by S. P. Grogan
“And of DeKalb and the other officers?”
“Whatever new means they might secure to make their journey, I cannot give an opinion one way or the other. Let us say, I have heard not a word in that regard but I should ask you to warn them the Anglais are becoming more severe upon the seas. While the Marquis’s ship was in Bordeaux being fitted, the British were aware of another ship in that harbor. I have just received news that this other ship was seized on the open sea and three French officers on board were detained. My focus is in gaining their release. The King, through Maurepas, is issuing a new proclamation definitely forbidding all French officers to travel and abroad and return to their regiments.” Vergennes went looking for a draft, handed it over, and particularly pointed out the line... ‘Specifically as it regards the Marquis de la Fayette.’ This was written prior to the Marquis now agreeing to return, but still it will be issued to all ports in France.”
“Then the Baron must have already sailed.”
“I did not hear that,” intoned the Foreign Minister, and DeBroglie bowed his way out. One thing was certain Vergennes did want so badly to tweak the Lion’s beard. And for General de Broglie, he knew he must act with haste.
At this moment Commissioner Deane was in a quandary. He had received correspondence from DeKalb from San Sabestian. The voyage had ended. The Baron was looking for another way to ship out. The question lay unanswered what were to happen to the Letters of Introduction that he and Carmichael had written to members of the U.S. Congress introducing the qualities of Major Generals De Kalb and La Fayette. He needed De Broglie to step in and help solve the problem. Meanwhile, he had to write his own covering letter to Vergennes professing innocence in the Marquis’s attempt to leave the country, against the King’s and certainly the three American Commissioner’s wishes. He sent Carmichael to find De Broglie.
70.
12-13 APRIL
In his waiting at Bordeaux, resigned to travel to Marseille within a day or so, Gilbert received two great surprises.
Port Commandant Fumel returned and with him came another officer, this one in a green uniform. Something about the man looked familiar.
May I introduce to you Captain Barras of our Immigration Service and also Prefect of Police for the local Bordeaux Region.”
Captain Barras gave a curt smile like a torn cut.
“The Marquis and I are acquainted. We both attended the Plessis School in Paris.”
Of course, recalled Gilbert, Barras, the tough. I think a few of us who felt his shoves and pushes finally ganged up on him and bloodied his nose. Yes, I remember, he grew up in this region. He has some title in nobility but of a lower family.
Fumel noticed the silence between both men, especially since the Marquis did not respond to the greeting. So, he began his official duties. He handed over a small document to Gilbert.
“Here is your passport for travel to Italy. The Captain and a mounted squad from the prefecture here have been designated as your escort to Marseille.”
Said Captain Barras, not trying to hide his snide smile, “I have the power of arrest if there is any deviation from the route. If you will be ready the morning of the 14th, we shall depart at sunrise.” He then emphasized with a sharp clicking of his boot heels, and about-faced and departed.
“I assume you and Captain Barras were not the best of school playmates at Plessis?” inquired Commandant Fumel, a wry grin to his face.
“A child steeped in brutality. Might I assume he did not gain any commendable habits when he reached adulthood?”
“He does have a rough reputation. I would be wary of crossing him, sir.”
“I have no intention of giving him any provocation. We shall have an uneventful chaise ride to Marseille to see my dear relatives.” He waved his passport as a form of dismissal.
Commandant Fumel bowed, but hesitated.
“I am sorry that you were unable to depart. If it was not for royal orders and the Governor’s insistence, I would be the first to cheer you at the harbor.”
Gilbert was unprepared for a friendly face in his soft prison of comfort.
“Thank you, Commandant.” He paused, reflecting on his mood. “I did not seek to be a disappointment and to so many.”
“Not so many you might find,” responded Fumel and he departed leaving Gilbert in an air of confusion. What was the Port Commandant talking about? He would have his answer in the morning.
13 April
“Mauroy!” What brings you: to gloat over the condemned?”
Viscount de Mauroy, aide-de-camp to General De Broglie grinned as both men gripped hands in a well-meant handshake. De Mauroy had been likewise commissioned a Major General by Commissioner Deane, the plan to follow in the next ship with General De Broglie when Baron DeKalb had succeeded in his mission and sent news to come over.
“First pour me some fine red wine; is it the best? Cabernet if there is any. I have parched thirst. I do think I set a post race to reach you before it was too late.
“Too late? Too late for what?” Gilbert quickly poured the decanted wine, from a grape-growing region along the Dordogne River, a ‘St. Emilion’ label.
“Why, to have you do something as foolish as to return home or to go on this tourist jaunt to visit the Vatican and pay homage to a boring Pope – instead of going to America where you belong.” De Mauroy had been specifically coached by De Broglie on how to handle the nineteen year old Marquis, and what part of his weakness to appeal to.
“You must be sun stroked. You must know I have been ordered by the King—.”
“No, no listen. Sit down and listen carefully.” De Mauroy gulped his wine and went to the bottle and poured himself a glass more full this time.
“You are a hero of Europe.”
“What?”
“I am not playing you false. It is true as my presence before you. I brought news sheets and memorandum to speak the truth. But first listen, hear my tale.”
