For Our Liberty

by Rob Griffith

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dominique had still been asleep when I got back to her rooms just as the sun was rising. I was exhausted, filthy and ached all over. I had managed to reach the shore, but far from the shed where I had left my clothes and had to make my way across the Ilse Louvier to find them again. I’d barely had the strength to get dressed let alone walk back, I’d been lucky to find a fiacre outside the Palais Royal.

  I shrugged myself from my clothes and limped over to dresser and poured some water from the jug into the bowl and began to wash myself. I was surprised and grateful when a cool hand touched mine, took the cloth and relieved me of my task. She tutted when she saw the long thin bruise where the ball had hit my thigh, fortunately the range and water had robbed it of most of its power so it hadn’t broken the skin. It still hurt like the very devil though. Once I was clean she guided me over to the bed and then lay down beside me, one leg hooked over mine, an arm around my neck and another on my chest.

  “Did you do it?” she asked. I think she already knew the answer from the manner of my return.

  “Not quite,” I sighed as her fingers traced a lazy figure of eight on my torso.

  “They were guarded?”

  “Yes, your uncle was wrong.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said and kissed my shoulder.

  “It’s not your fault. I should have been more cautious,” I said wondering how long I would have had to wait in the water before I spotted any trouble.

  “What now?” she said.

  “We carry on with the plan.”

  “Merde. You can’t be serious?” she replied, pushing herself up and looking down at me with bewilderment.

  “I am. I have failed to accomplish one part of my mission, I’m not about to fail with the other. I will take Fulton back to England.”

  “But you’ll be caught, killed.”

  “No, the plan will work. It has to. We’ll get everything in place today. Will you help me?” I asked, looking up her.

  “Of course, but Ben…” she started to say but I kissed her, reaching my hand behind her head and pulling her down. Sometimes the only way to win an argument with a woman is to make sure her lips are otherwise occupied.

  Dominique and I had a busy day, despite the fact that we had to return to the same argument several times. I mostly rested while Dominique visited various friends and contacts to get what we needed. We refined the plan and I got myself ready. I arrived at the theatre of Citoyen Montansier just as the usual crowd began to gather. Foxed army officers paraded with their favoured girls on their arms, and groups of young bloods who fancied themselves mutton-mongers and had the money to pay for the skirts’ attention stumbled drunkenly with girls far too young steering them towards the theatre’s door.

  The Montansier sat like an ugly sister in the middle of a row of far better buildings, just around the corner from the Palais Royal. The performance was to be Molière’s Malade Imaginaire but I didn’t intend to watch. I had seen it earlier in the year at the Théâtre-Français with Antoine Michaut at the top of the bill. It wasn’t Shakespeare but it had been amusing enough, and I had only attended due to an appointment with one of the actresses later that night. The wealthier English tourists referred to the Montansier as a blackguard theatre and so naturally enough I had frequented it in the past but, truth be told, it was rough even for my taste.

  The women were almost uniformly ugly, so ugly in fact that even their painted faces and revealing clothes could not hide it. After you have seen one pair of powdered jugs with rouged nipples you’ve seen enough. They were a caricature of womanhood. As for the men, their manners and speech were coarse, and their dress lacking the style that one usually associates with the French, even in those mean times. One barged into me and slurred an obscenity that if he had said it in London would have had him called out in a flash. You might wonder at my snobbishness, pot calling kettle black and all that, but remember these are Frenchmen we are talking about and even the lowest born Briton can look down on the French.

  Pools of orange light from the flickering lanterns lining the entrance illuminated the drunken clinches of the men and the frantic escapes of the women determined to give nothing until they had been paid. I walked up the steps to the entrance, weaving my way distastefully through the boisterous clientele, and then stood leaning against one of the columns in as nonchalant a manner as possible. Yes, I suppose that I have no right to be so outraged but even then I was trying to distance myself from the kind of life that I saw all around me. I lit a cheroot from one of the lanterns whilst I watched the crowd for Fulton.

