Flashman's Escape (17 page)

We wrapped Leon’s body in a blanket and carried it back to the village. There was lots of dark muttering about finding the traitor, but they agreed to arrange for a proper burial for Leon in the church. I burned the notebook. Nobody who mattered would believe that Leon was drafting Grant’s reports. Now he was dead it made no difference. A lot of the information was too old to be useful, but it was better burned than falling into the wrong hands.

Two days later and I had caught up with the forty thousand men in the British army as it steadfastly marched to trap the twenty-thousand-strong army of Marmont against the banks of the Agueda. There had been heavy rains in the hills and the strong river current had washed away one bridge. It left Marmont with even fewer options to escape.

“What news do you have?” called Wellington as I pushed open the flap of his campaign tent.

“Grant was betrayed to the French and taken. He was seen being ridden away as a prisoner, apparently unwounded. His guide Leon was shot and killed.”

“Damnation. Still, I should not be surprised. I have just received a message from an agent in Salamanca saying that the French think that they have taken an important prisoner.” Wellington looked tired and harassed. He ran his fingers through his hair as he continued: “We need him back. He knows too much about our operations. I am sending out a message to all the local guerrilla chiefs offering two thousand dollars in gold to anyone who can bring Grant back to me alive. Of course if the French get wind of that then they will realise just how important Grant is.”

“Well, if they cannot get him back then no one can,” I agreed supportively. I then took my leave before he thought of any more ways to use my services.

I spent the next two days riding in the rain and through mud with the rest of the army to trap the French. When we were just a day away, the French suddenly discovered how close the British were and made their escape across the remaining crossing point of the Agueda river. Wellington was furious, but it was nothing to his anger when he called me into his tent the next morning.

“Would you believe it, Flashman?” he shouted at me, waving a piece of paper in the air.

“Believe what, sir?”

“Grant has given his parole to the French. I have thousands of bloody partisans trying to help him escape and Grant has given his word of honour to the French that he will do no such thing.”

I suppressed a smile. Ever since his food-gathering mission Grant had been one of Wellington’s favourites. Guided discretely by Leon, he could do no wrong. Now, just days after Leon’s death, Grant was proving that he was not the shrewd operator that Wellington had taken him for.

“Does he not realise how important it is for us to get him back?” Wellington asked in exasperation

“Perhaps he is hoping to be exchanged.”

Wellington gave another bark of laughter. “Of course he is, but Marmont is too smart for that. I wrote to Marmont a week ago when he had first gone missing, offering to exchange a colonel for Major Grant if he had been taken. I got a reply from Marmont today very graciously agreeing to my request. But see here…” Wellington picked up another paper from those piled on his desk. “This is another letter dated the same day as Marmont’s response to me. It was intercepted by the guerrillas and has just been handed over. It is from Marmont’s aide to the minister of war in Paris, offering Grant for interrogation and stressing his detailed knowledge of our affairs.” Wellington made a visible effort to calm himself before continuing. “Have you ever faced torture in your adventures, Flashman?”

“Yes, it was here in Spain in 1800, but luckily I was rescued just as they pulled the hot knives out of the fire.”

“You were most fortunate. I have often wondered how I would stand torture, but I imagine that it is not something that you can judge until you face it. Everyone thinks that they will be brave, but alone in some basement with no hope of rescue…”

“It certainly tests your inner courage, sir,” I agreed. “I was not sure how much I could stand.” This was not exactly true. I had been willing to tell them anything and everything to avoid the pain, but I was sure they would have tortured me anyway given the chance.

“They are bound to have experts in this dark art in Paris,” continued Wellington. “Grant is a brave man, but I doubt that there is a man alive who cannot be broken given time. If he tells them all he knows, it will do irreparable damage. We must get him back.”

“Well, I don’t see how. He is probably in Marmont’s headquarters in Salamanca under the tightest guard. You know how jealously Grant guards his honour; now he has given his parole he will not even try to escape. On top of that if Marmont has promised Grant to the minister of war, he will provide a huge escort to make sure that his prisoner is delivered.”

