Chapter 5
In the secluded shadows of his book-lined library, Lord Kildare, Duke of Sudeley, passed a knife from one hand to another.
The blade of the knife was very fine, the edges of its length slightly bevelled.
It caught the light as he turned it. It came to him how cruel it could be for something so beautiful.
This knife – this stiletto – could kill a man. He knew this for sure.
The sombre voice of the library clock, a monstrous affair of polished mahogany and gleaming brass, reminded him that time was marching on.
In his desk drawer, he kept a chronometer, a wonderful piece of equipment that measured time in order to predict lines of longitude.
He used it to work out the whereabouts of His Majesty’s ships – dependent on wind and tides, of course.
A very new invention and quite wondrous in its accuracy.
He kept the desk drawer open. He had a task to carry out, a duty to perform.
Carefully, he aligned the bottom edge of the book with the edge of the desk so that it received the full benefit of the remaining daylight.
Holding the knife in his right hand, he lifted the page depicting a pair of birds whose tails were longer than their bodies.
The book had only arrived from London yesterday, courtesy of a very close friend of an elder statesman. Like him, the old man displayed an interest in ornithology – on the surface at least.
He couldn’t help smiling at the sight of those birds and what they represented to him – even more to the impression his interest gave to the outside world.
He loved birds. He was slightly eccentric.
That’s what they all thought, and he played it to his own benefit.
Few knew that inside there lurked a man of shadows and secrets. And that was the way it must be.
His sensitive fingertips felt the differences in page thickness. One page was much thicker than the others and the one that he was looking for.
Whilst supporting the page in his left hand, he very carefully ran the slim blade along the bottom edge, placed the knife back on the desk and slid his fingers into the gap.
Because the piece of paper was thick, it had only been folded in half once.
Unfolding it carefully, his eyes followed each badly written sentence.
Lord Alexander Kildare disliked the content of the letter so much that finding fault with it was something of a diversion.
The writing, although legible, looked rushed.
It irritated. He was a man of perfection.
Deep down, he could guess the haste in which the note had been written.
The writer would have been in great danger, afraid of being seen, keen to write this out of sight.
Somehow, a secret moment had been snatched, enough time in which to scribble it down.
He pursed his lips, clinging on to his vexed disapproval like a dog would a bone, uncaring that sweat had beaded on his forehead and that his skin felt icy cold.
It was hardly the first time he’d suffered such a reaction.
It wasn’t the first time he had mapped a scenario in his mind like the scenes on a chessboard.
And that indeed was exactly what constituted the wheeling and dealing of the world at large.
International politics was a dirty game. Frightening too.
Field Marshal Wellesley was the first to enter the room and without being invited to sit down, did so anyway.
It was not the first time they’d met and he knew Wellesley’s history off by heart; Indian army commission, then a swift rise through the ranks.
The man was a natural-born soldier and leader, a strikingly original strategist, a man to be reckoned with.
Napoleon had found that out. The two were well matched, but could he persuade him to leave Bonaparte’s defeat to somebody else, switch horses and take charge of the American War?
Mention was made of the weather, the prospect of a poor harvest and civil unrest, whilst the duke poured two glasses of port.
Once they’d clinked glasses and toasted the king, the duke got to the point.
The field marshal listened politely – too politely.
The duke knew the answer even before it was spoken. The answer was no.
‘And your reason?’
‘Ah yes. The king will require a good reason.’
Wellesley held aloft his handsome head, his expression proud, his nose hawk-like, almost fit for tearing an enemy limb from limb. The duke considered it not beyond the man’s many amazing attributes.
‘I believe Napoleon to be a greater threat to this country than a former collection of colonies. I also feel the Canadians, along with their Indian allies, are perfectly capable of defending their decision to remain loyal to the Crown. Nobody is forcing them to remain loyal and they have made clear their self-determination. The best armour possible in battle is the fact you are fighting on home soil for home soil. Mark my words, a treaty will be signed. All will be peace again.’
