For Our Liberty

by Rob Griffith

  “Ben, we can’t. Not here. Not now,” she said. I pretended she had said it half-heartedly and carried on, my hand moving lower. She slapped it.

  “No. Really, no.”

  I sighed. She was right, but part of me wanted to anyway. Like any male I sometimes feel the need to mark my territory. Of course I wasn’t foolish enough to voice that thought to Dominique.

  “Later?”

  “Yes, later,” she said and kissed me once more. “We need to find the diary.”

  I nodded, stood up and tucked my shirt back in. Dominique was looking under the mattress and the pillows. I just stood and examined the room. Everything was very orderly for a bachelor. There were no clothes on the floor. The bed had been made, and would now need to be remade, I noted. There was a small bookshelf on one wall. The books were arranged neatly by size. Tallest on the left, shortest on the right. Some of those on the left seemed to be slightly forward of the others, spoiling an otherwise perfect line. I went over and pulled one of them out. Then three others. There was a small leather bound book behind them.

  I coughed and waved it at Dominique. She snatched it form my hand, opened it, sat on the bed and began to read. I sat beside her and read over her shoulder.

  Montaignac’s hand was very neat with large loops and other unnecessary flourishes. It was a hand that wanted to be read. Unfortunately the content belied the style. The diary was very, very boring. It listed all his social engagements, noting with evident toadying whenever he met Bonaparte. He appeared to admire the man and blamed France’s ill on those around him. All his speeches in the assembly were included in their entirety. Dominique flicked through the pages, I could sense her frustration as we read one dull entry after another. Things picked up a bit when I saw her name mentioned, she turned the page quickly and I tried to turn it back but she slapped my hand away. I’d read enough to realise Montaignac had been listing all her faults after their dalliance had ended. I was going to say something sympathetic but paused when I realised Dominique was reading intently. I reached out and stopped her turning the page, this time so I could catch up. When I had finished the entry we turned the page together. And the next. And the next. Montaignac wasn’t the traitor.

  According to his diary he had also determined that there was a traitor amongst those that opposed Bonaparte. He aired his suspicions in a series of entries from about the time of my escape from Paris. He too suspected Fauche and Duprez, and had watched them for any sign of treachery but had found none. He went through several pages of quite logical arguments with himself before deciding that there was only one person left that could be the traitor. Dominique. When I read that I couldn’t help but look at her. She held my gaze, looking into my eyes, and gently shook her head.

  “He’s wrong.”

  “I know.”

  “I swear…”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Ben…”

  “Dominique, I know you are not the traitor, but I think we can also determine that Montaignac isn’t either,” I said and reached out to hold her hand in mine.

  “No,” she said, “it can’t be Jules.”

  “So, it must be Fauche or Duprez?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is no one else it could be?”

  “No,” she said, but there was a hint of hesitation before she spoke.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she said with more conviction.

  “Well, we’ll have to find out which it is then won’t we?”

  “Yes, but how, when? You are leaving tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know. We can’t hurry this. We were wrong about Montaignac, we can’t be wrong next time.”

  “No, no, you are right. Come, Ben, we must go. Put everything back how it was,” she said as she handed me the diary. I put it back on the shelf while she straightened the bed and picked up her hat. We backed out of the room, checking that there was no sign of our presence. Dominique was about to lock the door behind us when I remembered my hat, I went back in and retrieved it from the chair where I had left it. I took one last look around the room. We had to believe Montaignac’s diary. We had to. It was very improbable that he would go to the trouble of making up false diary entries on the off-chance that someone would search his rooms. Unfortunately ruling him out didn’t make Fauche or Duprez being the traitor seem any more probable either. We would need a new plan to expose whichever of them it was but we had no time. I had to concentrate on Fulton, on my mission. I had to. That meant I would have to leave Dominique with the problem while I went back to England. I wasn’t very happy about that, as you can imagine. I walked back out to her and she locked the door behind me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I waited until Dominique was asleep and then slid out of bed. It was a hot and humid evening. The sheets were a tangled mess and she lay mostly on top of them. The soft light of a deepening dusk came through the open window with the most meagre of breezes. She looked like a siren or nymph in a painting with just enough of her flesh covered to spare ladies’ blushes but with enough revealed to retain the interest of gentlemen. Her skin was smooth and white, the contours of her glorious body were a match for any artist’s model and her long dark hair was as unkempt and disarrayed as the sheets. I wanted to get back into her bed and never leave. I wanted to lie naked beside her, watching the rise and fall of her breast and feeling her heart beat beneath my arms as I held her close. I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t.

