Peninsular Spy

By N.J. Slater

In the final few months of 1808, Napoleon's efforts to subjugate Europe by military might and political guile continue unabated. His armies have conquered Portugal and Spain and now an under-resourced British Army under General Moore is floundering in its attempts to throw them out.
Archie Dexter is an undercover agent working for a shadowy section of the Aliens Office. Tasked with countering the many plots and schemes of Napoleon's vast network of spies and agents, the men of the Aliens Office operate wherever the threat is greatest, from the streets of London to the countryside of France itself and even the battlefields of the Iberian Peninsular.
Following a daring rescue mission into northern France, the agents of the Aliens Office learn of appalling acts of treachery that will seriously threaten the military capability of Britain's army. Archie and his men discover traitors plotting at the very heart of the British Army, within Horse Guards itself no less. Could it really be the case that British officers working inside the Army's headquarters have been persuaded to betray their country in support of the French cause?
With the assistance of just a small team of fellow agents, Archie must put his own problems to one side and seek out the truth. From the bustling streets of London to the desolate shoreline of the Sussex Downs, the pursuit of the conspirators will lead to the Iberian Peninsular where Archie will become swept up in the momentous events sweeping that war torn land. Crossing from Portugal into Spain, he will be forced to put his life on the line in the heat of ferocious battle in order to thwart a shocking plot designed to turn the tide of war in favour of the French cause. With vast armies comprising tens of thousands of soldiers sweeping back and forth across Iberia, the agents must hunt down one man in order to prevent disaster. From the very beginning, the price in blood will be high and along the way triumph and tragedy will compete for the final word. At every twist and turn, the plotters seem to keep one step ahead of their pursuers and with failure seemingly inevitable, the tragic consequences could change Europe forever.
In this exciting sequel to An Agent of the King the reader will be taken on an exciting roller-coaster ride as the story, woven through many actual events of the times builds to its shocking conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N.J. Slater
• Release date: Aug 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310043949

N.J. Slater

Published author from London, England specialising in authentic gritty thrillers set in the 19th Century a time of great wars and huge social upheaval.

Book preview

PENINSULAR SPY 

N.J. Slater 

Smashwords Edition

Copyright N.J. Slater 2014

Revised 2021 edition

Discover other titles by N.J. Slater

An Agent of the King

The Black Knight

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* 

PENINSULAR SPY

A pale grey, diaphanous mist hung over the still water. Gently shifting and twisting, as though a living thing, it cast tapering tendrils across the open deck of the small boat. The gentle, rhythmic sloshing of three pairs of oars dipping into the water sounded frighteningly intrusive to those working them back and forth in well greased rowlocks. With not a breath of breeze, the sails remained furled and with barely suppressed grunts of effort, three heavily built Marines propelled the boat forward with the incoming tide.

Archibald Dexter peered upwards at the faint outline of the half moon and fretted once more over how they would navigate without its comforting light. The frigate H.M.S. Salsette had long since receded into the night, leaving him with a grim feeling of naked exposure. He shivered despite being cocooned in a heavy woollen jumper and thick coat. Somewhere ahead in the gloom a bell rang out, not sounding a warning but discomforting nevertheless.

Twenty minutes passed without incident and then he caught the first faint odours of the land, damp and earthy. Through the seat of his pants he felt the tiny craft pick up speed, just as scattered lights appeared in the distance. He knew with certainty that they had now entered the river’s mouth where the shallow water raced inland on the incoming tide. A hunched figure seated in the bow, Claude Deauville, was issuing whispered instructions to the oarsmen, ensuring they avoided the treacherous sandbanks, some barely covered even by the highest of tides. Clinging unseen to the banks of the River Seine was Claude’s home town, Le Havre. Once a bustling port it now lay largely unused as a consequence of the relentless blockade imposed by Britain’s Royal Navy.  

