Flashman's Escape

by Robert Brightwell

  “Where will you be?” I asked.

  “The river L’Ardour runs through the centre of Bayonne. There is only one bridge leading north. To get to Paris, Grant must cross it. We will be waiting on the Paris road.” He gave me a guarded look before adding, “You do not need to know precisely where.”

  I just sighed in response; I had given up trying to convince them that I was on their side. They were clear that they would only trust me when I had proved my loyalty with actions rather than words. Gomez had explained once on the journey that the three worst defeats the partisans had suffered were after informers gave information to the French. “Everyone has their price,” he had told me – not always money; sometimes it was a threat to torture or kill a loved one. He did not trust anyone any more and “especially not bastards with a French uniform in their saddlebags”. There was, consequently, the usual frosty air around the campfire that evening as the Basques made their final plans together and probably debated whether I would indeed betray them.

  The following morning Gomez and all but two of the Basques set off to ride ahead and prepare an ambush on the Paris road. I took a more leisurely approach, boiling the last of my tea over the campfire and gnawing a crust of bread for breakfast. Jorge and Hernando watched my every move as though even by making tea I could somehow be signalling to the enemy.

  As the sun climbed into the sky we rode towards the city and from another hilltop watched Lagarde and his men approach Bayonne. There were huge walls around the city that would have looked star shaped if viewed from above. One by one the columns of men, cannon and wagons entered under a huge arch in the fortifications and disappeared from view. I watched carefully with the glass. There were sentries at the gate but they did not interfere with soldiers. They only approached civilians; they seemed to be charging a tax on goods taken into the city.

  “We go now,” insisted Jorge, mounting up.

  Soon we were riding down to the main road approaching the gates. There were poorer houses and hovels outside of the city walls which would be sacrificed in any attack. The paltry size of these dwellings made the huge stone walls of the city look even larger. Closer to, I could see that there were also half-flooded ditches in front of the walls while cannon seemed to bristle from every embrasure. It would be a formidable place to capture, I thought. The gate house was massive with two sets of gates. While only half a dozen soldiers were visible, I did not doubt that more were garrisoned in the stout towers on either side of the entrance. The Basques had dropped back now and were helping a woman drive some geese towards the city as though they had come together as a group. I had no papers: Lagarde had kept the orders to join his column and I had burned the damming letter from Marmont in a fire; it had caused me enough trouble already. If challenged, I had planned to say I was a straggler from Major Lagarde’s column, but in the event no deception was necessary. The guards barely gave a lone French lieutenant a second glance. I watered my horse at a stone trough beyond the gates while I waited for my Basque shadows. After the old woman had paid her tax on the geese, they followed me into the city. Making sure that they had seen me, I remounted and started to walk my horse through the crowded streets, searching for a sign of the wagons and cannon that had travelled from Spain. I thought that they would be in or near the citadel and so I headed towards the centre of town. I had nearly got there when I heard a voice calling.

  “Moreau, Moreau! My God it is you. Moreau, over here!”

  For a moment I did not realise that the voice was calling me. I had not used that name for a week. But then I looked round and saw Lieutenant Jerome running towards me.

  “Moreau, we thought you were dead. Lagarde would not let us ride after you as he thought it was a trap. Come, man, come down from your horse so that I can greet your properly.”

  Jerome had grabbed hold of my horse’s bridle and was beaming up at me. I had no choice but to smile back and dismount.

  “It is good to see you, old friend,” I cried, throwing my arms around him. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of Jorge glaring at me with suspicion.

  “You must come with me into the tavern,” called Jerome enthusiastically. “Everyone will want to see you, especially the major. He said losing you was the one thing that spoiled the trip.”

  The young lieutenant was already pulling me towards the door of the tavern. I only just had time to tie my horse to a post before more of my former comrades tumbled out to see what the disturbance was. There was much exclaiming then about how they thought I had been lost and how pleased they were to see me. After the frigid companionship of the Basques, I was genuinely touched by the warmth of their welcome. It was not hard to return their greetings with enthusiasm. Quite what Jorge made of the hearty reunion I could only imagine.

  Eventually I was pulled inside the tavern and a cup of wine was pressed into my hand. Then the crowd cleared in front of me and Lagarde appeared, beaming with pleasure. He grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks to the delight of those watching.

  “I am so pleased to see you,” he cried. “I thought we had lost you back there to a partisan trap. I hope you understand why we could not risk searching for you. What happened? Why did you charge into the woods?”

  “Of course I understand,” I replied, “and you were right: it was a partisan trap. I was a chump to fall into it, but at least I got away again.”

  Of course after that they all wanted to know what happened. So I gave them a story that I had started to make up the moment I saw Jerome, for an explanation would obviously be needed.

  “I thought I saw a partisan in the trees and so I shot at him, but he ran off. He seemed to be on his own, so I chased after him. But once well into the trees a whole line of partisans appeared between me and the column, forcing me to ride deeper into the forest. They must have been planning an ambush, which I had disturbed.”

