Devil to Pay (25 page)

“Well done, men,” he said. “We have cheated the French of their prize. They will have nothing to take with them, no mast on which to hoist the tricolour over the British ensign. They will presently send a boat over and we shall mostly end as prisoners of war. There is a good chance of being exchanged within twelve months but this is very much a matter of luck. Our two larger boats are smashed, as you can see, but the gig will float—or at least I think she will. I propose to gain the shore, if I can, and attempt to reach Portugal overland. The chances are that this attempt will fail. I may not reach the shore and, even if I do, may be taken prisoner as soon as I land—or may be fired upon, indeed, before I have landed. In the gig I can take five other men, giving preference to those who speak French or Spanish. Any volunteers?”

There was some hurried discussion and then the volunteers came forward, seven of them. Delancey rejected two of these—one as too young and the other too stupid—and told the rest to fetch their best clothes and small arms. The gig was lowered and Delancey gave his final orders to his first lieutenant. “Try to hold the attention of the French boat's crew—give them something else to look at so that the gig is unnoticed. We shall see to it that the
Nemesis
is between us and the corvette. Good luck!” There was no time to waste, for the French longboat was already in the water, and the volunteers tumbled into the gig as well as they might. Delancey came last and took the helm, pushing off and steering so as not to be seen from the corvette. Even without that complication it was difficult to keep the gig afloat for the waves ran high and the boat was leaking. Looking back, however, Delancey could see that Tracey and his men were trying to lower the longboat. This was quite futile, of course, for the boat had been holed, but it certainly complicated the problem for the corvette's longboat. The longboat of the
Nemesis
hung askew and Tracey could be seen waving his arms with almost Gallic despair. The French officer was trying to bring his boat alongside but his gestures conveyed his exasperation. From each wave crest Delancey had a diminishing view of this scene. Then the boat was in the breakers and grounding on the sand, the efforts of all being just sufficient to drag the gig out of the water and up the beach. They were all very wet by this time and Delancey set them to gather firewood so that their clothes might be dried. In a last dash down to his cabin, flint and steel were among the things he had remembered. He now chose a sheltered hollow for a camp fire and looked about him for signs of life. Seawards he could see the wreck of the privateer with her mizen lower mast still standing and, beyond it, the sails of the French corvette. Landwards there was heath and undergrowth, stunted trees and, further inland, a small wood. Either way along the sea's edge stretched the sand dunes without the least sign of habitation or human activity. Their landing had been seen by nobody and they had come to as remote a place as could be imagined. They were, he guessed, on the French side of the frontier at some point north of Bayonne. Somewhere inland of them would be the road from Bordeaux to Bayonne and so to San Sebastian, the road which provided the line of communication between the French government and their fleet at Cadiz. Whatever the other drawbacks about his present situation, Delancey could see that he was well placed to intercept the mail. How would it be if he could return to England via Portugal as the bearer of vital information?

As the others came back with their firewood and as clothes were being dried before the fire, Delancey was considering the small group of survivors from the wreck of the
Nemesis.
Who were they and why did they volunteer? It was some minutes before the truth dawned on him: they were the men who had some special reason to avoid capture and exchange. The best seaman, a quartermaster indeed, was Pierre Rigault, recruited in Guernsey He was almost certainly a deserter from the navy, a man of some education and able to speak French with a good accent. Then there was André Bisson, a Jerseyman, a fugitive from justice and accused (it was said) of forgery. Martin Ramos claimed to be Spanish and certainly spoke that language fluently, having also some words of French (but not of English). He and Tom Manning had both been in the
Thomas Jefferson
and Ramos could be assumed to be a criminal of sorts. Manning said that he was American and a groom (of all things) by trade but Delancey put him down mentally as another deserter, probably from the British army. Frederick Hodder, enlisted at St Peter Port, spoke with a cockney accent and described himself as a locksmith. He was presumably a burglar and ripe for the gallows if caught. None of these men wanted to be listed as a prisoner of war, each of them had some good reason for avoiding public notice in any form. They could muster between them some useful talents but it was doubtful how far they could be trusted. Several, it might be supposed, would like to earn a royal pardon but Delancey was in no position to promise them that or any other reward. He had by any standards a difficult team to handle.

