The Trojan Horse Read online

  Now, where were the impounded British merchantmen? He looked to the South and East and couldn’t see any. Then he swung his glass to the Northeast and spotted a union flag flying from the mainmast of a ship moored where the Lisbon shore swung around to the North.

  He returned to the deck and was marking the location of all the different elements on a chart when Midshipman Hart reported,

  “Sir, the lookout has reported that there is a boat approaching from the direction of the Russian ships.”

  Marty stepped over to the rail and lifted his telescope to his eye. It was a new one the children gave him for his birthday that year. It had beautifully clear lenses and a ten times magnification.

  “Looks like we have a delegation approaching,” he informed the quarterdeck as he saw a pair of ornately uniformed officers in the stern of the cutter heading straight at them. “Prepare a side party to greet an Admiral.”

  Marty went down to his cabin where his steward, Adam Cooper, already had his dress uniform with his honours sash laid out on his cot. He quickly changed; thankful he had shaved that morning. Blaez woke up and looked on with interest. He had learned that when Marty changed clothes during the day, something interesting would happen.

  “You behave yourself and don’t bite the nice Russian gentlemen,” Marty told him as he adjusted his dress sword.

  He heard the hail from the side party as the boat approached and went up on deck, Blaez at his side. Thankfully, it was not raining, and the sun was forcing itself out between the clouds.

  Two officers came up the side and doffed their hats to the quarterdeck. Marty recognized one as an admiral and the other, a captain.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. May I present Captain Sir Martin Stockley,” Ackermann greeted them and introduced Marty.

  Both men bowed, and the captain introduced them,

  “Good morning. May I introduce, Admiral Senyavin of the Russian Imperial Navy and myself Captain Boycov.”

  Marty shook their hands and invited them to join him in his cabin.

  “Now gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Marty asked once they were all seated.

  The Admiral accepted a cup of coffee from Cooper and eyed Blaez,

  “That is an impressive dog, Sir Martin. I am not familiar with the breed. Tell me, where is he from?” The admiral enquired in almost perfect English.

  “He is a Dutch Herding dog, an extremely loyal and protective breed,” Marty replied, patting Blaez on the head.

  The admiral nodded then looked Marty in the eye.

  “How is my friend Admiral Collingwood?” he asked.

  “He was well the last time I saw him. May I ask; where do you know him from?” Marty replied.

  “We met in the Aegean during the joint action against the Turks. I saw him last in August.”

  Marty nodded and waited for the admiral to get to the point of his visit.

  “I find myself in an awkward position,” he stated. “My country has signed a peace treaty with France, which I do not agree with, and I believe you are the vanguard of British fleet to blockade the Tagus, which politically puts me in the position that I should fight you.”

  “But that is not what you want to do?” Marty surmised.

  “Exactly. For one thing, I think such an action would just result in the destruction of my ships and achieve nothing. For another, I don’t want to fight those I see as my natural ally.”

  “I assume you have a proposal?” Marty asked.

  “Yes. I understand that as an enemy of the British by treaty, we will not be allowed to leave the Tagus. Therefore, I will declare my ships and men as neutral in the conflict between the British and the members of Napoleon’s coalition over Portugal. We will stay at our anchorage and not interfere or aid either side.”

  Interesting, Marty thought, If you stay where you are, we won’t be able to burn your ships without risking the magazines going up and destroying half of Lisbon.

  “I will inform Admiral Smith of your intent and send a message to Admiral Collingwood to inform him as well. I am sure Admiral Collingwood will be happy to hear from an old friend,” Marty replied, knowing he couldn’t do more.

  “Now, may I offer you something stronger to drink so we may toast our ongoing friendship?”

  The Russians left the ship after a good lunch specially prepared by Rolland. Marty could see why Collingwood and Senyavin were friends. The man was intelligent, entertaining, and charming.

  Now he needed to get things done.

  He called Phillip Trenchard, “Take a boat and visit the British Merchantmen to ascertain the conditions under which they were being held.”

  Then he called for his Captain of marines, “Paul please dispatch a number of scouts to find out where the French and Spanish are and when they will arrive. Delay them if possible and set up a signal chain to get the warning back with all possible haste, but don’t get into an open fight,” he ordered.

  Marty settled at his desk to write letters and reports. Sam came in, opened his weapons chest and started to service the contents. Sam was the only person he trusted to do that besides himself and Tom, his former cox who had retired now. His presence, and efficiency in performing the task, settled him.

  He braced himself and got his head down. He wrote in a fine copperplate script that would be the envy of many clerks and didn’t need to be rewritten to make fine copies. He would have them copied for the record, of course, but the originals would be the ones that were sent. After his clerk returned them, he called for Midshipmen Williams and Hart, who arrived as he finished sealing them into waxed paper packets.

  “Mr. Williams, I would be obliged if you would deliver these to Commander Thompson on the Eagle. Please give him my compliments and tell him the letter for Admiral Smith is to be delivered as soon as the Fleet arrives. He is to sail to Gibraltar to deliver the other to Admiral Collingwood.” Williams took the packets and touched his forelock before exiting.