“It is not a job for an ordinary man,” stated Wellington and suddenly I felt my blood chill. I had a horrible feeling that I knew where this conversation was going; a sensation that was only strengthened by Wellington’s next words. “Do you remember where we first met, Flashman? In India when I sent you behind enemy lines to cause chaos with the Mahratta. You far exceeded my expectations in what you achieved, disguised as a company lancer and then in two Indian armies. Since then you have masqueraded as a French officer at Talavera and as a Polish lancer before Busaco. There was no need to take such a risk, but you are a natural spy.”

“But this is different,” I tried to object. “The French will be expecting something like this.”

“Your experience makes you ideally suited to the task,” responded Wellington as though I had not spoken. “And this time you will not be working alone. We have another agent working in Salamanca who can help you.” He beamed as though this was the very best news.

I tried to look pleased but my heart sank. The presence of this other agent meant that I could not hide out on some hilltop; I would actually have to go to Salamanca.

“Who is this other agent?” I asked, hoping that he was some disreputable cove who could be persuaded to deceive Wellington into thinking we had done all we can.

“He is an Irish Catholic priest, a professor at the University of Salamanca. No, don’t look disappointed, Flashman; he is a good man. He is very shrewd and runs his own network of spies.” Wellington paused, his brow furrowed in thought. “Grant has not met Curtis, that’s the priest, but he knows I have an agent with a network of spies in Salamanca. If he is made to talk, we could lose many of our informants.”

“But Grant has given his parole. He will not be willing to escape.” I was starting to get desperate now as I sensed a net closing in around me. “If we cannot break him out…” I paused, judging how my next suggestion would be received. “There are other ways of stopping him talk. Perhaps a local partisan could be paid to do the job.”

“You mean kill him?” Wellington looked shocked at the idea, despite the fact that he had ordered countless executions in his time. “You are a ruthless man, Flashman.”

“You suggested he would be better dead when we spoke before. It would be a quicker death than one by torture.”

“I know what I said before, but I will not be party to the murder of a British officer.” Wellington had spoken sternly but then he smiled again. “I think you underestimate your abilities, Flashman. You have not failed me yet, and if anyone can get Grant away, you can. I will give you a copy of the letter sent to the minister of war that you can show Grant. It should be more than enough to persuade him that he is released from his parole.”

Chapter 17

Three days later and I was to be found riding through the streets of Salamanca in the uniform of a French lieutenant. I was cursing Grant for getting captured and this priest called Curtis too. Why couldn’t he have been the kind of person who would know a cut-throat murderer for hire? I was sure that there was no way we would be able to get Grant away. Even if we did get him out of the prison, there would be guards at every exit to the city. Once his absence was reported, Marshal Marmont would do whatever it took to get his prize back. He was not going to write to the minister of war and admit he had allowed Grant to escape; it could be the end of his career. So once again Flashy was being forced into the soup.

At least the journey into the city had been much easier than I had expected. For two days I had ridden the main roads in my British uniform, but then as I approached Salamanca I went up into the hills. It was always difficult to judge when to change from the British coat into the French one and for a while I rode in just my shirt. I did not want to be seen by any French patrols in a British uniform, but even less did I want to be found by the partisans in a French one. Eventually I spotted a company of French infantry guarding a column of hay carts that were being taken in the direction of the city. I slipped on the French coat and transferred my pistols and other possessions into the pockets, before making sure that the red cloth was stuffed well out of sight in my saddlebag.

The foraging party showed not the slightest concern as a French officer rode down towards them. I trotted my horse down the line of wagons and saluted the lieutenant at its head.

“Lieutenant Moreau of the engineers,” I called to introduce myself. I thought being an engineer would raise less suspicion than a line regiment officer riding alone about the countryside.

“Lieutenant Parquin, as you can see, attached to the quartermasters.” He gestured to the line of carts behind. “Where have you come from?” he asked more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.

“Une femme,”
I replied as though that explained everything, and for Lieutenant Parquin ‘a woman’ seemed all the explanation he needed.

I encouraged him to do most of the talking so that I did not give myself away. It was not difficult as Parquin liked to talk. By the time we reached the gates of the city I had discovered that he had had been in Spain a year, that he thought his wife in Bordeaux was having an affair and that his captain was suffering from piles. The captain apparently preferred his men to think it was the clap, a more soldierly complaint, unless of course he had both. The sentries at the city gates watched two officers chatting amiably in charge of a company of French infantry and hay carts and saw no reason to interrupt their lunch by asking awkward questions. They just waived us through. As I travelled under the stone portal, I could not help wondering how easy it would be to pass in the opposite direction.

