Flashman's Escape (29 page)

“How did you meet your husband?” I asked. “You do not appear to have a lot in common.”

“Oh, we did originally. He was a young soldier sent to defend the republic against a royalist uprising in Brittany and I was a member of one of the few republican families in the region. Initially I was attracted by his drive and ambition; back then it was dedicated to serving the republic. But now he sees more opportunities with the emperor and his ambition has driven us apart.”

As I was to discover a short while later, General Hugo was not the only one to suffer from excessive ambition. When I finally got to tell Grant about the events at Malet’s nursing home, his eyes lit up with delight. He was still imagining being heaped with honours and glory as we brought peace to Britain and chaos to its main enemy.

“Calm down,” I told him. “Remember what I told you of the plans being kept in an unlocked box. The chances are that the plotters will be arrested long before they get the chance to implement their plot.”

“But this is vital intelligence to get back to Wellington,” he protested. “Even if it has only the slightest chance of success. There is no risk to us as the British will only act if the plot is successful.”

“There may be no risk to the British army,” I pointed out, “but we are still stuck in Paris, now in a nest of the most amateur conspirators. If they have not been already, they could get discovered at any moment. We still need to make our escape.”

“But should we not stay here to liaise with the new republican government when it is formed?”

“You still don’t understand, do you?” I persisted in exasperation. “The odds are that there will be no republican government, and when the plotters are discovered, the police will be searching for anyone involved in the conspiracy.”

“But you told me that Madame Trebuchet had some kind of protection!”

“It
might
protect her, but it would not save two British officers found to be involved in the plot. Especially if the authorities were already searching for those officers to torture or shoot them as spies.”

Still Grant seemed reluctant to move away from what he called the ‘fulcrum of history’. I think he imagined himself helping to lead the revolution that would bring down the French empire. In the end as we could not agree we set to writing our own separate messages for Wellington that would be sent together.

Sophie asked us to include some phrase or expression that would prove that the letters had come from us without duress. I did not see Grant’s letter but I do not doubt that it was full of optimism and hope about the coming republic and what this would mean for Britain. I took a more cautious line and told Wellington that the general in charge of the plot had all the strategic acumen of Dowlat Rao Scindia, a Mahratta prince we had both known in India.

When Grant and Sophie asked me about this, I explained that Scindia was a particularly astute Indian commander. Grant looked suspicious but Sophie was delighted. In fact, as Wellington well knew, Scindia spent most of his time too addled with opiates and exhausted by concubines to take any sensible decisions. That, I thought, would help our commander make a more reasonable assessment of the chances of success. I may have been wasting my time, though, as Grant might have destroyed my letter before it was sent. Years later I was talking to Wellington’s secretary, and while there are records of the general receiving correspondence from Grant in Paris, there is no record of anything from me at all.

Chapter 28

We had not used any of the plotters’ names in the letters and only signed off with our initials, but if the letters were being sent together and with my Indian reference, I was sure that Wellington would guess who they came from. However he might not be the only one to read them. I had no confidence that the security of the conspirators’ communications was any safer than the contents of the unlocked box under Malet’s bed. If the authorities did see the letters then it would not take them too long to match up the ‘CG’ on one letter with the missing Colquhoun Grant.

Malet judged that there were still two months before Bonaparte would be deep enough into Russia to initiate his plan. Unlike Grant, I had no wish to be in Paris when it happened and could not wait to get away. I paced anxiously around the garden, waiting for news from Lacodre and his wretched barge-owning cousin. Several days passed and we were all getting tense. Even Sophie had started to worry whether a gang of road menders that had appeared at the end of the street were actually watching the house. To make matters worse, Grant had taken himself off one afternoon in his British uniform to watch a passing parade of soldiers, using his notebook to record all the regimental numbers that passed him. He could not have made himself more conspicuous, but claimed that when he was challenged by people they believed his American officer story. I threatened him with Clothilde if he ever left the garden without me again. Judging by the way the colour drained from his face at the thought, I was reasonably sure he would not stray again.

It is easy to speak after the event, but back then I was getting a growing sense of unease. We seemed to be continually piling one risk on top of another until we had a stack of dangers that was bound to collapse on our heads. First we had broken Grant out of captivity, which meant that sooner or later his absence would be noted and a search started. Then Grant had led us to the heart of the enemy capital, which was swarming with Bonapartist officials hunting for deserters. We had no idea how willing Lacodre’s boat-owning cousin would be to take us. Not all the Lacodre family was supportive and I was mindful that the old organist would give us away in a heartbeat to save his family. I could be arrested if my stolen exemption paper was ever properly checked, and the buffoon Grant had now paraded himself in British uniform on the streets. Finally we had embroiled ourselves in a half-baked plot against the emperor of the French. It was touch and go whether the scheme would be uncovered due to the careless security of Malet or the vigilance of the French authorities, who were no slouches. Our luck was bound to run out sooner or later, and my guess was sooner.