  “Mr. Hart, I have a riskier enterprise for you.”

  Hart’s face lit up in anticipation as any mission Marty classified as risky was bound to be fun.

  “You are to sail over to Lisbon under a flag of truce and deliver this dispatch to Prince John himself. Do not allow anyone else to see it, especially the French. Am I clear?”

  “Aye, aye, Sir!”

  “Take Antton, Matai, and two marines as escorts. Conduct yourself as an ambassador and do not let palace officials divert you in your mission.”

  Marty handed him the letter, which was closed with both the Navy fouled anchor and his personal seal.

  “Remember to use my full title, which is?”

  “Captain Sir Martin Stockley, Baron Candor.”

  Marty frowned as he considered this then suggested,

  “Make that, Captain Martin Stockley, Knight of the Bath and Baron of Candor. Sounds more impressive. He is a prince and will be sensitive of status.”

  Hart nodded, memorizing the title and getting himself into the persona of an emissary of a Lord. He stood a little taller, and his face assumed a slightly haughty expression.

  Marty looked him up and down. He was in his best uniform, which was brand new and never been worn before.

  “You look ready, so get to it younger,” he dismissed him and settled down to catch up on the ship’s paperwork.

  Stanley Hart sat in the centre of the cutter as he was pulled to a point on the docks close to the building they observed flying the Portuguese royal flag. They flew a white flag on the mast.

  Antton was cox and Matai was bow man; both were dressed in their best matching uniforms. Two enormous marines, resplendent in full uniform, made up the other element of his escort.

  He had taken a leaf out of Marty’s book and had two concealed knives hidden under his uniform to supplement his midshipman’s dirk. He was now fifteen years old and had already killed men in close combat. He was trained in hand-to-hand fighting as well as fencing and knife fighting by Marty, la Pierre, a
nd the Shadows. He was a better than average shot with pistol and musket and could stand with the best of them.

  The boat bumped up to the steps on the dock. Matai stepped ashore to tie the bow line off to a mooring ring, then he held the boat so the Marines and Antton could step off followed by Stanley.

  An official looking man with a squad of soldiers was waiting for him at the top. He said something in Portuguese, and Stanley just looked at him. The man stepped forward and Matai put his hand on his chest and said something in Spanish then repeated in English.

  “Mr. Hart is an emissary from the Baron of Candor to His Highness Prince John. Please escort us to His Highness immediately.”

  The marines looked at the soldiers belligerently, and they glared back in turn. Stanley stood impassively as though it was all beneath him.

  The official looked from the Marines to the white flag still flying from the mast and decided this was above his competence level; he would pass it on to the next in the chain.

  They were escorted down the docks to a building facing the waterfront. Inside, they were greeted by an official who spoke English.

  “I understand you have a message for Prince John. Give it to me, and I will take it to him,” he offered pompously.

  Stanley looked down his nose at him and replied,

  “My orders are to speak directly to the Prince and the Prince alone. I must insist that you take me to him immediately.”

  “That is impossible. We are at war with England and you are in no position to insist on anything,” he replied angrily.

  “What is your name?” Stanley asked.

  “Why do you want to know that?” the official answered belligerently.

  “So I can tell His Highness who delayed the communication of Baron Candor’s message.”

  The man blustered and looked even more stubborn when the door opened, and a richly dressed man walked in. He wore a fancy hat adorned with feathers and carried a gold topped cane. His coat was decorated with gold thread and his shirt with lace.

  “That will do. I will take this from here,” he said in English with a distinct Oxford accent. He turned to Stanley.

  “I am Don Nuno Caetano Álvares Pereira de Melo, Duke of Cadeval. How may I be of assistance?”

  Stanley bowed deeply, making a leg and replied,

  “My Lord, I have a message from Captain Martin Stockley, Knight of the Bath and Baron of Candor for his Highness Prince John, which I am instructed to deliver to his hand alone.”

  “Do you now?” the Don replied thoughtfully, “then you had better come with me.”

  The official stood red faced with embarrassment and anger at being so abruptly overruled, and the Don looked at him and said,

  “Put you ruffled feathers away, Avila. This is way above you, no matter how ambitious you are,” and to Stanley,

  “Shall we?” as he led them out of the door.

  He brought him to a carriage,

  “I am sorry there is no room for your men, but I will guarantee your safety if you would leave them here.”

  Stanley knew this would be a matter of honour for the Don, so he agreed and instructed the men to stay with the boat.

  “May I ask where you learned your English, Sir?” Stanley asked as the carriage rumbled along.

  “I was educated at Wadham college in Oxford. That was where the famous architect Christopher Wren was educated. I am a supporter of our historical ties with Britain and against the foolishness with the French. I knew the former Baron Candor, who I remember as an elderly man with a beautiful young wife and no children.”

  “Captain Stockley married Lady Candor after the old Baron died and the King allowed them to keep the title.”

  “Interesting and unusual. He must be an exceptional man,” Don Nuno observed. “I would like to meet him myself.” He kept up a running commentary of the buildings they passed, probably to stop Stanley asking questions.

