The Baltic Prize

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‘In fine, I really don’t see how we can go on for much longer.’

The words cut through the drone of talk at the table like a knife. ‘You may leave us,’ one of the diners told the steward of the exclusive London club. The man bowed and retired, drawing the double doors of the private dining room firmly closed.

‘Charles, you choose the most awkward times to make your opinions known.’ Cuthbert Hertford, a portly man in blue and buff, drew appreciatively on his Havana and, with a droll glance at the speaker, added, ‘Even if we’d no doubt be entertained to hear it.’

‘I mean it, sir.’

The others paid wary attention to Charles Brougham, the elegantly dressed individual whose features held the ruthless austerity to be expected of the head of one of the oldest and largest trading firms on the floor of the London Stock Exchange.

‘How so?’

‘Do I need to spell it out? Here we have the Continental System, Boney’s answer to Trafalgar. And it’s working, God help us.’ He lifted his port glass and peered into it as though it were a crystal ball. Bonaparte’s sweeping declaration of a state of blockade against Great Britain had included savage penalty for any nation trading with her, and after his recent crushing successes on the Continent, few dared.

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