Devil to Pay Read online

  “The Captain will be here in a minute,” said Bassett. “What happened?”

  “The enemy were expecting us. Major Moncrieff fell and I was lucky to escape. We have three others killed and two wounded.”

  “I feared as much when I saw the shot holes in your mainsail!”

  “I see the Daphne is back . . . ?”

  “She fared no better. M de Mortemart was captured on landing, Mr A tells us.”

  “And he will tell the enemy all he knows.”

  “They also have his despatch. Mr A informs us that the French troops at St Malo are marching to save Cherbourg. Lord Moira has countermanded his orders for the landing.”

  “Our failure, then, is complete.”

  “So complete that the French have already struck back. They have a frigate squadron heading this way and Sir James Saumarez is actually outnumbered.”

  D’Auvergne entered quickly at that moment and the others stood to attention.

  “I’m glad to see you safe, Mr Delancey. What happened?”

  “We walked into a trap, your Highness. The cottage where we were to meet our friends was held by our enemies. Major Moncrieff refused to surrender and was killed. He killed two of the enemy first—shot one and ran the other through. We had other losses, three killed and two wounded. We were lucky to save the cutter herself.”

  “And the despatches?”

  “The enemy have them.”

  “You think that you were expected?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “But how can they have known? I don’t understand it, can hardly believe it. Enough of that for the moment, though. You look worn out.”

  “I have been on my feet for 48 hours, sir.”

  “Take some rest now. Report back here at midday. Lord Moira will be here then and will want to hear your own story.”

  When Delancey had gone, D’Auvergne asked Bassett: “How were we betrayed?”

  “Perhaps in London, sir.”

  “But the details of the plan were not even known in London!”

  “Perhaps at La Gravelle, then. Someone took fright and betrayed the rest.”

  “Could that happen at both places and at the same time?”

  “Unlikely, sir, I must confess. There remains only the one alternative. We were betrayed here.”

  “Where the plan was known only to Lord Moira, the governor, to you and me, to Moncrieff and Delancey, to Mr A and the Vicomte de Mortemart. Of these eight men one must be a traitor.”

  “Do you think it possible that Mr A is a double agent?”

  “It will be a disaster if he is. He is at the very centre of our intelligence system. He knows everything—more than I do.”

  “I can see no possible traitor among the other seven. There was some careless talk at the banquet, I’ll admit.”

  “Yes, but not in any detail.”

  “So it has to be Mr A.”

  “I fear that you may be right. We’ve played and lost and the stakes were high. It remains to find out how the dice came to be loaded.”

  It was a smaller meeting at midday than Delancey had expected. There was Lord Moira, D’Auvergne and himself—no one else. The Earl was very much at his ease and only mildly interested in the reports he heard.

  “So the French have both despatches?” he asked finally.

  “I fear so, my Lord,” said D’Auvergne.

  “And their army is on a forced march from St Malo to Cherbourg?”

  “We have a reliable report to that effect.”

  “And I hear now that Sir James Saumarez has had a partial action with their frigates, using his local knowledge to trick them. They were last seen on their way back to St Malo, looking extremely foolish!”

  “So I understand, my Lord.”

  “On our side we lost Alan Moncrieff, a fine young officer. I shall write to his father. A pity you could not have saved him, Mr Delancey I have no doubt that you did your best.”

  “I was at his side, my Lord, and would have liked to prevent the despatches from falling into the hands of the enemy. But I was also responsible for the safety of the Royalist. I did what seemed best, my Lord, and am only sorry that my mission should have failed.”

  “Your mission did not fail, Mr Delancey.” There was a full minute’s silence, broken by D’Auvergne.

  “Your Lordship cannot mean that we succeeded?”

  “Listen, gentlemen. What I am going to tell you is for your ears alone. It will be known to no one else, not even the governor. First, then, I owe you both a very humble apology. It has been my duty to deceive you from the beginning. There was never any serious plan for landing an army near Cherbourg. The rumour heard in Portsmouth was that my troops are destined for Flanders. Well, that is in fact the truth. That is where they are going.”

  “Then why, my Lord,” asked D’Auvergne, “—why in heaven’s name did you come here at all?”