  “How did you get away?” asked Lagarde.

  “I rode deep into the forest to get away and got lost. Then I spent several days trying to get out while avoiding partisan groups that were living among the trees. I was nearly caught once, but got away. Eventually I made it back to the road. I have been following on behind you ever since and now I have caught you up,” I declared, smiling happily. “Have you been here long?” I asked innocently.

  “We arrived this morning,” cried Lagarde. “Here, let me get you more wine. Do you need food? There is ham and bread on that table.”

  I made my way to the food while glancing about at the throng in the tavern. I wondered if they had brought Grant with them for a farewell drink before they handed him over, but there was no sign of him. Still, I was at least among the people who could tell me what happened to him, although I had to be subtle about it.

  I pulled on Jerome’s sleeve. “What have you done since you got here? Have you found any lodgings yet?”

  “Not yet. The men and most of the carts have gone to the citadel. Then we came to the tavern to celebrate our return home to France. Here, pass me some bread, will you?”

  “It is good to be home among friends,” I agreed. I had noted that he had said most of the carts and wondered if that included the one Grant was in, or was he already on his way to Paris in it? As casually as I could, I asked, “What happened to that English spy? Is he in the citadel?”

  Jerome had been in the act of stuffing bread into his mouth when I asked the question, but now he almost jumped, as though startled. I thought I had somehow given myself away by being too keen to ask the question, but Jerome started peering over his shoulder as though he had something to hide. Then he beckoned for me to join him in a corner of the room. “You must not mention the English spy to anyone,” he whispered when I was standing beside him.

  “Why not? Is he dead?”

  “No. You remember he was to be tortured despite being captured in his uniform and giving his parole?” I nodded, still confused as to what was happening. “Well, when we got here there was no one from the ministry of war waiting for the pris
oner.” That, I thought, was not surprising given that I knew the despatch from Marmont to Paris had been captured. They might have sent a duplicate message, but that could have suffered the same fate.

  “So what has happened to this prisoner?”

  Jerome glanced around him again to check we could not be overheard. “The major and the captains used to ride with the prisoner and thought he was an honourable man. They feel it dishonours us if he is tortured.” He paused as a pot boy walked past us collecting empty cups, leaving me almost beside myself now with curiosity.

  “So what has happened to him,” I asked again.

  “Lagarde says our orders were to deliver him to Bayonne, which we have done. It is not our problem that the ministry of war agents are not here to collect him. So we have let him go.”

  “You have done what?” I gasped, astonished.

  “It is a matter of honour,” stated Jerome defensively. He clearly thought I disapproved of their action. “But you must not say anything about this or the ministry will blame Lagarde for setting him free. He will say that he delivered the prisoner to Bayonne and let the people here argue about what happened.” Jerome gave a deep sigh before adding, “It probably will not matter, though, because the prisoner is refusing to escape. He says he has given his parole to travel to Paris. Lagarde has explained that he will be interrogated and tortured, but the man refuses to break his word.”

  “He is a damned fool,” I replied with feeling.

  “Yes, but Lagarde says his honour is now satisfied. It is up to the prisoner to make his escape.”

  “Where is the prisoner?” I asked as casually as I could manage, while my mind reeled at this unexpected change in fortunes.

  “The last I heard he was still in his cart in one of the central squares.”

  I could not believe my luck. It sounded like no ambush would be necessary. We just had to grab Grant from the wagon. If he put up a struggle, we could take turns punching him. I grinned at the thought. Perhaps it would be easier to take him in the wagon out of the gate. One of the Basques could easily pass as a wagon driver, and with a French lieutenant riding as escort few people would ask questions. If they did, I could explain that Grant was an English prisoner who was to be exchanged with a French one. I was still considering the possibilities when I realised that Jerome was looking at me expectantly and I hurriedly rewound what he had been saying in my mind.

  “Share lodgings with you? Of course, I would be happy to. And don’t worry, I will not say a word about the other matter. Now after a morning in the saddle and all this wine, I need the jakes, so I will see you in a minute.”

  I went out of the back of the tavern into a small yard where there was a latrine against the wall. Ignoring that, I turned into a narrow alley which took me back out onto the street. I looked up and down but could see no sign of my Basque shadows. Damn, I thought, the one time I need them and they are not here. My horse was tied right outside the tavern windows; I would have to leave it for now. I was just heading up the street towards the centre of the city when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Did you enjoy spending time with your French friends?”

  I turned and saw Jorge standing hidden in a doorway. I walked over to him so that we could not be overheard. “I was doing my job and getting information,” I hissed at him. “Now why don’t you do yours and get a message to Gomez to say that Grant has been abandoned in a wagon in the city. He is in a square somewhere. We have to find him before someone else does, or he does something stupid.”

  I turned and continued up the road to the citadel. When I reached it there was nothing in the square in front of the gates and everyone who entered the fortress was being questioned about their business by the guards. I pressed on towards the bridge and found nothing in the next square either, but there was a large stone arch leading to another open space and there I did find what I was searching for.

