For Our Liberty

by Rob Griffith

  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.

  “So, Blackthorne. If you will not tell me, perhaps I should ask Mademoiselle Calvet?” Lacrosse said.

  I lunged up at him but the two gendarmes grabbed me and held me in vice-like grips. A thin, almost apologetic, smile played across the face of Lacrosse.

  “Well, Blackthorne. Maybe I have found your Achilles’ heel? Should I let my men talk to her? You know how gentle they can be.”

  I still said nothing. He sighed again.

  “Very well. Take him back to his cell and get the girl.”

  I surrendered.

  “Enough, you win.” I shook myself free of the two gendarmes and straightened myself up, “I’ll tell you where I have hidden the papers.” I paused whilst I brushed myself down and thought of a suitable tale. “I never brought them from Paris. I memorised them and hid the originals in my rooms.” I put all the desperation and fear I felt into my performance.

  Lacrosse scrutinised me. I don’t think he believed me for a second but he knew he would have to verify my story. We both realised I had saved myself for a day or so whilst word was sent to Paris. After that, he would likely kill me, and Dominique, if I didn’t give up the papers. In the meantime, just to be sure, he got his men to beat me, asking me again and again where the plans were. I stuck to my story, until I passed out once more.

  Dawn had been and gone before I awoke, stiffer and colder than before. The cell had looked more appealing in the dark. Now nothing hid the squalor and filth. The window displayed a small patch of leaden sky but little else. My headache was gone though, which was the first piece of good news, and a key was turning in the lock. I chose to take this as another piece of good news since executions traditionally take place at dawn and hangmen are quite a conservative lot. It was too soon for Lacrosse to have received word back from Paris that the plans were not in my rooms so I expected to be presented with a meagre meal of some kind which I could throw in the face of my captors. I was disappointed.

  The figure that the gaoler showed into the cell had the air of superiority and condescension of the highest born Duke. He waved his escort away with an irritated gesture of one hand. The gaoler scuttled gratefully out, pulling the door to behind him but not locking it. I heard him walk hurriedly down the corridor, he had probably been ordered to make himself scarce. My guest said nothing for a few moments. He looked around the cell but displayed no distaste. Perhaps he was used to such surroundings. It would have been good manners for me to get up but I remained seated, as uncomfortable as it was. There was nothing about the man that made me want to be polite. I was sure my mother would have agreed with me.

  I had been expecting the gloating presence of my grey nemesis Lacrosse, back for another round of questions, but this was not he. The visitor was older for a start, about fifty or so, and he had the look of a man that had decided to stop fighting the advancing years and surrender to them instead. His hair was retreating rapidly and his stomach was beginning to bulge. When his thin lips smiled the effect was not unlike a corpse that had lain too long in the sun.

  “Please, remain seated,” he said. When I didn’t react he smiled again, very briefly and then continued in a thin voice that belied his evident confidence, “I believe that these belong to you?” He reached into his jacket and extracted the packet of papers that Wright had given me. He tossed them on to the straw in front of me. This time when I didn’t say anything it wasn’t through insolence but sheer mystification. What could I say? A denial seemed trite. He paused for a moment then continued again, pacing up and down the few feet across the width of the cell. “Your friend Colonel Gaspard has not betrayed you, well not very much. He gave the papers to me, the one person in France who could help you. I used Gaspard to keep an eye on the less reputable side of the English community in Paris. His luck at the tables meant that a few extra livres were always welcome. When your letter arrived he naturally forwarded it to me. He might have thought it the best thing for you, or he might have thought that it would go badly for him if I had become aware of his involvement. It matters little. The point is that I am now in a position to do you a service.”

  He stood on tiptoe to look out of the barred window, allowing me time to collect my thoughts. He must have known about Gaspard to have the papers, so anything I said would not implicate the Colonel, not that it mattered if I believed his story. I had always wondered who made good Gaspard’s debts so readily. Playing for time I asked him his name.”

  “I apologise, I should have said, Monsieur Blackthorne. My name is Jean Baptise Dossonville.”

  Jean Baptise Dossonville I knew was Calvet’s boss. Dominique and Calvet had both told me a few things about him. He had begun life as a servant and eventually rose to be valet to some of the most powerful men in France and was trusted by Louis XVI himself. When the Revolution came Dossonville joined the police. Dominique said this was so that he could protect his former employers and I wanted to believe her.

  He quickly rose to be Inspector of the Paris Police and during the Terror his hands were far from free of blood, although his loyalties were far from clear. Calvet knew that Dossonville had, on occasion protected Royalists and turned a blind eye to their plots. He was known to take money from the British but he was not trusted by them or the Royalists, I had been told. Eventually justice, of a kind, caught up with him after one of a countless number of coups and he was sent to the penal colony in Guiana to die. However, his English paymasters in the Alien Office helped him escape and once the Peace of Amiens had been signed he returned to begin his career again. Arrested by Fouché he counterattacked with his own denunciation of Fouché and Bonaparte was fool enough to believe him. Fouché was sacked and Dossonville made Controller of Administration, overseer of all the secret police organisations. Calvet had said that the only thing you could count on was that Dossonville would serve his own interests. If those interests coincided with yours then he might help you, but you should always watch your back.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  “I doubt that, but no matter. As I said, I am in a position to do you a good turn, as you would say.”

  “And what might that be?” I really didn’t think I wanted to know.

  “You can take those papers back to England for me.”

  This time my silence indicated nothing but speechlessness. Why would Dossonville want me to take secret documents about Bonaparte’s invasion plans to England? Was he betraying his country again? Had he been paid to help me? No doubt a man like him was capable of anything for his own ends but what were they, and if I went along with them would I be furthering my own country’s interests or just his? He stopped pacing
and leant against the door.

  “You are probably asking yourself why I would make such an offer? I do not normally explain myself but you English can be so obtuse.” His eyes, that had never met mine for more than a second up to then, held my gaze for a quarter of a minute before he carried on. “It is quite simple really. Lacrosse has been charged with the recovery of these papers. It suits my purpose that Lacrosse, and of course his real master Fouché, fail.”

  “You mean that you are prepared to see your armies defeated on the shores of England, for hundreds of Frenchmen to die, all to discredit a personal rival so that you can prevent him regaining he previous position?”

  “Yes,” he nodded.

  “Fine. How do I escape?” I stood and flicked the straw from myself. The smell would take longer to be rid off, and I don’t mean from the filth I had been sitting in but the stink of the company I had been keeping. Don’t think that I agreed to co-operate lightly. I knew that by allying myself even temporarily with a man like Dossonville was not only taking the tiger by the tail it was like trying to tie two tiger tails together. I would be bitten in the posterior before I was safely home but what else could I do? Sit and wait for Lacrosse to either stretch or detach my neck? Sometimes you just have to cut the cards and hope.

  “Your escape has already been arranged,” Dossonville flicked out his watch. “You will be leaving in about five minutes. You are in Abbeville, it is not far from the coast.”

  “What about Mademoiselle Calvet, Beston and the Abbé?”

  “Do not concern yourself with the two gentlemen, they will play but a small part in our little game. Mademoiselle Calvet is in a cell down the corridor.”

  I picked up the papers and he handed me the keys to the cells, consulting his watch again afterwards.

  “I must be on my way. The gaoler is safely ensconced in a tavern, as are the gendarmes. Lacrosse is on his way to Paris. There is a cabriolet outside. A British Frigate will be off the coast near Etaples tonight, it will signal with a blue light and you must answer it with the red lantern in the cabriolet. A map is on the seat. I suggest you hurry.”