“Do you know where the university is?” I asked Parquin casually. “I have a friend who asked me to look up a mathematician there.” He gave me directions to a palatial baroque building very near the cathedral. There I asked for Don Patricio Cortes, the Spanish name of my contact.

The first time I saw Curtis I thought that there must have been a mistake. Wellington had not told me how old he was and the man pointed out to me looked as ancient as Methuselah. He was sitting on a bench in a quiet colonnaded courtyard and seemed to be asleep. I walked up to him and scuffed my boot on the stone flags to wake him as I asked hesitantly in Spanish, “Are you Don Patricio Cortes?”

The bright blue eyes opened immediately and made me doubt if he had been asleep at all. Without saying a word he studied me carefully from the top of my battered hat to my boots and then replied in the same language. “Who is asking for him?” There was no trace of an accent to his Spanish and I hesitated before replying. If Grant had already been interrogated, this unlikely looking agent could be bait for a trap. I glanced around but there were just two other old men in the courtyard, both well out of earshot.

I took a deep breath and then spoke quietly in English, “A friend from Ireland sent me.” Wellington was proud of his Irish roots and this was the phrase that he had apparently used before to introduce men to Curtis.

In a broad Irish accent Curtis replied, “In that case you will be knowing the name of the little place at the mouth of the River Liffey.”

I gaped; I had already used the only phrase that Wellington had given me and I had not set foot on the emerald isle, never mind seen that river. “I am sorry… I have never been to Ireland.” I did not want him to turn me away and so I added, “Our Irish friend was very keen that we talk. Perhaps I could tell you something else?”

“Not here,” he murmured, getting up. “I have been expecting you. You might have a French coat but your boots are English. Let’s go up to the observatory; we can talk privately there.” He gave me an impish grin and added, “That little place is called Dublin, by the way.”

His observatory was a small room at the top of one of the towers. He locked and bolted the door before bidding me to make myself comfortable in his cluttered eyrie. “Take those papers off that chair and sit down. I take it you are here about Major Grant?”

“Yes, our Irish friend wonders if there is a way that we can break him out from Salamanca and return him to behind British lines.”

“That is impossible,” stated Curtis firmly. “He is being held at the citadel. I called there yesterday to see if he would be allowed to go to mass but he is not allowed out of his cell.”

“I thought he had given his parole.”

“He has, but Marmont is taking no chances. The guard told me that the marshal has ordered that Grant cannot be allowed out of his cell unless Marmont is present. Apparently he lost a prisoner once before with a forged release order.”

“If we cannot get him out, the marshal is planning to send him to Paris, where he will be tortured. I gather he knows someone runs agents from Salamanca. The French will soon start narrowing down a list of suspects.”

Curtis stared out of the window for a moment in thought. “Our best chance of freeing him will be when he is moved to Bayonne. It is a long distance and the partisans will help.”

I was warming quickly to the old man. He was talking sense. No reckless attempts to break Grant out of the citadel and leaving the partisans to take all the risks was fine by me.

I was just starting to relax when he added, “Is Grant a shrewd man? I am surprised he gave his parole as he must have known that our Irish friend would want him back.”

I had relaxed too much for I answered honestly. “He is as dumb as an ox. His guide did most of the thinking for them, but the French shot him when Grant was captured.” Then, realising that I might have been a bit too forthright, I added, “But he is very proud and guards his honour with the tenacity of a cat. Whatever Marmont could offer or threaten him with, I don’t think he would talk.”

“Mmm,” uttered Curtis thoughtfully. “Marmont is more subtle than that. As it will take him a while to organise a large escort to Bayonne, I think we need to talk to Grant to find out if he has told the French anything. Remember the French did manage to escape across the Agueda just in the nick of time to avoid the British trap. It will also be good for him to know that help is at hand.”

“But how the devil will we do that if he is shut up in the citadel?”

“Oh, I am known in there. I often go to hear confession from the prisoners. Perhaps if you go as my guard they will let us see him.”

The last place I wanted to go was to the cells under the citadel. I did my best to talk him out of it but Curtis was resolute. If Grant had talked, we needed to know. Of course if he had talked then the French would be on heightened alert for a mysterious spymaster based in Salamanca. The Irish priest professor with correspondents around the country would be a prime suspect, as would an unknown French officer in British boots, with no papers, trying to vouch for him.

