The Trojan Horse Read online

  Chin Lee looked them over, then at Marty, and picked up a pair of three-foot-long staves normally used to teach novices how to use a sword. Marty picked up a matching pair, and the two stepped out into the centre of the deck.

  Marty adopted his usual knife fighter’s stance. Chin Lee watched him carefully, frowned, and dropped into a stance with one foot forward knee bent, the other extended behind him. He held his right-hand stave horizontally in front of him and the other high above his head at around a forty-five-degree angle.

  Marty twirled his right-hand stave to distract him and launched an attack with his left followed by a rapid series of strikes from high and low. Chin Lee blocked or deflected all of them and when Marty slightly overextended, he launched a counterattack at almost blinding speed. Marty was stretched to block, avoid, or deflect every strike.

  Unfamiliar with the deck, Chin Lee’s foot hit a ring bolt and he momentarily lost his balance enough to cause his attack to falter. Marty immediately launched into a counter, throwing feints, double strikes, thrusts, and every combination he could think of. Now it was Chin Lee’s turn to retreat and defend. Both men were sweating, the pace of the combat was unbelievable, and all the other matchups stopped to watch.

  By mutual consent, they stepped back and took a breather. Both men scored minor hits but nothing that could be deemed decisive.

  “You are very good, Captain, but your footwork needs improvement. You could have won at least three times if your balance had been better,” Chin Lee said.

  Marty eyed him curiously. “There is more to you than meets the eye,” he said, “I think you have military training.”

  Chin Lee lowered his weapons.

  “Can we talk privately?”

  Marty looked at him for a moment, head cocked to one side, then nodded. He tossed his staves back on to the stack and walked up to the quarterdeck.

  “Get back to work you lubbers, the show is over!” he called to the men still watching.

  Once on the quarterdeck, he cleared it with a look and stood by the stern rail waiting. Chin Lee caught up with him and bowed.

  “Well, what is it you want to tell me?” Marty asked, more than a little curious.

  “I was a member of the Imperial Guard at the palace in Beijing and I was under command of one of the Emperor’s nephews. He was a man of little honour, and I clashed with him a number of times. Unfortunately, I was a much better swordsman than he, and one day I caught him stealing some jewels from the Royal apartments. He drew his sword and attacked me. “

  “You killed him?”

  “That was my mistake; I just wounded him, and he accused me of being the thief. Somehow, he got one of his followers to plant some of the jewels in my room.”

  “And you had to run for your life?”

  “Yes. I signed up on an American ship that was leaving for Boston and from there, worked my way to London where your officer found me.”

  “Lucky us,” Marty said without a flicker of a smile.

  “No, lucky me. I have been looking for a man I can serve who has honour and can fight as well as I can.”

  Marty waited.

  Chin Lee bowed and said,

  “Captain Stockley, will you accept me as your humble servant?”

  Marty smiled and replied,

  “Not as a servant but as a follower and a member of the Shadows, my personal team.”

  Chin Lee looked surprised then gave him a beaming smile.

  “I will not let you down, Sir.”

  “I am sure you won’t,” Marty replied, “Now I would be obliged if you would go down there and teach my crew how to stay alive in a fight.”

  Chin Lee bowed and walked down the steps to the deck where he was greeted by the other Shadows who had guessed what was going on. Like all the rest of them he was a humble but highly skilled man and would fit in really well if Marty was any judge.

  With the addition of Chin Lee, weapons and combat training took on another dimension. Not only was he a superb swordsman but expert in close combat as well. He had the men doing what he called open handed fighting, which built upon the street fighting training that Marty had introduced. He kept it simple, showing how to use the elbow and edge of the hand to incapacitate an opponent with blows to the sternum, throat, and face.

  He asked Marty’s permission to get the Tool Shed to prototype a number of new weapons for him and showed Marty some sketches. Marty was intrigued and agreed; any new weapons that gave them an edge were welcome!