  “To prevent the French from capturing Jersey. That threat was real enough. Our reply was to make a feint against Cherbourg. The result was to make the enemy march to save that port, which we never dreamt of attacking.”

  “I see it all now . . .” groaned D’Auvergne.

  “I want you, Mr Delancey, to see it too. You feel now that you have risked your life for nothing—that the enemy could have been tricked some other way. But I want you to learn now one of the first rules of war. It is this: we only believe the information we have gained with difficulty by our own efforts. The captured document convinces us. So does the intelligence dragged from a prisoner under threat of execution. I gave Moncrieff a despatch addressed to a real insurgent leader but almost certain to fall into enemy hands. I gave Pierre de Mortemart the verbal plans for invasion which he would certainly reveal when questioned. It was vital that Moncrieff and Mortemart should believe in the invasion and quite as essential, Captain D’Auvergne, that you should believe in it yourself. This made it certain that all the enemy agents in Guernsey would tell the same story.”

  “But how did the enemy come to know in advance about our two missions? Who warned them, my Lord?”

  “Haven’t you guessed, Captain D’Auvergne?”

  “It was Mr A, I suppose.”

  “Exactly, Jean Prigent of St Helier, a double agent from the beginning.”

  “I hope to see him hanged!”

  “Softly, Captain! We shan’t hang Prigent. We shall use him. And when he’s no longer useful we shall betray him to the French, who’ll put him before a firing squad. Be patient, though. That won’t happen for years.”

  After Lord Moira had gone, D’Auvergne sat at the table, utterly dejected.

  “Here ends our attempted invasion of France!” he said bitterly. “The scheme is abandoned. More than that, the plan never even existed. It was all a feint, a gesture, a momentary phase in the war, an incident too small to merit even a line in the history book. We are used, you and I, and then tossed aside.”

  “Isn’t that the nature of war, sir?”

  D’Auvergne did not reply but, rising to his feet, he caught sight of the map on the wall, the one he had used in explaining the campaign. He stared at it for a minute as if the Castle of Navarre were actually marked. Following his glance, Delancey asked, “Shall I take this map down, sir?”

  “Yes,” said D’Auvergne, “take it down. Tear it up! Burn it! We shan’t need it again. What chance we had is gone!”

  Chapter Three

  CHOICE OF WEAPONS

  IN THE AFTERMATH of the landing at La Gravelle Delancey had several days’ work to do; the repairs to the Royalist, the arranging of the burials, the writing to the relatives of the fallen, the care of the wounded and the return to store of borrowed equipment. It was while reporting to Bassett on these matters that he first heard of a sequel to the affair which he had never expected.

  “I feel bound to warn you,” said Bassett, “that there is talk among the military here about Moncrieff’s death. Some officers are saying that he should have been rescued—that he was left
to his fate by the navy— that his life was thrown away.”

  “It was thrown away, I must confess. But rescue was out of the question—I saw him killed.”

  “I know that this is the truth and I have explained this to an officer of the 42nd who told me of the feelings that had been aroused in his mess.”

  “But Moncrieff was in the 7th Foot.”

  “Yes, but he was on Lord Moira’s staff. Being absent from his own regiment he had been messing with the 42nd and was very popular with his brother officers of that unit.”

  “That does not surprise me. He was liked, I suppose, by everyone.”

  “That seems to be the fact. And that is why some harsh words have been said about you.”

  “Does Captain D’Auvergne know about this?”

  “Yes, and he has spoken with Major Simmons, presently commanding the 42nd. Their colonel is out of the island at present and Simmons is rather young to be left on his own. His Highness doubts whether Simmons has much authority over his captains, several of whom are older than he and have been in battle.”

  “I see,” replied Delancey slowly. “Strange to think that Moncrieff, had he lived, would have been perhaps my best friend. Our efforts could not have been better concerted, and now I am thought to have deserted him.”

  “The accusation is absurd—I know that.”

  “I could have landed more men and done some damage to the enemy but the probable result would have been to lose the Royalist. And my orders were explicit, as you know—to be away again before daylight.”

  “All that is perfectly true. I think it quite disgraceful that a story like this should be repeated.”

  “Thank you for the warning. I believe we shall meet again this evening?”