Perhaps rightly concluding that I would not come back if we delayed the encounter, Curtis insisted that we went to the citadel straight away. He picked up a satchel containing communion wine and other priestly vestments and led the way out of the university. For an old man he walked at a good pace and the citadel was not far away. It gave me little chance of thinking of another excuse not to go.

“Don’t worry, many people know me here,” Curtis murmured in Spanish as we walked through the forbidding stone arch into the fortress.

“That
is
what is worrying me,” I replied in the same language as Curtis chuckled. But many of the guards did recognise him and a few who were Catholics greeted him kindly, receiving blessings in return.

With his French lieutenant companion watching sternly on, we were soon conducted not to the cells but up some stairs to another room where the prisoner was being held. We were left waiting in the corridor while the guard went in and announced that a priest was there to hear Grant’s confession.

“But I am a Presbyterian,” whined Grant and for a moment I thought the idiot would refuse to see us. Then Curtis gently pushed in through the door.

“I am from the Order of Saint Arthur,” he declared referring to Wellington’s first name in his softly spoken Irish accent. “I am allowed to hear Presbyterian confessions too.” The guard stared between the two men, unable to understand what was being spoken.

“That will be all right then,” agreed Grant, still appearing confused as to what was happening.

Curtis turned to the guard and gestured to me standing outside. “Perhaps my companion can stand guard on the meeting?”

It was then that Grant noticed me still standing in the corridor outside. “Flash…” he gasped before he could stop himself as his eyes bulged in astonishment. Luckily the guard was looking at me at the time and missed the reaction.

“I will guard them, Corporal,” I said sternly to the guard and stood back to encourage the man to leave. “We will knock on the door when we are ready.”

The guard seemed happy to have one less job to do and stepped outside the cell. Once I had entered, the door slammed shut and I heard the guard shooting the bolt across.

“What the devil…” started Grant but Curtis held up his hand to silence him. Then the priest started to recite a prayer loudly in Latin as I put my ear to the cell door to check that the guard’s footsteps were receding.

“He has gone,” I declared as the noise on the flagstones died away.

“I demand to know what is happening!” exploded Grant. He was glaring angrily at me as though it was my fault he had been arrested. Sensing the obvious hostility between Grant and me, Curtis replied.

“Your General Wellington has sent Mr Flashman to visit me to see if we can help you.” He spoke slowly and calmly as though quietening an overexcited child and it seemed to work. “Now why don’t we all sit down and discuss what is happening?”

There were two chairs in the room, a table and a bed. Curtis and Grant sat opposite each other on the chairs while I sat down on the bed facing the table.

“That is better,” said Curtis smoothly. “Now why don’t you start by telling us how you got arrested?”

“We were betrayed,” cried Grant hotly and the wretch even had the nerve to flick a glance in my direction as though I might be responsible. “We tried to get away but we ran right into one of their cavalry patrols.” He paused, seeming sorry for himself, and then added quietly, “They shot Leon. I thought that they were going to arrest both of us, but as they led me away I heard a shot. When I looked he was on the ground covered in blood. He had all of our notes tucked into his waistband.”

“We will have to recover those,” stated Curtis quietly.

“I have already done it,” I interrupted. “The notes have been destroyed.”

“Was Leon…” Grant’s voice was barely a whisper now. He could not bring himself to finish his question.

“Dead? Yes, he was, but I got the villagers to give him a Christian burial.”

“Thank you, Flashman,” he muttered dully, staring down at the table top.

“Have they questioned you yet?” prompted Curtis.

“Yes, they have.” Grant looked up now, suddenly indignant again. “It was some fat general called Martiniere. But I told him nothing, despite his threats to have me hanged as a common spy when I am still wearing the uniform I was captured in. He was a foul-mouthed bully, but fortunately Marshal Marmont heard about the interrogation and had the decency to invite me to dinner by way of an apology.”

Curtis and I exchanged a glance at that. We had both seen the letter from Marmont’s office offering Grant for interrogation. Marmont was urbane and polite, but he was ruthless in achieving his goals. I wondered if Martiniere had been used deliberately to shake up Grant before Marmont tried a softer line of questioning.