  The Alouette’s barge appeared and a message was passed by Archie Davidson that Smith had arrived. He had sealed up the mouth of the Tagus and Marty was to expect a visit in the next couple of days. It was the 10th of November 1807. To complicate matters, he received an invitation to a ball held by Prince John the following evening. The lateness of the invitation made him think Don Nuno had done some hard talking to get him invited.

  Sir Sidney didn’t visit the next day, so Marty had plenty of time to prepare for the ball. He dressed in his finest and wore gold buckled shoes instead of his everyday boots. His number one dress uniform was closely tailored to his muscular frame, which meant he had to go without his usual armoury of weapons. In fact, he felt almost naked going into enemy territory so lightly armed, he only had a garrotte wire under the ribbon of his cue with a couple of lock picks and his dress sword. He dared not offend his host by carrying more than that.

  He was rowed to the dock in his barge with its uniformly dressed rowers in their white trousers, blue striped shirts, and black tarred hats. Samuel was his cox, of course, resplendent in his white trousers and blue jacket with its silver buttons. Blaez had to stay at home.

  He was met at the dock by an open landau carriage and driven to the palace of Ajuda. He was escorted through the entrance and led up an enclosed staircase with carvings on the ceiling that zigzagged to an upper landing. This was decorated with rounded stained glass and the royal coat of arms. From there, he was led down a corridor to the ballroom, and as he entered, noted that there was an upper gallery where the musicians variously tooted and scraped their instruments opposite the entrance. The walls were covered in red silk and the ceiling had a number of panels from which hung three huge chandeliers.

  Marty was announced and made a leg to the room, which was returned by many of the guests. Two relatively plainly dressed men, who were near the Prince, stood out. French, if I am not mistaken, he thought. He was intercepted by Don Nuno, who escorted him through the crowd to be presented.

  “Your Highness, may I present Captain Sir Martin Stockley, Knight of the Bath and Baron of Candor,” he introduced him. Marty noticed that the two men beat a hasty retreat and now stood a safe distance away.

  “Your Highness,” Marty greeted him and bowed elegantly as Caroline taught him.

  “Baron, welcome!” the Prince replied with a smile and then looked at him closely. “You are much younger than I imagined the man that terrifies the French would be.”

  “Me? Terrify the French?” Marty laughed incredulously.

  The Prince laughed along and clarified,

  “Well, you have certainly frightened those two,” he said, indicating the two plainly dressed men. “They have been warning me that you are an assassin and a spy.”

  Marty laughed that off and changed the subject,

  “Prince George bade me send you his greetings and felicitations.”

  “You know Georgie?” the Prince asked in surprise.

  “I have the pleasure of being his acquaintance and sometime confidant,” Marty elaborated, only polishing the lily a little.

  The conversation was curtailed as the Prince had to receive more people as a queue was building up.

  “We must talk again at more leisure,” he said in parting.

  “Can you introduce me?” Marty asked Don Nuno nodding to the French.

  “I can, but they do not speak English,” he informed him.

  “That’s not a problem. I speak French well enough,” Marty replied.


  They moved over to the two Frenchmen and Nuno made the introduction. Marty smiled his wolf smile as he was introduced to Alexander du Font and Eric Bouchon. Du Font was the ambassador and that left Bouchon to be the spy.

  “I knew the Ambassador in Madrid, you know,” Marty told them conversationally, “Such a shame he had such nasty accident. Shot by his own gamekeeper!”

  The Ambassador visibly paled and stuttered a reply then Marty turned to Bouchon.

  “It was a shame about Messier as well. He had such a beautiful villa in Naples; it was a pity it burned down. Did he send a report before he died?”

  Bouchon blanched then went red with anger and hissed,

  “he was my friend and you will pay for his death, you bastard.”

  Marty’s smile got even more feral, and he leaned close to the fuming man and said quietly,

  “If you want to avenge him, we can duel, if you have the balls, but you must know I never leave a live enemy behind me.”