Sitting in the stern, huddled against two other men for warmth, for perhaps the tenth time in the last hour Archie worried over the dangers that lay ahead. On paper it had seemed so simple; disembark from a blockade ship then row ten miles up the River Seine in complete darkness. That was the simple part of the plan and Archie gnawed on his finger nail, anxiety eroding his confidence. He sensed rather than saw the riverbanks closing in on them as they left the port town behind. Less than a mile ahead of them stood the bridge at Tancarville where Claude had warned them a military outpost posed a very real danger.

Archie flinched and one of his companions suppressed a nervous giggle as beyond the unseen riverbank, a cow bellowed loudly into the night. Accompanied by the gentle swish of the water at the bow and the rhythmic action of the oars, they stole onwards into the darkness. Graceful arches of the stone bridge loomed above them, the dull orange glow of a brazier on the left bank the only signs of human activity then within seconds they had passed safely through.

Claude whispered a stream of new instructions as the river swept around a long, right-hand bend and minutes later the dark riverbank materialised over them as the Marines shipped their oars. With an uncanny sense, Claude had guided them into a narrow inlet, reeds stroking their faces as the boat embedded its bow into foul smelling mud with a satisfying squelch. The Frenchman and the front oarsman leapt over the bow and pulled the boat further from the water. As they disembarked, the Marines who had rowed so hard all the way from the open sea, shouldered their guns and carrying heavy packs up the slippery embankment, took up defensive positions. After carefully picking their way along the open boat, Archie and his two companions scrambled ashore, alone with their thoughts on the perils of landing on French soil.

Claude led the way and with the moon slipping from behind a silvered cloud, the party made their way to a narrow track running parallel to the river. Archie adjusted his uncomfortably lumpy backpack and glanced back at his companions. Immediately behind him loomed the comforting figure of Tom Richardson, dressed in the uniform of a Royal Marine. Bringing up the rear was Rodney Gilchrist a quietly spoken, slightly built ex-miner from Cornwall now also in the guise of a Marine, his musket balanced uncomfortably on his shoulder.

Entering the town of Notre-Dame-de-Gravenchon, they fell into a single file march, hoping to pass as French soldiers in the unlit streets. The narrow, rubbish strewn roadway followed the riverbank for a while longer before ascending a gentle rise and turning sharply left beneath a high, whitewashed stone wall. Archie nervously fingered two prepared pistols jammed into his belt as they marched quickly across a small market square, their footfalls echoing off the granite cobbles. Snoring at the foot of large statue, a drunk slept off his excesses and from an open window came the incongruous sound of singing. Claude came to a halt and ushered them into a dark alleyway, the stench of rotting food and urine assailing their nostrils. From somewhere behind them a dog barked, ceasing after a bellowed command.

‘The prefect’s house lies at the end of this alleyway,’ Claude informed them. ‘Behind it is the old house that the Police have been using to hold prisoners. If Le Rossignol is alive then he will have been taken there, let’s just pray we aren’t too late.’ 

‘Come on let’s get this over with. If they realise who they have then they may already have either executed him on the spot or taken him to Paris.’  

Without further comment Claude led them from through the alley and approached the low wall surrounding an imposing house of three storeys, just visible in outline against the night sky. Studying the imposing building, Archie could see no lights beyond the securely closed shutters. Clambering over the wall, they scrambled through an overgrown and neglected garden, Tom almost falling into a large, ornamental pond. Ahead in the pale moonlight they could see the outline of another substantial house and Archie felt his heart leap as here the occupants were clearly not at rest, for light showed at several first floor windows.

Making his way as stealthily as possible to the building’s unseen rear, he struggled to control his ragged breathing and maintain his calm. Just twenty-four hours earlier, the agent known as Nightingale had set sail in a small fishing boat towards the blockading Royal Navy ships. In dumbstruck horror Archie had watched helplessly as a pursuing French sloop rapidly overhauled the bucking fishing boat before heavily armed men leapt aboard. Through his telescope he watched three men despatch the fishermen with long sabres before unceremoniously throwing a fourth man onto the sloop which, tacking hard against the stiff breeze, returned safely to the port. Branded suicidal by the frigate’s Captain, Archie had launched this desperate rescue mission.

