For Our Liberty

by Rob Griffith

  Despite all this paraphernalia I did not feel ready for anything. As the night progressed and we got closer to France I again began to reflect upon my folly. You might consider, rightly, that it was a tad late for such doubts, and I would agree. I’m not sure if it was the thought of landing in France again, the import of my mission there, or the nebulous prospect of seeing Dominique that made me nervous. I suspect the latter. The Calvets had no part in my mission but I knew myself well enough that I would do all I could to see Dominique again. After all, I had a promise to keep.

  I went back on deck and stood at the ready, as it were, but this time on the leeward side of the ship. The wind had fallen and the swell had abated to a gentle rolling that my stomach seemed able to cope with. The sun had long since departed but the moon had yet to rise. The little ship seemed ghost-like in the silver starlight. The crew were almost silent, the sails flapped weakly, the rigging rattled softly and only the occasional brief discussion between Wright and the helmsman disturbed the peace.

  I thought hard about my mission, it seemed simple enough; all I had to do was deliver a letter, destroy some boats and hopefully spirit Fulton out of France. Quite why the Alien Office hadn’t asked me call upon General Bonaparte and persuade him to surrender as well I don’t know. Perhaps they were saving that Herculean task for my next mission. The parts that worried me most were the journey to and from the meeting with Fulton, for that I would be in the hands of others, little more than a package to be delivered, and since my previous experience of relying on the network of spies, traitors and agents in France had hardly been a success you can understand my concerns.

  If this Fulton could convince the French to purchase his inventions then our fleet was at considerable risk. What defence could they have against floating mines or boats that could travel beneath the waves? It still seems remarkable to me that in an age in which so much industry has been revolutionised by machinery that we fought that long war against Napoleon in much the same way as our fathers had fought the war in America and as our Grandfathers had fought the Seven Years War before that. Hargreaves had his spinning jenny, Derby his blast furnace and Watt his steam engine but apart from Colonel Shrapnel’s artillery rounds, Baker’s rifle and Congreve’s ineffectual rockets precious little had changed on the battlefield for decades. Perhaps it was time that an inventor like Fulton challenged the supremacy of the wooden walls that protected our little island.

  “It does not do to dwell on things in our profession, Ben,” Wright said as he came to stand by my side.

  “You may be right, John. You may be right,” I replied, shaking myself from my thoughts and looking at Wright, the same wry smile on his face. “So, tell me what happened after we parted in Paris.”

  “There is little enough to tell,” he said but gazed across the sea with a look that had a portion of pain or regret in it. “I and a friend escaped Paris with some of the confidential papers from the embassy and obtained passage back to England via some of the same people that you will meet tonight.”

  “I’m sure there was more adventure to it than that?”

  “If you are looking for adventure then I suggest that you go and discover some island in the South Seas. For us a good mission is a dull mission. Get in, do your duty and get out. That is all you have to do. If you find adventure then you have failed,” he said.

  It was a fine speech but I didn’t believe a word of it. He had the look of a buccaneer about him, there was an almost piratical gleam in his eye as he looked towards the thin, dark strip that was France.

  “Do you know of my mission?” I asked, my voice dropping self-consciously to a whisper.

  “Yes, Commodore Smith briefed me,” Wright said, amused at my conspiratorial tone.

  “He wanted you to go in my stead,” I said.

  “I volunteered.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Brooke was correct. I am too well known. If I go to Paris again I fear I will not return.” He said, still gazing towards the French coast.

  A cry came from somewhere high up in the rigging that a sail had been sighted and Wright started another stream of unintelligible orders. The fifty or so crew swarmed up from below to the steady roll of a Marine’s drum like ants leaving a nest. Within minutes the carronades were loaded and run out, sand scattered on the deck to stop it becoming slick with blood, and cutlasses and muskets stashed in barrels around the deck. Wright examined the vessel, only just visible above the horizon, through his night-glass.

  “French fishing boat,” he said.

  “Not dangerous then?” I asked.

  “No, but best avoided all the same,” he said taking the telescope from his eye. “Two points to starboard if you please Connor,” he told the helmsman.

  The Vincejo turned slowly away from the fishing boat. Wright issued another stream of orders to trim the sails but kept the crew at quarters.

  “We’ll soon be nearing the French coast, Ben,” he said and passed word for my portmanteu to be brought up. My face must have betrayed my feelings. “You’ll be alright. I make this run all the time, everything usually goes like clockwork.”

  “And unusually?”

  “We’ve had our run-ins with the French, don’t get me wrong. But we’ve always got back home.”

  I didn’t reply. I could see the dark shadow of France ahead of us.

  “John, did Brooke tell you that there is a traitor in Paris.”

  “Yes, but I suspected as much. I’ve survived in this business because I was lucky. That last time in Paris I felt my luck was running out. Too many things went awry. The French were ahead of us all the way.”

  “I think the traitor is one of three men. Montaignac, Fauche or Duprez.”

  “I know them all, but not well,” he said and I could see that he was thinking, judging each suspect.

  “Who would you put your money on?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps Montaignac but I couldn’t tell you why. Brooke told me he has someone trying to catch them. If I were you I’d steer clear of all of them. Remember, it’s not your money you are wagering, it’s your life.”

  With that sobering thought he left me to watch the coast as we got nearer and nearer. The moon was just a thin silver slither but the sky was largely cloudless so there was enough light to see some details. We passed well clear of a town with a harbour and then when there was nothing to see on shore apart from cliffs and a white line of surf beneath them we turned towards land. A red light glowed from the cliff top. Wright issued another stream of orders, not shouting this time but speaking quietly to the men around him. Figures darted around the decks and we slowly hove to. A green light was waved from the bow. A boat was lowered over the side and was filled by sailors and a few marines.

  “Time to go, Ben,” said Wright.

  “Thank you, Captain. Best of luck to you.”

  “And to you, look me up when you return,” he said.

  “I will.”

  We shook hands and I climbed gingerly down the side of the ship. The planks were slick with slime and the ropes crusted with salt. There was almost no swell at all but still I nearly ended up in the sea. As it was I trod on a marine as I landed. The Lieutenant in charge grabbed me and forced me down into a seat before I capsized the boat.

  “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.”