  With that, he bowed politely and walked away, leading the startled Don by the arm as if nothing had happened.

  “So, it’s true! They really are afraid of you. You know, they told us you were an assassin,” the Don said.

  Marty stopped and turned to him,

  “I am a Captain in His Majesties Royal Navy and it is my duty to cause confusion and destruction to his enemies. It just happens that I get to do it in, let’s say, less conventional ways than my brother officers.”

  The Don smiled at that and let the subject drop.

  Marty made a point of being in the eyeline of the French all evening, and every time he made eye contact with either of them, he gave them a wolf smile. Towards the end of the evening, he deliberately bumped into Bouchon, spilling red wine on his shirt. That was too much for the already angry man, who spun and swore at Marty, calling him a pig and the son of a whore.

  There were gasps from the revellers in the vicinity that spoke French and translations were quickly supplied to those who didn’t. Marty assumed a shocked expression, which turned to one of amusement,

  “Monsieur, that was quite accidental, I assure you, but as you have now insulted me and my mother, god rest her soul, I must demand satisfaction. My seconds will call on you in the morning,” and to set it in stone, he slapped the man hard enough across the face to leave a red mark.

  “He chose pistols and will meet you in the grounds of the Castle of Saint George tomorrow at dawn,” Phillip Trenchard announced on his return from meeting with Bouchon’s seconds. “He insists on supplying the pistols as well as he thinks you would cheat somehow.”

  “Then we must suspect him of cheating as well. Be very thorough when you inspect them. I wouldn’t put it past them to try and slip in a trick gun that fires backwards,” Marty concluded grimly. “I also want a sweep of the area immediately before the duel as well. Let’s be sure he doesn’t have a sharpshooter anywhere within range either.”

  He looked over to the Shadows that were gathered in his cabin.

  “You have located the Ambassador’s residence?”

  “Yes, he lives in an apartment on the third floor of the Torre de Menagem on the edge of the same garden that the duel is in,” Garai reported.

  “Within line of sight?” Marty asked.

  “Not from his apartment but certainly from the rampart,” Garai replied.

  Marty looked at him and said,

  “Be up there in the morning with Chin, and if the Ambassador shows up, give him a flying lesson. Make sure you are not seen.”

  Adam Cooper came in with a letter on a tray.

  “This has just been delivered by a midshipman from the Pompée,”

  Marty opened and read it.

  “Admiral Smith will visit tomorrow afternoon.”

  It was a cool and slightly misty morning at sea level when Marty and his seconds left for the shore. The Shadows had left the ship in the middle of the night to set up around the site of the duel to ensure there would be no interference. Garai and Chin Lee went to the tower the minister’s apartment was in.

  Marty’s seconds were Phillip Trenchard and Sergeant Bright of the Marines. He chose the sergeant because of his expertise with weapons.

  There was a carriage waiting for them when the boat pulled up at the dock steps, courtesy of Don Nuno, and they arrived in the castle grounds on time. Marty dressed for the occasion in a silk shirt open to the waist despite the morning chill, tight riding trousers, and hessian boots.

  Bouchon and his entourage were already there, along with a number of spectators from the court and a table was set up with the pistols on it. Sergeant Bright inspected both very closely, which elicited an outraged complaint from the French seconds.

  Ignoring them, he finished his inspection and pronounced them fit for purpose in a parade ground voice, making Marty smile. He then proceeded to meticulously load them, making sure the French could see his every move.

  Marty chose twenty paces separation. That is, each combatant would walk ten paces before turning and firing. It was the longer option as many duels were fought at just ten paces, which Marty thought took the skill factor out of the equation.

  The master of ceremonies, an official from the court appointed by the Prince to ensure fair play, called them to order and asked Marty if he would withdraw the challenge. He refused, and they were stood back to back.

  “On my command, you will walk forward to my count. After you have taken the tenth pace, you can turn and fire. If you turn early, I will shoot you myself. Do you understand?