  I dressed as quietly as I could, trying not to wake her. If she woke and bade me to come back to bed I would have assented, I knew. We had left Montaignac’s rooms and she had led me to hers near the Place la Comidie. She had said ‘later’ and was true to her word, wonderfully and wantonly true. Afterwards we lay in bed and once we got our breath back we talked through the implications of Montaignac’s diary. Neither of us could believe Duprez or Fauche was the traitor, but one of them had to be and we would have to find out which. Or rather Dominique would have to. I had run out of time. I had to meet Fulton the following night and take him back to England. She was worried. If Duprez was the traitor then he knew Fulton had been contacted by the Alien Office. Dominique’s questions of him about Fulton would tell him that, even though she had said nothing of my mission. If Fauche was the traitor then I was living under his roof and he could betray me at any moment.

  She wanted me to abandon my mission, to leave Paris, but I wouldn’t, I couldn’t. Instead we came up with a plan for my meeting with Fulton. One that increased the odds of my survival but by no means made it a sure bet. In the meantime I had another part of my mission to fulfil, one that was equally dangerous but one that I wouldn’t let her help me with.

  “Don’t go, Ben,” she said, making me jump and almost fall over as I hopped to put on a boot.

  “I have to. It’s almost night.”

  “Let me come too, please,” she said as she stretched and yawned in a most provocative manner.

  “No. No, Dominique. You need to stay safe, for Claude. I’ll be alright on my own,” I replied, doing my best not to look at her.

  “They’ll be waiting for you.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Fulton is being watched, not his boats. That is what your uncle said.”

  “He may be wrong.”

  “I know, but I will be careful, I promise.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather come back to bed?” she asked, removing what little of the sheets covered her. I paused. My eyes roved where my hands wanted to, where my lips longed to follow.

  “No. Yes, I’m sure. I’ll be back before morning,” I said and kissed her cheek while she pretended to pout. Any woman would like to think their bodies hold more allure than mere duty and she had almost made me waver. Had I known what was going to happen that night I would have kicked off my boots and jumped straight back into bed.

  My first stop was Fauche’s house. It took me about half an hour to walk there from Dominique’s rooms. Plenty of time to doubt myself.
Plenty of time to contemplate turning back through the dark streets. Paris was ill-lit in those days. The lamps were few and far between, hanging from poles and swinging and rotating even in the merest breath of sultry wind that blew that night. More light spilled from windows and doorways but a walk through Paris at night was a walk through islands of light and depths of shadows. It was safe enough though, the police were far more numerous than the watch in London and I didn’t feel the need to stick to the larger thoroughfares or avoid the darker streets. I crossed the Seine at the Pont de la Réunion and then walked on down to the Quai Voltaire. The river traffic had stopped for the night and the Stygian water reflected the lights from the palaces on the far bank.

  I paused outside Fauche’s house when I got there, looking for signs of life but the windows were all dark. I let myself in with my key. I paused again in the hall, listening for any sign of movement. I hoped that Fauche had eaten and drunk well and was sound asleep and that the servants also were abed. I crept upstairs to my rooms and retrieved my knife, some powder and my tinderbox. I then went in search of the kitchen. It wasn’t hard to find, I just followed my nose. The fire still glowed in the grate and the smell of the last meal hung in the air as heady as the finest perfume. I could smell roasted meat and oranges. Herbs and garlic hung above my head. My stomach rumbled and I thought it in the best interests of stealth to help myself to a slice of an apricot tart while I searched for what I needed.

