For Love of Country (36 page)

“I understand, sir.”

AT 8:00 THE NEXT MORNING, two post riders appeared at the front door of the U.S. consulate. They had been chosen from among a group of men, all Americans, who provided security and performed other official functions for the embassy staff. Many had been appointed to their positions by the former ambassador, Benjamin Franklin, and several had served as officers in the Continental Army. One of the two present this morning, a barrel-chested man sporting a gold earring and plaited queue, had served as boatswain aboard a Continental frigate. Jefferson had tapped him to carry the dispatches for Lorient and Brest, and the man assured the consul that he would have them delivered to their respective destinations the very next day.

When he heard that, Richard realized that by this time the following day his plan would either have succeeded or failed. Should it succeed, he would be somewhere between Paris and Lorient, bound for his ship and the open sea. Should it fail, he would be bound, literally, and soon to face a revolutionary tribunal not likely disposed to grant mercy to anyone of any nationality abetting the escape of a despised aristocrat.

Shortly after the two riders had galloped off and the consulate was settling into its daily routine, from
le centre ville
came the distinct and ominous peal of church bells. Within the hour, a ragtag mob of people, most of them women, came marching up the Champs-Élysées from the direction of the now-defunct Palais-Royal. They were heading westward, their ranks swelling by hundreds, soon by thousands, of others similarly clad in homespun garb streaming in from all directions. They were chanting slogans hard to distinguish at first because of the distance, but which became chillingly clear as the mob stormed past the American consulate, its mood growing uglier by the minute. Many citizens waved fists in the air. Others waved hatchets, kitchen knives, pitchforks, spears, muskets.

“Dear Mother of God,” Jefferson said, awestruck, as he and Richard watched the procession through partially open French windows giving out onto a small wrought-iron balcony and a clear view of the street below. “They're marching on Versailles! They mean to attack the queen! Can this really be happening?”

Yes, it was really happening, William Short confirmed later that morning. A well-dressed and handsome man with graceful manners, Short had been Jefferson's private secretary since 1784 and would serve, it had been announced, as America's chargé d'affaires in Paris from the time Jefferson departed France for America until a new ambassador had
been installed. Though youthful in appearance and slight of frame, he had held Jefferson's absolute trust and confidence since Jefferson had served as one of his examiners for the Virginia bar following Short's graduation in 1779 from Jefferson's own alma mater, the College of William and Mary.

“What set this off?” Jefferson asked him after Short had summarized what he had gleaned from other embassies and from his acquaintance within the corridors of power at the Hôtel de Ville.

“I can't determine that,” Short reported. “No one has offered a satisfactory explanation. I can only conclude, Mr. Jefferson, that this affair has been planned in secret by revolutionary leaders, perhaps for some time. You heard the bells. It was the same call to arms that summoned the people on the fourteenth.”

“How do you keep something like this a secret?” Richard wondered aloud. He, too, was watching in awe as the rearguard of the mob disappeared up the broad avenue and their shouts grew ever more distant.

Short gave him a condescending look. “It is not difficult, Mr. Cutler. It takes only a few people to arrange it. Citizens here are prepared to march at a moment's notice whenever the call comes, much like your Massachusetts Minutemen during our own revolution. That is the state of Paris these days.”

“What steps are being taken to protect the royal family?” Jefferson inquired of Short. “Surely
something
is being done.”

Short nodded. “I am informed that General Lafayette is leading National Guard units to intercept the mob before it reaches Versailles. Under whose authorization, I cannot determine. Surely not the king's—presumably he knows nothing about this, as yet. And not the National Assembly: this uprising plays directly into their hands. I must conclude that Lafayette is acting on his own accord. What will happen when he actually confronts the mob . . . ” He left that speculation hanging.

“I see. Thank you, Mr. Short. Please keep me informed.”

