Devil to Pay (27 page)

“The merest trifle, sir. These two dragoons—are they with you?”

“They are and they are not,” Delancey admitted. “Their uniforms were a disguise worn by these two gentlemen. Capitaine de Corvette Bellanger and his secretary, M. Le Cannelier. So far a disguise has been necessary; in Spain it is not.”

“Might I be allowed to know the reason?”

“In strict confidence, Colonel?”

“But of course!”

“I may tell you then, that they have been concerned for the last two years with a certain project. It concerns the blowing up of enemy ships of war by use of a secret device.”

“Just so.”

“The Directory have decided to develop this invention for use against the British. It will transform the whole situation in a day. With me I have the experts who have brought this invention to its present state of readiness. Spies in British pay have tried to penetrate our workshop at Dunkirk. We believe they know the general nature of our project. We believe they know the names of the officers concerned. If they discovered that these two men had been sent to Cadiz, they would suspect the truth—that their fleet off Cadiz is in the greatest danger. They have travelled under false names and in disguise so as to prevent the enemy guessing our intentions.”

“Very ingenious indeed, my dear captain. Who would suspect two men in dragoons uniform? I am interested also in your own part in the affair, if I may say so. If your two dragoons are not soldiers it occurs to me that you might not be a real courier.”

“I think, Colonel, that I have answered enough of your questions; more, perhaps, than my government would approve.”

“But of course, Captain, of course! A thousand apologies! The fact is that one has too little to discuss in such an isolated post as this. Whatever seems unusual becomes at once the subject of gossip. There is, for example, the story of the two dragoons—”

“Enough of that, Colonel. I have warned you already!”

“Please! Don't misunderstand me. I don't mean
your
dragoons. I refer now to certain men killed on the highway between Bayonne and St Jean-de-Luz—killed, it would seem, by bandits. We talked about the incident yesterday, did we not? Two of them are thought to have been cavalrymen and have even been recognized. Both their uniforms were taken with both horses and arms, headgear and boots. For all we know there are two brigands on the road disguised as troopers.”

“That is quite possible.”

“And you came with two of your companions in the same disguise! A strange coincidence, you must admit.”

“Strange indeed. Well, Colonel, if our business is concluded, I shall beg to take leave of you and resume my journey to Vittoria and so to Madrid.”

“You are naturally eager to deliver the despatches with which you have been entrusted and I, for one, would hate to be the cause of delay. Tell me one thing, though, before you go. Why do you have an Englishman as one of your staff?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“But I think you do. Your coachman has been heard to speak English and is all but totally ignorant of French.”

“He is actually American.”

“How stupid of me! And I suppose the smaller of your ex-dragoons is another American?”

“He is French but has lived in the United States.”

“But of course. What could be more natural? But another possibility occurs to me. Suppose the British were to plan an interception of couriers moving between Paris and Madrid, where would they choose to do it? My belief is that their agents would land from the sea between Bayonne and San Sebastian. The discovery of these bodies gave me the idea that such a landing might have taken place. When I first heard of the incident I asked myself, ‘Could the British have a plan for capturing the French despatches sent from Paris to Cadiz? Could they not be interested in what the Minister of Marine might say to Admiral Richery?' I think they
could
be interested, I think they
are.
Do you agree—Captain?”

“The British might attempt something of the sort but interception of messages to Richery seems to me a far-fetched idea, not characteristic of British methods. I must be on my way, sir, and you will detain me further at your peril!”

“I detain you, my dear Captain? That would be unthinkable. I know my duty better than that. If I dared do so, however, it would not be on account of that remote possibility, nor yet on account of the two dragoons. Were I to detain you—if I dared (and I repeat,
if)
—it would be on account of a chestnut horse, a gelding with a white mark on the forehead. Your outrider's horse has been recognized, my dear sir, as the one ridden by one of the dragoons who died so mysteriously. . . . No, don't draw your pistol. You are surrounded, sir, but not, please understand, with the object of detaining you. I should never dare to do that. Instead, I am putting you and your friends under arrest.”

Delancey, looking round, saw that he and the others were covered by pistols and that a guard had collected outside the door. There was no chance of escape or resistance. They had walked into a trap and the colonel, sitting still but watchful at the table, was taking no chances. The adjutant disarmed each of them in turn, feeling for concealed weapons, and then locked their swords away in a cupboard.

“Wait till the Directory hears of this!” Delancey thundered. “Wait until they hear that a French officer has been placed under arrest on the Spanish frontier! What will the Minister for War say to King Ferdinand? What will the king say to you? You'll be lucky if you are merely cashiered and reduced to the ranks!”

“I daresay,” replied the colonel. “I would hope to be a dragoon. Very fashionable just now, it seems, and a uniform to be had for nothing.” He went on after a pause, looking idly at the ceiling. “It might be a little bloodstained in the lining but what of that? War is war and bandits are not always bandits. I hope you will be comfortable here, Captain, until we hear from your superiors. Our hospitality must be of the simplest, you will understand, with no pretence of luxury. Let us know, however, if there is anything you want.”

At a sign, the prisoners were marched out of the room, down the staircase and across the courtyard, into another building and along the central corridor which divided two rows of cells. Rigault was led into the first cell on the left, the door being shut and locked before Delancey was pushed into the second cell on the right. To judge from the sound, Ramos was put in the third cell on the right, and Bisson in the cell opposite. A sentry, marching up and down the corridor, prevented them speaking to each other but each door had a small grid-covered peephole through which they could see. Delancey was thus able to view, briefly, the arrival under escort of Manning and Hodder. He had been in an enemy fortress before but under different circumstances. He had then been a prisoner of war. He was now a spy, caught in the act and due to face a firing squad.