“Listen, men,” said Delancey. “We have won the first round, being safe ashore and little the worse for a ducking. We are in France but close to the Spanish frontier. War with Spain is expected but we must be treated there, in the meanwhile, as citizens of a country with which the king of Spain is at peace. Should war have begun, however, we can try to reach Portugal, knowing that the Portuguese are still our allies. If we reach Portugal we shall owe our success to keeping the strictest discipline, and my first order to you is to accept Mr Rigault as acting boatswain. You will obey him when I am not present and your survival may well depend upon it. My plan is to move across the frontier with Spain and so towards Portugal. While in France we shall march only at night, resting in concealment by day. There will be difficulties, no doubt, over food but the distance to the frontier is not more than forty miles, as I should guess, and may be nearer 35. If we gain any useful intelligence and convey it back to England we may gain a reward and perhaps induce the king to forget about any past incidents which are better forgotten. Remember this, above all, we are not defeated yet!”

Delancey's little speech was well received but he had no illusions about the quality of his men. He knew, incidentally, that he had no recognized authority over them. His powers as a privateer commander were little more than those of any ship's master and they ended with the shipwreck. All he had to enforce his orders was a vaguely naval uniform, a bag of coin and a pair of loaded pistols. The habit of command was enough for the time being but what would happen later on? Rigault was a useful man and so, he thought, was Manning. But what about Bisson or Hodder? For the moment he needed, first of all, to give them confidence. For this purpose he issued them with some biscuit and a tot of rum apiece. He then told them to rest, reminding them that they would have a long way to go after sunset. The shore was no place to linger and their first object must be to cross the frontier. Each time they slept they would have to post one man as sentry. He would himself take the first watch, Rigault the second, Bisson the third, Manning and Ramos next and Hodder last of all. Before they slept all weapons must be dried, reloaded and oiled.

It was a fine warm night, the wind having died away since the time of the action. The moon rose early and Delancey roused his men and told them that they must march. Before quitting the point at which they landed he made them haul the boat further inland and hide it in the wood. That done, they moved eastward with more caution than speed. The coast on which they had landed was a barren country, practically uninhabited, but a mile or two inland were areas of cultivation with farms and villages. They gained the main road on their first night's march and were then compelled to make a wide circuit round the town of Bayonne. By the morning after the second night they were back on the main road and in a position to intercept the next courier bound from Paris to Cadiz. Ramos was sent that day to visit a wayside tavern and came back with the news that couriers passed on every other day. They travelled thus far by coach but would continue on horseback in Spain, where the roads were so rough. They were escorted by a couple of troopers as far as the frontier but were there met, it was said, by a troop of Spanish militia. There were brigands, Ramos was told, especially in Spain—yes, and smugglers as well—so that an officer could hardly be expected to travel alone. Having this much information, Delancey decided that their present progress was too slow. To reach Portugal before the outbreak of war with Spain it would be the better plan to intercept a courier and take his place, thus continuing with the speed of horses. There was good reason to make this interception on the French side of the frontier, partly because any subsequent hunt for bandits would be in France—the country they would be leaving—and partly because the capture of some travel documents would simplify the actual crossing of the frontier. It was, of course, a southbound courier they must intercept, one whose coming would be expected, not one whose carriage had been recently seen going in the opposite direction. Once in Spain, Delancey's party had a good chance of being accepted as French. They could make only a brief attempt at being taken for Spaniards in France. The best place for the interception, Delancey concluded, would be near a place called Bidart.

The location finally chosen for the ambush was one where the road crossed a dry watercourse with plenty of undergrowth on either bank. There were few country folk around, and little traffic on the road. If the usual routine was followed the courier might be expected some time that same afternoon, perhaps between one and two, his aim being to dine at St Jean-de-Luz and possibly reach San Sebastian by nightfall.

There was much to do in the meanwhile and the preparation included the moving of two fallen trees to points on the roadside where they could be propped up and so fall, when pushed, across the carriage way. This could not be done without attracting some attention but Ramos was briefed with a story about a trap to be laid for bandits. He told it to several rustics, one of them frankly incredulous, but none was in a position to stop the work or report his suspicions to a magistrate or other public official. Work was also interrupted by the passing of an occasional farm-cart and once by a drove of cattle, but it was nevertheless completed in time. Soon after midday Pierre Rigault walked up the road towards Bayonne and sat down to wait for the expected coach and escort.

