Authors: Rob Griffith
“We’ll run to the servants’ stairs. We might slip by them.” I said as I struggled with the final hook and she waved me away in frustration. I picked up my coat and tucked in my shirt. I pulled a pistol from my pocket and cocked it. Dominique did the same.
“Ready?” I asked, preparing to lead the way.
“Yes,” she said and opened the door carefully before stepping out into the corridor. She looked both ways and then indicated with a wave of the hand that I should follow. I looked slightly dumbfounded at her, before deciding that then was not the time to debate whether etiquette demanded that ladies or gentlemen go first on such occasions.
The gendarmes, soldiers or whomever the traitor had betrayed us to were close. I could hear the splintering of doors and the crashing of furniture. Dominique moved as quietly and as quickly as a cat, her pistol barrel always pointing ahead. She ran to the door to the servants’ stairs and I followed, keeping an eye and my own pistol on the corridor behind us.
“Up or down?” she asked.
“Down,” I said. I surmised that they would search from the top down or the bottom up so, given that they were on the first floor, the lower floors might have been searched already. Unfortunately French troops aren’t that logical as we were about to find out. We went down the first flight of stairs at the run with her in the lead. The stairs were narrow and worn so I almost fell twice before we careened into the last door. Dominique stumbled, but thankfully didn’t fall. I took the opportunity to take the lead all the same.
The basement housed the kitchen and some of the servants’ quarters but they were empty as we sped past them. I tried a door and it was locked. I tried another and it opened to reveal a wine cellar, there was a hint of light at the far end that might have been a door or a hatch. We were halfway across the cellar when the door opened again behind us and someone shouted. I ignored them and pulled Dominique behind a high wine rack. A musket fired, glass shattered and I was splashed with red liquid. I looked fearfully at Dominique but then realised it was just wine. I fired at the figure in the doorway but missed. Another shot came, the flash lighting up the bottles and the dirty grey walls. Dominique fired next and I heard a yelp of pain as the soldier fell forward into the cellar. One of his comrades came forward to help him and I fired again, hitting one of them I think as there was another exclamation and a curse.
“Go and see if you can find where that light is coming from,” I whispered.
“You go, I’m the one with the loaded pistol,” she replied. She had a point. I crept towards the light. If nothing else it might give me enough light to reload my pistols by. Blundering around between the shelves of wine and barrels of beer I managed to find the hatch. It was chained and locked. There was no way out. I had led us into a trap. Perhaps I should have let her take the lead after all.
Two more shots came from the doorway. A rack of champagne bottles exploded with a fizz. I could see Dominique silhouetted against the flashes. The soldiers were becoming bolder but she was reluctant to use her last shot unless she was sure she would make it count. I watched her as I crept back towards her. She kept to cover and moved position. A soldier ran in and she fired. He fell. Three shots came from the door at once. Bottles exploded all around her. She screamed and I ran to her.
“I’m all right,” she said, pulling me down beside her. “Some glass on my hand, that’s all.”
We were out of shots and it was too dark to reload. Another fusillade of shots shattered more bottles around us. We crept back away from the door but we were only delaying the inevitable. We had no where to run.
I heard a voice tell the gendarmes to stop firing. I knew they’d be coming in with the bayonet any minute. I reached for a couple of bottles and threw them towards the door and then dragged Dominique behind a different wine rack. It was black as night and I couldn’t see them coming but I could hear them well enough. I flung another bottle and then dashed towards the nearest gendarme but something tripped me up and I ended up sprawled on the floor pinned to the ground by two bayonets pressing into my back. Broken glass from the bottles cut my cheek and wine wet my lips as a boot forced my face into the floor. The butt of a musket crashed into the back of my head. The last thing I saw was Dominique getting grabbed and pulled out of hiding. I prayed they’d let her live then gave up the struggle for consciousness and let everything go black.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When I regained my senses it was dark. My body ached and throbbed in areas too numerous to mention. My hand went to the back of my head. There was a lump the size of a plum and my hair was matted with blood. I knew that sitting up would not be a pleasant experience and so just lay on the cold hard floor. Since that day I have woken up in more than my fair share of gaols but Abbeville was my first.