  I saw the lone cart as I was walking under the stonework. Its canvas covering was still tied down tightly over the support hoops and so it was impossible to see if anything or anyone was inside it. The wagon had been left in the middle of this new square under some trees to provide shade for the horses as well as the vehicle. But once I was through the arch I realised that I was not alone. A half troop of dragoons were gathered in a corner of the square, near one of the buildings which appeared to be a hotel. It would have looked more suspicious to turn back having seen them, and so, taking a deep breath, I carried on walking towards the wagon. I was dressed as a French lieutenant, I reminded myself; there was no reason that they should be suspicious of me. Having calmed myself, I looked across at the horsemen and nodded in greeting to the lieutenant commanding the thirty men. He just nodded back and returned to inspecting his troopers. Behind the horsemen outside the hotel was a shiny, black open-topped carriage. Someone important was about to leave.

  I was nearly at the cart now. I just hoped that Grant was still inside. I walked round and pulled myself up onto the driver’s seat so that I would be hidden from the horsemen behind. Having had a final look round to check we could not be overheard, I called out quietly in English, “Grant, are you there?”

  “Yes, who is that?” came a disembodied reply from behind the cloth.

  “It’s Flashman.” I turned and started to untie the cord holding the covering behind the driver’s seat.

  “What are you doing here?” asked the voice.

  “I’ve come to check that they are serving port and nuts with your cigar,” I muttered irritably as I pulled open the fabric. There I saw Grant sitting miserable and dejected on a bench in the middle of the cart. At his feet was a pile of chains and manacles that Lagarde must have taken off before he abandoned his prisoner. “Why do you think I have travelled all this way across Spain and into France in an enemy uniform?” I hissed at him. “I am here to help you escape and you damn well will escape regardless of any paroles or promises, do ye hear me?”

  His chin came up at that and he looked at me stubbornly. “You don’t understand about honour, Flashman. I have given my word that I would not escape before I reached Paris.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. Tempting though it was to bludgeon the idiot with whatever weapon came to hand, such activity would probably attract the attention of the horsemen outside. So instead I tried to reason with him.

  “Yes, and in exchange for giving your word you doubtless expected to be able to travel freely instead of being chained in this cart for weeks. Marmont’s treatment of you has invalidated your parole. Even your French guards think you should escape and have set you free. In any event Wellington has ordered you to escape. He does not want you tortured and giving away details of his spy network.”

  “I would never talk, even under torture,” he exclaimed hotly. “I know my duty.”

  “Nobody knows what they will do under torture,” I told him scathingly. “Wait until they have broken every bone in your hands and feet, burned you, perhaps cut bits off and are then racking you until the pain is so bad that you are begging them to kill you. See how you feel about your precious honour then.”

  Grant just glared at me sullenly.

  “So forget about promises and Paris,” I continued. “I have got some friends in the city who will help get you back to British lines. Just wait here while I fetch them and then we will go.” I looked about the interior of the cart; the cover completely hid the inside. “In fact we may take the cart as well. Now wait here until I get back.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I slid back out of the cart and dropped to the ground. Having, I thought, talked some sense into Grant, I now had to find the Basques so that we could get out of the city. I walked back to the main street I had been on before and stood for a few minutes in the square outside of the citadel. Several streets passed through this square, and so instead of chasing about the city I stood on the base of a statue of some local dignitary so that I could be easily seen and waited for the Basques to find me. It did not take long;
five minutes later Jorge was studiously gazing at the inscription on the base of the statue while talking quietly so that only I could hear.

  “Have you found him?”

  “Yes,” I murmured, bending down to check on the fit of my boot as though it were pinching. “He is still in the cart. I will lead you to it. I will get in the cart with him so that my former comrades do not see me and you can drive the thing out of the city. We will say he is a prisoner being sent for exchange. Have you sent a message to Gomez?”

  “Yes, señor,” he replied. I looked up at that. It was the first time that any of the Basques had called me señor. I sensed that the surly man was grudgingly impressed with what I had achieved. Perhaps finally he was starting to believe we were on the same side.

  “Good, now follow me. I will go first and get in the cart. You follow on behind and drive it out through the city gates.”

  I straightened up and started back the way I had come. I did not look back, but as I turned to go through the stone archway I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of Jorge walking about a hundred paces behind me. The cart had not moved and I had taken several paces towards it when a voice called out in English.

  “Ah, there you are, Lieutenant.” It was Grant’s voice calling out from the front of the hotel building. I turned and just gaped at the vision in front of me. Grant stood there out in the open in his British uniform while beside him, standing companionably, was a French general.

  “You should stay closer to your charge, Lieutenant,” warned the general in French, smiling. “I nearly had him arrested before I discovered he was an American.”

  “The general is going to Paris,” declared Grant with a note of triumph in his voice. “He has kindly agreed to let us accompany him.”