French Emperor's Woman

David Bissenden

Description

It's 1871. Napoleon III is living in exile in Chislehurst Kent, after being deposed as Emperor of France following his defeat at the battle of Sedan in the Franco-Prussian War in 1870.Marie Anne, one of his many mistresses ,and mother of his illegitimate son Pierre, had arranged for her boy to be taken as a stowaway from Rouen to London, but the boy never arrivedand was allegedly last seen on a rowing boat coming ashore near Gravesend.Distraught, and suspecting foul play, she seeks the assistance of Lieutenant Colonel Charles Gordon, the Commissioner for the Thames Forts who was later to achieve fame as 'Gordonof Khartoum', who knows just the man to help and soon William Reeves, Private Investigator, is on the case.An Emperor, his mistress, a private detective and one missing boy - what secrets will the investigation unfurl?

Sujets

• Historical fiction
• Kent

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 08 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800468672
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2021 David Bissenden

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


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ISBN 978 1800468 672

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To my wife Jane, for her forbearance
Contents
Part 1
In the Shadow of Waterloo
One
Crimea
Two
My Mission
Three
Settling into Gravesend
Four
Searching
Five
The Meeting
Six
Meetings with Men of Importance
Seven
The Emperor’s Woman
Eight
The Mud Larkers
Nine
Lynch
Ten
The Brewery Boys
Eleven
Chislehurst
Twelve
Things Get Darker
Thirteen
Another Visitor
Fourteen
The Town and Country
Fifteen
Back to Marie-Anne
Sixteen
Bonfires for Waterloo

Part 2
The Emperor’s Woman
Seventeen
Another Day
Eighteen
The Boat Ride
Nineteen
Bennett
Twenty
Night Work
Twenty-One
Gordon
Twenty-Two
Marie Comes Back
Twenty-Three
Mr Bussell
Twenty-Four
On the Train
Twenty-Five
Back to Chislehurst

Part 3
Dark places for dark deeds
Twenty-Six
The Fort
Twenty-Seven
Into the Valley of Death
Twenty-Eight
Deadman’s Creek
Twenty-Nine
The Mortuary
Thirty
The Next Move
Thirty-One
Riverside Sightings
Thirty-Two
Dark Places for Dark Deeds
Thirty-Three
The Aftermath
Thirty-Four
New Starts

Part 4
Journey Home
Thirty-Five
The Hospital
Thirty-Six
The Journey Home
Thirty-Seven
The Raging Sea
Thirty-Eight
The Funeral
Thirty-Nine
Farewell to Dover

Part 1
In the Shadow of Waterloo
One
Crimea
It was June 18 th , 1855. I remember that day well, as it was exactly forty years on from the glorious victory at Waterloo. As a child I had been brought up on stories of the bravery of our troops in the Napoleonic Wars, the battle plans, victories, and triumphs. Now, aged twenty-four, I was here in person, fighting for Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. I, William Arthur Reeves – a Royal Engineer, in a far distant land.
I had joined the sappers back in 1852, just days after the death of the Duke of Wellington, with dreams of emulating his success. I was sure that a military career was for me; now I was in Crimea facing Russian troops in a bloody conflict.
We were positioned just outside Sevastopol, a town we had laid siege to for several months. Today was to have been the big push to take the town and give the Russians a bloody nose. Sadly, at this moment in time all was not going to plan. Our advances were being met by a hail of gunfire, with grapeshot from their cannon exploding all around us; tearing chunks out of grown men, making them cry like babies and weep for their mothers. Shrapnel goes everywhere, in your belly, your legs, ripping half of your face off – if it caught you right. You almost longed for a clean bullet through the heart or head. A clean end to all this.
I was hurting, something had hit my upper leg; hard, right down in the thighbone. I did not want to look, hopefully just a musket ball had glanced off it. Lucky really, it could just as easily have hit my head, but I could not move my leg anymore, so I knew that my presence on the battlefield was now pointless. I had become a liability, but retreat was not an option. So, I just lay in the mud, literally keeping my head down.
Time passed but my predicament was not improving, the pain in my leg was worsening as the initial shock wore off. Then as fear and pain tired me, one of our own, Charlie Gordon, appeared to my right and crouched down beside me.
‘Everything alright Reeves?’
‘Thigh looks like it’s caught something – bloody useless,’ I replied. Gordon was unfazed.
‘No problem, just crawl back to our first position, get it dressed. I’ll vouch for you if there’s any trouble.’
I looked back at him gratefully. Gordon was a cool customer, never seemed upset by anything, very brave in the face of fire. Some thought he was too brave, almost as if he had a death wish. But he was my saviour that day.
‘Alright,’ I said through clenched teeth, and started crawling back.
After a while, the crawl became a limping walk and within minutes, I was back at the wagons, where there might be a chance of receiving medical help. At that point, the reality of the day hit me. The few medical orderlies were totally overwhelmed by casualties. Men with limbs hanging off, and open stomach wounds. A scene of carnage. It was obvious that they would not have time for me. Almost embarrassed by my petty wound, I slunk away, using my rifle as a crutch. I found a dry area by an ammunition cart and positioned myself with my back against the wheels. I just sat there, with my bloodied leg straight in front of me, staring into space and hoping the pain would go away.
It was not long before I could hear a soft moaning from inside the cart itself. With difficulty I pulled myself up and using both hands to support my weight grasped the top of the timber side and peered over to look into it. The sight that greeted me made my hair stand on end. Lying in an almost foetal position on the timber planking of the cart was a wounded British drummer boy. Perhaps no more than fifteen. He was in full uniform with bright madder red jacket and white trousers, but from his chest down, his body was covered in his own blood and gore. I could see at a glance he would not make it. The grapeshot, or whatever, had torn his stomach open from his heart to below the navel. It was an odious sight and I could see the unbearable pain he was in. I think he was calling for his mother, his ma, but I could not be sure. Slowly his head moved, and his eyes caught mine. A look of total disbelief, pain, and incredulity was written all over his face. He stared for a few moments, mouthed the words ‘Kill me’, then his eyes closed momentarily. I looked back at him. There was absolutely no way he was going to live. So, I did my duty. I picked up my discarded rifle; took off the long bayonet, then pointed it at the drummer boy’s head. I knew my fate was to dispatch him in one clean shot, and I did this. Just before I pulled the trigger, his eyes met mine and for a brief instant – he stared at me. Then he gave the gentlest of nods. I fired; the bullet smashed through his forehead and he was gone.
At that point I realised how awful and pointless