of their barrack room and mounted. He gave a sharp word of command and, with Roger beside him, wheeled his horse. With the clatter of hooves and the jingling of sabres behind them, they trotted out of the barrack gates and took the London road.

Roger reckoned that his enforced delay to secure an escort had cost him a little over twenty minutes, so his enemy now had half an hour’s lead over him again; but he thought that with luck they might catch up with him before he reached Alton.

The road ahead lay through water meadows, and on their right meandered the river Itchen, in which Roger’s father had occasionally taken him, while still a boy, to fish for the wily brown trout.

For the first mile or so they held their pace while Roger satisfied Gunston’s curiosity as briefly as he decently could. Then, when he had described the foreigner that he was endeavouring to catch, Gunston shouted an order and the whole troop settled down to get the best out of their chargers.

For ten miles they rode hard, without exchanging a word, and, going at a steady canter, mounted the long slope that lies some way to the south of Alton. As they breasted its crest a mile of open country lay before them. Simultaneously Roger and George caught sight of a solitary horseman walking his horse half a mile ahead. The bright moonlight showed quite plainly that he was the man they were after. Even at that distance they could make out the lankiness of his figure, the heavy collared riding-coat and his truncated, steeple-crowned hat.

Having visualised just such a situation, Roger had intended
that the troop should reduce its pace to a trot, ride up alongside the unsuspecting Frenchman as though about to pass him, halt, wheel and surround him; thus taking him prisoner before he even had a chance to attempt to escape.

But Lieutenant George Gunston had very different ideas. With the instinct of a born fox-hunting squire he instantly rowelled his horse and gave vent to a loud: ‘Tally ho! Tally ho! Tally ho!’

Taken completely by surprise Roger could only choke back his fury. His mount automatically leapt forward beside its companion, while the whole troop of Dragoons followed their excited officer with wild shouts of enthusiasm and glee.

The man ahead turned to throw one glance over his shoulder, then set spurs to his horse. The hunt was up, and there was nothing that Roger could do about it now but to crouch low over his mare’s neck and attempt, with the rest, to ride down his quarry.

As he had foreseen the attempt was a failure. The Frenchman had too good a lead, and the road now sloped down towards some beech woods. Urging his steed on to the grass at the side of the road he veered off to the right at a gallop and, a few minutes later, was lost to sight in the deep shadow of the woods.

After their ten miles at a pressing pace, and final mile-long burst of speed, the horses were now badly winded; and, as they reached the valley bottom where the thick beechwoods came right up to both sides of the road, Gunston threw up his hand to halt his men. Then, as the sweating horses stumbled to a standstill, he called in an aggrieved tone to Roger: ‘Damme! The Frog has cheated us of our sport. He’s gone to earth!’

‘And whose fault is that?’ snarled Roger, white with rage. ‘You besotted oaf! What the hell did you expect, having given him ten minutes’ warning?’

‘Hey!’ Gunston bellowed back. ‘King’s business or no, I’ll not have anyone hold such language to me. I take you up in earnest now on your invitation to meet you at another time and place.’

Roger’s lip curled. ‘That suits me well. I’ve a long score to settle with you that I’ve not forgot. And God help you if you cannot use a sword or pistol better than you do your head.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Gunston snapped. ‘Send me your seconds when your business in town is done; and I’ll show you that I can use either as well as I do my fists. But since you are in command here at the moment, what are your wishes now that we have lost our man?’

‘Please to remain here with your men, and have them scour the woods till dawn,’ Roger replied coldly. ‘I fear the odds are now very great against your making a find, but should you catch him take instant action to secure the document that he carries before he can destroy it; then bring him on to London. As I act under Naval orders ’twould be best if you deliver him and the paper to the Admiralty. I shall ride on alone, and if I have no luck, I will call there later in the day to learn if there is news of you.’

