by Iain Gale
Wenger turned from Keane, and as soon as he had done so, Keane, still holding the pistol in his hand, raised his fist and brought it down on the captain’s head.
Wenger crumpled to the ground, unconscious, and Keane was pleased to see that his head did not strike too hard on the cobbles.
Silver looked at him. ‘Blimey, sir. That was giving it to him all right.’
‘Looked worse than it was. Old trick. I didn’t use the butt of the weapon, just its weight. He’ll have a nasty headache though, when he wakes up. Come on.’
Wasting no time, the three men turned and hurried away down the street. Keane tucked the French pistol inside his cloak and then, realizing that Archer and Silver were still carrying the muskets, told them to drop them.
*
Keane drew out from the slit in his uniform coat the piece of paper given to him by Father Curtis and read the three names. The most likely, Curtis had told him, was the first, a French royalist by the name of Duplessis who lived at a house on the east bank of southern Bayonne. That was where they would now make for.
There was a sketch map on the reverse of the piece of paper, and Keane used it to navigate them to the royalist’s house. It was part of a modest half-timbered building containing four houses, all accessed through a common shady courtyard lined with balconies and with a fountain in the centre. Fragrant mimosa plants grew among the old stones and a single olive tree stood near the fountain. The Duplessis house lay in the far corner and Keane knocked on the door, conscious that soon the town would be alive with troops searching for them.
With only six men able to identify them, and the captain unlikely to do so, the likelihood of them being found in a town of some 15,000 inhabitants was slim. But Keane didn’t want to take any chances.
*
After a while the door was answered by a woman. She was small, in her sixties and neatly turned out in a plain white dress of a style which had been in fashion some twenty years before. She looked Keane directly in the eye and, seeing the other two men, their cloaks worn over military uniforms, spoke in a clipped accent with a hint of alarm in her voice.
‘Yes? What do you want here?’
‘Madame Duplessis?’
‘Perhaps. Who wants her?’
Keane had taken pains to remember the password. ‘Zenobius.’
The woman opened the door further and without a word ushered them all inside before closing it behind them. In the dark it took Keane a few seconds before he realized that she was pointing a pistol at his heart.
‘Who are you and what do you want? Speak fast and speak true. I won’t hesitate to shoot if I doubt you.’
‘We come from Father Curtis. My name is Keane. Captain James Keane. We are British soldiers. We escaped from the French less than an hour ago. We’re on the run and need to get to Paris. Can you help us?’
The woman lowered her pistol. ‘Yes, of course. I had word of your coming. Camille Duplessis. It seems strange to me though that three British soldiers on the run from the French should want to get to Paris.’
‘It’s rather hard to explain. Let’s just say that we have a mission there. Is your husband at home?’
The woman smiled. ‘Captain Keane, my husband passed away seven years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought—’
‘You presumed that a royalist agent working in secret for a clandestine organization would naturally be a man.’
‘I’m afraid that I did.’
‘It’s a common mistake. My husband was the contact before he died. I just took over. It’s a better cover. Who would suspect a frail old woman of being at the centre of a group of royalist insurgents?’
‘Very clever, madame. We are grateful for your help. I think it would be best if we moved on as quickly as possible.’
‘I agree. You are two officers and a servant, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, Lieutenant Archer and Private Silver.’
‘That is what I was told. I have prepared papers for you. You are Irish, is that right?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘And your lieutenant is a Scot?’
Archer spoke. ‘Yes, madame. That’s quite correct.’
‘Good. On Father Curtis’s instructions I have papers for you both in the names of officers of the Légion Irlandaise.’
She led them through the house to a small room at the rear where, opening a secret drawer hidden in a large oak bureau, she drew out several pieces of paper.
‘Here you are, captain.’ She handed a paper to Keane. ‘And one for you, lieutenant, and another for your servant.’
