Then, as the horsemen moved off, I listened to what she suggested we do next. Curse or no curse, my journey to Toulon had taken a decided turn for the better.
‘Show me what they do in Egypt,’ I whispered to her.
CHAPTER FIVE
One month later, on May 19 ^ th, 1798, I stood on the quarterdeck of the French flagship L’Orient, 120 guns, not far from the shoulder of the most ambitious man in Europe. Together we and an assembly of officers and savants watched the majestic parade of 180 vessels putting out to sea. The Egyptian expedition was under way.
The blue Mediterranean was white with sail, the ships heeling in the face of a fresh breeze, and the decks still gleamed from the aftermath of a gale we hoped would keep a rumoured British squadron at bay. As the ships bit into the swell past the harbour entrance at Toulon, foam gave each bow a set of teeth. Military bands had assembled on the foredeck of the biggest ships, their brass instruments sparkling, and they competed with each other in noise as they sailed past, playing French patriotic tunes. Cannon from the city’s fortresses boomed a salute, and thirty-four thousand embarked soldiers and sailors gave thunderous cheers as their vessels scudded by Bonaparte’s flagship. He had issued a bulletin promising each of them enough spoils to buy six acres of land.
This was only the beginning. Smaller convoys from Genoa, Corsica’s Ajaccio, and Civitavecchia in Italy would add more French divisions to the Egyptian invasion force. By the time we mustered at Malta there would be four hundred ships and fifty-five thousand men, plus a thousand horses, hundreds of wagons and field artillery, more than three hundred certificated washerwomen expected to provide other morale-building services, and hundreds more smuggled wives and concubines. Aboard as well were four thousand bottles of wine for the officers as a whole and eight hundred choice ones from Joseph Bonaparte’s personal cellar, brought to help his brother entertain. Our commander had also packed a fine city carriage with double harness so he could survey Cairo in style.
‘We are a French army, not an English one,’ he’d told his staff. ‘We live better on campaign than they do in a castle.’
The remark would be remembered with bitterness in the months ahead.
I’d come to Toulon after a meandering gypsy journey on their slow wagons. It had been a pleasant interlude. The ‘priests of Egypt’ showed me simple card tricks, explained the Tarot, and told me more tales of treasure caves and temples of power. None had ever been in Egypt, of course, or knew if their stories had a grain of truth, but story spinning was one of their chief talents and sources of income. I watched them cast optimistic fortunes for milkmaids, gardeners, and constables. What they couldn’t earn with fantasy, they stole, and what they couldn’t steal, they did without. Accompanying the band to Toulon was a far more enjoyable way to complete my escape from Paris than the highway coach, despite knowing that my separation and delay would cause anxiety for Antoine Talma. It was a relief not to have to listen to the journalist’s Masonic theories, however, and I left the warmth of Sarylla with regret.
The port had been a madhouse of preparation and excitement, crammed with soldiers, sailors, military contractors, tavern keepers, and brothel madams. One could spot the famous savants in their top hats, excited and apprehensive, clumping in sturdy boots still stiff from newness. The officers were bright as peacocks in their resplendent uniforms, and ordinary soldiers were excited and cheerfully fatalistic about an expedition with no announced destination. I was reasonably anonymous in such a crowd, my clothes and green coat more stained and worn than ever, but to be safe I swiftly boarded L’Orient in order to stay out of the reach of bandits, antiquarians, gendarmes, lantern bearers, or anyone else who might offer me harm. It was on board that I was finally reunited with Talma.
‘I feared I was entering into peril and adventure in the East without a friend!’ he exclaimed. ‘Berthollet has been concerned as well! Mon dieu, what happened?’
‘I’m sorry I had no way to get word to you. It seemed best to travel quietly. I knew you’d be worried.’
He embraced me. ‘Where’s the medallion?’ I could feel his breath at my ear.
By this time I was cautious. ‘Safe enough, my friend. Safe enough.’