  Why, you may ask, was I not skulking in the shadows as you might expect of a hunted man? Well, the first thing that I had asked of Dominique was for her to procure me a disguise. Not for me the theatricality of a false nose or ridiculous beard though. I had adopted the best disguise that I could think of – a uniform. If you consider for a moment the last man you saw in uniform. Can you describe him? No? All you can see is the uniform isn’t it? A man in a uniform instantly gets categorised like some poor impaled butterfly. He gets labelled and then forgotten. The particular uniform that Dominique had borrowed from a sympathetic friend whose husband had been killed in the wars was that of a major of the 5th Chasseurs. His widow now hated the regime and was eager to help. For my purposes the uniform could not have been better, although I wasn’t enamoured with the symbolism of wearing a dead man’s clothes. Thankfully, even if I had had the most distinctive features they would not have been noticed against the extravagance of the late Major’s apparel.

  On my head was a black shako with a large black plume with a yellow tip. My dolman jacket and breeches were of a deep forest green, but were awash with silver lace and silver buttons with yellow collar and cuffs. The sabre I wore hung at the usual stylish but impractical height against my leg, its tip resting against my bright red leather boots. The French know how to design a uniform. Of course such an ensemble could only be worn with nonchalance and panache and so I had to play the part. It was one that I relished, I must admit. My former British Army uniform was drab in comparison and I did feel that a Major’s chevrons suited me.

  The other thing about uniforms is that the feminine gender can be rather partial to them, a fact that had made me decide against selling my commission on more than one occasion, no matter how badly I needed the money. I had a hard time looking out for Fulton between pretending to return the appreciative glances and being distracted by ladies showing much more than their admiration. Most I could dismiss as common whores but one raven-haired beauty walked by and looked me up and down, a Creole I guessed from her café au lait complexion. She wore white silk and her dark brown eyes smiled above a feathery fan as she passed me. Even with a vital mission to perform I was tempted to follow her. Also, Dominique would certainly have killed me. With reluctance, I wrenched my gaze from her receding posterior and slowly swaying hips and returned to watching for that damn American.

  Eventually I spotted him in the crowd pacing up and down. One reason I had chosen the theatre for our meeting was that it would be natural for him to be waiting for someone and I did not trust him to be able to hide his anticipation. He was taking out his watch, pacing up and down and scanning the crowd but I hoped the secret police watching him would not be alarmed given that there were any number of nervous men in the crowd calculating whether they could afford a girl that had caught their eye. Fulton looked straight past me, twice. As I had hoped, I was invisible in my uniform but I still retreated slightly into the shadows, waiting for the next scene of our drama to be performed.

  Our first actor entered stage left. I had met him only briefly an hour before but there could be no mistaking him. He was as thin as Fauche was fat, and lanky with it. His clothes hung on him like the sails of a becalmed ship, and were just as stained and creased. I had not asked his name and he had not offered it when Dominique had brought him to her rooms. He was dressed in black and grey and had the ink stained fingers of a clerk,
but his manner suggested he had a higher station in life, perhaps a tutor. His face was long, thin and sallow and his teeth worn away around the step of the pipe that constantly jutted from his lipless mouth.

  He performed the simple part we had allocated to him with the aplomb of the great John Kemble himself. He did what he had been directed to do and did it with style. He walked up to Fulton and asked him the time, and then walked on his way. It was a small role, but a vital one and it had the desired effect for the rest of the production. As our actor walked out of the pool of light around the theatre entrance I saw that he was being followed. One of Fulton’s watchers had detached himself from the American and would now be occupied following my thin friend on a tour of some of the less well-known taverns of Paris. One down and one to go, I hoped.