The three men looked at their papers. Keane’s was in the name of a Captain Williams. He was the same age as Keane and had been born in Newtownards, just a few miles away from Keane’s own home town of Bangor. Curtis had done his job well. Archer’s alias was that of a Lieutenant O’Connell, from Cork, while Silver was Corporal Lynch, a Derry man.
‘Thank you, madame. These look splendid. You have done a fine job.’
‘It comes naturally. I trained in the fine arts and had planned to become a painter of miniatures. Then the Revolution came and that world vanished for me. For everyone.’
‘The arts seem to flourish under Bonaparte.’
The woman looked at him with hatred in her eyes. ‘That man – that monster – he makes a sham of art. He uses art for his own purposes. Just as he uses everyone and everything. Come with me.’
She took them into the next room where, to Keane’s surprise, they found hanging on the wall a small portrait of a man in French military uniform. On his chest he wore the Légion d’Honneur and his tall shako marked him out as an officer of the Imperial Guard.
‘My son, Charles-Louis Duplessis, captain in the Tirailleurs of the Young Guard.’
Keane spoke softly. ‘He fought for Bonaparte?’
‘Yes, he fought for Bonaparte. When we all believed that Bonaparte might be the answer. When we believed that man would right the wrongs of the Revolution and give France back her soul. But what did he do? He sent France to her grave. A million soldiers. Half a million dead. That is what we hear. Half a million of our sons. And my son was one of them.’
‘I am sorry for your loss, madame.’
‘Thank you. Now you see why I hate that man and all that he has done for France. You will need to change your uniforms.’
Keane shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Father Curtis didn’t mention that. The moment we change our uniforms we assume disguise, and in disguise we can be taken for spies and shot.’
‘Nevertheless, if you are to pass as Irish then you cannot wear the red coats of your own army. You will have to wear the green of Ireland.’
Keane thought for a few moments. ‘Very well. But how are we to find green coats?’
‘I have them here for you.’
‘How could you know our sizes?’
‘Father Curtis is most thorough.’
*
Madame Duplessis left them to change and they were quick to slip off their cloaks and exchange their red coats for those she had so unexpectedly provided. A white waistcoat and a green tailed coat, trimmed with yellow facings, gold lace and gold buttons, for Keane and Archer and a less ornate green coat for Silver, with a single NCO’s stripe and a long-service badge.
Keane was not surprised that, while far from perfect, they fitted well enough. Their grey overall trousers they would keep, these being similar to the French model. As to headdress, while Madame Duplessis offered Keane a shako that had belonged to her son, with an altered brass plate and green pompom, Keane and Archer were happy enough to keep their black military bicornes, merely exchanging the black Hanoverian cockade of the British army for the tricolour worn by Napoleon’s troops. Silver, rather than a cumbersome shako, would make do with a simple green and yellow forage cap in the French styl
e.
Of course Keane had adopted disguise before. First at the attack on Oporto and later to infiltrate Massena’s headquarters at Almeida. But this was different. Now they would be behind enemy lines, on French home territory. Donning the green coat he felt instantly vulnerable, although of course he did not say anything to the others and tried to make light of it. He looked at Archer.
‘It’s extraordinary, Archer, if I didn’t know you better I would say that you look an even better Irish officer than you do an English. And as for you, Silver, you fit the bill exactly.’
The men laughed. Archer felt the gold bullion epaulette at Keane’s shoulder. ‘You do look very smart, sir. Quite the Irish officer yourself. They don’t stint on expense, do they? In Boney’s army.’
‘His army thrives on glory, Archer. Everything is for show. It does not matter to us in the British army. We don’t care for show. It’s the fighting man that counts.’
Silver shook his head. ‘It’s all very well being got up as Paddies, sir, if you’ll excuse me, but I don’t see how that’s going to help us. To tell you the truth, I don’t really understand it, sir. All this Irish stuff. I mean, you’re Irish and so is Wellington himself and that’s good because Ireland is really a part of England, isn’t it? But why would there be Irishmen in their own regiment in Boney’s army?’