We spent a fair bit of time in the house now, with Grant usually to be found reading in the library while ‘Uncle Henri’ spent some of his time with the boys, playing games and teaching them card tricks to pass the time. This meant I was also spending more time with Sophie, and a couple of times I felt that she was giving me more than a casual glance. Initially I had dismissed the idea of having a play at this older woman; it would be a further complication to our already precarious situation. But as the days passed the thought started to play on my mind. I found her deep, soulful eyes increasingly attractive and became more aware of the still-shapely figure under the empire fashions.

The final twist was that Grant seemed to have become completely besotted with her. He gushed about her enthusiastically when the two of us were alone, but became tongue tied and stammering when she showed him any attention. Sophie was amused by the affect she had on him and once asked if he really was a British intelligence officer. She took to kissing us both goodnight on the cheek, which caused Grant to blush furiously. While the gallant major still insisted on sleeping in his tower, I took the opportunity to move into the house.

By the fifth day, the confinement and forced civility were becoming a strain. Sophie had spent the last three nights sleeping in the same room as her youngest son. Ironically little Victor was having nightmares about a love-struck hunchback. During the days I had tried to teach the boys cricket, but they kept making up their own rules. Sophie often tried to include me in card games with the boys, but if we had to play some strange version of ‘snap’ one more time, I would feel a strong temptation to bludgeon them all with their improvised bat.

I decided that whatever the risk, I had to get outside the house and have some time to myself. After breakfast I brushed down my French officer’s hat and coat, checked that my conscription exemption was in the pocket and quietly slipped out of the garden gate.

I walked down the alleyway and onto the road. It was a busy time of day with people bustling about and hawkers and fruit sellers displaying their wares. I stood and watched for a while and saw nothing unusual. Then I wandered up the road to where I had stood to watch the front of the house. Again there seemed nothing suspicious. While the road was busy with traffic, no one seemed to be taking an undue interest in the Trebuchet property. Satisfied that I was safe, I turned towards the park; at least there the policemen knew me as a wounded veteran and should leave me alone.

There was the usual array of females promenading around alone or in groups, but while I would normally have found them diverting that morning I was not in the mood. I went and sat on a bench in the corner of the park where I was unlikely to be disturbed and enjoyed the solitude while I brooded on our predicament.

I had been there half an hour when I noticed the man in the dark coat. He was some way off and talking to a group of ladies, but he seemed vaguely familiar. Then I remembered where I had seen him: he had been buying fruit from a seller when I had emerged from the alleyway. It was just a coincidence, I assured myself, but to be sure I got up and walked around the park to a new bench near one of the park gates. If the man approached again, I planned to slip out of the gates and disappear in the maze of streets beyond.

The dark coat did not appear. But now I was more alert, I did notice a man in a brown coat glance more than once in my direction as he slowly walked past. Again this could be purely coincidence, but then as Brown Coat disappeared around a bend in the pathway I saw Dark Coat coming the other way. More significantly the two men completely ignored each other. That was unusual; when a stranger passed on the same path a man would normally doff his hat or make some form of greeting, even if it was only to wish the other a good day.

The hair on the back of my neck was starting to tickle, indicating that danger was at hand. I decided to take no chances and got up and headed towards the gate. Several carriages with their drivers were parked at the entrance to the Luxembourg Garden, awaiting passengers, and I walked swiftly past them. I thought I had got clean away when two burly men came up behind me and, grabbing me by the arms, pitched me up into the back of what turned out to be a covered prison wagon.

“What the devil do you think you are doing?” I protested, trying to get to my feet. “I am a French officer and I have an exemption certificate”

The brute who had followed me into the vehicle merely stepped forward and kicked me over onto my side. “Stay still,” he grunted, glaring down at me. I saw he wore some form of official uniform.

As I lay on the floor his partner shut the door behind him. I was trapped in what was effectively a horse-drawn wooden box with some bars across the small window in the door. I stayed down while a chill of fear ran up my spine. Something told me that this was not how they would normally deal with a deserter. The man had the calm confidence of a professional ruffian, and if the two in the park had been tailing me then they were likely to be police. But what the hell did they know?