  My next artiste gave a virtuoso performance that was so quick that I almost missed it. Again I hadn’t been given the little imp’s name but he must have been twelve at the very most, possibly as young as ten. When a child has so obviously been malnourished for so long it becomes hard to tell. He barely came up to my chest and was a tousle-haired street urchin with rags for clothes and a misshapen left hand that looked as if it had been crushed in some accident. Where Dominique knew him from I could not imagine, or at least not until much later when I came to appreciate that those from the invisible underclass of any city make the best informers and watchers. They also work for pennies.

  I saw our little fellow weave his way through the crowd, asking for money and getting a cuff around the head for his pains. When he came up to Fulton he pulled all his best tricks, the snotty nose, the big brown eyes and even held out his claw of a hand. Fulton fell for it and reached for his purse. Instantly the tyke’s demeanour changed and he dangled Fulton’s own purse before his confused eyes. Even I hadn’t see him take it and I knew he was going to do it. Fulton’s mouth dropped open and the scallywag hotfooted away with all the dash of Captain Barclay on one his famous sporting wagers.

  Fulton shouted and stumbled after him but two of his watchers were quicker on their heels and they were after the little scoundrel like Bow Street’s finest. I have always found it strangely comforting that officers of the law are so reliably stupid. Whilst what I fervently wished were the last two of Fulton’s shadows were disappearing around the corner on a chase that they had no hope of winning I was ready to make my move.

  Now, at the start of this chapter I noted that Dominique didn’t have quite so much confidence in our plan as I did, well she was right and I was wrong. You see if I had really thought things through I might have considered the possibility of that dog Lacrosse personally supervising the observation of Fulton and so it was with some shock that I saw him in the crowd as I approached the American. He was wearing his habitual malevolent grey, like storm clouds in summer, and his eyes peered from beneath the dark brim of his hat. He glanced in my direction and then looked away, but looked back instantly and caught my guilty expression before I could lose myself in the throng. He was not fooled by the uniform and whispered a command to his burly companion. A pistol was produced and fingers pointed. All thoughts of a secret approach to Fulton were abandoned and I grabbed him as I ran past, he was still out of breath from his abortive run after the miniature thief and tried to shrug me off but I held on for dear life and shouted at him.

  “Come on, damn it. Run you fool!”

  He opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish, utterly confused. It was only the report of a pistol that galvanised him into action. The ball smashed into a shop sign above our heads and he was off. It was all I could do to keep up with him, the sabre I wore slapping against my legs and threatening to trip me up. His thin legs were pumping like one of those steam engines of his and his eyes were wide with fear. I pushed him into a side alley and he kept on going. I risked a glance back at the next corner and saw Lacrosse’s ugly companion lurching after us. On his tail were a gaggle of municipal guards and some of the agents that I had misdirected with my ludicrous plan. Lacrosse himself was at the head of the field swearing and cursing encouragement to his minions.

  I burrowed in the thick sash around my waist and drew my own pair of pistols. They would be useless at this range, even with their rifled barrels, but they might slow the pursuers down a bit. I took aim with both pistols and let off two quick shots, firing each gun in turn. It had the desired effect. The policemen dived for cover, slipping and sliding on the filth of the alley. One lucky ricochet winged one of them but the rest were unharmed and were soon on their feet, helped along by Lacrosse’s boot.

  I looked around for Fulton, just in time to see his arse disappear around the next corner. I sprinted after him, overhauling him easily enough now that he was tiring and the initial terror had faded somewhat. He slowed as I caught up but I just grabbed him and towed him behind me. Dominique was waiting for us with a carriage around the corner. We were almost home and dry.

  Just as we entered the street we’d agreed on for the rendezvous Lacrosse and three of his men ran out from an alley ahead of us.

  “Stop, Blackthorne,” he said, levelling his pistol at us, his men next to him doing the same. We were done for. I slid to a stop only yards from him. I looked left and right. Fulton’s eyes were wide with terror. I aimed my own pistols at Lacrosse. With only two shots I was sure to die but maybe I could take him with me. He looked into my eyes and saw I had made my choice. We both began to squeeze our triggers. Lacrosse opened his mouth and I saw his lips begin to form the word ‘fire’. Someone pulled a trigger, a loud report echoed around the street.