While Jefferson and Short were pondering the implications of today's events for France and the future of the monarchy, Richard pondered its implications for the future of his plan to flee Paris. One fact was indisputable: however horrific this insurrection, or assault, or whatever one chose to call it, it provided a much-needed diversion for Richard and Anne-Marie. National Guard and militia units remaining in the city would be focused on Versailles, not on the River Seine or Passy. Something else was indisputable: Lafayette was no longer a factor in Richard's
plans. Were Richard to be detained, his plight would seem absurdly trivial compared with Lafayette's in facing down a rabble horde and an overt threat to the monarchy, a trifle unworthy of Lafayette's passing thought let alone his active intervention. Oddly, that realization gave Richard more comfort than regret.

There was another advantage: the events occurring at Versailles and concern about the status of the royal family kept Jefferson and his staff occupied during the remainder of the day, as embassy observers rode back and forth to Versailles bringing word of the latest developments from the front lines just a few miles away. Initial reports were somewhat encouraging. The mob had not attempted to force its way through the cordon of National Guardsmen blocking the road to Versailles and had agreed to hear Lafayette's plea to disperse. As yet, however, few citizens had heeded that appeal. The mob remained in a virtual standoff with the Guard. Many citizens were screaming for the head of Marie-Antoinette—and, for what witnesses reported was the first time in public, also for the heads of King Louis and his two surviving children, Louis-Charles, the dauphin, and Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte, a princess of the blood.

“Please God that Lafayette chooses his words carefully,” Jefferson ruminated over his daily cup of chocolate in the late afternoon, “else many of his soldiers could defect. If that happens, Versailles will fall. There are too few Swiss Guards at the palace or Royal Army units in Paris to protect the royal family.” He was seated in his study speaking to no one in particular, having just been informed by a staff member that although the standoff continued, the worst seemed to be over: more and more citizens were now straggling back to Paris. Those in his presence, including Richard, understood the reality. It was not the French Royal Army, which was stationed mostly along the Austrian border; nor the National Guard, stationed mostly in and around Paris; nor the National Assembly that preserved the last vestiges of law and order in the French capital. It was Lafayette alone.

At 9:00 that evening, after spending much of the day in his room pacing back and forth and fretting over the perverse links of his escape plan, Richard took leave of Jefferson and the consulate, taking with him only his seabag containing a few personal belongings and the letters addressed to his crew. Concealed in an inner pocket of his coat was the small St. Etienne pistol he had carried with him from Toulon. In another inner pocket he carried a small bag of powder and extra rounds of shot.
His only other weapon was a foot-long sheath knife attached to his belt on his right hip.

There were no formal farewells. Jefferson was aware that Richard was leaving Paris, presumably for good, but decorum dictated that he act as though Richard were simply going outside for a brief reconnaissance. Richard left with him a letter addressed to Captain Jones, to be hand-delivered by an embassy courier to the rue Tournon in two days' time. In it he outlined his plan. He concluded the letter with a prayer for Jones' blessing and his hope that God would grant Jones a full recovery from his illness and every success in Algiers.

Daylight lingered tenaciously, as though reluctant to allow a Stygian cloak to settle over a city so in need of illumination. To westward, from his vantage point outside the American consulate, Richard could make out the giant blue needle towering above Notre Dame. Like many foreigners in Paris, he used that spire in the same way that foreigners in Algiers used the Qasbah to get their bearings before setting out for a destination.

Everything was quiet at the port des Célestins when he arrived. There was only a quarter-moon—another advantage—and in its feeble light Richard could discern the darker outlines of the two isles in mid-river. The barges tied up to the docks bumped rhythmically against each other. He checked his waistcoat watch: 9:45. Time to kill, he thought, then smiled at the unintended irony. Spotting a stone bench out of the way but within sight of the quays, he went over to it and sat down. As a precaution he removed his pistol from the inner folds of his jacket, where it was hard to get at, and carefully slid the barrel between the belt and waist of his black cotton trousers, then buttoned his coat over it.

And settled in to wait.

By 10:15 he found himself searching about for the barge captain, though he realized it was too early for that. By 10:30 he could sit still no longer. Anxiety nibbled at his lower gut; he had to get up, do something. He began strolling back and forth along the street bordering the quays, forcing himself to appear relaxed, studiously avoiding any indication of interest in the few citizens who happened by.