Deep in the building’s shadow, Tom silently forced the lock on the back door and they slipped into a spacious kitchen. A deep orange glow pulsed within the large stone fireplace and a lingering odour of roast chicken teased their senses. Moving toward an open door, raised voices could be heard and then the peace of the night was ripped apart by a long, agonised cry. Archie drew a pistol and led the way deeper into the house down a dark, dusty corridor. At the end of a second short passage, a wooden staircase led up to the first floor and another sharp cry drew them onwards.

The staircase creaked in protest at each step the men took and dust rose into the air tormenting their nostrils. Archie approached a half open door, inching forward until he could clearly hear the conversation within. Quite fluent in French, he had no problem following the conversation as he crept closer to the opening.

‘You are a foolish young man,’ an almost effeminate, cultured voice opined. ‘We’ve known about you and your brother for many months and as we speak he’s incarcerated in a prison cell in Paris. Your English friends have abandoned you, so why do you feel you owe them your loyalty still?’ 

‘I don’t...know... what you... are... talking about,’ a strained voice whispered in response.

‘Come along...why endure all this? Who has been passing you information?’ 

‘This is taking much too long,’ a deeper voice, tinged with a guttural rural accent interrupted, hard and uncompromising. The scream that punctuated the night almost caused Archie to drop his pistol but with a deep breath and racing heart he burst into the room.

He had entered a large storeroom with a log fire blazing in the grate, a single wooden chair and a rough hewn oak table the only furniture. By the flickering orange light of the fire and the three candles on the table, he looked in horror at the agent known as Nightingale. The man in his early twenties, fresh faced with a mop of unruly dark hair was hanging naked from his bound wrists, which were tied to a hook set in a ceiling beam; his feet swung some six inches from the bare wooden floor. His spare frame was criss-crossed with deep lash marks and he twisted and turned against his bonds, his mouth wide open in a silent scream, smoke still rising from the deep burn on his stomach.

Bursting into the room, Archie looked a short, slim man in the eye as he shot him at almost point blank range, the red hot fire iron falling from his lifeless hand. A huge brute of a man standing by the fire, at least twenty stones and over six feet tall, turned with a sneer on his pockmarked face. With a swoosh Tom’s sword slid from its scabbard and moving at lightning speed he rammed the point deep into the massive Frenchman’s stomach and pushed upwards, blood pouring from the long wound onto the floor. As the man gave one last terrible pained gasp, blood sprayed from his mouth and he pulled free of the blade before keeling over into the fire, flames engulfing his already dead body.

Claude and Rodney cut the now unconscious man down and finding his ragged clothes, dressed him as best they could before half dragging, half carrying him to the landing. Tom’s pistol barked and somewhere in the darkness a body fell back down the stairs. Archie rushed down to the ground floor, his steps thudding out in the darkness. Two men emerged into the hallway; the first fired a pistol high and wide before being felled by a wild slash of Archie’s sword. The second man struggled to unsheathe his own sword but Archie knocked him to the ground before stabbing him three times in the chest. Oblivious to the man’s screams of agony they ran past him, dragging the unfortunate agent with them.

With Claude leading the way and Tom and Rodney carrying their unconscious burden, Archie clutched his second pistol and brought up the rear, constantly twisting round, searching for the inevitable pursuit. Their laboured breathing and shuffling footsteps echoed back from the dark, shuttered houses, mocking their futile attempts at stealth. As they crossed the village square, raised voices carried on the still night air and then a whistle blew its sound both shrill and urgent.

‘If they guess which way we’ve gone then we’re done for,’ Claude observed.

‘Save your breath and just run,’ Archie panted, helping to sling the unconscious man over Tom’s shoulder.

‘I reckon ‘e’ll be dead by time we get t’ boat anyway...but come on lets go,’ Tom gasped, shouldering his burden, oblivious to the semi-conscious ramblings of the young man.

Time began to play tricks with Archie as he jogged on into the darkness, stumbling on the rutted muddy track, the smell of the river now alongside them once more, strangely comforting. After what seemed an eternity to his panicked imagination, a bell began to ring out in the town behind them. They picked up their pace once again but unwittingly slowed their progress by increasingly frequent backward glances. Just as Archie convinced himself that they were being followed and would never reach the boat, Claude whistled gently and from the darkness of the overgrown riverbank, the shadowy form of Bennington, the burly Marines Sergeant emerged.