Swivelling his mare, Roger flogged the poor brute into a trot and rode on into Alton. Already, while galloping at a breakneck speed after the vanishing Frenchman, he had decided that if, through Gunston’s folly, he lost his quarry, the best course would be for him to ride on as fast as possible. It was certain that his man would lie up in the woods for a bit before venturing back on to the road, so by passing him while he hid and getting to the capital first there was still a chance that he might be headed off before he could reach the French Embassy.

At Alton Roger changed his exhausted mare for another bay and continued on, now through flattish country, towards Farnham. The middle of the stage was about halfway between Lymington and London and he was already feeling the strain. Yet he dared not let up for a moment. He had never been to London and had no connections there upon whom he could call at a moment’s notice. If his last card was to be of any value careful arrangements would have to be made for the playing of it and, as he would have to appeal for help to strangers, that would take time. He did not even know where the French Embassy was situated; and his man, now thoroughly alarmed, would probably approach it by a circuitous route, so he reckoned that if an effective ambush was to be organised he must reach the capital at least an hour ahead of his quarry.

He got to Farnham at three-thirty, changed his horse again and cantered up the slope on to the Hog’s Back. The road now ran along the crest of a high ridge and the sinking moon lit a weird and splendid panorama of pine forests
stretching away into the distance. But he had no eyes for it and swaying automatically with his mount pressed on to Guildford.

As his horse walked him up the steep high street of the old city he decided that, having covered two-thirds of his journey, he must rest for a while, at least. While his saddle was being changed to a piebald in the yard of the White Hart, he went inside and asked the serving man to bring him some coffee laced with rum. It seemed days ago since he had woken on the barque that morning, but he was thankful now that he had slept on till eleven o’clock. He was not feeling the least tired mentally, but his back and thighs were protesting strongly at the strain his sixty-mile ride had put upon them.

It was a quarter to five by the time he had drunk his coffee and two minutes later he was on his way to Cobham. To his intense annoyance the piebald proved an awkward brute, being one of those mounts that always seem reluctant to break cleanly from a trot to a canter and vice versa. The jolting he received during the ten-mile stretch took it out of him more than his hard ride with Gunston over a longer distance had done; and he was much relieved when he was able to change it at Cobham for the fourth bay that he had ridden that night.

The Ladies’ Mile on to Esher offered him a good clear gallop but by the time he reached Kingston he felt terribly done. There, he changed horses for the last time and set out on the final eleven-mile stage. His mount was a good one but he was no longer capable of getting the best out of it. Yet he continued to do his damnedest.

He knew that his enemy had ridden at leisure for the first half of the journey and so must be in much better shape than himself. The odds were that within half an hour of taking to the woods the Frenchman would have regained the road and was now riding all out behind him. He had thought of endeavouring to prevent him being furnished with relays, but to do so would have meant stopping at each posting-house while somebody in authority was found to whom he could show his father’s warrant, and he had decided that he dared not risk such a series of delays.

As dawn broke he was riding at a slow trot over Putney Heath, then he walked his horse down the slope towards the bridge, crossed the Thames, and began to trot again
through the village of Fulham. Nerving himself to a last effort he cantered up the slope beyond Knightsbridge and pulled up at the tollgate on Hyde Park Corner, at eight o’clock.

Having inquired his way to Queen Anne’s Gate, he trotted the last half-mile past Buckingham House and through St. James’s Park, to rein in and almost fall from his saddle in front of Mr. Gilbert Maxwell’s house.

His ring at the door was answered by a smooth-faced servant in plain livery, to whom he said that he must see Mr. Maxwell immediately, on a most urgent matter.

‘I am sorry, Sir,’ the man answered, ‘but Mr. Maxwell has already gone out.’

This was the one thing that Roger had not foreseen, and it came as a desperate blow.

‘Where can I find him?’ he gasped. ‘I come on the King’s business, and ‘twill not wait.’

The servant shook his head regretfully. ‘Mr. Maxwell never leaves word where he is to be found when he walks abroad.’

‘How soon will he be back?’

That is more than I can say, Sir. But if you care to leave your name, or write to him…’

‘I tell you my business is of most desperate urgency,’ Roger cried, ‘and the day would be gone before a letter could be delivered.’