‘What’s that on your finger? A new ring?’ He was looking at the token from Sidney Smith.
‘A gift from gypsies.’
Talma and I briefed each other on our separate adventures. He said the surviving brigands had scattered in confusion after my escape from the coach. Then cavalry came, on the hunt for some other fugitive – ‘it was all bewildering in the dark’ – and the horsemen plunged into the woods. Meanwhile, the coachmen used their team to drag the blocking tree out of the way and the travelling party finally pushed on to an inn. Talma decided to wait for the next day’s stage in case I emerged from the forest. When I didn’t, he went on to Toulon, fearing me dead.
‘Gypsies!’ he now cried, looking at me in wonder. ‘You do have talent for finding mischief, Ethan Gage. And the way you just shot that man! I was astounded, exultant, frightened!’
‘He almost shot you.’
‘Of course you have been among the Red Indians.’
‘I’ve met a lot of people in my travels, Antoine, and learnt to keep one palm open in greeting and the other on a weapon.’ I paused. ‘Did he die?’
‘They carried him away bleeding.’
Well, one more thing to wonder about in the dark hours of the night.
‘Are the gypsies scoundrels, like their reputation?’ Talma asked.
‘Not in the least, if you watch your pockets. They saved my life. Their spicing awakens senses that their women satisfy. No home, no job, no ties…’
‘You found your own kind! I’m surprised you came back!’
‘They think they’re descended from the priests of Egypt.
They’ve heard legends of a lost medallion, saying it is a key to some ancient secret there.’
‘But of course, that would explain the interest of the Egyptian Rite! Cagliostro saw himself in competition with ordinary Freemasonry. Perhaps Silano believes this could give his branch an advantage. But to openly rob us? The secret must be potent indeed.’
‘And what word of Silano? Doesn’t he know Bonaparte?’
‘The word is that he’s gone to Italy – to look for clues to what you won, perhaps? Berthollet has told our general about the medallion and he seemed quite interested, but Bonaparte has also called Masons imbeciles, consumed by fairy tales. His brothers Joseph, Lucien, Jerome, and Louis, who are all in our fraternity, argue the point. Napoleon said he’s as interested in your opinions of Louisiana as your choice of jewellery, but I think he’s flattered an American is along. He appreciates your ties to Franklin. He hopes you may someday help explain his schemes to the United States.’
Talma introduced me as a celebrity fugitive to the fellow savants who had boarded the flagship. We were part of a group of 167 civilian professionals whom Bonaparte had invited to accompany his invasion. The number included nineteen civil engineers, sixteen cartographers, two artists, one poet, an orientalist, and a grand assortment of mathematicians, chemists, antiquarians, astronomers, mineralogists, and zoologists. I met Berthollet again, who had recruited most of this group, and in due course was introduced to our general. My nationality, my slim connection to the famed Franklin, and the story of how I’d escaped ambush all impressed the young conqueror. ‘Electricity!’ Bonaparte exclaimed. ‘Imagine if we could harness your mentor’s lightning bolts!’
I was impressed that Napoleon had won the leadership of so ambitious an expedition. The most famous general in Europe was lean, short, and disconcertingly young. At twenty-nine he was junior to all but four of his thirty-one generals, and while the difference between English and French measures meant that British propagandists had exaggerated his lack of height – he was actually a respectable five-six – still, there was so little to him in terms of breadth that he seemed swallowed by boots and dragging sword. The tittering ladies of Paris had nicknamed him ‘Puss-n-Boots’, a teasing he never forgot. Egypt would make this young man into the Napoleon who would take the world by storm, but on the decks of L’Orient he was not quite Napoleon yet; he was viewed as much more human, more flawed and striving, than the later marble titan. Historians invent an icon, but contemporaries live with a man. In fact, Napoleon’s rapid ascent during the Revolution was as annoying as it was breathtaking, and it made more than one of his seniors hope he would fail. Yet Bonaparte himself was confident to the point of vanity.