If they only suspected me of dodging conscription and possibly stealing the exemption paper then I could expect prison and a forced march east. But if they suspected anything about the plot then I was in much more trouble. If they knew who I really was then it was the firing squad for sure.

My speculation was interrupted when the carriage door opened and the dark-suited man stood in the doorway. He jerked his head to indicate that the guard should leave and then stepped up in his place.

“Look, I think there has been a mistake,” I started to protest. “I am a French officer and I have an exemption paper…”

“Silence,” he barked down at me. “You will say nothing at all until you meet the minister. Your life depends on it.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “What did you say to the guard?”

“Just that I am a French officer with an exemption,” I said hoarsely as my mind spun with the new information.

“Good,” he grunted, settling on to one of the bench seats that ran down either side of the box. He raised his cane and banged the roof twice and with a jerk the carriage moved off. I half got up and settled onto the opposite bench. I was apparently going to meet a minister of the French government and that certainly ruled out being treated as a deserter. If my companion was a policeman then that meant I was meeting the police minister and suddenly I thought I understood a little more.

If I was meeting the police minister called Savary, he was the one that Sophie was able to blackmail with the letter. Perhaps he had found out I was staying at the house and was about to put the frighteners on me to find the letter for him. That would explain why he would not want me to say anything to his underlings. I relaxed slightly at the thought. If I was right then they knew nothing about the plot and I would be released to do their dirty work. I would be under constant surveillance, but that was probably no different to the last few days. We might still be able to slip away for a barge under cover of darkness.

The noise of the carriage suddenly had an echo as we went under an arch and then pulled up in a courtyard.

“You will be left in an anteroom until the minister is ready to see you,” explained my companion as the door to the prison carriage was thrown open. “You said you had an exemption paper? Give it to me.” He held out his hand and reluctantly I handed over the only identity document I possessed. The man put it in his pocket and gave me a final warning as he stepped down from the carriage. “Remember, do not say a word to anyone.”

I stepped down into the courtyard and the two ruffians grabbed me by the arms. Ignoring the grand main entrance to the building, we headed to a smaller door and up a narrow staircase until we were on the second floor. There I stepped out onto an opulent corridor with busts of generals and paintings of battles along the walls. A pair of immaculately smart sentries guarded a room at the far end of the passage. Before we reached the soldiers, the ruffians opened one of the side rooms and I was ushered inside. There they left me, turning the key in the lock as they went.

I sat in that room for two hours and spent most of that time considering my predicament. If it was Savary, he would want as few people as possible to know about the letter. Even if I found it for him, he would probably want me to disappear for good. My mind ran through myriad different scenarios, none of them good. The best I could hope for was a forced march to the frozen wastelands of Russia, but most ended up against a cold stone wall in front of a firing squad. I cursed my impetuous nature. What wouldn’t I have given to be still in the garden and playing cricket with the boys. But if I was right then I had already been under surveillance and would have been picked up whenever I next left the house.

Finally I heard the key in the lock and an immaculately dressed army captain gestured that it was time for me to leave. Without saying a word, he led the way along the corridor towards the door guarded by the soldiers. Knocking first, he opened the door and led the way into an expansive, well-lit office. At the far end was a large ornately carved desk, which almost dwarfed the man behind it.

“Your guest, sir,” announced the captain, gesturing me to a chair opposite the desk. Then he turned sharply and left the room.

I sat and looked at the man I took to be the minister, who returned my inspection. He was in his late forties with thick, curly hair which was starting to grey at the temples. He had the look of a politician rather than a soldier, with fashionable side-burns and clean, manicured fingers. Despite his general’s uniform, I suspected he had never fought a military campaign. The closest he had come to a battle was probably the paintings of them on his office wall. I shifted uncomfortably in the chair as he gave me a slight smile. It was not a warm gesture, probably similar to the expression a cat might give a mouse before killing it.

“So you are Captain Henri Lafitte,” declared the man, waving my exemption paper in his hand, “even though you are only wearing a lieutenant’s uniform.” There was a note of sarcasm in his voice that indicated a reply was not required. Despite the danger of the situation my muscles relaxed slightly; he would not have used that name if he knew my English one. “I have to say,” he added, glancing down at a note on his desk, “that you are looking remarkably well for your fifty-four years, Captain.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but could not think of anything useful to say and so shut it again. I could not prove any other identity without landing myself more deeply in trouble. If by some miracle I was here just for desertion, it was probably the best I could hope for.