  “At the Golden Lion? Yes, I am to be there and I understand that Captain Bastable will be the prince’s other guest at supper. The Cormorant is back again from Jersey and will sail for Portsmouth tomorrow afternoon.”

  At supper the Prince of Bouillon was still downcast over the ruin of all his hopes. Saying nothing about the secret side of his activities, he talked generally about the situation in France.

  “I begin to doubt whether the monarchy will ever be restored. A society has been torn up by the roots. Can it ever be replanted and take root again? But what nonsense the future generations will be taught! They will be told how poor peasants rose against a tyrant regime. Who will remember the thousands of poor folk who fought and died to save the regime? There have been royalist armies in the field with numbers of up to a hundred thousand. The republicans have been defeated in battle after battle. No one will remember this in the years to come. I wish I could believe that they would win. I would that it was in my power to help them.”

  Talk turned to the subject of Guernsey characteristics, on the local ability to reconcile smuggling with religion. D’Auvergne, as a Jerseyman, was interested in the antipathy which existed between the islands but could not explain it.

  While this conversation went on, Delancey was half aware of a noisier party being held in the far corner of the parlour. From the glimpse of scarlet he guessed that army officers predominated and from the noise he concluded that they were fairly junior in rank. Glancing that way and half expecting some such move he saw a young ensign rise to his feet and move unsteadily towards him. He was a fair-haired youth, aged nineteen at most, with flushed cheeks and a touch of sweat on his forehead. He stood, swaying, near the naval group and made some sort of a bow, which D’Auvergne returned rather coldly

  “Ensign Watkins, gentlemen,” he said, “at your service.” He paused uncertainly, wiped his brow and added, “Of the 42nd Foot.” It seemed for a minute of silence (the other party being quiet now, listening) as if this was the sum total of his message. Then he remembered his next lines and went on with a jerk. “Have—have—have I the honour of ad-ad-ad-addressing Lieutenant—er—Delancey?”

  “You have,” said Delancey briefly, rising to his feet.

  “Then, sir, I have the further hon-honour of tut-telling you, sir, that you’re a coward!”

  Delancey, who had been expecting this, answered loudly, ensuring that what he said would be audible to the other officers present:

  “And you, Mr Watkins, are a drunken and useless young puppy, of less value to your regiment than its latest recruit, a disgrace to your uniform and a sorrow to your parents. Go back to your nanny, boy, and learn how to wipe your nose!”

  “I can use a pistol as well as you!”

  “I doubt if you can use a chamber pot.”

  “That’s an insult!” raged the ensign.

  “Maybe,” replied Delancey, “but you address me as ‘Sir.’“

  “I demand satisfaction—Sir!”

  “Very well. Choose your seconds and ask them to arrange matters with Mr Bassett here. I hope you will agree, sir, to act for me?” Bassett nodded and Delancey sat down again, turning to D’Auvergne and resuming their conversation at the point where it had been interrupted.

  “I have always thought, your Highness, that Guernsey is more fortunate than Jersey in its harbour.”

  “Very true, Mr Delancey. The time is coming, however, when St Peter Port will be too small. . . .”

  As the discussion continued Bassett begged the others to excuse him for a minute. Knowing his purpose, Delancey said to him quietly, “He is the challenger. I choose—swords.” Bassett nodded and went over to the other group.

  “. . . but St Peter Port has the advantage in its roadstead, sheltered by Herm in an easterly wind and sheltered by Guernsey itself when the wind is westerly.”

  “I am quite of your opinion, your Highness. The harbour of St Helier is on the wrong side of the island.”

  Bassett came back and said to Delancey, aside, “Tomorrow at day-break—on the green near the barracks.”

  The conversation was resumed again but Delancey drank nothing more. To judge from his behaviour, anyone present would have thought him an experienced duellist and a man of great courage. In point of fact he was neither, having never fought before in an affair of honour and having only an average share of resolution. His heart had missed a beat when he knew that he would be challenged and he frankly dreaded the meeting that was now unavoidable. Had he been a civilian, Mr Watkins might well have changed his mind when sober and made some sort of apology. But to do that an officer would have to resign his commission. There was no future in a line regiment (or in the navy) for a man who had refused a challenge. Nervous as he might be, however, Delancey had shown presence of mind. He had noticed that Watkins spoke of pistols and this had given him his cue to make Watkins the challenger and give himself the choice of weapons. He had promptly chosen swords, guessing that his opponent’s fencing skill would be rudimentary. No expert himself, he had taken lessons in his younger days and could at least remember how to stand on guard, how to lunge, how to feint and thrust and parry. Had he been a civilian, Watkins’ seconds could have objected that their principal could not give satisfaction with the weapons chosen. But they could raise no such objection on behalf of a commissioned officer. If he could not use a sword he had no business to be wearing one. If Watkins had never had a lesson before—as seemed likely enough—he was going to have one now.

