by Regan Walker
Gaspar chuckled. “Clever, sir. It might work. You would have the jailor’s sympathy, particularly if you and your daughter… er, niece appear supporters of the revolution.”
Zoé bit her lip in contemplation. “I’ll have to explain just how it was a patriot of the revolution succumbed to a charming English dog.”
Her uncle smiled. “You could always say you thought he was French.”
La Conciergerie
Each morning, the prisoners were assembled in the main gallery and an officer of the court appeared to read the list of those whose cases were to be heard by the tribunal the next day. Freddie had thought he had witnessed despair before, yet these sessions were worse.
The reaction of the prisoners whose names were called differed. Some wailed and turned to give their last farewells. Husbands and wives sat on benches placed against the stone walls, embracing for the last time. Others seem to welcome the anticipated end to a miserable existence, saying goodbye to the friends they had made as if leaving on a holiday. Those who had possessions gave them away. A favorite book might be entrusted to one who promised to read to the others. A few turned aside to write a last letter, which the intended recipient would, no doubt, never receive.
When his name and that of the boy he had befriended were called, Freddie slid his arm around Pax’s shoulder. The lad had become his constant companion. “Well, Pax, we knew this day would come. We must face it with courage, trusting God to deliver our souls to Heaven, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui, M’sieur.” The boy’s voice quavered as he looked up at Freddie. “Will you be with me?”
“Bien sûr. I will be with you as we face the tribunal and I will not leave your side as we travel in the cart to the Place de la Révolution, whether it be tomorrow or the day after.” Freddie vowed to shield the boy from the mud the indignant onlookers were known to fling at the revolution’s victims in the hour-long ride to the guillotine.
The call for Freddie to appear before Robespierre had come the night before. Dressed in a fine suit of clothes and an ornately tied cravat, the master of the Terror sat behind a gilded desk in a room lit by chandeliers one might expect to see in Versailles. The sausage curls of his white wig curled up over his ears. Yet for all his finery, he seemed harried and more concerned with the stacks of papers piled in front of him than with Rossignol’s “gift” of an Englishman. His pockmarked face was unlined but Freddie thought he looked older than a man of thirty-six years.
“What have you to say for yourself?” Robespierre demanded impatiently. He did not invite Freddie to sit, nor did he rise to greet him. A guard stood at the door should Freddie have any thoughts to attack the man who effectively now ruled France. Not that he could do so with his hands in irons.
“I came to see the vegetation of Brittany and now wish to return home to England. General Rossignol was not accommodating, which was most disappointing. ’Tis rare that one who comes to learn about the plant life of another country is treated so rudely. But I am willing to forgive this injustice if I may now depart.”
“Ça suffit!” Robespierre shouted, holding up his hand. “I have no time for such prattle. What can you tell me of the Chouannerie? If you are forthcoming, I might be persuaded to let you live.”
Freddie harbored no illusion that he would be allowed to leave France and he had no intention of betraying those he had come to serve. When he had kissed Zoé in the woods outside of Rennes he had understood it was goodbye. “Alas, I know nothing of whatever that is. As I told the good general, I became lost in the woods and approached his soldiers for help.”
Robespierre gave him a studying perusal as if trying to decide if, under torture, Freddie might be persuaded to give different information “That was very foolish, Mr. West. Very foolish. I shall think on your case. If my inquisitors are available, I may send you to them to see if they can loosen your tongue.”
“Are you certain you want to do that, sir?” In Freddie’s lighthearted tone there was an edge of steel. He was not aware of any English aristocrat who had been tortured in France after the revolution had begun. “After all, I am the brother of an English peer and Prime Minister Pitt might not take lightly the torture of an English aristocrat.” Kill them, yes, but torture them, perhaps not.
Robespierre blinked rapidly, then looked down at the papers before him. “I care not what the English think. In any event, you will face trial and, I daresay, the guillotine. The good citoyens of Paris would relish throwing mud at one such as you.”