  One of Lacrosse’s men fell forwards. Lacrosse turned to look behind him. Dominique was standing in the open door of the carriage with my carbine, still smoking, in her hands. In the split second before Lacrosse turned back Fulton and I were off like scalded rabbits. I heard more shots and prayed Dominique was safe. I tried to get my bearings but we were floundering through a maze of pitch-black back alleys. I was fearful we’d end up running back into Lacrosse. I pulled Fulton to a stop and we both hid in a doorway, wheezing and gasping. I didn’t know what to do, where to run. A musket shot whizzed past my ear like an angry wasp and it became clear that staying still wasn’t an option. Fulton was all but done in but we had to run again, stumbling about in the dark as we tried to open the gap between us and our pursuers.

  I saw the dim light of a lamp ahead, I hoped it was a street lamp but it was only a lantern in a grubby back yard. The pack was close behind but there was only one way to go. Beneath the lamp was a rickety door. I didn’t have time for subtlety and just charged it. The wood splintered, as did my shoulder I think, and we were through. I shoved Fulton in front and raced along a corridor hung with hams, sides of bacon and strings of garlic. We burst into the warm glow of a kitchen and the aged cook screamed and swiped at us with her copper pan. I ducked and pushed Fulton through the next door and up a small flight of steps followed by a jabber of outrage from the cook. The door at the top opened into a well-lit salon and I heard the melody from a piano fade as we blundered into the room.

  The singer carried on for a few more notes and then stopped. The eyes of the twenty or so people in the room turned towards us. Fulton started babbling an apology and an explanation but I heard the ringing sound of copper pan meeting thick policeman’s skull behind us and knew we didn’t have time for pleasantries. I quickly readied my pistols, one barrel of each was still loaded. I waited until I could hear foot falls on the steps and then opened the door behind us and fired. At that range neither shot missed. The leading pursuer, one of the agents, was thrown back down the stairs on top of those following. A bloody tangle of limbs provided ample targets for the cook’s pan.

  I grabbed Fulton, who was still apologising, and dragged him from the room. We stumbled through an ornate entrance hall, our muddy boots slipping and sliding across the marble like drunken skaters. It was pure luck that we reached the door still on our feet. I wrenched the door open and leapt down into the street. It was deserted, but I could
hear the rattle and rumble of a carriage approaching at speed. Fulton looked at me imploringly but he knew we had to run again. I too was reaching the end of my endurance but we trotted along as best we could, away from the sound of the coach. I glanced back and saw a black barouche come around the corner. With relief I recognised it as Dominique’s uncle’s and saw her waving from the window. I shouted at Fulton to stop and then when the carriage had slowed enough, bundled him through the open door. I jumped after him and was dragged in by Dominique. I struggled up in time to see the pack of policemen stumble from the doorway to the household whose evening we had ruined. They looked forlornly at the retreating coach and I waved smugly, until one of them fired at us. He missed and I sank back in the thick upholstery. Fulton was still on the floor, gasping for breath.

  “By the by,” he eventually managed to say, “were you the bastard that tried to destroy my boats?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  December 1803

  Summer faded to autumn, and then the cold deepened into the heart of winter. Fulton was in Kent, content to be playing with his inventions again, unmindful of the fact that his paymaster had changed. Our escape through France and then Holland had gone smoothly after my initial bungling had jeopardised everything. After he’d listened to my report, Brooke had been less than fulsome with his praise. I was congratulated on returning with Fulton but chastised for involving myself with the hunt for the traitor, and he was deeply disappointed that I had failed to destroy Fulton’s craft. I could not argue with him and I had waited in vain for further employment from the Alien Office. After my fourth or fifth visit to Crown Street Brooke made it clear in no uncertain terms that they would send for me if I was needed and that I should stop begging to be sent back to France.