  I found a row of small kegs in the scullery, and then found some cheesecloth in a drawer. I opened one the kegs, the rich smell of dried fruit was added to the aromas of the kitchen. I poured the raisins into a bowl. I found a bottle of lamp oil in the pantry and poured it over the cloth. I then put the cloth, powder and tinderbox back into the keg. I rubbed a candle around the rim of the keg lid, put a little more cheese cloth around it as well and then put the lid back on, making sure it fitted tightly. I left the house, locking the door behind me, half wondering if I would return.

  The moon had risen while I was inside, its silver light lit the streets and I walked quickly back to the river. I crossed to the Il de la Cité and wound my way through its narrow streets and past the forbidding bulk of Notre Dame. The cathedral’s magnificent windows glowed with candle light and I could hear the singing from some late night worship. The houses of the Il St. Louis though were silent and unlit. I trod quietly whilst trying not to look nefarious, a difficult balance to achieve when you are sneaking through a city at night with arson on your mind. I crossed to the far bank and went along the Quai St Paul and then over to the Isle Louvier. I felt a little foolish carrying a keg through the city at night but the few people I passed didn’t spare me a glance. The Isle Louvier had no houses. There was a scattering of small plots of vegetables and fruit trees along with two or three timber yards. The Grand Arsenal loomed on my left as I walked along the small paths between the fields, sheds and piles of wood. The timber must have been convenient for the boat yards of the Quai Bernard just across the river and that proximity was also why I had plumped for it.

  There was a derelict wooden shack practically falling into the Seine at the very tip of the island. I stood in its dark shadow and stripped, laying my clothes carefully just inside the doorway. The door had long since fallen from its hinges. I picked up my keg and slithered down the muddy bank to the edge of the river. I dipped my toe into the water. It was freezing. I bent down and smeared cold gritty mud across my face and shoulders. It smelled disgusting and I was glad it was dark enough for me to not see what I was covering myself with. I confess I almost turned back, convincing myself, quiet rightly, that my idea was a foolish one. It was the sound of a carriage crossing the Pont de la Tournelle that spurred me forwards into the river. Parisians accept most behaviour without comment but naked Englishmen taking a midnight dip in the river was probably beyond the pale. I needed to stop messing about and get on with it.

  For a moment, just a fraction of a moment, the coolness of the water was refreshing after such a humid day. Then the shock came and I was standing on the tips of my toes trying to keep as much of my body in the warm air as I could and cursing under my breath. I walked on, the icy line of torment slowly rising up my body until just my head was out of the water and the rest of my body was mercifully numb. The current was stronger than I had anticipated and I struggled to keep my footing. I held the keg in both hands and kicked off, angling myself upstream slightly. I kept my mouth clamped shut, knowing what the people of the city used the river for. The channel was narrow but the angle I had to swim in order to account for the current meant it was a while before I felt mud under my feet again. I kept to the water and half waded, half swam up the river to the inlet that led to Fulton’s boats. Barges and other craft lined most of the bank, tied up to the quays, each other or moored in the river awaiting unloading the next day. I could hear the snoring of the crews as I swam past or held on to the hulls when I needed to rest. When I could see it I kept looking at the bank and did see one bored guard urinating into the river as I neared the ranks of invasion barges. I pursed my lips tighter and swam silently by. The temperature of the river was much worse than I thought it would be. I knew I didn’t have long before it became debilitating. I had to hurry. That was where I went wrong. I should have been more patient and suffered the bitter cold.