Freddie expected to die but he dreaded the thought of torture. Better men than he had cracked under the horrors inflicted by France’s inquisitors. So, when his name had been called for trial, he’d felt an odd sense of relief.
To lose his head was one thing; to lose his integrity was quite another.
Chapter 13
“And just where do ye think ye are going, little one?” M’sieur Bequel’s gruff voice startled her, staying Zoé’s hand on the door leading from the townhouse to the courtyard where the carriage awaited.
“Out,” she replied, slowly turning around.
The quartermaster stood with his fists on his hips and a scowl on his leathery face making his dark eyes ominous beneath his heavy brows. If she hadn’t known him since she was ten, she might have been frightened. Émile Bequel had a savage look about him. He must have just left the study where he had been confined with her uncle. He wore no coat and his waistcoat of brown leather was only partially buttoned over his linen shirt.
“Just for an hour,” she pleaded. “I have a thought as to how I might learn something more about the Conciergerie.”
His scowl deepened. “The capitaine is meeting with that macaroni, Dordogne, and would not be happy if he discovered ye gone when he’s finished. Ye’d best stay close as he plans to gain entrance to the prison today. ’Sides, the streets of Paris are not safe for one such as ye, even in the daytime.”
“But I must go. Those I intend to call upon might know something others don’t.”
He huffed. “If ye insist on going out, I will go with ye.”
“All right, but be prepared to meet women of pleasure.”
Émile’s mouth dropped open. “And what would ye know of such women, little one?”
“Enough to suspect they service both guards and prisoners and see more than most. When Oncle Jean had the carriage drive by the Conciergerie this morning, I saw women lingering near the front door, smiling at the men going by. I know who they are.”
“We’ll go, but ye’ll not be lingering, or the capitaine will be ordering lashes for me.”
The carriage M’sieur Bequel hailed pulled up several feet from the entrance to the prison. Two women of indeterminate age leaned against the stone wall of the Conciergerie, looking bored. Their faces were painted, their hair long and unkempt and their chemises barely covered their nipples. Zoé had dressed plainly so as not to draw attention. She might have been a nun next to these women.
Bidding Émile to wait by the carriage, which he only reluctantly agreed to do and then with one hand on the pistol shoved into his belt, Zoé approached the two women. “Mesdames,” she said, “might I beg your assistance?”
Their eyes rudely raked her up and down before glancing over her shoulder to where M’sieur Bequel stood wearing a dour expression. “If ye’re lookin’ to ply yer trade here, ma belle, ye might think again. Ye’re pretty enough but these are crowded waters and none too calm.”
“Ye’re too fresh for these men,” said her companion. “Tell yer man watching ye to look elsewhere.”
“Non, vous ne comprenez pas. I do not wish to join you. Mon frère, my brother, is one of the prisoners and I need to see him. Can you tell me when ’tis best to visit so as to gain entrance?”
“Well, now, we can help ye with that,” said the first. “L’après-midi, the afternoon, is best.”
“And why is that, may I ask?”
“The jailor who guards the entrance is a bad sort, but by then, he will be
drunken as will the turnkeys below. Les prisonniers will be in the gallery. They won’t hurt ye; it’s the guards ye must be wary of.”
“Them and their dogs,” added the second woman. “One gave me a nasty bite.”
“We’ll be going in ourselves then,” said her friend, “to see our regulars.”
Zoé thanked them and hurried back to M’sieur Bequel and his scowl.
The trial before Fouquier-Tinville went forward amidst crowds of spectators that included the abusive turnkeys. Prostitutes mingled outside the courtroom making Freddie think of a backstreet in London’s St Giles.
The verdict was a foregone conclusion. All were found guilty of being traitors to the revolution and condemned to die, including him and Pax.
In his mind, Freddie heard a door slam.
He had known this was coming but for the boy, it was worse. Freddie had lived some and known a wonderful woman who had given him memories to cherish, but the boy had yet to live. A revolution that devoured its children would not end well.
After the trial, they were shuffled back to the prison and told they would face the guillotine on the morrow.
