Captain Angus Ogilvie - widower, notorious and generally feared thug, and Trinity House Elder Brother - spoke horribly accented French and worse Spanish. Despite that, here he was in the port of Cádiz, where his relentless tracking of Claude Pascal had finally landed the two of them.
What a wretched man was Claude Pascal. The spy had insinuated himself aboard one of the prison hulks in Portsmouth’s harbor, ruining far too many lives in his attempt to foul the Royal Navy’s valuable factories producing war materiel. Captain Rose, warden of Trinity House, had allowed Pascal to escape, then assigned Ogilvie to track the man and see what he planned next.
The Baltic States seemed to be full of intriguers. Ogilvie blended in perfectly well and knew enough German to get by. Thank God the Danes and Swedes spoke enough English to make life endurable.
Following an agile fellow like Claude Pascal had shaken a good stone and more off Ogilvie’s stoutish frame. In the Baltics, Ogilvie managed to quietly murder a handful of French agents – amazing what silent damage a wire could do, especially if the man wielding it had no particular problem with death.
The damage continued into the German states, where two more spies met their maker after Claude Pascal, still blithely unaware, left messages – some encrypted, some not – that went into Ogilvie’s pocket, once their brief ownership in German hands was contested by a Scot of no mean ability. Pursued and pursuer continued down the coast of western Europe.
Ogilvie had no problem understanding the idioms of France and Spain. The difficulty lay in convincing his less-agile tongue to speak the words and not have them sound like they were native to Fort William, Scotland, where he was born and reared until he went to sea.
He managed well enough. A discreet card in French or Spanish, stating that the bearer was unable to speak due to an unfortunate injury had convinced enough innkeepers, especially when he displayed the coins in his purse. If anyone appeared skeptical, all he had to do was loosen his neckcloth and exhibit an impressive scar. That it was the result of a youthful fall from a tree and looked gruesome even now, was no one’s business but his. Long practice at skulking had trained him to never stay more than one night in one place. He got by.
Past Belgium, Ogilvie headed for the coast of France, ordered there by Captain Rose to pop into northern France at Dunkerque, Calais, Ambleteuse and Boulogne to see with his own eyes if there was truth to rumors of smaller vessels under construction, the sort used to ferry soldiers across a short stretch of water like the Dover Strait. Angus Ogilvie followed orders because Claude Pascal seemed to be headed that way, too.
What he saw at Ambleteuse suggested to Angus that the French had miles to go before attacking England from the water. True, ships with masts but no rigging do look predictably disconsolate in a rainstorm.
An evening’s amble down to the dock provided more information. He never had trouble blending in with the local citoyennes, as long as he wore a cockade in his hat and didn’t shave or bathe often. “You, sir, are a nondescript sort of fellow,” the Prime Minister himself had told him once, intending it as a compliment. “The perfect spy.”
Perfect spy was no title to be proud of. There was no acclaim involved, only silence and dirty deeds. Besides, Angus suspected he was growing soft, or perhaps merely tired. Why else would he find himself, during lonely evenings, thinking so often of Portsmouth and people there who mattered to him?
Invariably his thoughts circled around to Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony, elegant fellow done in at the Battle of the Nile by the loss of a leg. How Sir B still managed to attract and win the heart and hand of Grace Croker, gentlewoman and spinster, baffled someone as realistic as Angus Ogilvie, especially since he had his eye on Grace, too.
In one dingy inn or another as he tracked Claude Pascal, Angus had too much time to reflect upon the workings of fate, never in his favor or so it seemed. Usually his rigorous Presbyterian upbringing still managed to poke through and remind Angus that he should feel more pity for Sir B, who was not healthy and who knew he was dwindling. How much pain can a man take, after all?
Sailing Master Able Six, unspeakably brilliant teacher at St. Brendan