by Paul Collis
3
Bellanger unbuckled the case's leather straps and removed the Emperor’s instructions and a warrant, written on silk and sealed in wax with the Imperial imprint. Reading the date he saw that the relay of hard-riding, well-armed messengers had covered the four hundred miles within a week. His orders were to scour the western Pyrenees, to discover any mountain pass other than those already listed, and to report its usefulness. Bellanger studied the warrant. It gave him the usual power to requisition supplies, to draw upon a government bank account and to order the arrest of obstructive citizens. It also gave him the authority to present the gold ring of a two-star general de brigade of the Grand Armée as proof of his power to requisition any troops that he might need.
He stepped quietly down to the library. After studying the appropriate maps for his assignment he decided to base himself in the town of St. Jean, a comfortable two-day’s ride away. He woke his wife and told her that he had been summoned.
‘How long?’
‘Two weeks or so.’
‘Hmm.’ She slipped a hand beneath his robe. ‘The Bourse can wait a little. At least until you’ve given me a minute for every day you’ll give them.’
What man would not agree? Half an hour later he reluctantly set about his orders. He packed quickly; one set of identity papers in his name, another set in a false name, the imperial warrant, the general’s ring, a small collapsing telescope, his pocket watch, some warm clothes, and a pair of sturdy but flexible boots that were comfortable enough to run in. His mission was straightforward and he saw no danger in it — he had not been told to assassinate an enemy of the state — but one never knew what perils the highways held in store. In addition to his trusty Moriscau double-barreled pistol and his rustic-looking swordstick he carried a slender, cork-handled stiletto. His horse was an unremarkable looking animal, a chestnut-coated Percheron mix, but the young gelding was strong, even tempered, obedient, and unafraid of fences. In the middle of its forehead was a diamond of white but, if events required it, the mark was easily hidden with a dab of the ink that he had carefully blended to match the horse’s coloring. A small bottle of it, and a similar container of lead paint with which he sometimes whitened a fetlock or two, already nestled in his saddlebags.
After kissing his sleeping children he set off for St. Jean. The journey proved uneventful, and when he arrived at the hilltop town he took a room at a modest inn.
The next morning he followed the crowds to the market place. Introducing himself as a curious naturalist, interested in collecting plants and viewing eagles, he questioned some shepherds as to the easiest access to the jagged peaks on the horizon, directly south. The oldest of them noted Bellanger’s clothes, and laughed. ‘Unless you intend to set your saddle on a goat, sir, I’d forget those mountains. Keep your horse to the roads that pass to either side of ’em. You’ll see your eagles just the same.’ He asked some traveling merchants and they gave him the same advice. ‘You’ll not reach them directly, unless you should grow wings yourself. No sir: you need to choose a pass, either to the south-east or south-west of here. But each is several days away, and it could snow at any time now…’ He thanked them, then made his way to the council chambers, where an obliging factotum allowed him to study their meager shelf of local guides and histories. The dusty manuscripts offered nothing relevant, but his luck changed when, in a shop piled high with old books and stuffed animals and porcelain pots he discovered a ragged, leather-bound pocket atlas of the Pyrenees, dated 1685. Its pages were small, but finely detailed. He looked out of the shop’s window and matched the outline of the nearby mountains to an engraving of their elevation, as seen from the north. It seemed quite accurate, and so he bought it. In order to allay any fanciful suspicions that the shop-owner might have of a stranger with a Corsican accent, he also bought a worm-eaten edition of an almanac and a small botanical treatise by a local cleric. Back in the privacy of his room he studied the old atlas and, on the page that covered the peaks directly south and slightly west of St. Jean, he found what appeared to be a minor trail across the mountains. Checking the co-ordinates with his current official map he saw that the route was not shown. He checked again, but whoever the state cartographer had been in 1808, the man had deigned the trail unworthy of ink. The agent noted that, on the old map, it was miles away from any settlement on the Spanish side and close to only one village in France. He also saw that, according to the type-size of its title on the newer map, the status of that village had diminished during the intervening century, unlike most others, which had increased. He decided to investigate.
The following day he rode out early, cantering south through the surrounding woodland, the road rising steadily, evidenced by the oaks giving way to various types of pine until conifers took over completely. Twenty miles further on the trees thinned out, and the hardy shrubs and bushes of the upper foothills dominated the terrain. It was approaching nightfall when he came upon a few deserted buildings, windows gaping, roofs collapsed, and he thought he’d reached the outskirts of the village he was seeking. But almost immediately he had to pull upon the reins and stop his horse — the long road south had come to its end. He looked about him, scanning the few buildings that remained intact, but could see no evidence of lights, or any other signs of habitation. Deciding that the place had been deserted he turned onto the track that headed west, but stopped as soon as he had started. A hundred yards ahead of him was a single, flickering glow amidst the gloom. He approached it at a walk, and found a dilapidated tavern where he was soon the sole guest of a gruff landlord who wasn’t one for idle talk with strangers.
