Authors: Rob Griffith
“Thank you,” I said.
The oarsmen pushed us away from the ship and then with barely a splash they started a steady rowing rhythm. I was sat in the stern with the Lieutenant and I could just make out the faces of the seamen as they sat facing me, pulling hard on the oars. None looked scared or even worried. They all just kept the stroke. The strain of pulling the laden boat through the waves was evident on their faces but that was all. The cliffs got closer and closer.
“Nice night for it,” I whispered to the Lieutenant. I think perhaps my nerves were making me jabber.
“Not really,” he replied. “If it’s raining or cold you can count on the Frogs to stay near their fires. On a night like this they’ll be out looking for us, to be sure.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My arrival back in France was heralded by the scrape of wood on pebbles as the boat came to a shuddering stop in the surf. The marines jumped out, their white cross-belts marking them as they fanned out along the beach, each knelt and aimed his musket into the darkness. Some of the disembarked seamen held the boat in place, one muttering about the cold sea.
“Time to go,” said the Lieutenant.
I stood unsteadily and lurched out of the boat and into knee-deep icy water. I gasped with the shock and turned to say farewell to the Lieutenant but he was already giving orders to turn the boat and go back to the Vincejo. A quick nod was all I got in reply. The marines came back as quickly and as silently as they had left and helped pushed the boat back into the waves, jumping in as it freed itself from the shingle. In a trice I was alone. It was dark, the only light came from the heavens. The pale cliffs were in front of me, my home a long way behind. The only sound was the rhythmic wash of the waves. I could smell rather than see the seaweed beneath my feet. My boots were soaked, as were my breeches. My luggage had been left higher up the beach so I went and sat on it, took off my boots and poured the water out. I looked up and down the beach. There was no one that I could see. The boat was almost back at the ship or I might have called for them to return. I put my boots back on and shivered. It all seemed a bit unreal, like a dream. I couldn’t quite believe I was sitting there, in France. A nation my own country was at war with. The mission to contact Fulton seemed daunting but I didn’t want to dwell on the consequences of failure and capture. Best not to think too much about it, I tried to convince myself. The next few hours might be difficult enough to survive without thinking of the next few weeks. I opened my portmanteau and took out my pistols, checked the flints and put them into my pockets. The weight of them was reassuring if nothing else. I sat alone for what seemed like an age but it was probably only minutes before I saw the figures approaching.
I stood. I didn’t know if it was a French patrol or the agents that would transport me onwards to Paris. If they were French soldiers I had nowhere to run to and my pistols wouldn’t help me a great deal against men with muskets, but I drew one all the same. Soon the crunching of their feet on the stones could be heard and I could see enough to tell they were not soldiers. I breathed again. One of the figures came forward.
“Welcome to France. You are Le Muguet, yes?” The speaker wore a dark coat and I noticed a brace of pistols in his belt. He was short, with a balding head that reflected the moon like finest porcelain.
“Yes, I am Le Muguet,” I replied and took a small folded piece of paper from my pocket. In it was a small pressed flower.
I suppose that it is time that I explain the system of aliases and tokens used by the Alien Office. They were often based upon flowers, hence Dominique being La Rose. My own alias, which I did not choose I might add, was Le Muguet – Lily of the Valley. I would have preferred something more masculine like falcon or wolf but flowers were the theme and so I was Le Muguet. Each of us had an example of our flower as a token to prove we were who we said we were, and I still have the now crumbling collection of tiny white bells in my desk.
“Good. I am La Jacinthe,” he replied, “We have far to go, my men will carry your trunk. Let us go.” He motioned to a narrow path up the cliffs that I could barely see. From his alias I deduced that this small bald man was Devrieux and he would be the first of many contacts on my way to Paris. The men he referred to were similarly armed and had the appearance of footpads rather than gallant heroes struggling against tyranny. Two of them stayed on the beach. I asked Devrieux why.
“They have other business to transact here tonight. You are but one cargo to be delivered before morning,” he said. I suppose that it was logical that smuggling and landing agents would go hand in hand but I did wonder if I was being assisted by patriots that had turned to smuggling to fund their activities or smugglers who supplemented their income with British government gold. Not that it mattered, whoever they were they were good at their job.
We walked up the beach to the path in single file, one man a little to our front. He would signal for us to stop occasionally while he watched and listened for any patrols. The path was steep, narrow and in daylight would have been treacherous. In the dark it was almost impossible to keep your footing on the loose chalky surface. I slithered and slipped many times but the smugglers never put a foot wrong and never said a word. Soon we were at the top of the cliff, the sweep of the bay and the white line of surf far below us. I was out of breath and sat for a moment while the route ahead was checked. The climb had lessened the cold in my legs but still every step squelched. I looked out to sea and could just see the white sails of the Vincejo disappearing into the night.
A low whistle from the scout indicated it was time to move on. We walked down a path sunken between a bank and a hedge. The sound of the sea was behind us now and the only thing I could hear was the wind in the grass, the occasional chirp of an insect and the steady soft tramp of our feet. Many times we stopped and waited, I suppose the scout had seen or heard something. Eventually I caught a whiff of woodsmoke and guessed we were coming up to a farm house or cottage. The sky was very slightly lighter in the east now and as we came to a gate I saw the farm ahead. Just a small house, a barn and a sty. I also saw horses. More than you’d normally find in a farm. We stopped and Devrieux came down the line of men whispering to each one. One by one they all drew their pistols. I did the same. I guessed the horses were not for us.