  Both men acknowledged that they did.

  “Ready! One, two, three, four . . .” he counted and the men stepped out.

  “nine, ten!”

  Both turned and fired almost simultaneously.

  Marty felt a sharp pain across the front of his ribs and stepped backwards.

  He looked down.

  The bullet had cut a gash across his chest above his heart. Bouchon missed by scant inches.

  He looked toward his opponent, who stood with a fixed expression on his face, a rose of blood welling from his right side and with a sigh, folded to the ground.

  Chapter 3: Lisbon End Game

  “You killed him then,” Sir Sidney stated as they sipped a glass of madeira before having lunch.

  Marty just nodded.

  “And the Ambassador?”

  “Turned up on the roof of his residence with a hunting rifle, then discovered he couldn’t fly.”

  Smith grinned as he didn’t see this as an assassination, more as a preservation of honour.

  “When they find the body, they will assume he slipped on the roof while trying to influence the duel,” Marty concluded.

  “Excellent, we remove their influence and discredit the French in one fell swoop,” Sidney crowed happily. “And at no cost to us!”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Marty replied, wincing as he shifted position, the bandage was constricting.

  “You will heal, you have had worse,” Sidney laughed.

  “What next?” Marty asked, scowling.

  “We have the port blockaded and the Russians committed to staying neutral. So, the only concern is the Portuguese fleet. How many ships are here?” Sidney asked.

  “Fourteen Ships of the line, eleven Frigates, and seven smaller vessels that can be classified as warships and a baker’s dozen of merchantmen,” Marty replied.

  “You say the majority of the aristocracy are here in Lisbon at the moment?” Sidney reflected.

  Marty didn’t respond as he could see that Sidney was thinking.

  “What would hurt the French most?” Sidney finally asked. “Or rather, what are they hoping to get from the invasion that we could deny them?”

  Marty considered that then put his own thoughts into words. “The treasury and the personal wealth of the aristocrats Napoleon’s coffers are empty.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” Sidney agreed. “Now, how do we deny them that!”

  The next morning
, Marty was summoned to attend the Prince. This time in the throne room.

  “Baron Candor,” the Prince greeted him, looking stern.

  “You have denied me of the company of not only Monsieur Bouchon but the Ambassador as well!”

  Marty feigned surprise,

  “The Ambassador?”

  “Apparently, according to my head of security, he fell from the parapet of the tower where he had an apartment yesterday morning. Would you know anything about that?”

  “Your Highness, how could I? I was engaged with Monsieur Bouchon yesterday morning,” Marty pleaded innocently.

  “Hmm, yes, that is what everybody said. The perfect alibi.” The Prince sounded sceptical. “He was found with a hunting rifle next to his body, a very good one with a rifled barrel and calibrated sights.”

  “At the time of my duel?” Marty gasped.

  “It would appear so; the conclusion is he slipped while trying to effect the outcome.” The prince sighed, “I had assumed he was a man of honour; it would appear I was mistaken.”

  He looked at Marty then indicated he should sit.

  “They both painted you as some kind of spy and assassin, told me you had murdered the ambassador in Madrid and several people in Naples.”

  “Your Highness, I have never killed anyone but in the line of duty,” Marty stated emphatically, looking him straight in the eyes.

  The prince considered him for a moment then glanced down at his chest.

  “I hear you were wounded.”

  “A flesh wound. Just another scar to add to the collection.” Marty smiled, dismissing it as trivial though it stung like blazes at the moment.

  The conversation turned to domestic matters, the Prince enquiring about his family, children and his estates in England. He is trying to get to know me, Marty thought, as they chatted about Prince George and the twins. Eventually he asked.

  “Sir Sidney Smith, is he an honourable man? I have heard a lot about him.”

  “He is, your Highness, a gentleman,” Marty assured him.

  “Good, I have taken enough of your time today. We must speak again.” The Prince rose to leave, dismissing Marty in the process.