Flashman's Escape (21 page)

“Yes,” agreed the partisan, unsure, like the rest of the audience, what message was on the paper.

“This man, who
claims
to be a British officer,” proclaimed Gomez, his voice rising, “was carrying a letter from Marshal Marmont to the minister of war in Paris!” There were gasps and exclamations at that, but Gomez was not finished. “A letter that offers the British officer Major Grant for interrogation and torture.” He could not have created more of a sensation by announcing I was actually Bonaparte himself in disguise. The fact that I could not have been both spying for General Hugo and taking Grant for torture did not seem to occur to anyone as the room fell into uproar. People were yelling my guilt, shouting suggestions for my death, and now nearly everyone was brandishing a knife in the air. I realised then that I would not get a chance to defend myself, but also that no one would listen to me even if I did.

Gomez walked up to me and gestured at the howling mob. His eyes burned into mine with unbridled hatred as he hissed, “See, Frenchman, like many of your countryman before you, you will learn that you cannot rape and murder with impunity. Justice will be done.”

“I’m British,” I tried to shout back at him through the gag but he had already turned away. I leant back against the pillar I was tied against, sweating and shaking with fear. I have seen a couple of lynchings in my time and I think the poor bastards must have felt as I did then. It was not about justice, it was about fear and revenge. They had suffered and they wanted to inflict suffering on someone else. Even if they took the gag off to hear my screams when they nailed me up, they were not going to listen to any proof that I was not French. Their bloodlust was up. The Spaniards were notorious for their blood feuds and I was a score that they could easily settle. I stood there with my mind stupified with shock and horror and for a while I could not think straight at all.

Then things got even worse. I gradually realised that a gruesome auction was underway. It was not for money; none of them looked rich enough to have a pot to piss in. It was about suffering, my suffering. They were absolutely arguing over who should hammer in the nails. Gomez had three of the huge cast-iron pins in his hands. God knows how many had been sold before I realised what was happening. I remember that the woman who had kicked me in the balls was arguing passionately that she should have one as the French had killed her father and her son. Another older woman had lost two sons to the French but I gathered she had been given a nail for an earlier victim. They fell to arguing between themselves and a scuffle broke out before the women were pulled apart.

I was still struggling to accept it was happening at all. After all my suffering at Albuera, not to mention all the other battles I had fought in, was I really going to end my days nailed to a tree, the victim of mistaken identity? I was not going to give up yet. “I’m British,” I shouted through the gag and then I kept on shouting it, again and again. Surely, I thought, someone would take the gag off to give me a chance to say something to prove I was on their side. “I’m British, I’m British, I’m British.”

Eventually my noise cut through the hubbub and heads turned in my direction. But their looks were not curiosity as to what I had to say, more irritation that I had interrupted them.

Gomez walked towards me and waved his razor-sharp dagger in my face. “One more word from you, Frenchman, and we will start cutting off your fingers now.” To show he meant business he used the blade to nick my cheek just below my eye and I felt the warm trickle of blood down my face.

I am pretty sure I prayed then, as I am inclined to do when things are really desperate. If I did, it produced quick results, for almost immediately a hush fell over the angry mob. I could see heads starting to move at the back of the crowd as the words were spread through the throng: “The chief is here.”

Chapter 21

I admit I may have thought sourly of the Almighty at that point. For just when I thought things could not get any worse, he delivered a person that my guards had already told me could give me a crueller death than crucifixion. With trepidation I watched two tall men push their way through the crowd, making a path for someone in between them. Gomez strode forward to welcome his master, probably anxious to ensure he was not punished for taking on the role of judge. Then the crowd parted, and as the chief came into view I knew that my unworthy prayers had indeed been answered.

The chief stared at me with shock and surprise for a moment. Despite my mouth and jaw still being covered by the sack and gag, I watched as recognition crossed her beautiful face. Then I think my legs gave way and I slid down the beam until I was resting on the floor.

“Release him. I know this man” were some of the sweetest words I ever heard. They were greeted with expressions of dismay from the crowd, but I knew I was safe now. I remember staring up and thinking that even in her shirt and riding breeches and with the mud of the journey spattered on her face, Agustina de Aragon was still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. The last time we had been together was some three years ago in Seville, when I had paid for clothes, weapons and a horse to help her join the partisans. By Christ, I thought, that was the best investment I ever made. Gomez, though, was not willing to give up that easily.

“Agustina, this man is a spy. We saw him in a French uniform riding with a French column and he has letters from Marmont to the minister of war in Paris.”