“What shall we do now?” Pax asked, despondent, his large brown eyes looking up at Freddie as if he alone controlled their choices.
Freddie had been thinking of how to spend their last night and so he was prepared for the question. “How would you like to hear a story of a boy your age who felled a fierce giant?”
Pax nodded vigorously. “I would like that very much.”
“Good. We shall spend my remaining assignats to buy us a fine dinner, well, as fine as this establishment is capable of producing, and then I will tell you the story before you go to sleep.”
The boy’s eyes lit with expectation. Neither of them spoke of what would happen the next day. Freddie planned to tell the boy the story of David and Goliath and the shepherd boy who became a great king. It seemed appropriate since they would soon be meeting David’s God.
“François de Dordogne has agreed to meet us at the Conciergerie,” said Zoé’s uncle. “He tells me West still lives, at least as of today.”
Early that afternoon, her uncle, M’sieur Bequel, Gaspar and Flèche had gathered in the study to go over the details of the rescue. Set before them on the desk were the plans of the prison.
“What will this lawyer do for us, mon oncle?”
“He is to gain us admission without the need for a story about you being dishonored, and he has promised to bring papers allowing us to remove a prisoner.”
“Is he trustworthy?” asked Gaspar.
Her uncle exchanged a look with M’sieur Bequel. “He has not been in the past, but this one time I believe he will be—for his own sake. He is well aware of my reputation. And, with this favor, he will be released from his debt to me.” Turning from the drawing of the prison, he said, “There is another reason I wanted to use him. I intend for us to carry weapons and I don’t want to be searched. We can be glad ’tis a chilly day as we’ll all need to wear cloaks. With Dordogne waiting at the door, Émile can enter with us.”
Shooting their way out of the Conciergerie with armed guards and vicious dogs in pursuit had little appeal for Zoé but she could throw a lethal knife and would if it came to that. Freddie would have no weapons, of course. He would have her uncle, M’sieur Bequel and Gaspar to defend him. The three of them were good with a sword and crack shots with the French pistols they carried. She, too, would carry a pistol, a small one her uncle had given her.
When the carriage finally departed the townhouse, it was with eager anticipation more than fear that Zoé looked out the window to a fair day and busy streets.
She had not seen Dordogne arrive for the meeting with her uncle. But the man who paced in front of the prison dressed in a black suit with a great mound of lace at his neck and cuffs had to be the lawyer who once crossed her uncle. He was slender, almost feminine in appearance, and not much taller than she. His dark hair, longer than that of most Frenchmen, was tied back at his nape.
They stepped out of the carriage and François de Dordogne greeted her uncle with anxious eyes. It was clear he was not pleased to be about the task set before him. “I have come as you asked, Donet.” Working as he did for the revolution’s leaders, Dordogne could not utter the forbidden “Monsieur” of the Ancien Régime nor would he dare label her uncle a citoyen. In turn, her uncle did not introduce Zoé, Gaspar or M’sieur Bequel. “This way,” Dordogne said, gesturing them into the entrance hall. As he did, he paused, giving her a puzzled look.
To the thin jailor wearing a red cap who sat at the door, Dordogne gave his name, “François de Dordogne from the Committee of Public Safety” and handed the doorkeeper some folded papers.
Whether the jailor could read or not, he gave the papers a quick perusal and handed them back. “All seems in order, citoyen Dordogne. You may enter.”
The lawyer gave her uncle another paper and waved them ahead. “This may help. I will wait for you here. Be quick.”
Gaspar led the way down to the dungeons below. The stench of urine and rats nearly overwhelmed Zoé but the thought of seeing Freddie brought tears to her eyes and kept her moving forward. Soon, my love.
As they reached the lower level, a guard approached Gaspar, who offered the paper her uncle had passed to him. “We come for an Englishman wanted for further questioning by the Committee of Public Safety.”
“And the woman?” asked the guard, who reeked of strong liquor.
“To identify him,” said her uncle.
The jailor’s dogs sniffed at them, growling low in their throats, the beasts’ eyes predatory and fierce. Zoé felt like she was looking into the face of evil itself.