‘We’ve seen glimpses of lights back there...look,’ Bennington proclaimed, pointing in the direction of the town. Squinting into the inky darkness, Archie caught glimpses of what looked like dancing woodland fireflies but he was sure they were carriage lights.

‘Get him aboard now. Has the tide turned yet, we’re done for if not?’ 

‘It has but only just Sir...now please get that poor man aboard quickly!’ 

Despite having struggled with their burden all the way from the town, Rodney and Tom managed to get the agent onto the boat without mishap. While they slid down the slippery bank, grasping at the long wet reeds for support, voices, excited and urgent rang out from the roadway. The crash of a Marine’s musket shattered the night and was followed by a single shot in reply. Two ghostly shadows could just be seen moving forward on the road above then a second Marine fired and a body could be heard falling to the floor. The surviving Frenchman turned on his heels and scampered off into the darkness.

With urgency born of desperation they all scrambled aboard, Bennington heaving and struggling with all his might to cast the boat free of the clinging mud before leaping onto the bow. With practiced ease, the Marines positioned the oars and rowed backwards into the centre of the river before pulling with all their strength back towards the sea.

The boat picked up speed as it was taken by the current, now supplemented by the ebbing tide and propelled by the frantic yet disciplined oarsmen. From behind them on the road they all heard the unmistakable sounds of a carriage travelling at speed. Careful not to upset the heavily laden boat, Archie swivelled and watched in horror the wildly swinging carriage lights closing on them. The carriage gained ground but showed no sign of slowing, the grating clatter of its iron rimmed wheels shattering the once peaceful night.

‘Load your weapons. We must stop it reaching the bridge and warning the guards stationed there.’ 

‘If soldiers are on the bridge then we’re finished,’ Claude added unnecessarily, whilst struggling to load several of the muskets in the dark.

The carriage was alongside them now and Archie unleashed the musket Claude handed him, the recoil almost sufficient to upset the boat. Tom fired a split second later to be followed by a final shot from Claude but the small landau sped on into misty gloom, apparently unscathed.

Minutes ticked by but inevitably the ghostly form of the bridge slowly resolved itself from the shadows ahead as the moon briefly slipped out from behind the slow moving clouds. With every gun reloaded and held in shaking hands, they let the racing current take them toward the central arch, while they scoured the bridge wall for the anticipated ambush. The storm of musket balls never came and they swept beneath the bridge, the echoing sounds of their passing, briefly calling back to them and then they were through.

The ripple of musket fire from the far side of the bridge was terrifying in its unexpected suddenness. The rearmost Marine slumped over his oars with a gentle sigh and Claude let out a ragged cry, almost falling overboard as he tumbled backwards. On the floor of the boat, the French agent convulsed and cried out once more as a musket ball slammed into his back. Unable to turn and fire back, the survivors propelled the boat as quickly as they could before the French soldiers on the bridge had chance to reload.

‘Quickly, tell me... where are you hit?’ Archie asked, struggling to turn the wounded Frenchman over.

‘My back...I’m done...no more...bless you for trying.’ 

‘You’ll be fine I promise, we’ve not come this far to lose you now,’ Archie assured him whilst probing his back until he found the ragged hole, oozing sticky blood. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he pressed it hard to the wound, hoping to stem the bleeding until they reached the questionable talents of the ship’s surgeon.

They struggled on with Tom now rowing in place of the dead Marine. Claude having regained consciousness struggled to bandage his own shoulder with the torn remains of his shirt. Glancing around, Archie could just discern the faint outlines of dockside buildings as the first hint of daylight was accompanied by a stirring of breeze. Perhaps he thought, at last they might get some use from the specially rigged sail.