“I know he has been a spy and a soldier, but he is British,” announced Agustina loudly for all to hear.

“Perhaps he is a spy for both sides,” replied Gomez stubbornly, still making no move to release me.

“This man is one of Lord Wellington’s most trusted aides,” declared Agustina, turning to the crowd. “He worked with Lord Wellington when he was in India, long before they came to Spain. If you kill him, we will have to fight the British as well as the French. Is that what you want?”

The mood of the crowd was changing, the knives quietly being sheathed and several hostile looks now being directed at Gomez. I would have backed down at this point, but Gomez was made of sterner, or perhaps stupider, material.

“How do you know this is the same man?” he persisted, standing behind his table of damning evidence.

There was a flash of metal and a knife thudded into the wood between his hands. I recognised the thin blade; it was the knife that Agustina wore up her left sleeve. “Because he was my lover,” she shouted angrily. “Do you think I do not know the men I have had between my legs?” She took a deep breath to calm herself and added with an icy chill, “Now release him, or you will replace him.”

Gomez moved then all right. He clearly took her threat seriously and I began to wonder what Agustina had done to become the chief of this band of partisans. When I had been with her before, she had been known as the Maid of Zaragoza; a national heroine who was famous for firing a cannon that stopped a French attack on that city. She had shown she could manipulate men even then, not least by involving me in an act of notorious blasphemy in Seville cathedral. As Gomez cut the bindings around my wrists and pulled me to my feet I reflected that Agustina must have developed a steely and ruthless streak to command a group of partisans this size.

“Give the captain back his possessions,” commanded Agustina to Gomez to complete his subjugation. Then she turned to the large crowd in the barn. “Leave us,” she ordered, and the two henchmen that had cleared a way for her into the hall now started to marshal the crowds out of the double doors at the end of the barn.

I put my pistols in my pockets as I watched them leave. Then I looked at Agustina. She seemed to have aged more than the three years which had passed since we last met. She looked thinner, and when she returned my gaze her face looked tired and drawn, although she still managed a weak smile.

“Are you all right?”

“I am now you are here. Things were getting a bit ugly a while back.” I tried to sound casual but my legs were still trembling and it had taken me two attempts to buckle my sword as my hands were shaking with what must have been shock. If she noticed, she did not say anything.

“Gomez,” she called after her lieutenant, who was now rushing from the room. “I would like you to join us in a few minutes. Bring some food and wine with you.” She cocked a quizzical eyebrow at me and then added, “And some maps. I have a feeling that we will need them and your counsel.” He nodded, appearing ridiculously pleased to be back in her favour, and hurried away. “Despite what you may think, he is a good man,” she declared quietly after he had gone. “His wife and three children were killed by the French. Now what are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same question. How did you end up in charge of these partisans?”

“Oh, I have been in several different groups since you knew me,” she replied. “They were all happy to have the famous Maid of Zaragoza in their ranks. I had planned to eventually return to the city, but when I got here the local commander and I became lovers. We were together for over a year. When he was killed they voted for me to take over. My fame brings in new recruits and Hugo hates being beaten by a woman.”

She had become tougher, I thought. When we had met for the first time she had cried when she had told me that she only fired the cannon that stopped the French assault because an earlier slain lover had begged her to. Now she mentioned the death of this more recent partner as casually as she might describe her dinner. I had no doubt that she must have seen and perhaps committed some appalling atrocities since we last met; the evidence of the forest clearing proved that.

“Your people certainly have a grotesque way of disposing of prisoners,” I pointed out. “It is not something that I would have thought you would have done, but I suppose we have both changed a lot since we last met.”

“It was something that they started before my time, but I could not stop it. That would have appeared weak. These men are as tough as iron. For me, as a woman, to lead them, I have to appear even tougher.” She looked uncomfortable, as though this was not something that she wanted to talk about, and said more brightly, “What about you? Why are you here with letters to the French minister of war?”

“I have been sent to try to help that infernal nuisance Grant escape, or El Granto as you know him. That was why I was riding in disguise with the column he was in. The idiot has given his parole and refuses to escape, and anyway they guard him around the clock. I had been hoping a partisan group would attack; that was why I left the column to find one. Unfortunately your men found me and drew their own conclusions as to my mission.”

“We cannot attack a column that size; we would lose too many men. They would probably still get Grant away if we tried. Where are they taking him?”

“To Bayonne and then on to Paris.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Bayonne is in Basque country. That would be the place to get him.”

“What is Basque country?”