‘Oh, no, Sir,’ the man replied blandly. ‘If you care to enter and write your letter here, I can promise you that it will reach him with very little delay.’

Roger was in no state to ponder this paradox and assess its meaning. Instead he stood leaning against the iron railing for a moment, frantically searching his mind for some other source where he might secure the urgent help he needed. Suddenly he had an inspiration, and asked: ‘Where is Amesbury House?’

‘In Arlington Street, Sir. Just off Piccadilly. You have but to ride north across the Park and you will come to it.’

‘I pray you help me to my horse.’

The man obliged and Roger trotted across Birdcage Walk towards St. James’s Palace. As he did so it crossed his mind that perhaps, after all, Mr. Gilbert Maxwell was at home but, owing to the highly secret nature of his work, made it a rule never to reveal himself to anyone. If so, a
note left for him might have produced the required action in time to be effective; but that was only speculation, and Roger’s need was too urgent for him to consider turning back now that he had thought of another possibility.

Outside the Palace he inquired again, of a man in a cocked hat, for the exact situation of Amesbury House, and, on learning it, pushed on up St. James’s Street. Having turned left near its top end another moment brought him into the courtyard of the great mansion he was seeking.

Flinging himself off his horse he stumbled up the steps and shouted to the liveried footman on the door: ‘Lord Edward Fitz-Deverel! Is he at home?’

‘Why, yes, Sir,’ replied the astonished servant. ‘But His Lordship is not yet risen.’

‘No matter! Take me to him!’ panted Roger.

His dishevelled state and bandaged head now proved a talisman. The footman was sensible enough to see that this was no time to stand on ceremony. Acting with an initiative that no French servant would have dared to show, he grabbed Roger by the arm and hurried him up the broad marble staircase, then along a corridor to a heavily-carved door. Banging on it with his fists, he cried: ‘My Lord! There’s a gentleman here who has travelled in great haste to see you.’

‘Let him come in then,’ called a voice; and, throwing open the door, Roger staggered forward towards Droopy Ned.

Droopy did not seem to have grown any older. He still had the curiously ageless look of a young man old before his time. He was dressed in a magnificent flowing robe of Indian silk and wore a turban round his head. With his feet stretched out before him, he reclined at ease on a gilded chaise-longue while toying with a breakfast tray set on a low table at his side.

As his pale blue eyes fell on Roger, he said languidly: ‘Egad, Sir! You seem in a plaguey hurry. Who are you? I seem to know your face.’

Collapsing in a chair, Roger grinned at him. ‘We last met on leaving Sherborne. You told me then to call upon you if ever I needed assistance and, by God, if ever any man needed it, I need it now.’

‘Why! Strap me, if it’s not young Roger Brook!’ Droopy grinned back. ‘And I’ll honour the pledge willingly. If you
need a poor sword or a fat purse, either are at your service.’

In five minutes Roger had given the salient points in the affair that concerned him so desperately. Droopy’s quick brain seemed to leap ahead of the tale at almost every stage; and, well before it was done, the languid fop had given place to the man of action. Throwing off his robe and turban he began to pull on his outdoor clothes; then he took two long strides to the door and hollaed for his servants.

One he sent to order his coach, another to collect four footmen armed with pistols to accompany him, and a third to request his father to ask an audience of Mr. Pitt for him at noon.

As they ran off to execute his orders he hastily completed his dressing, then fetched a decanter of some foreign cordial from a bureau and made Roger swallow a couple of glasses of it. The liquor revived him wonderfully and when, a few minutes later, they ran downstairs he felt that, if put to it, he could yet have ridden another stage. Within a quarter of an hour of his having reached Amesbury House, they were in the coach and off, with two armed footmen on the box and another two inside the vehicle with them.

‘Whither are we going?’ Roger asked, as the coach trundled across Piccadilly.

‘To Portland Place,’ replied Droopy. ‘’Tis in that fine new thoroughfare that the French Embassy is situated.’

Ten minutes later they were driving up the beautiful broad street, with open country at the far end of it.