Thirty minutes later they raised the small sail and took the freshening breeze, giving the exhausted rowers a chance to recover their breath. Away to their rear through the grey mist of dawn, the town of Le Havre slowly emerged. The docks were largely empty save for a handful of river barges then with a sickening feeling they noticed a sleek cutter cast off and begin to unfurl its sails. The pursuit was on and there was no sign of the Royal Navy ahead of them.

‘We’re finished if they reach us before we find the Navy,’ Rodney observed with studied calmness.

‘We’re far from done yet, it’ll take them at least an hour to reach us, and Salsette will find us first I’m sure,’ Archie assured him flatly.

‘Listen to me, I’m finished... the pain inside me is too much,’ the wounded Frenchmen hissed through clenched teeth from between Archie’s feet.

‘Just hold on a little longer,’ Archie pleaded, kneeling down close to the man, now able to see the agony twisting his once youthful features.

‘No it’s finished...thank you for trying... but there are things you must know.’ 

‘Save your strength...I think I can see our ship ahead,’ Archie cried out, pointing toward the indistinct smudge of sails on the murky horizon before glancing back fearfully at the French ship, now visibly closing on them.

‘I had to risk passing a note to the courier... he was not our usual man and he betrayed us but I destroyed the message before I was taken. There are traitors in London... in your Horse Guards...one’s name is Whiting...he’ll betray your Army with the help of another turncoat on your Generals staff.’ 

‘Betray us how?’ 

‘I’m not sure... my source in the Police...told me of a man in London who is determined to impress the Emperor...by taking the life of an English General,’ the dying man concluded, a coughing fit racking his body.

‘Kill which General...who...when?’ Archie asked, lifting the Frenchman’s head up as gently as he could manage. In the cold, grey light he saw dark blood smearing the man’s lips. Taking another brief glance back over the transom, despair gripped him in its vice, they were now being rapidly overhauled by the French boat. His spirits lifted briefly when he looked over the bow and saw the Royal Navy frigate tacking hard towards them, now less than five hundred yards away.

‘They call it the Devils Lance... and say it will kill an English General.’ 

‘Who are they? Who in London...who wants to impress Napoleon?’ 

‘I don’t know...Whiting‘s the key...once he was...once he agreed...betrayal...it was all planned...and... Paris...the Emperor agreed...murder...still murder,’ the young man whispered, a cough convulsing his ruined body one last time and then he was still, his eyes wide and staring at the sky.

At just that moment the French boat opened fire. A deep rumble, like thunder on a summer’s day, echoed across the water and a cloud of white smoke enveloped the cutter’s bow. Archie felt his bowels churn and a terrible primeval fear envelope him. Subconsciously gripping his false forearm, a blind panic threatened to overwhelm him. With a surprisingly small splash the cannonball hit the water just thirty yards behind them.

‘Row for yer lives now men, come on! Damn those French bastards,’ Tom urged angrily as another crump of cannon fire shook the air.

Archie held his breath and cowered unashamedly alongside the corpse in the wet bottom of the boat. Whirring like a demented wasp, the lethal iron ball hurtled just yards above the mast before entering the sea with a staccato plop.

Once more the breeze failed them and in their panic the best efforts of the rowers was wasted. Another sharp crack rent the chilly air and the crew of the tiny boat cringed in fear as the air pulsed above their bowed heads but this time the much larger cannon ball was travelling in the opposite direction. With desperate anticipation and held breaths they watched in silence before feeling crushing disappointment as the shot splashed harmlessly into the sea a hundred yards beyond the French boat. Seconds later the French cannon fired again, with the Royal Navy frigate replying even before the French shot fell, just yards short of the rowing boat, showering its exposed occupants with icy cold water.

Archie felt his bowels loosening almost uncontrollably, utter terror gripping him as he hugged himself tightly alongside the body of the Frenchman. The Marines whoops of joy snapped him from his paralysing terror and he looked up in time to see the front sail of the French cutter collapse under the crushing impact of the cannonball. One of the sailors manning the small bow cannon was swept into the water by the falling sail as the French boat began a hard turn to starboard. Another shot rang out from H.M.S. Salsette and Archie felt his heart pound with renewed excitement, a direct hit causing splinters to fly from the French boat’s hull. 

