'Linking Mantes to Caen is only the first half of the project. The next stage is to build a railway from Caen to Cherbourg. We would be bidding for the contract to extend the track for that extra ninety miles or so. If we blot our copybook on this venture,' he said with a frown, 'then our chances of securing that contract will be slim.'
'Caen to Cherbourg?' asked Colbeck.
'Yes, Inspector.'
'That would provide a direct link between Paris and the dockyard at Cherbourg.'
'More than the dockyard – they have an arsenal there.'
'That's exactly what I was thinking.'
'Of course, it will take time to build,' said Brassey. 'At a rough guess, we'd not even be starting for another three years. The engineer I'd most liked to have had on the project was Gaston Chabal.'
'Why?'
'His surveys were brilliant and, being French, he got on well with local people while he was there. Gaston's preparatory work on the current railway helped us to land the contract and – because of its accuracy – saved us a lot of money in the process.' Colbeck seemed to have gone off into a reverie. 'Did you hear what I said, Inspector?'
'Every word, Mr Brassey, every single word. I was also reminded of a remark you made a little earlier.'
'Oh – and what was that?'
'You told me that you never expected to be accountable to a man called Napoleon.'
'Well, we fought for so many years against his namesake.'
'Precisely,' said Colbeck. 'Imagine how much more danger we would have been in if Napoleon Bonaparte had had a rail link between Paris and a huge arsenal on the tip of the Normandy peninsular. In that event,' he went on, stroking his chin reflectively, 'you and I might well have been having this conversation in French.'
Victor Leeming was afraid. He was so accustomed to physical violence that, as a rule, it held no fear for him. Most criminals resisted arrest and it was necessary to overpower them. It was an aspect of his work that he enjoyed. But he was now locked into a very different kind of struggle, one in which he had no place to be. Along with over two hundred wild Irishmen, he was trudging across the fields toward the farm where the French navvies had set up their camp. Leeming had sent warning of the attack to Thomas Brassey but he could not see how the contractor could possibly stop it. Carried along by its own momentum, the drunken mob was bent on what it saw as justified revenge. Leeming felt as if he were trapped on a runaway train that was heading at top speed towards a fatal collision.
'Isn't this wonderful?' said Kilfoyle alongside him.
'Yes, Liam.'
'We'll teach them a lesson they'll not bloody well forget.'
'Whose idea was it?' asked Leeming.
'Eh?'
'Launching this attack on the French. Who first thought of it?'
'What does it matter?'
'I was interested, that's all. Was it Shannon?'
'Pierce is one of the leaders,' said Kilfoyle, 'but I fancy it was someone else who made the decision. Pierce just went along with it like the rest of us.' He let out a cackle. 'Oh, we need this so much, sure we do. We've not had a proper fight for months.'
'What will Mr Brassey do?'
'He can't do anything, Victor.'
'I don't want to lose my job over this,' said Leeming, worriedly. 'I've got a family to feed back in England.'
'Your job is safe – and so is mine. That's the reason we stick together. Mr Brassey knows which bloody side his bread is buttered. He can't sack all of us, or the rest of the Irish would walk out.'
'Safety in numbers, eh?'
'Only for us, Victor – not for the French.'
'How many of them are there?'
'Who cares? One Irishman is worth four of the buggers.'
'What about me?'
'You're the fella who knocked Pierce to the ground,' said Kilfoyle, admiringly, 'and I've never seen anyone do that before. You'll have to be in the front line. Pierce wants his best men at his side. Get yourself a weapon, man.'
'Why?'
'Because the French won't be fighting with bare hands, that's why.' He thrust the pick handle into Leeming's palm. 'Here – have this. I'll use my knife instead and poke out a few eyes with it.'
There was no turning back now. Victor Leeming was part of a ravening pack of Irish wolves that was closing in on their prey. They could smell blood. Shannon pushed through the crowd.
'Come on, Victor,' he urged. 'We need you for the first charge.'
'I'm here,' said Leeming, holding up his pick handle.
'Let's see who can open the most French skulls.'
'Where's the camp?'
'Just over the brow of the hill. In a few more minutes, we'll be haring down on them to massacre the bastards.' He punched Leeming on the shoulder. 'Are you ready for a fight?'
'Ready and willing, Pierce.'
Leeming spoke with more confidence than he felt. He was not merely facing the prospect of injury, he was taking part in a criminal act. If the superintendent ever discovered that he had been party to an affray, he would chew Leeming's ears off. The sergeant was glad that he was well out of Edward Tallis's jurisdiction.
Shannon took him by the arm and dragged him to the front of the marchers. As they went up the hill, Leeming began to have more and more misgivings. He rarely criticised Colbeck's methods but this time, he believed, the inspector had been mistaken. In making his sergeant work as a navvy, he had exposed him to dire hazards. Yet Leeming could not break ranks now. The brow of the hill was only thirty yards away. Once they were over it, there would be carnage.
Then, out of the dark, three figures appeared on the top of the hill. Silhouetted against the sky, they were an imposing trio. Even in the half-dark, Leeming recognised Colbeck, standing in the middle, with Thomas Brassey beside him. He could not identify the third man. Colbeck took out a pistol and fired it into the air. The Irishmen stopped in their tracks.
'That's as far as you go tonight, gentlemen,' said Brassey.
'Why?' demanded Shannon.
'Because I say so – and so does Father Slattery.'
'Yes,' said the priest, stepping forward and raising his voice so that all could hear. 'It's a pity that some of you don't come to a church service with the same kind of enthusiasm. When you want a fight, there's no holding you. When I tell you to join me in fighting the Devil, then it's only the bravest who show their faces.'
'Out of our way, Father!' shouted Kilfoyle.
'I stand here as a representative of Roman Catholicism.'
'I don't care if you're the bleeding Pope!' cried someone.
'The French are Catholics as well,' returned Slattery. 'Would you attack your own kind?'
'Go back to your camp,' ordered Brassey. 'There'll be no brawl tonight. The French are not even here,' he lied. 'They were forewarned to pull out of their tents and shacks.'
'Who by?' called Shannon.
'Me. And I didn't do it to save your skins. Some of you deserve to take a beating – it's the only way you'll see sense. I did it so that you could keep your jobs. This gentleman here,' he went on, pointing at Colbeck, 'is M. Robert, assistant to the Minister of Public Works.' Colbeck raised his hat to the mob and produced a barrage of jeers. 'Before you taunt M. Robert, let me tell that he's empowered to revoke our contract if he decides that we are not able to fulfil it peaceably. I don't think anyone could construe an invasion of the French camp as a peaceful act.'
'Had you firebrands insisted on a fight,' said Slattery, taking over, 'you'd not only have been sacrificing your