“A French patrol. Stay still. Do nothing, but be ready,” he whispered when it was my turn. We all edged close into the bushes or lay low in the grass. Devrieux crept forward a little way, right up to the gate. I was tired of merely being cargo and wanted to see what was going on so I crept forward as well, crawling on my stomach in the dew laden grass to where Devrieux was watching. He looked at me and frowned but said nothing. We could hear raised voices from the farm house, and some clattering of furniture. Suddenly the door opened and a shaft of light silhouetted the gendarmes as they emerged. The last one paused to hit the farmer over the head with the flat of his sword and left him cowering on his own doorstep, his hands covering his bleeding head. My hand tightened on my pistol and I pointed it at the gendarme but Devrieux put a hand on my shoulder and put his finger to his lips.
The gendarmes mounted their horses, exchanging a few words we couldn’t quite catch. We watched them ride off down a track. Devrieux only moved when all sound of the horses hooves had faded into the predawn stillness.
“They are gone but we will go a different way, just to be safe,” he said.
“Shouldn’t we help the farmer,” I said pointing to the bleeding man now being carried back inside by his wife.
“No, we must be gone. Sometimes the patrol comes back to try and catch us out. It’s almost dawn and we must hurry,” he said and began walking quickly back down the path. His men followed, I noticed none put their pistols back in their belts so I held on to my own. The warmth of the wood and the smell of the oil and powder were oddly comforting. We took a fork in the path and came to a crest of a hill and a road. There was a barn, alone in the corner of a field. It was leaning to one side and had planks and tiles missing. Devrieux led us inside. It had that smell of very old manure and rotting wood so I don’t think it had been used for some time. A broken cart stood at one end, its axles sagging and one wheel missing. Devrieux whispered words of thanks to each of his men and they left the barn in turn. Two took my portmanteau with them, Devrieux said I would be reunited with it later. Golden shafts of light were now coming through the gaps in the walls, highlighting the motes of dust in the air. Skylarks had begun to sing in the fields outside.
“We’ll rest here a while, before going on into the town,” Devrieux said.
“The town? Which town? Is that safe? Where are we?” I asked. There hadn’t been any time for questions until then and I just spluttered out all those that had been whirling round my head for the last however many hours it had been.
“Questions, always questions,” Devrieux said, rolling his eyes. “The town is Boulogne. You’ll be safe enough. We have papers for you. You were landed north of Le Toquet, not far from the beach where you left a few months ago.”
“How do you know about that?”
“La Rose came to us after she left you. We helped her get back to Paris.”
“Thank you then, for that,” I said, trying to keep any emotion from my voice.
“Here are the papers. Your name is Barthez. You are a wine merchant,” Devrieux said.
I looked at the papers. There was a passport, letters from vintners in Boulogne and other towns and even a letter from the mayor of Boulogne asking that I be given safe passage as I was supplying the army camped around the town.
“These look genuine,” I said.
“They are, the mayor is one of us.”
“A royalist?”
“Some of us want the king to come back, most just want to be left alone and for their sons not to be sent off to endless wars. Call us what you like,” he replied.
“Do you do this often?” I asked.
“Help English spies? Often enough. It’s dangerous work and to do it too often would make it more so.”
“Your men seem very competent.”
“They are not my men. They each have their reasons to help. Some have been smugglers all their lives, some are dodging conscription, most need the money.”
“Have you ever been caught?” I asked. He gave that gallic shrug that suggested the question was too foolish to answer.
“If we had then our heads and neck would have parted company long ago. We are careful, so we live. Come, it is time to go,” he said, obviously tiring of the conversation. I wasn’t sorry to be on the move myself. The inactivity had made me feel the cold and damp again. I stood and stretched my limbs.
Devrieux peered around the barn door. It was almost fully light. He nodded to me and we left, following the road down the low hill. To start with there was no one else about and I felt exposed walking brazenly along the road, as if we were being watched, but after a mile or so we passed a small hamlet and there began to be signs of life. Cows were being herded for the morning milking, chickens and geese were being fed and a cart even went by on its way to the town.
Boulogne lay ahead of us, masts filling the harbour like a small forest and the roofs and walls glowing gold in the dawn. As we got closer the road got busier. When we reached the walls of the town itself we were just two of many travellers. My papers passed the first of innumerable inspections at the gate to the town, the bored gendarme hardly looking at them, despite the fact that I feared my hand was unsteady and that my face would betray my nerves.
We walked beneath the thick medieval walls and into the narrow streets. It was still very early and the shopkeepers were opening up. We passed a baker’s and Devrieux bought us a breakfast of warm rolls thick with butter, which we ate as we walked. There seemed to be many soldiers about. Dragoons with their big brass helmets passed us, their spurs scraping on the cobbles. A platoon of light infantry forced us to shrink against the walls as they took up the entire street, their sergeant sneering at us to get out of the way. It was quickly becoming apparent to me that we had arrived on the worst possible day. My suspicions had been aroused when I had seen all the tricolours on the walls. Then I saw all the garlands, triumphal arches and other decorations covering the public buildings.
“What’s going on?” I asked Devrieux.
“Bonaparte is coming to town,” he said.
“What?”
“General Bonaparte is inspecting his army, and being entertained by the town dignitaries.”
“Shouldn’t we leave then?”
“No, not all. What better day for you to arrive than when everyone is busy and hoping to see the Corsican himself? We will get you onto the Paris coach without any trouble.”
The streets were becoming crowded and I grudgingly admitted despite my worries that he had a point. Everyone was in a rush and no one was paying us the slightest attention. We found ourselves propelled towards the Place des Armes, the main square. A sick looking tree of liberty stood forlornly in the centre. In front of the classical façade of the Hotel des Androuins an honour guard stood to attention. All the colours of the regiments that had gathered to invade England lined the square and there was a throng of people that had come to see the great general.
“Shouldn’t we carry on to the coaching inn?” I asked.