  They pulled up in front of the Ajuda palace, a grand baroque-Rococo building in the neoclassical style. What struck Stanley was the lack of a military presence. There were a few soldiers wandering around but nothing to suggest there was a French invasion force approaching.

  Don Nuno noticed him looking.

  “You are looking for our army? I am afraid both the government and our Monarchy are in a state of panic and confusion at the prospect of a French invasion and do not know what to do. The army has not been mobilized nor will it be, I fear.”

  They entered through the columned entrance and walked down a cool corridor to a room with a cupola held up by plain columns with Corinthian capitols and a parquet floor.

  “If you will wait here, I will announce you and arrange for you to meet the Prince in private,” instructed the Don.

  Stanley waited and kept from worrying by examining the artwork around the room. After around twenty minutes, the door opened, and Don Nuno entered followed by another man. He was quite portly and richly dressed in a red coat with numerous honours pinned to it, a multicoloured sash, and a ribbon around his neck with a silver and gold pendant hanging from it. His face was round, lips a little over full, and he wore a tight white wig.

  “Your highness, may I introduce Midshipman Hart, the personal emissary of Captain Stockley, Knight of the bath and Baron of Candor.”

  The Prince nodded to him said,

  “I apologize for meeting you here in this ante room, but Don Nuno insists we have our meeting out of sight and sound of the many French ‘diplomats’ present in the palace.”

  “Your Highness,” Stanley bowed deeply in reply and held out the letter from Marty.

  The Prince looked at the seals then broke open the envelope. He read it and showed it to Don Nuno.

  “Do you know the content of this letter?” asked the Prince.

  “No, your Highness,” Stanley replied.

  “Please tell your captain I understand and appreciate his warning, but I believe the French will treat my family honourably.”

  With that, he turned and left the room.

  Don Nuno came upright from his bow and sighed with a shake of his head.

  “He still believes the French are honourable, my God he is deluded.”

  “Sir, my captain asked me to find out if there were any particular French that were influencing the Prince,” Stanley asked.

  “Did he, now? Well, the ambassador, of course, but there is another who has the Prince’s ear. His name is Eric Bouchon and I believe he is a member of French Intelligence and a spy. He is very persuasive and whispers in the Prince’s ear constantly. Now the other part of your captain’s request was an invitation to dine with him on his ship. That will not be possible, but I can arrange for him to attend a ball here in the palace. Now I will escort you back to your boat.”

  Marty took Stanley’s report and thanked him. He’d achieved what he wanted and that was to find out who the French had influencing matters in the Portuguese court. His letter contained a warning to the Prince that the French sought his and his family’s lives and that they had commenced their march on his country. The invitation to dinner also reaped rewards because if he attended the ball, the chances were the French would too and he could put some faces to names.

  Lieutenant Trenchard was announced and entered.

  “I have my report on the British merchantmen, Sir,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Marty commented and indicated he should proceed.

  “There are seven being detained, all are moored in the quarantine area and have a contingent of Portuguese soldiers on board. As far as I could see, there are around five guards per ship plus a pair of guard boats circling them. I was only allowed to board one of the ships, the Arabella out of Newcastle, and according to her captain, Masters, the Portuguese are treating them decently, but they are restricted to their ships. He wanted to know what the Navy was going to do about it.”

  “Interesting; and what is the general condition of the ships?”

  “All look to be in fair condition and able
to sail at short notice. Here is a list of the ships and the names of their captains I got from Masters. The list of ships is correct as I checked the names when I rowed around them.”

  “How did the guard boats react to you?”

  “Largely ignored us as long as we didn’t get too close to the merchantmen. We were waved away once when we got within 20 yards of one.”

  “Thank you, Philip. That is all useful information,” Marty concluded and dismissed him.

  There was not much Marty could do now until he received an invitation to the ball or Smith arrived with his fleet and rather than worry, he decided to hone his weapons skills.

  Normally, he wanted to test all the new men himself or have at least one of the shadows do it, and that afternoon he was feeling in need of exercise. He went up on deck dressed in an old set of clothes and his weapons harness.

  He chose his first opponent from the new men, Billy Thatcher, a Bristol man who escaped the gallows by joining the Navy. The charge? Stealing a side of beef and battering a sheriff’s man half to death when they caught him. He told the judge he stole the beef to feed the many poor people around the docks as the butcher wouldn’t even donate his offcuts. He was sentenced to deportation or the Navy.

  They faced off with wooden practice swords and soon, the two were working up a sweat. Billy had some skill, but Marty pulled a couple of sneaky tricks from his repertoire and soon had him on his backside. He pulled him to his feet and passed him to Garai to teach him some close quarters fighting techniques.

  Another of the other new recruits Ryan brought back from London on their last recruitment drive was a China man. He was short, stocky and had proven to be a lot stronger than he looked. His head was mostly shaved except a long cue that hung down in a plat from the middle of his cranium. He spoke English with an accent that was a combination of Chinese and Bristol, had a dry sense of humour and a keen sense of observation.

  Marty beckoned him over and the man, who called himself Chin Lee, stepped forward.

  “What is your preferred weapon?” Marty asked, indicating the selection of practice weapons.