  Delancey’s other second was to be Lieutenant Saunders of the Cormorant whom they met after supper near the town church. He and Bassett went off to make the detailed arrangements—finding a surgeon and measuring the swords—while D’Auvergne and Bastable walked with Delancey down to the harbour.

  “I don’t pretend to like this business,” said D’Auvergne. “That wretched boy was pushed into this folly by those other officers. I wonder if he could be persuaded to apologize?”

  “I hope you don’t blame me, your Highness, for acting as I did?”

  “You could do nothing else. But I am distressed about tomorrow’s meeting and about its probable consequences. If the colonel of the 42nd were here he would put young Watkins on picquet for the next month—and that would be th
at.”

  “I shan’t kill him, sir, and I doubt whether he knows how to do any injury to me.”

  “Granted that the affair ends as you expect, the result is still unfortunate. You’ll gain no credit from punishing that child and officers of the 42nd will still tell stories to your discredit. If you should be wounded, it is worse—you being no match for a mere schoolboy. Meeting an officer of your own age would at least have ended the matter.”

  “Very true, sir.”

  “I would prevent the meeting if I could. Look—I shall ask you, Captain Bastable, to be present as a senior officer and urge the two principals to use their swords against the French. If Watkins will withdraw his words, will you agree to withdraw yours?” “Certainly, sir.”

  “Very well, then. Will you use your influence, then? I shall be very grateful to you.”

  “I shall do my best, sir,” said Bastable, “but I am not too sanguine of the result. I should be more hopeful if young Watkins had fought in several campaigns. All would agree then that his courage needed no proof. I suspect, however, that he is newly commissioned and has never smelt powder. He has still to prove himself and to offer an apology now would be no way to do it.”

  “Do your best, nevertheless,” urged D’Auvergne, and Bastable said again that he would.

  “Goodnight—and good luck!” said D’Auvergne when they parted and Delancey, thanking him, went on board the Royalist. He slept badly that night and was already awake when his servant called him at four.

  The infantry barracks, where the 42nd Regiment were quartered, stood on the headland to the north of St Peter Port. On a fine summer morning it was no hardship to walk up the lane to the green upon which the barracks fronted. A quarter of an hour brought them to the rendezvous, among the trees near the seaward end of the avenue. At daybreak both parties were there and Captain Bastable called the four seconds together, the two principals standing apart and out of earshot.

  “As the senior officer present, gentlemen, I want to urge on you the propriety of settling our difference without resort to arms. Some story has been repeated to the effect that Mr Delancey left Major Moncrieff to be killed while he himself fled, saving his life but sacrificing a comrade. I want you all to understand that this story is totally false. Mr Delancey obeyed the orders he had received from Captain D’Auvergne. I have the captain’s authority for assuring you that Mr Delancey brought the cutter away, that there was no other competent navigator present, and that the cutter without him would most probably have been lost. I must also make it clear that Mr Delancey did not escape from the French before the major had already fallen in combat. If Mr Watkins believed a story involving cowardice on the part of Mr Delancey he was completely deceived. You must accept my word for that. I come now to the events of yesterday evening. Believing this story and having drunk, I would suggest, more than he was accustomed to drink, Mr Watkins publicly accused Mr Delancey of cowardice. Words were exchanged in anger and the result was the challenge which brings us here. What I want to say is this: If Mr Watkins, knowing that he was mistaken and knowing that he acted hastily when far from sober, should withdraw his accusation, I can assure you that his explanation will be accepted. May I add that we should none of us think the worse of him? He will quit this field with his reputation untarnished and we should all agree that he had acted like an officer and a gentleman.”