Alexander studied the most able man in the British army with renewed respect. He’d thought the man to be ignorant of the North American situation. It seemed he was wrong.
‘So you know the Canadians have refused overtures from the thirteen states of the American union.’
‘I am aware of that. I am also aware that a promise has been made to the native population, principally to a chief named Tecumseh, to establish an independent state, a federation of all Indian tribes.’
‘You approve?’
Wellesley nodded slowly, a defiant tilt to his chin, a forthright look in his eyes. As though he’s my equal, thought the duke. It crossed his mind that if Wellesley continued with his military successes, he might well become a duke!
‘In my opinion, this small war in the Americas will never become as deadly as the former war when they gained their independence. They have a nation to build. Why bother trying to persuade their northern neighbours to join them? Trust me it will peter out.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
The newly promoted field marshal got to his feet, an imposing figure overshadowing the duke by quite some height, even when he too was standing.
‘I take it you have somebody there on the inside,’ said Wellesley, more of a question than a statement.
‘It is in hand,’ returned the duke, displaying a confidence he didn’t really feel. His man in America was of dubious reputation and unreliable loyalties, but unfortunately the only agent he had.
* * *
By the time Ethan MacKinnon entered the room, the field marshal had taken his leave.
The heavy tome displaying details and coloured plates of the most beautiful birds in the world had been placed to one side.
After one last glance and a last thought to its provenance, the stiletto was safely returned to its place in the drawer.
Ethan MacKinnon waited patiently until the footman had been dismissed and the door was tightly closed behind him. With silent precision, he stalked across to the handsome walnut desk until he could feel its hard edge against his thighs.
The duke was sitting behind it, almost as solid as the desk itself, but more challenging.
Like a sentinel, thought Ethan, and in a way he was.
The world saw the aristocrat, features and property handed down through generations of steely loyal forbears.
Few knew of how powerful he really was, a mover and shaker behind the throne itself.
Without acknowledging his visitor, Lord Kildare read through the note for a second time.
MacKinnon waited as long as he cared to. Silence served to tell him that the prognosis was not good.
‘Is it as we feared?’
Lord Kildare nodded, his generous lips pursing into a bitter moue.
‘The French and the Americans. A marriage made in hell – or it would be if the French had their way! I’ve spoken to Wellesley.
He declines intervening personally. I suppose he’s right.
Europe is on our doorstep. The Americas are thousands of miles away and, as he’s pointed out, the majority of former settlers are keen to expand further west – populate their new land without looking backwards. ’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you. Our fledgling states are united, but there are other more pressing matters than making war.
We need to establish a strong economy. I have tobacco to sell onto the London market.
There are others of the same mind. Vicious as it was, we need to put the War of Independence behind us.
We have a sparkling future. I’m sure of it.
However, the French would prefer your forces to be divided.
Bonaparte wants Europe and as much of North America as possible.
It’s in his interest to keep hostilities alive. ’
The duke respected MacKinnon, but did he trust him? He wasn’t sure. Although MacKinnon declared himself British, there was no doubting his enthusiasm for the emerging United States. However, even if he played for both sides, he could still be useful. Double agents always were.
In the meantime, he pronounced his agreement with his evaluation.
‘I fear you are right, MacKinnon, but it isn’t for me to send more military aid or our most able general – the field marshal. Anyway, he won’t go. All I can do is gather information that might help put an end to all this.’
Ethan looked over the older man’s head to the parkland beyond the window.
A handsome parkland, full of deciduous trees, rich grass and grazing deer.
It reminded him of his plantation in Virginia.
How he loved the place. More so than his ancestral home in Scotland.
Glen Dirk Castle was a gaunt, grey-stone place overlooking a loch and surrounded by acres of forest that turned red and gold in autumn on slopes that made them seem as though they were tumbling down towards the water.
‘Our country is new. We want this to end. Will you convey our wishes to London?’