Gilbert poured himself half a glass of wine, though it was only mid morning.
“First, did the order for you to return, was it a blanket command that covered Baron De Kalb, the other officers, and put an injunction upon your ship from sailing?”
“Why, no, as I read the documents, the command was only directed at myself.”
“And so if there is no writ of seizure, the ship—what do they call your ship?”
“Originally, The Clary, then The Good Mother and now more appropriate, La Victoire.”
“And I presume it was your naming idea?”
“Yes.” Gilbert’s mind was elsewhere. “But they are planning on issuing a letter de cachet if I don’t comply.”
“And have they issued such letter?”
“Well, not that I have heard. But it may be on the way. I have been threatened with arrest since my stay.”
“And I have just ridden hard from Paris, I have heard no news that such a warrant was issued. Neither has the General. In fact, none will be issued, he says. It is all a compliant face to make happy expressions to the British. The General says Minister Vergennes does not care if you sail or come back. That is your decision. But can you guess who wants you back?”
Gilbert did not to pause to that answer.
“The Duc d’Ayen.”
“Yes, Vergennes tells De Broglie that Maurepas has issued all these orders under the King’s signature only to appease your father-in-law. Your way to the sea and beyond are not hindered as you might think. And each day, they care less, because the public demands a hero and they call your name. Do you know right now you are more popular in the coffee houses and the salons than Dr. Franklin?”
“It is not so.” And Gilbert offered a reluctant yet fresh smile that had not graced his face for a good week.
“Let me show you.” And from a strapped case he had brought in on his shoulder, he opened a flap and drew from it thirty or so pages. “Here are news sheets, letters of support, and most of the lauding comments that I have heard are from women. I have
even heard that a certain woman of the court recalls your memory but of what I cannot guess.” And the Viscount gave off a hearty chuckle.
Gilbert stunned poured through the pages, reading from both hands in a hurried fashion. “One here says I and my fellows have sailed already.” He read another. “And this sheet says my ship was captured by the British and I am held in the Tower of London and the author demands the King call for my release forthwith.”
De Mauroy picked a news sheet off the floor. “Read this one, fifth paragraph down, it is a news sheet brought over from England, a day before I left but dated the 4th of April.”
One of the richest of our young nobility, the Marquis de la Fayette, a relation to the Duke de Noailles, and between 19 and 20 years of age, has, at his own expense, hired a frigate, and provided every thing necessary for a voyage to America, with two officers of his acquaintance. He set out last week, having told his lady and family that he was going to Italy where the Countess de Tesse, his aunt, lives.
“But it is not factual. I have not sailed.”
“Yet, last week, the spies saw you sail out of Bordeaux, what were they to think? And now what do you wish to do? Sail back?”
Gilbert could readily visualize what the gossip sheets and all the salons might then say of him.
“And here is the best, from Anonymous. they that hide best behind ‘anonymous’ are best persuaders of the mob. Gilbert took the parchment, one sentence only, unsigned:
‘A relative within the great Noailles Family has directly told the Duc d’Ayen if he does not forgive the young Marquis, there is the fate that no remaining unmarried daughter of his shall find a husband.’
Gilbert had to grin, thinking of what the Duc might express in curses when he read such gossip.
To all these written comments, all positive to his quest, he gave serious contemplation, and weighed the sentiment in his hand to a new judgment.
“I cannot go back to ridicule and the past life I have led.”
“Your life has changed, for the better, for the honor of France which is yet to appreciate your good values and to your future accomplishments the United States shall gain. Gilbert, as a new friend, let me say: you are destined to play a major role with the insurgents. And what of the letters you carry to the U.S. Congress? Must De Kalb be the hero of the hour and deliver them to their representatives, and will he be the one who speaks and acts for France to General Washington.”
“No, I cannot let that happen. I am resolved to sail as soon as possible.”
“Good. General De Broglie encourages you as does Commissioner Deane. They send more letters for you to deliver. Do not let them down on that task as now you are an ‘American courier-envoy’.” De Mauroy poured himself another glass. The Viscount accepted his own fate to his new travel plans. There would be nothing as fine as this smooth and oaky grape bouquet to taste in the wilderness...where he was headed.
“By the way, I have been appointed to make sure you are not misled again before the wind catches the sails. I have gained all approvals to join your retinue, mon General.”
Gilbert’s new joy suddenly froze.
“But how can I reach La Victoire? There is an armed escort set to guide me to Marseille and it leaves early tomorrow. You arrived in time but to be forestalled.”
Viscount de Mauroy sobered somewhat.
“Well, right now, I have no idea how to proceed.”
“Sir, if you permit me.”
Gilbert and the Viscount turned to see the manservant Camus standing near a porch entry, how and when he arrived Gilbert could only guess.
“There may be methods by which you might elude the authorities,” spoke his valet.
Gilbert regained all confidence lost.
“Ah, yes, my good man, I should have realized you must hold such expertise in avoiding authoritative type persons.”
“As it may be so, should we not plan your final escape from this confinement?”
“Yes, let us be about it.” All doors closed and curtains were pulled, and another bottle of Saint-Emilion wine opened.
71.