At a quarter past two the post-chaise appeared and Rigault, standing in the road, made the driver pull up. Going to the window of the coach, he warned the courier, in fluent French, that there were bandits in the vicinity and that a coach had been robbed only yesterday. The commandant at St Jean-de-Luz was sending a cavalry escort as far as a certain crossroads and had sent Rigault to warn the courier and guide him to the rendezvous. The courier, Captain Laffray, was an elderly, red-faced and fattish officer who rather made light of the danger. He gave it as his opinion that the bandits would prefer easier prey. The sergeant who was with him in the coach looked more alarmed and began to check the priming of his pistols. After a little further discussion the captain reluctantly admitted Rigault to the coach and thanked him for the warning which the sergeant passed on to the two troopers who were following as escort some fifty yards behind. The whip cracked and the vehicle rolled on.

Ten minutes later a tree crashed across the road, frightening the four horses to a plunging halt. The coachman was too occupied with the reins to draw his pistol but the second driver, sitting beside him, had his pistol ready. Several shots were fired and Rigault whipped out his pistols just ahead of the courier and the sergeant, shooting them both. Twenty yards behind the coach another tree fell across the road, bringing the two dragoons to a momentary halt. Then they charged, both being shot at close range, one of them mortally. There was a second shot, killing the wounded trooper, and then two more shots fired inside the coach. The firing died away, the smoke disappeared and the little skirmish was over.

“Dammit,” said Delancey, “I meant to take them prisoners. Why to God—?”

“How
could
we?” said Manning, “What could we have done with them?”

“This was the only way,” said Hodder.

In this fashion Delancey discovered the limits of his authority. His orders had been disobeyed, almost certainly by previous agreement, and he knew that the others had been right. Hating the cold-blooded killing, he could say no more on the subject.

“Strip their uniforms off,” he said, “and dig a grave over there.” He pointed to a clump of trees some two hundred yards away. “There's a spade on the coach,” he added and Ramos unclipped it from its place. Delancey then took the courier's leather bag and told Hodder to pick the lock.

“Won't he have the key, sir?” asked that expert, only to be told to get on with it. As Delancey knew, the key would never have been entrusted to the courier but only to the officers at either end of the route. A grisly half hour followed, for the uniforms were bloodstained, but the work was finally done. It could not be finished, however, until a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush had been borrowed from a cottage and even then the stains were visible on the ill-fitting uniforms. At last the moment came when the party could assemble, ready to proceed. Tom Manning was the coachman, with Martin Ramos as his assistant. Bisson and Hodder were dragoons, sitting their horses in some discomfort. Delancey himself was the courier and Pierre Rigault was the sergeant. From the direction of the burial place came the howling of a dog. “Shall I . . . ?” asked Rigault, but Delancey replied, “We have spilt blood enough. Let's go!” He was still feeling rather sick as the carriage rolled on.

The contents of the courier's bag proved disappointing. There were no orders from Paris for the French Admiral at Cadiz. There were letters enough but they were all dealing with routine matters. The sentence of a court martial was confirmed, the report rendered by a court of inquiry was formally acknowledged, a successor was named to the purser of the
Barras
(who had died) and the appointment was notified of a new surgeon for the
Duquesne.
There was correspondence about new canvas to be supplied to the
Censeur,
as also about the cost of repairing the
Friponne's
rudder. There were private letters in addition, some even from officials in the Ministry of Marine, but none shed light on the intended movements of Admiral Richery—still less on the plans of the Spanish Commander-in-Chief, Don Juan de Langara. Reading through all these trivialities as the coach travelled southwards, Delancey had a sense of failure. Had those six men been killed for nothing? No, that was not true. The result of the skirmish had been to provide Delancey with carriage and horses, with a useful sum in French currency, with papers of identification and means of disguise. His party would have no difficulty in passing the sentries at St Jean-de-Luz. The frontier lay beyond and San Sebastian perhaps seven miles further on. They would arrive late but the failing light would be an advantage. . . . It was late afternoon by now, buildings and passers-by had become more frequent and there was more traffic on the road. It was obvious that the coach was in the outskirts of St Jean-de-Luz.