Lack of familiarity with the interior of prisons caused some doubt and confusion as to my whereabouts for a few minutes, at least until I had noted a few pertinent features. Firstly there was the proximity of the walls; if I stretched out my arms and legs in an X shape I came within a whisker of being able to touch all four corners of the room at once. Secondly, as I found out testing my X hypothesis, at least three of the corners had been used to compensate for the lack of a pot, bucket or any other more rudimentary sanitary provision. I should have guessed from the smell. Thirdly, the thin straw layer was alive with countless vermin, most of whom were intent on taking up temporary residence upon me. Lastly, the iron bars on the single high window and the stout wooden door without a handle clinched it. I was in a prison.
So, armed with that knowledge I attempted to take stock. I stood up very gingerly, doing my best to ignore the waves of pain and nausea, and tried to reach the window. All I could see was a small patch of moonlit grey sky. I tried thumping on the door for a gaoler, a habit that has since earned me a few beatings from guards that took the job because it offered them plenty of time to play cards and who objected to their concentration being disturbed. On this occasion my efforts yielded no immediate response. Of Dominique, Beston, or the Abbé I knew nothing. I tried shouting their names but got no reply. Conceivably they had been executed already. Perhaps they had been taken to Paris. Perhaps I was in Paris, at the time I had no idea where I was let alone anybody else. To be honest I was also not at all sure how much time had passed since I had been arrested. It could have been a few hours, or a day. I later found out that I had been insensible for nearly thirty-six hours.
I sat in the least fouled corner, rested an elbow on each knee and took my head in my hands. There wasn’t even enough light to see if any former inmates had scratched out any rumours of the gaoler’s parentage, a final message or had even just marked the passing of the days. It started to rain outside. I sat and let water drip from the window down on to my still aching head. I allowed a few small waves of self-pity wash over me. I swore comprehensively and imaginatively for a couple of minutes but didn’t feel any better. Even the arrival of a cellmate in the form an earwig the size of a small mouse did nothing to cheer me up. Usually in that kind of situation one ponders where one went wrong but after the first three or four occasions where I knew I’d made mistakes I gave up. All I could do was sit and wait, and squash the earwig.
I didn’t have to wait long before company of a slightly more human kind came along. A key turned in the lock. The door creaked open in the kind of exaggerated way that goes down well at the theatre. The gaoler too could have stepped out of a Shakespeare play, an honest yeoman type who was playing the part so straight he was almost funny. There were small areas on his shirt that were still white but the rest showed a variety of stains from food and red wine, or possibly blood. His face was pox marked and concerned. I saw the reason for his worry standing behind him. I wouldn’t be happy with Lacrosse at my back either.
I stood up very, very slowly with my hands up. My eyes travelled up a pair of well polished black boots, to grey breeches, then a grey coat, and then a pair of steel grey eyes. Lacrosse looked annoyed.
“Good morning,” I said. My mother always told me to be polite in any circumstance. Lacrosse’s mother obviously offered her son different advice. He came closer and then punched me in the stomach. I doubled over. He grabbed my hair and pulled me back upright.
“Let us dispense with the courtesies Blackthorne. That was for killing two of my men,” he said. “Bring him,” he ordered. The gaoler grabbed one of my arms, twisted it behind me and pushed me out of the cell. We followed Lacrosse down a filthy corridor, doors to other cells on each side. I wondered if Dominique was in one of them. We came to the end of the row of cells and there was a door to a larger room. It was windowless, lit by a lantern hanging from the ceiling, and had a rough table with a chair placed on one side. Lacrosse took the chair, I was pushed to the other side of the table. The gaoler left and two gendarmes came in. They were ugly brutes who looked as though their favourite pastime was kicking puppies.
“Now, where are the papers?” Lacrosse asked.
I didn’t say anything. He nodded at one of the ruffians behind me and a fist buried itself in my kidneys. I remained standing, just, but the pain was intense.
“Papers? What papers?” I said, gasping. Being insolent in the face of bullies was something I had learnt for myself. My kidneys didn’t thank me for it, though. I staggered after the second punch, almost passing out from the agony.