BLASSE-CAMUS, TO GILBERT’S way of thinking, was the prince of skullduggery. The attempt to evade the armed escort did not involve swords drawn or pistols fired, which since these were representatives of the King, would not set well with his new found public ardor.
In the early morning a carriage was prepared, one small trunk tied to the top, and Gilbert came out dressed somewhat formally, not in military uniform, but in fine civilian outfit. Gilbert entered the carriage and the window curtains pulled down, more in a snub to his ex-school antagonist Captain Barras than to block out the dust and the rising sun. Blasse-Camus took the driver’s perch and they were off, the four dragoons including Captain Barras riding, a pair of horsemen ahead, a pair of riders following in close support.
The carriage ride would be 500 kilometers to reach Marseilles, with many post stops along the way for food, feeding and resting of horses, and lodging. The roads with the heat of warm spring were dry and passable though many were rutted and the going slow. These roads after all were narrow ancient caravan routes and where Roman Legions once marched.
The crux of the plan had to be at the first rest stop at the way station of St. Jean-de-Luz. Here was the crossroad, one road going northward to Paris, the other, back south to Spain, and the waiting La Victoire. Here, Blasse-Camus pulled the carriage close to the building, away from the normal hitching yard for the horses. Gilbert made a great demonstration of alighting, bending and stretching, shaking off dust and then entered the building looking for a late morning meal. Blasse-Camus spoke to an employee of the way station seeking grains and water for the two horses. While two of the ‘guards’ followed Gilbert into the tavern, the other two took to the resting of all four dragoon horses. Without notice, with stealth, Blasse-Camus pulled from the carriage a leather saddle bag and placed it under straw in one of the stable stalls.
The village way station was all things to all needs: tavern, stable, rooms for letting, even a post office. When Blasse-Camus entered the tavern-hostel, he found Gilbert eating alone, and the escort off in their own corner, eating and laughing, every once in a while, a derisive stare thrown by Captain Barras. The man has grown to be disreputable, observed Gilbert, and he can’t wait to have me try to challenge him, or try to escape, so he can clap me in irons and throw me into one of his Bordeaux dungeons.
Blasse-Camus explained to Gilbert the deception. “It is just like the pick-pocket waif in the marketplace, one child for the distraction, the other the sleight of hand.” Gilbert listened and considered this one of the most important acts he must do without fear and misstep. Blasse-Camus went back outside, preparing the deception.
While he was eating, Gilbert watched Captain Barras try his flirting skill with the young barmaid, and he had some satisfaction that she rejected the Captain’s leering banter, and made a demonstration somewhat alluring when she flounced over to Gilbert and lavished little attentions on him as her preference. Gilbert could see Barras fuming, and once again smiled at this meaningless joust for affections. He gave her a generous tip. And she stared at her good fortune of choosing the right man to give better service to; still she bit the coin to test for its metal worth.
“Are you a rich lord? They say you are escaped prisoner going to Marseille for public humiliation. Is that so? I don’t think so, or you would be in irons.”
Gilbert was incensed how the rumors would rise against him, destroy his character back in Paris, unless he made good his original plan. He prayed for a miracle in deliverance. He gave his own special smile to the girl, the one reserved for women he sought to befriend.
“I am a lord, but have been falsely accused. And now under watch by these scoundrels. Never forget the name of La Fayette. For I shall return here one day and you can crown me with a laurel of lavender.”
She laughed, enjoyed his looks, and gave back.
“When you return I will tell the girls of the vi
llage you once favored me with your charms.”
“If only we had more time to exchange charms, for I am sure we would both be covered by heaven-sent bliss.”
“Oh, sir, you talk funny. I assume that is city talk. Sweet, it is, though.” Catching the glare of her father, the tavern owner and post master, the girl returned to serving customers, bouncing a little bit more gaily.
When they were all out in the stage yard, Gilbert made a visual display of his entering the carriage, and a shout to his servant-driver, “And take the road with less jostling, I intend to get a good two hours sleep on this part of the journey.” He entered, played with the black wooden slider that acted as the door’s curtain.
Blasse-Camus started to mount the carriage, but then, yelled curses and jumped off, and began abusing the stable hand who had fed the horses and re-hitched them to the carriage. Blasse-Camus found several faults in the stable employee’s actions, and soon had all four escorts laughing and making comments, on what a Parisian servant knew nothing of the rural ways. Blasse-Camus gave them dark looks, remounted the carriage box and whipped the horses, in a start, and sent them off on a gallop, which had Captain Barras laughing the hardest as they sought to catch up, for they all believed young Gilbert would not be gaining his slumber over the next many kilometers of rough travel.
Gilbert was not in the carriage. The ‘escaping’ switch had taken only moments. He had scurried from the other side of the carriage and raced into around the side of the building, and carefully walked to the back of the stables. He watched the carriage take off and its guards gallop down the highway to again take up their posts, not knowing the ‘prisoner’ was not inside. When they disappeared he searched out the saddlebags under the straw and began pulling out a change of clothes.
But he had not gone unnoticed.
“And what am I to see in your undressing,” asked the young barmaid, “Will you be indeed a charming man?”