‘We’re supposed to be in the Irish Legion, Silver. Irishmen fighting in French service. It’s like this. Back in ’98 there was a rising in Ireland and our clever government in their wisdom, having put it down, sent all the ringleaders over to France in exile. And what happens? Bonaparte comes to power and says to himself, Let’s invade England. And while I’m about it we’ll go for Ireland too. Hold on, weren’t there a lot of Irishmen hereabouts? I know, we can make them into a unit and send them over to raise their countrymen against the English. So that’s what he does. He starts the Irish Legion, the Légion Irlandaise. The men of ’98 become the officers, and there are soon enough Irishmen to make a regiment.’
Keane carried on. ‘That’s about it. Major Grant told me about it. It was back in ’05. The Irish Legion was to be the core of a much larger invasion force of 20,000 that had been earmarked to take Ireland, known as the Corps d’Irlande.
‘It came into being in 1803 under a rogue named MacSheehy who was an adjutant-general in Boney’s army. The whole idea of it was to turn Irish patriot hearts to the French cause in the imminent invasion of Ireland.
‘But we all know what happened next, don’t we, Silver?’
Silver grinned. ‘Trafalgar, sir. I was there.’
‘As you never fail to remind us. On the Victory itself, wasn’t it? Admiral Nelson’s flagship.’
‘That it was. Up in the rigging. Marine sharpshooter.’
‘Yes, well, Trafalgar happened and so the French were stuck. The invasion was off. So Boney abandons his idea of taking England, and that includes Ireland into the bargain.’
Archer, straightening the lace on his new coat, spoke again. ‘What happened to the legion then, sir?’
‘He didn’t disband it. It was too useful to him. Good as a snub to England too – to have that many Irishmen fighting against the Crown. He kept it together on the French coast on garrison duty and coastal defence. He sent some to Spain too. I never fought them, but I’m told they fought well. As you’d expect from my countrymen. They put down the Spanish rising on 2nd May and fought at Astorga. It was the legion that led the assault on the city that took it. They say that one of the drummer boys carried on beating the attack even after having both his legs blown off. And they fought against us at Fuentes last year under Massena.’
‘So it’s not a bad lot that we’re supposed to be a part of then, sir?’
‘No, Silver, not a bad lot at all. You can be proud of your adopted regiment.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. And I can tell you I’d rather be an Irishman, even a bad one, than a bloody Frenchie. I hated those uniforms you made us wear at Oporto, sir.’
‘There are different sorts of Irishmen, Silver. Always have been. There are those who like King George and those, shall we say, who don’t. There are Catholics and Protestants.’
‘So really what you are, sir, is you’re an Irishman pretending to be an Irishman?’
‘I’m a sort of Irishman pretending to be another sort of Irishman. The sort of Irishman who wants Ireland not to be a part of England, as you put it, and is prepared to fight for Boney to make that happen.’
‘That ain’t right, sir, is it?’
‘No, Silver, I don’t think it is right. But it’s damned useful as it means that now I can move freely around France. And so can the two of you.’
‘You mean I’ve to pretend to be an Irishman? A bad sort of Irishman?’
‘Yes, exactly. As has Archer.’
‘I’m still Lieutenant Archer though, sir, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, Archer, don’t worry, you are still an officer until further notice. You’re doing a good job so far. Just don’t get too used to it.’
7
Having adopted their disguises, Keane was well aware that all three of them had to familiarize themselves with their aliases. He had managed it well enough when masquerading as a Spanish wine merchant to infiltrate Massena’s headquarters at Almeida two years ago, but this time he knew he would require something more. If they were all to carry off their new characters, they would have to have the facts about these men at their fingertips and be ready to answer some basic questions if and when they were asked.
Curtis had done his work well. Each of their aliases suited them perfectly.