  It was good to get out of the current and enter the small channel that led to Fulton’s ridiculous craft. I could feel weeds and Lord knows what else with my feet as I trod water and listened for any sign of the sentinels I felt were certain to be there, no matter what Dominique’s uncle had said. But I could hear nothing and because I was low in the water I could see nothing on the bank either. I paddled silently forward, heading for the shelter of a small jetty. The water was still and in the moonlight it looked like mercury. I was making no sound but ripples spread across the surface whenever I moved. I grasped the slime covered wood of the wharf and sheltered beneath it, the keg in my other hand. I stopped and listened again. Nothing. I inched forward, the strange shape of the plunging boat looked like some ancient sea creature from my vantage point in the water. I swam slowly along the copper hull and put my hand on the side of the steam launch. I had reached my goal, now all I had to do was destroy the craft.

  I tentatively let myself sink until I was touching the bottom, my head and shoulders remained out of the water and I could use my hands. As quietly as I could I removed the lid from the keg. I took out the knife and slid it between two of the planks of the boat for want of a better place to put it, I prayed I wouldn’t need it. I fumbled for the tinderbox and almost dropped it, covered as it was with the lamp oil from the cloth. It wasn’t going to be easy to strike the flint against the steel while in the water. I hadn’t really thought the plan through very well. I could have climbed into the boat but the noise would have been too much of a risk and the thought of being caught naked, floundering about like a fish was not appealing. I put the keg gently into the boat, and then held the tinderbox with its precious flakes of char cloth and straw in one hand along with the steel, and then struck the steel with the flint. The sparks seemed very bright in the night, but they failed to light the tinder. I struck again, worried that I was making too much noise. On the third strike I saw one spark glow on the char cloth. I breathed softly on it and it glowed brighter, a curl of smoke spiralling into the night air. It was then I heard the footsteps.

  I froze. The footfalls went from the mud of the yard on to the wood of the jetty. I breathed on the tinder again and was rewarded with a small flame as the straw took light. I quickly tipped the tinder into the keg already in the boat. The oil soaked cheesecloth burst into flame and I knocked the keg over, burning my hand. The sudden light from the fire bathed the yard in an orange glow. There was a shout and the boat lurched as someone leapt on to it. The flames were growing but could still be dowsed with a single bucket of water. I felt the boat rock as the guard panicked and tried to find something to put the fire out. He shouted for help. I reached up out o
f the water, using one hand on the boat to lift me higher, with the other hand I grabbed hold of the guard’s belt and then pulled him backwards. He fell into the water with an enormous splash. I grabbed the knife from the side of the boat and sank it into his stomach, while at the same time allowing his weight to pull me down into the water. His eyes were wide and he opened his mouth in a silent scream as he died.

  Muskets fired from the shore and chips of wood flew from the launch and jetty, at least one shot clanged into the copper hull of the plunging boat. I swam down, deeper and deeper. The noise of the guns, the crackling fire and the shouts of more and more men emerging from the sheds around the yard were suddenly muffled. I let go of the guard I had killed and let him sink with my knife still in his belly. I kicked downwards, blessing all those summers as a child spent playing and swimming in the sea at Brighthelmstone. The water was black but as I looked back up at the surface I could see musket balls slice into the water, leaving a silver trail of bubbles behind them. My lungs were bursting and I tried to put some distance between me and the chaos before rising for air but it wasn’t enough. As soon as my head broke the surface a fresh volley of shots hit the water around me like the deadliest of hail storms. I ducked back down and swam for my life. Shots continued to enter the water, coming ever closer. I felt the tug of the current and knew I might just live. I rose to the surface in the Seine, gasping for breath. I could hear shouts behind me and struck out for the opposite bank, praying I could make it back to the Ilse Louvier and my clothes.

  Another musket shot rang out from the bank and I felt a sting as the ball creased my thigh. I swam harder, ignoring the pain, letting the current take me away. More shots came but I was out of range. I didn’t stop though. I kept on swimming for all I was worth. I had failed to destroy Fulton’s craft, I did not doubt that however many men were trying to kill me from the shore more were putting out the fire and more still would be passing word to hunt for me on the right bank. I had failed, but I was going to be damned if I was going to die naked in a French river. I swam until my lungs burned and I could go no further.