At 10:55, with no sign of anyone familiar, he was debating what to do next when a low male voice intruded from behind: “
Bonsoir, monsieur. Vous êtes prêt à partir
?”

Startled, Richard whirled around to find the barge captain regarding him with a solemn expression. “
Ah, bonsoir, capitaine,
” Richard
greeted him. He tried his best to sound relaxed, nonchalant. “
Je suis heureux de vous voir
.
Un moment, s'il vous plaît
.
J'attends quartre autres personnes.
”

“What four other people?” the captain inquired in French. “You made no mention of other passengers.”

“I mentioned nothing at all to you,” Richard reminded him. “As I promised, I will tell you everything when the others arrive.”

“When will that be, monsieur? I am an honest man and I do not like being here so late at night. It arouses suspicion.”

“I understand, monsieur,” Richard replied. “It should not be long now. I—” He paused, his senses alert to the sudden sound of footsteps coming toward him at a good clip from the direction of the rue Saint-Paul. Emerging from the darkness, dressed in plain clothes with a muslin shawl drawn over her head, came Anne-Marie at a fast walk, holding Françoise's hand. Behind her trudged Gertrud, holding Adélaide's hand and breathing hard. Arrayed as she was in a light cotton knee-length cloak, and with her hair pulled back severely under a wide-brimmed hat, Gertrud could have passed for either man or woman. She gave Richard a brief nod, her sole acknowledgment of a man she had not seen for many years, before looking furtively behind and around her.

“Are you being followed?” Richard asked Anne-Marie. He had never seen Gertrud so on edge. In his experience, she was the one who inspired unease in others.

Anne-Marie shook her head. “I don't think so. We did what you told us to do and took a roundabout route here.”

“Who are these people?” the captain demanded gruffly.

Richard faced him. “Captain,” he said respectfully, “it is best for you not to know who these people are. I have hired you to take us to Auteuil. That is all the information you need. Please, sir, for your own safety, ask nothing more of me. Trust me.”

The Frenchman spat at Richard's feet. “
Trust
you?” he snarled. “Why should I trust you, monsieur? You lied to me. You have deceived me.” He gave Anne-Marie a cursory glance. “I must assume that these are enemies of the people and you are asking me to help them escape. I am not a traitor, monsieur. I will not do it. I will not take you to Auteuil.” He turned to go.

The sharp click of a hammer being thumbed back brought him to a standstill. He turned and stared at the barrel of the pistol trained at his chest.

“I am sorry, monsieur,” Richard said. “I'm afraid I must insist.”

“What is this?” the Frenchman scoffed, his eyes glued to the barrel. “You will shoot me if I refuse?”

Richard thumbed the hammer back another click to full cock. “Have no doubt, monsieur.” He waved the barrel toward the quays. “Shall we?”

The captain glowered at Richard but did as he was told. He stepped down onto the quay, and as he cast off the docking lines of his barge from their bollards, Richard whisked Anne-Marie, Gertrud, and the two little girls on board. He pointed forward toward an empty woodenplanked storage area. “Hide in there. Keep low and out of sight. Gertrud, pull that tarp over them. Captain,” he said to the Frenchman as the barge, free of her moorings, began swinging out toward mid-river and the sluggish flow swirling in great loops between the quays and the Île Saint-Louis, “if you please, take station to larboard amidships. I have the tiller. And as you are well aware, monsieur, I speak French and I am armed. I warn you not to call out to anyone.”

Working a river barge was a laborious process but generally not a difficult one. The barge's course was controlled by the tiller; all the crew had to do, going downstream, was fend off other craft, the shore, and river debris. Additional speed was available from sets of poles walked down simultaneously on each side from bow to stern. The Seine was shallow here, less than a fathom in most places, and pole propulsion could increase headway by several knots depending on the weight of the craft, the number of poles employed, the direction of the wind, and the craft's heading. Tonight, they would rely strictly on the current to get them to Auteuil. The distance was only five miles, but the journey would take perhaps two hours.