Keane stood before his two men. ‘We have to get this right. If we’re suspected, there will be no way back. No second chances. Let’s try the accents.’ He switched to character. Captain Williams was an Ulsterman. It had been Keane’s native tongue, although he had in recent years grown to speak more as the English officer he had become. Yet there was still in his own accent an underlying base of the native Northern Irishman.
He tried it now, managing several sentences before Archer and Silver dissolved in laughter. ‘Sir, that’s very good.’ Archer grinned. ‘Very good indeed.’
‘This is serious, Archer.’
‘Of course, sir. I know. It’s really very good.’
‘Silver?’
‘Very good, sir. Just right.’
‘Yes, well, it’s your turn now. Archer?’
Archer, as a Scot, was better suited to carry off the voice of the man from Cork with its softer, lilting tones. He spoke a few sentences and Keane couldn’t help but smile. ‘You’re a natural, man. A real man of the south.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.’
As a private, Silver would not have to speak so often. So he was to be a Derry man, and Curtis had banked on the fact that his natural English accent, coloured by years on campaign, would serve well enough.
The only worry would be if they were to encounter any genuine Irish Bonapartists. Keane knew that there were a fair few about. Even Napoleon’s minister of war, the Duc de Feltre himself, Clarke, was an Irishman on his father’s side. So, apart from their accents, their stories would have to be perfect too. To this end Curtis had sent to Madame Duplessis, through his agents, a sheaf of written notes for each of them. Facts which they would have to learn, simple general facts about the Légion Irlandaise and other details regarding their own backgrounds.
He handed the relevant pages to the others and began to read his own.
The history of the Légion Irlandaise read roughly as he had explained it to Archer and Silver. In 1809 the first battalion had fought the British at Walcheren Island and had retreated to Flushing with heavy casualties but put up a gallant defence. The French surrendered and the entire garrison of Flushing were made prisoner and transported to England. However, a small number of men managed to escape. Among them Captain Lawles
s, who travelled by boat to Antwerp and Paris, where he was received by the emperor himself. He was given the Legion of Honour, promoted to chef de bataillon and given command of the first battalion of the Irish regiment. The second battalion joined Murat’s army in Spain and were among the French troops used to suppress the revolt in Madrid of 2 May 1808.
In 1810, the battalion was assigned to Junot’s army of Portugal. It saw action at the siege of Almeida, Bussaco and Fuentes de Oñoro. It was from this unit that Keane and his men purported to come. Their story was that the battalion had been broken up in December 1811. The officers and sergeants, corporals and drummers had been kept together, and the privates had joined another regiment as replacements. While the other officers and NCOs had arrived at the new regimental depot at Bois-le-Duc in southern Holland in April 1812, Keane and his two companions had been engaged in regimental business in France since then and were now on their way to Holland. It sounded plausible enough, thought Keane, and hoped that he and the others would be able to recall the regimental history.
It would not be long before they had a chance to find out. Keane had supposed that they should travel from Bayonne to Paris by coach, and Madame Duplessis confirmed this. There was a ‘diligence’, the regular express coach, due to run the following morning and it was imperative that they should not stay in the town for any longer than they had to. The papers provided by Doctor Curtis contained military travel passes which permitted them to move freely by public transport throughout the empire, at no expense.
After they had become better acquainted with their parts, they ate a simple supper and slept on beds provided by Madame Duplessis, with Silver and Archer taking turns at standing sentry just inside the front door, listening for the merest hint of any footfall which might signal a search party. But none came. Dawn arrived and with it the rare chance to arrange their appearance. Keane and Archer shaved and washed to present themselves as officers who might have spent the past few months on home service rather than the renegades they were. Even Silver managed to give an impression of orderliness in a fresh shirt and his new green coat. They retained their blue boat cloaks, but Madame Duplessis wrapped their scarlet uniform tunics in paper, ready to be collected by one of Father Curtis’s agents. There was now no going back. They had broken their parole and were wanted men who might be shot dead by any of the enemy at any time.