“The Basques are a people that live on both sides of the border; there are lots of Basques here. They are a proud mountain people that don’t see themselves as either French or Spanish. Inside France the French will think that they are safe and may drop their guard. They certainly won’t use three hundred men to take Grant all the way to Paris. But if we can capture him in Bayonne we can soon get him away across the mountains. With Wellington’s two thousand dollars in gold to share with those that help, we will not be short of volunteers.”

I loved the way she used the word ‘we’; my spirits were rising already. These Basque fellows could take all the risks and deliver the doubtless protesting Grant to me. Then I would return to Wellington with a suitably enhanced tale of my endeavour, the hero of the hour. Meanwhile Grant’s reputation would be tarnished by capture, his parole and probably by him whining about being rescued with his honour ruined. I chuckled at the thought. “If your men have to hit Grant to get him to come with them, that will be absolutely fine,” I offered happily.

Agustina looked puzzled. “But you will need to go with them to find Grant and help plan the capture. My men can hardly march into a French barracks and start asking questions, but you can in your French uniform.”

I gave her my most winning smile. “But I thought we could renew our old friendship while your men are away. I could lend them my uniform; surely some of them speak French?”

She reached out and held my hand. “Maybe tonight,” she smiled. “But tomorrow you go with the men. They are not proper soldiers and don’t understand about saluting and ranks. They would soon give themselves away.”

Her jaw had a determined look when she had finished speaking and I could sense that she was not used to challenges to her commands. What she said made sense too, for at that moment Gomez returned with some maps followed by a girl with food and wine on a tray. I watched Gomez cross the barn; his manner could best be described as furtive, shoulders slightly hunched and not soldierly at all.

Agustina explained to him the plan while I tore into the bread and guzzled the wine. I had not eaten or drunk anything since breakfast with the French early that morning and I was famished.

“I would like you to go with Captain Flashman,” Agustina declared to Gomez. “You know the Basque contacts we have in France. Take six trusted men.”

Gomez shot me a dark look then. Whatever his mistress thought, I sensed that he was yet to be convinced of my loyalty. Agustina, who missed little, noticed the glance.

“If you go with him, you will be able to see for yourself that he is not working with the French and that he is a British spy.”

She smiled happily at this resolution to Gomez’s concerns, while he looked at me as though he found me as trustworthy as an angry scorpion. We spread the maps out then and I traced the route that the column was planning to take to Bayonne. It was the fastest route over good roads but Gomez knew another we could use where we were less likely to encounter French troops. Mounted on horses, we were set to reach Bayonne at the same time as the French.

“It is settled then,” pronounced Agustina firmly when the planning was done. “Gomez, select your men and have them ready to leave at noon tomorrow. In the meantime, Captain Flashman and I can catch up on old times.”

I took the half-drunk jug of wine and two cups with me as we made our way to the woodland hut that was the home of my favourite partisan
generalissima
. My body was battered and bruised from the beating I had taken in the courtroom, but there were no serious injuries. Now the recent danger was past and the shock was receding, I felt that familiar joy of just having survived another brush with death. Inside the hut, as she lit some candles, I saw hanging on the wall the medal that she had been given by the Spanish government for saving the city of Zaragoza. She had been wearing it the first time we met. Agustina followed my gaze

“A lot has happened in three years. Did you think of me during that time?”

“Of course. After what we did in Seville cathedral, people keep reminding me or hinting at it. I am still not sure if you enhanced my reputation or ruined it.” A priest had promised to blacken my name after we had made love in a dark corner of the huge building during a midnight mass. But the British and Spanish had fallen out on strategy shortly afterwards and there had mostly just been muttering behind my back.

She giggled. “I am sorry I tricked you into entering the cathedral. But if it makes you feel better, no mass I have been to since has been as pleasurable.”

“I should hope not.”

She looked beautiful in the candlelight and I stepped across and took her in my arms, crushing her lips on mine.

“My my,” she gasped, laughing when she could breathe. “We are not in a cathedral now, you know.”

“Really?” I growled back. “Because I was thinking we could have our own very special holy communion right here.”

We were at each other then, tearing off clothes, desperate to renew the passion of former times.

It was one of the best communions I have ever had. The sacrament was given and received at least twice before we lay naked and sated in her bed, drinking more wine. I reached over with my cup and splashed some red wine between her breasts.

“Behold the blood of Christ.”

“Thomas, don’t be blasphemous,” she cried, smiling and wiping it away. “You might be a Protestant but I am a good Catholic girl.”

“I know a priest in Seville who would disagree. But he is wrong: you are a
very
good
Catholic girl.”