Part 11 - Catia's Flight 1: Portsmouth, end of July 1813
Four months ago, when she came to England, the day had been bright and the dock swarming with life. Today is gray and only a few of Portsmouth Dock's usual denizens are on hand to watch the frigate cautiously approach its appointed mooring.
In much the same way, a young Portuguese Naval officer who had been loitering carelessly around the waterfront is now sidling up to a somewhat dumpy youth, who is posed on the pier with one booted foot resting on a mooring stump and the other parked by a sturdy satchel, well-packed for a short voyage. The youth is deeply engaged in getting the last few good puffs out of the end of a black cigarillo before he tosses it into the harbor.
"Bom dia, 'senhor'," the officer ventures, with a certain uplift on the honorific that is meant to be knowing but would have given the game away had any third party been near enough to hear.
Amateurs! Catia thinks, keeping her eyes on the ship, watching the dock crew begin to scramble as the vessel is being made ready to receive cargo. "Bom dia," she replies, all business, "What is the name of that fine vessel, Lieutenant?" She knows he can't be more than an ensign, if that, but flattery always works with a certain type of male.
"She is the 'Vice-Rei', bound for Lisboa on the turn of the tide, 'senhor'," the boy tells her, smirking. "Do you have passage, 'senhor'?"
"Sim, momentaneamente," she snaps. This is the proper sequence of code phrases, yet Catia is just barely holding back the impulse to knock the pest into the harbor on top of her spent smoke. She is strangely edgy, impatient with the game, much unlike her usual charming self. "What news from London?" she asks with a forced sideways twinkle.
The boy is too self-satisfied with his role as agent to the famous courtesan to notice and in a moment Catia's true, brilliant smile flickers at the report: Madame's famed establishment, set cheek-by-jowl with this Season's favored Club and Catia's home for the last couple of months, has closed. Only temporarily, it is much hoped; it seems two of the patrons had somehow overdosed on laudanum, mysteriously slipped into a heavily spiced wine served them as they caroused with their consorts pro tem. In the confusion following, a brawl had taken place among the covey as to who took possession of certain articles of clothing left behind when one of their number had unexpectedly fled...
"And the objective?" she asks, again watching the activity around the ship.
"The plates and the monies are in the hands of the English Treasury," the boy reports. At her sharp glance he continues, "The Runners were bringing in the forgers and the plates when an escape was attempted and there was a street riot. The courier with the counterfeit money got caught in the riot but all the evidence is under lock and key now, neat and tidy. Everyone is very happy."
"And the courier?" Catia's low voice is tight, honed.
The boy actually shrugs. "Injured, I heard," he says, casually, "perhaps in a hospital somewhere – or dead. It matters not."
"Find him."
The tone snaps the officer out of his chummy, maybe soon-to-be-chummier attitude, "S-senhora?" He stares. The danger in her eyes knocks all the nonsense from him in a trice.
"You will find out where he has been taken, what condition he is in," she orders, menacingly. "I will arrange matters with the captain. Report back to me here before the 'Vice-Rei' leaves port or your career is over. Go!"
For an instant the boy considers protesting that they are only talking about an Englishman but instead he stammers an acknowledgement and starts away, not quite knowing what to do or where to start.
Behind him, Catia takes a few steadying breaths. There is no use in denying it any longer – she has broken the first law of two of her professions: she has allowed her heart to interfere with her work.
It is time, she tells herself. In 1807, when the despised Junot and his marauding French had first breached Lisboa, they had made port only to see the distant sails bearing Prince João and his court to the safety of Brazil, where Napoleon and his soldiers could not hope to follow. Now Catia is the one left on the shore, watching the sails of her old career disappear over the horizon.
She must begin to plan. Now.
END – part 11
*S/P notes: Bom dia = good morning, momentaneamente = momentarily, in a moment.*
**ffh notes: A 'covey' was one of the more genteel collective nouns for a house full of prostitutes.
General Jean-Andoche Junot (1771-1813), Napoleon's ambassador to Portugal in 1805, leader of the 1807 First Invasion, was defeated at Vimeiro on 21 August 1808 and escaped by means of the infamous Convention of Sintra with all his plunder. He was never granted a marshal's baton.**
