Perceval nodded and smiled. “We know the trade embargo must be maintained, ere the Lord of Hosts brings His chastisement to this fallen nation. As the prophet said, ‘For, behold, the Lord cometh out of his place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity.’ The Scriptures reveal the hand of God in everything which has transpired.”
“Everything, sir?” Gibson could not resist asking. “Do you contend, sir, that the Bible predicted everything, including our defeats and losses in Europe?”
Perceval’s smile never wavered. “Mr. Gibson, you will be familiar with chapter eleven of the Book of Daniel, which speaks of war between the king of the north and the king of the south. ‘So the king of the north shall come, and cast up a mount, and take the most fenced cities; and the arms of the south shall not withstand, neither his chosen people, neither shall there be any strength to withstand.’”
“Sir?”
“Wellington’s massive fortifications in Portugal—he has ‘cast up a mount,’ indeed. And Wellington will lay siege to the fortress cities. He has taken Ciudad Rodrigo, he will attempt Badajoz and Salamanca. The prophet assures us of complete victory. ‘The arms of the south shall not withstand.’”
Perceval tapped Gibson’s waistcoat for emphasis.
“This is why I resist the misguided advice, pressing upon me from all quarters, to withdraw Wellington and our forces from the field in Portugal. God will provide the victory and in the meantime, the evil scourge of Popery will be swept away in Spain. Even Napoleon is a tool in His mighty hands. The Corsican is suppressing the worst excesses of Catholicism, and throwing down the regime of the corrupt priests with their archaic superstitions, and then we, in turn, will defeat Napoleon. ‘And at the time of the end shall the king of the south push at him: and the king of the north shall come against him like a whirlwind, with chariots, and with horsemen, and with many ships; and he shall enter into the countries, and shall overflow and pass over.’”
“You are—that is, England is—the king of the north?”
“As foreseen by scripture. All will be well. Good day to you, gentlemen.”
Gibson was much struck by the light of certainty beaming from Perceval’s mild eye as he bid them both farewell. The writer followed Lord Delingpole through the busy corridors, saying nothing, until the opportunity arose for them to have a few quiet words in a gallery overlooking the lobby.
“The king is mad, your Lordship, and now I have met his Prime Minister.”
“Well yes, Perceval can be a little eccentric, I grant you, but only he was able to raise the funds to continue the war, so we need him in place.”
“With all due respect, your Lordship, he is making decisions of state, and spending almost all the national purse, upon the authority of verses written by some unknown scribe in a distant desert, some aeons ago.”
“Are you opposed then, to the prosecution of the war against Napoleon? Are you so naïve as to urge, that if we let him alone, he will leave us alone as well? You might just as well be a Whig.”
“I mean, your lordship, that when debating and arriving at the correct course of action, an Englishman expects the decision will be made by the collective wisdom of Parliament, not by one religious fanatic’s interpretation of a bit of Old Testament prophecy—so-called.”
“You speak a little too warmly, I think, sir. You do not want to join Mr. Finnerty in prison, now do you?”
“In these times, sir, any journalist who has not been convicted for libel could hardly respect himself, or be admired by his peers.”
Lord Delingpole only laughed, then nudged Gibson in the ribs and nodded in the direction of a man who was slowly climbing the steps from the lobby, closely followed by a small retinue of clerks and society ladies, who were all eyeing him with something very much like veneration.
The man was tall, and strikingly handsome, indeed, so very handsome as to cast a sort of enchantment on the observer; his looks and his air signified not merely nobility but some rare and special alchemy of genius and feeling. Gibson did not need an introduction to understand that here, he beheld George Gordon, Lord Byron. The broad brow, the dark and curling hair, and his slow progress up the stairs, owing to his misshapen foot, told Gibson everything he needed to know.
“There is that tiresome show-off Byron,” muttered Lord Delingpole, springing down the marble steps to intercept him. “I must take him down a peg. Follow me, Gibson.” And he loudly accosted the poet in the middle of the flight of stairs, so everyone above and below could hear them.
“Your Lordship!” Delingpole’s voice echoed throughout the stairwell and the lobby. “May I present Mr. Gibson, the author of the celebrated account of the West African Squadron. Mr. Gibson, I think Lord Byron needs no introduction. All of fashionable London is speaking of him.”
“Your servant, sir,” Byron inclined his head. “I have read your excellent narrative with great interest.”
“And yours, sir -” Gibson was about to politely lie in return, when Delingpole intervened.
“I recommend Mr. Gibson’s work to all my friends, and I only regret that I will never have the pleasure of reading your new effusion, sir, for I cannot bring myself to spend so large a sum on a single book.”
“You surprise me, sir!”
“Do I? How much do you pay your scribes to write out the complete poem? To say nothing of copying the illustrations. Your book must cost several hundred pounds, does it not?”
“Scribes? Sir, I do not understand you. My poem was published by John Murray.”
“John Murray? But surely he produces books