Rigault's first reaction was to demand paper, ink and a quill. He would write to the captain of the dockyard at Bayonne and ask for that officer's assistance. The writing materials were given him and he began to write his complaints in a proper mixture of formality and outrage. They would not secure his release—that at least was obvious—but they might obtain better treatment for the whole party while any doubt remained as to their identity. Ramos had a different reaction—he tried to engage the sentry in conversation with a view to seeing whether he could be bribed. He had little success even in making himself understood. The soldier was a Catalan, speaking some dialect of the Pyrenees, and he thought of Castilian as almost a foreign language. He merely shook his head and resumed his sentry beat up and down the stone-flagged corridor. Bisson, like Rigault, demanded writing materials and began to forge an order for his own release. There was no immediate use for it but it was good to practise one's art. One never knew what might come in useful. Manning's reaction was to go to the barred window of his cell and make a minute examination of the ironwork, which seemed depressingly sound, and of the stonework, which appeared to be almost new. As for Hodder, he began to study the lock on his cell door. With some pieces of wire, which he happened to have in his inner pocket, he felt his way gently through the intricacies which lay behind the keyhole. He could picture the key he needed but had no means of making it.

Delancey barely glanced out of his cell window before he sat down on his bed and began to think. He was very conscious of being the leader whose scheme had led them all to face imprisonment and probable execution. He had run a deliberate risk, gambling with his own life as well as theirs. Their safety, at this stage, had depended on the stupidity, which he had assumed, of the Spanish commandant. It had seemed unlikely that the Spanish would appoint a military genius to command the small garrison at San Sebastian. While Spain was France's subservient ally this frontier had no strategic importance. The routine duties of the garrison commander might well have been entrusted to some elderly nobleman, some officer passed over for promotion, some courtier banished from the royal presence for duelling or cheating at cards. He had been confronted instead by Colonel Diego de Altamirano who was neither disreputable, stupid nor old. He had been sufficiently astute to see the possible connection between different incidents. He had guessed what was happening and yet had resisted the temptation to act hastily. He had allowed his opponents to feel secure while he collected information and then, at the last moment, he had closed the trap. The colonel was no fool, so much was obvious. It was Delancey's first task to guess what the colonel would do next. What would he himself do had their parts been reversed? He would write to Bayonne and ask for the help of some French naval officer, preferably one with experience of intelligence work. The chances were that he would have long since made contact with the French at Bayonne and St Jean-de-Luz and would know whom to approach and how. With such an officer present at his interrogation, Rigault would break down at once, lacking sufficient knowledge of the French army With the same officer (or any other Frenchman) present, he would himself break down as promptly and would be seen to be a foreigner. Neither Manning nor Hodder could pass as American and neither of them knew, for that matter, that this was expected of them. That they were a group of British spies must be suspected already and little more evidence would be needed to secure conviction before a military court. By tomorrow or the next day, the colonel's case would be complete.

Was it likely, however, that the colonel would be content to execute the spies? His first aim would rather be to discover what they were trying to do. He had seen that the French lines of communication were vulnerable at this point. He had guessed that the spies had come by sea. What he had not guessed was that their landing was accidental—the result of a shipwreck. The trouble was that each one of his party, interrogated separately, would tell a different tale. One weakness in the preparation for their march into Spain—as Delancey could now realize—was that there had been no agreed story to tell if they were captured. A more professional team would have been provided with such a story, not that it would save their lives but merely to conceal the nature of their mission. There could be no agreed story now. The best plan would be for he himself to act as spokesman and for the others to say nothing. Could he transmit that message to the rest? And would they obey him after pressure had been brought to bear? Would torture be used? It seemed all too likely. . . . People who take infants to see bloodshed in the bull-fighting arena are likely to be cruel in other ways. Delancey shuddered at the thought and found himself sweating. It lay with him to think of a plan to escape. Having led his men into a trap it was for him now to lead them out of it. The question was—how?

F
LYING THE TRICOLOUR, the lugger
Dove
put into St Jean-de-Luz on August 24th, space being found for her alongside the breakwater. She had been more than welcome on her first visit because of what she brought and now she was just as welcome because of the goods she would ship; goods for which there would be no legal outlet after war began. Acting as supercargo, Mr Evans came on board with the bills of lading. He also gave Sam Carter the letter which Delancey had written, adding a brief account of how they had met.

“He was dressed as a French army officer?” asked Sam, making sure that he had the right picture.

“Yes, he was in French army uniform and so were three of his men, one in the coach and two on horseback.”

“That looks to me as if he had killed that number of French soldiers.”

“He must have done.”

“So he needed to cross the border before the hunt was up.”

“I reckon so.”

“And he won't be all that safe in Spain.”

“Nor he will neither. But we are not yet at war, Sam, are we?”

“Not that I hear of. But it won't be long. In three or four weeks or even less. This voyage down to Cadiz will be none of the safest, David, and that's the truth.”

“What, Sam—are you going to do it?”

“Yes, I shall do it. What choice is there? I can't leave Richard Delancey to die in Spain. He'll be no prisoner of war, not after what he's done to the French. Caught in disguise, he'll be shot. He's a fine fellow is Richard and a friend of mine. We must save him if we can. You wouldn't think that he was a good seaman would you? He seems too much of the gentleman sometimes, reading novels or writing poetry, dreaming of god-knows-what. But put him in a tight corner, face him with a knotty problem, and Richard knows what to do and does it. He outwitted
me
once, remember.”

“I know that, Sam. And he saved your men from the press-gang that time only for us to lose them the next week. The men we have now, shipped in Guernsey, are not to be relied upon. They won't like the idea of heading south from here.”