“Don’t waste my time. We know you have them,” Lacrosse said. I couldn’t see the expression on his face very well in the meagre light but I doubt he was amused with my attempt at denial.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced. Benjamin Blackthorne at your…” I began. Another punch, this time to my stomach again, silenced me. I wondered for a moment if giving them the papers would save Dominique, if not me. Then I looked into the slate grey eyes in front of me and didn’t see anything that inclined me to suppose he was a believer in fair play. He looked like he was used to doing anything to get the job done.
“Blackthorne. Give me the papers, now. You know you will sooner or later so why cause yourself so much pain?”
I didn’t say anything. He nodded to his men and then turned away and paced up and down for a minute while they beat me to the ground and then hauled me to my feet again.
It took me some years to find out all I could about Patrice Lacrosse. Let us start with his parentage; some said he didn’t have any but if he did they were consigned to the anonymity of history, and some would say they were fortunate not to be remembered with their murderous offspring. Lacrosse had been a soldier before being invalided out of the army after being wounded in battle. He joined the gendarmes and was soon noted for his dedication to duty and utter ruthlessness. Eventually he came to the notice of Joseph Fouché, the machiavellian Minister of Police and thrived, until his master’s disgrace left him vulnerable again. A situation he no doubt wanted to remedy by giving my head and the plans to Fouché. Fouché would then be able to persuade Bonaparte to give him his old position back.
“Where are the papers, Blackthorne,” Lacrosse asked again. “We searched you. We searched Mademoiselle Calvet. We searched the chateau, the Abbé and the Vicomte. What have you done with them?”
If I had honestly thought that giving them the papers would have helped me then I would have. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have them any more. Before dinner at the chateau I had taken the precaution of asking a maid for some paper and ink. I had addressed a letter to a Colonel Gaspard, care of the barracks in Boulogne. Gaspard was an old whist partner of mine who was currently serving with the artillery on the coast. I had given him an alibi after he was involved in a duel that ended badly, well badly for the General’s son he had killed. He was in my debt and I hoped that I could trust him not to open the packet of papers as I had requested in my covering letter. A coin for the maid and one for a boy to take the letter had seemed a small investment for some piece of mind. I didn’t know what else to do with the damn things but I knew we stood a good chance of getting betrayed again so wanted them out of my possession. Now, however, I would have to try and think of a reason for Lacrosse not to kill me. I tried but couldn’t come up with anything.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what papers you are referring to,” I said. I didn’t say it quite as clearly as that as my mouth was full of blood, and I may have added an expletive or two. I braced myself for another bout with the lackeys. Instead Lacrosse sighed.
“I garner no great satisfaction from this Blackthorne. You are being foolish. I take no pleasure in inflicting pain,” he said.
That may have been true but it didn’t stop the bastard nodding to the two thugs to carry on. This time I went down, and stayed down. I lay coughing blood and teeth on to the floor.
“I could have stopped you before you left Paris, you know. I should have done. But I wanted to see where you went. I didn’t want to catch small-fry like you. I wanted the bigger fish. And you gave me the excuse I needed to arrest the Abbé and Beston. But now I have a problem. I expected you to have the papers. Fouché expected you to have the papers. He is not a man to disappoint.”
I said nothing.
Joseph Fouché was a name I had read many times in the newspapers and often heard whispered in fear. The Revolution had regurgitated many men of cunning and not a few of cruelty but none had shown quite the aptitude for both, coupled with the resilience of Fouché. Like Lacrosse he had a talent of switching sides at just the opportune moment, frequently just ahead of a death warrant. He had voted for King Louis’ execution, served the committees as a denouncer and firebrand when it suited him and gained the sobriquet ‘the Butcher of Lyons’ in the process, though not for the quality of his sausages so I’ll spare you the details. From being a leading light of the Jacobins, he had fallen from grace under Robespierre, only surviving because of Robespierre’s own downfall. He had become Minister of Police during the calmer days of the Directory and had held the same position under First Consul Bonaparte before his intrigues against his rival Dossonville had gone too far and led to his dismissal. He was now out of office but apparently not out of power. He was still pulling strings like some sinister puppeteer playing with the lives of many.