They paid most attention to Gaspar. Why soon became evident.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out some raw meat, tossing it to the dogs. They fell upon it voraciously, snarling at each other.
“Aye, they do love fresh meat,” mumbled the guard, the smell of liquor strong on his breath.
From his waistcoat, her uncle lifted out a wad of assignats. “Here, for your trouble.”
Apparently satisfied, the guard nodded and pointed the way to a large area where many prisoners had congregated.
Searching the faces of the men, Zoé did not recognize Freddie until he stood and shouted, “Zoé!” A small boy held on to his coat or what was left of it. She could hardly believe the soot-covered man who stood before her, tears streaming down his face, was her childhood friend, her Freddie. Her love.
At his approach, she saw his clothing hung in tatters, filthy and stinking, his torn shirt stained with blood. He was thinner than when she’d left him outside of Rennes.
She reached out to hug him and he stepped back. “I am not fit to embrace you.”
Her uncle held out his hand to Freddie. “You have survived, West. That is all anyone can ask.”
Reluctantly, Freddie shook her uncle’s hand.
“Meet Gaspar,” said her uncle.
The former carpenter nodded his head.
Unable to hold back one minute more, Zoé flung herself into Freddie’s arms. “Oh, Freddie. I don’t care what you look like, what you smell like. God has answered my prayers. You are alive!”
“I am, aren’t I?” he said. “Though not quite hale and hearty this time.”
“Come,” urged her uncle, “We must go. Our presence here was gained on a pretext and I cannot be sure how long it will hold.”
They turned toward the stairs but Freddie stopped. “I’ll not go without Pax.”
All eyes turned to the boy still clinging to Freddie’s coat.
Her uncle considered the small lad. “Pax, is it?”
The boy nodded, his eyes full of fear. He must have believed he would be left behind.
“Very well,” said her uncle with a smile for the boy, “you shall come, too. Somehow we will explain you are necessary.”
“We were both to be executed tomorrow,” said Freddie as they headed
to the stairs, one hand holding the boy’s and one hand holding hers. He looked back at the other prisoners. “I wish we could take them all. Some have become my friends.”
“Alas, we cannot,” said M’sieur Bequel, heaving a sigh. “Ye are enough trouble, Mr. West. Come now. Ye, too, Pax.”
In the entrance hall, M’sieur Bequel paused, muttering an oath.
Zoé realized something was terribly wrong. François de Dordogne no longer waited at the door and the jailor suddenly rose from his stool to hold out his palm. “Not so fast, citoyen. The man who brought ye left with another. When I asked, he failed to vouch for yer departure. ’Sides,” he added with a disapproving glance at Pax, “there was no mention of a boy.”
Zoé’s uncle flicked his cloak over one shoulder and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “That is most unfortunate, citoyen, for it means we shall have to persuade you.” Her uncle withdrew another sword from his cloak and tossed it to Freddie. “I trust you remember how to use it, West.”
“Indeed I do,” he said, giving Pax’s hand to Zoé. “Guard the boy, Pigeon.”
Suddenly a half-dozen soldiers emerged from the wings of the cavernous entrance hall, with drawn swords and shouts of Arrêtez!
M’sieur Bequel whipped his cloak behind him and yanked his sword from its sheath, bracing his legs. “Our four to their seven, Capitaine, assuming the drunken jailor can even fight. Hardly seems a worthy challenge.”
“Then take two!” shouted her uncle with a grin. “That’s my intention.”
M’sieur Bequel chuckled. “Like old times, Capitaine.”
The entrance chamber with its arched ceiling echoed with the sound of crashing steel and men engaging each other’s swords. She pulled Pax away from the fight exploding around them just as Gaspar stepped sideways to deflect the blade of the soldier he was matched with.
Frustrated, the arrogant soldier threw taunts at Gaspar, disparaging his origins.
The former ship’s carpenter merely smiled. “We shall see, mon ami. It is not where you begin that is important, but where you end.”