Dawn saw him riding west once more, following the route depicted by the antique map towards the trail that led southwards to the jagged mountain peaks. He was grateful that their winter cloak of white was missing; had he been faced with the average depth of snowfall his task would have been arduous, if not impossible. The year so far had been abnormally dry, and most of whatever snow had fallen at the lower elevations had either blown away or melted.
The turning point was hard to spot; the trail’s entrance was obscured by bushes that had closed ranks along the road, and he found it only by noting the presence of a large and hardy pine. Shade from the sun and respite from rain were always appreciated by weary travelers, and roads often crossed each other under the welcome shadow of a tree. Facing the pine were two large bushes, and he guided his horse between them. The path was barely discernible and evidently quite untraveled; this was surely once a drovers’ trail but, in the shallow earth covering the rock, there were no hoof prints to confirm it. The path wound upwards, and shrubs at either side converged to the point where they were almost touching, then slowly thinned out until, a steep mile further on, the vegetation grew sparse and the trail was visible only occasionally. Yet here and there, between patches of crusty snow that lingered in the north-facing shadows of rocky outcrops and large boulders, he noted that the rock was polished smooth — a certain sign of centuries of use.
As the afternoon wore on the breeze picked up and clouds began to obscure the mountain tops. Bellanger’s horse plodded upwards, as he calculated the path’s suitability for the use of fleeing soldiers and their equipment. After another mile or so the faint trail began to parallel the base of a crag, and a few steps later he dismounted; large, jagged fallen rocks had narrowed the path and made it unrideable. Perhaps a team of twenty men with levers and some mules might make it passable for a field gun, he thought, but now…
He led his horse along the next few hundred yards, more concerned with slipping on the loose scree and sliding over the edge than taking in the imposing mountain scenery. When the path began to level out he looked up, and what he saw caused him to stop in his tracks. The face of the crag had ended and he found himself at an outside corner of a wide and open space, a small alpine meadow boxed in by three immense cliffs. The cliff that now confronted him was the same color as the two spires of living rock that flanked it, but there was something about it that seemed
odd to him — a certain unnatural uniformity. He walked the fifty paces to its base and, looking closely at it, found the unmistakable marks of chisels. Stepping back, and seeing a pattern to the thin fissures that traced across its face, he realized that the cliff was, in fact, a wall — taller than the Bastille but with no windows, no arrow slits, no apertures at all. And certainly no sign of an entrance. If he hadn’t known better he would have said that he was standing at the base of a gigantic dam. He opened up his atlas to see if he could possibly have overlooked something as obvious as a mark for such a thing, or a fortress. As he traced his journey on the finely woven linen he heard his horse emit a troubled whinny. Unusual, he thought; he’s normally a placid animal. He looked at it and saw its eyes had widened.
‘You won’t find it on any map.’
Bellanger spun around and pulled his pistol from the hook on his belt.
A well-built, middle-aged man stood twenty feet away. The man noted the gun’s cocked hammers, looked straight at its owner and held his hands away from his sides. ‘I mean you no harm,’ he said calmly.
The agent looked the speaker up and down. Tall, a weather-beaten face, dressed for outdoor work but no tools about him. ‘You mean me no harm? So why sneak up on me?’
‘It’s you, sir, who snuck up on me.’
‘Really? You’re behind me.’
‘I am now. And you, sir, are trespassing.’
‘On whose land?
‘Mine, for one.’
‘Then I apologize,’ said the agent, lowering his pistol but keeping it well gripped. ‘I meant no incursion. I’m merely following the trail.’
‘The trail is old and no longer used. As you clearly noted.’
Bellanger was taken aback; either he’d been closely observed along the path or the man was playing him. ‘And yet it leads to this,’ he said, angling his head towards the wall.
The man’s clear gray eyes never left those of the intruder. ‘It leads to nowhere. As you see.’ His expression was implacable.
The agent understood that the stranger had no intention of saying more, and he saw little point in attempting to force an explanation. The man’s confident bearing was that of an aristocrat, yet his clothes were humble. His assuredness was unsettling; he was either skilled at self-defense, or had friends close by, or both. Bellanger scanned to his sides, then up to the top of the wall, where he thought he glimpsed a movement; but, even as he watched, the ramparts became enshrouded by the descending clouds, adding their bleak threat to the already frigid atmosphere. He gave a final look at the man who claimed to be a land-owner, bid him good-day, then turned and led his horse back down the rock-strewn path. Even when they reached more stable ground the animal remained nervous, and its owner had to calm him before he remounted, and use the reins gently. It took until they reached the landmark pine at the end of the trail before the horse finally settled and Bellanger could mull the questions he wanted answering.