‘You okay Archie... Archie?’ Tom shouted, genuine concern straining his voice as he continued to haul on the resisting oars.

‘Yes...yes... we’re safe now but I’m afraid Nightingale’s dead.’ 

‘Damn it all to hell... all this for bloody nowt,’ Tom groaned, exhaustion bearing down upon him.

‘I know but all’s not lost, he passed me his information just before he succumbed to his wounds. What a terribly brave man,’ Archie replied wearily.

As the Salsette bore down upon them, the French boat retreated at speed back towards Le Havre. Gently closing the dead man’s lifeless eyes, Archie took several deep breaths to steady his frayed nerves, hoping in vain that his panicked terror had somehow gone unnoticed.

* 

London, December 1808

Archie was gripped by a mood that surprised him for its generous spirit of optimism. The plane trees of Birdcage Walk stood stark and bare but for the first time in many days, the thick, choking fog had yielded to reveal an azure blue sky, though the clear, bright sun now sat lower than ever in the sky. Free of traffic as it was, this thoroughfare was an oasis of calm in the otherwise frenetic city. By night it became transformed into a dangerous and violent place, frequented by prostitutes and robbers. Many gentlemen had fallen victim to robbery or blackmail in the ill-conceived pursuit of the illicit pleasures on offer along this tree-lined promenade.

Crossing the road just ahead of a troop of light cavalry, he followed their dusty trail down to the parade square of Horse Guards. A platoon of infantry marched in fine order towards the centre of the square, the 29th Regiment of Foot he correctly identified. He recalled that they were part of a small headquarters company, the remainder of the regiment being in Portugal where they had suffered appalling losses in the summers fighting at the battles around the village of Rolica. A splendid sight they looked in their crisp white trousers and vivid red coats. With a heavy heart he knew how different it must have been for those men who had died in Portugal.

Slipping into a discrete side door of the building housing the British Army’s headquarters, he sprinted up a flight of cold, stone stairs and with a gentle knock entered a small, dimly lit office on the first floor. Six young clerks, all smartly attired in dark frock coats and possessed of an identical grey pallor and sullen expression, looked up at his intrusion before returning in unison to their scribbling. From a small, glass fronted office at the rear of the room burst a short, rotund man, exuding an energy that seemed completely at odds with the dullness of his surroundings.

‘Archie my dear friend, how in heavens are you?’ he asked, grasping Archie’s outstretched hand with a surprisingly cool and strong handshake. ’Please come in, Tomkins, coffee for my guest and I, if you please,’ he demanded before guiding Archie into his office while one of the clerks scurried from the room. ‘So what do I owe this pleasure old man?’ 

‘I need a favour with no questions asked. I know I could just go through official channels but...well you know how it is?’ 

‘I know how it is Archie, come on spit it out.’ 

‘I need to see the current roll for Horse Guards and discretely as possible!’ 

‘No problem, just other ranks presumably, so the barracks register will cover it.’ 

‘No Cyril, officers too and all the way up to Staff level.’ 

‘Okay...that’s not so easy ...just a minute I’ve an idea,’ he announced, with the satisfied smile of a bureaucrat who had justified his existence once more. Leaping to his feet he bustled out into the office and issued a string of orders to several clerks who sprinted off in opposite directions. A cadaverous young man arrived with a pot of coffee and placed the tray carefully on Cyril’s vast, highly polished desk before retiring.

The two men made small talk, reminiscing over friends alive and dead. They had been at Eton together, Cyril Hughes the swot and Archie the adventurous rogue who had watched each other’s backs in the vicious, treacherous halls of academe. Despite the cloud so obviously crossing his friend’s face, Cyril pressed on with his questions regardless.

‘How are the boys?’ 

‘They’re very well,’ Archie replied, a slight catch to his voice. ‘Their nanny’s taken them down to my parents for a while to get them away from this dreadful fog, which has of course cleared the minute they left.’ 

‘They’ll be fine you know that don’t you? With Cedric and your mother fussing over them like mother hens no harm will befall them,’ Cyril assured him,