For Our Liberty (2 page)

“What the devil is that smell?” wheezed my saviour. He had dark hair, a high forehead and a small mouth that might have looked feminine but for his weather-beaten complexion and pistol barrel eyes.

“Sorry. My coat. Long story.” I said in between lungfuls of air.

“John Wright.” He swapped the pistol to his left hand as he held the right out for me to shake.

“Ben Blackthorne.” I took his hand and he grinned.
 

“Who was she?” he asked.

“Damned if I had time to find out. You had the room next door and you never met her?”

“No. I only lodged there occasionally.”

I must have raised an eyebrow because he tried to justify his choice of abode.

“It was nicely anonymous,” he said. “Oh, bugger.”
 

He was looking past me and I turned to see the first guard enter the passage, quickly followed by the gentleman in the grey cloak. We ran the other way as fast as we could, slipping and sliding on the usual Parisian mix of filth and mud. A musket cracked behind us and a ball chipped stone off the wall. A second and a third shot whistled past us. This could not last. Even the French could not be such appalling shots. The street was only ten yards away. Wright stopped and turned, shouting at me to continue. He fired his pistol and I heard a yell of pain. I reached the end of the alley. Wright was following me again, waving at me to get going. I didn’t see any police behind him. I thanked the Lord; we would make it after all. It was then that I collided with the corporal.

He was standing with his back to me as I ran into him at full pelt. I’m about five foot ten and quite broad but he was a brute of a man with a moustache like a dead animal perched on his lip and the breath to match. We both slid into the fetid gutter in the middle of the street, I ended up on top. His musket slithered out of reach and before he could gather his wits I punched him, and then hit him again. The anger, the fear and the shock of the morning’s events behind every punch. I heard something crunch but I wasn’t sure if it was his jaw or my hand. He slumped back insensible into the stream of filth and horse piss. I stood, holding my hand under my arm and swearing like a trooper. Wright picked up the corporal’s musket and tossed it to me. I caught it with my injured hand and swore some more.

“Come on, man. We can’t let these Crapauds catch us now, we’ll be for the chop for sure.”

With that cheering thought Wright loped off down the road. I looked around and seriously thought about heading in the other direction but he looked as though he had done this before – perhaps he had a habit of bedding married women – so I followed.
 

I still hadn’t had anything to drink and by that time I was harking after something stronger than water, I assure you.

The small square ahead was mercifully deserted but I could hear the guards gathering their courage to come after us. I hoped that seeing their leader prostrate would slow them down a bit. Wright was a few yards ahead and turned to check that I was following before darting into another alley. This one was even more squalid than the first and sloped down towards the Seine. Washing hung on poles from the houses and weakly flapped in the breeze like the banners of a defeated army. Faces peered from windows briefly before hurriedly shutting them. No one got involved in other people’s business in Paris, not after a decade of revolution, terror and riots. The buildings loomed up on either side of us, blank grey walls offering no sanctuary. One of the few street lamps squeaked as it swung on the rope across the narrow street.
 

I prayed, again, that this John Wright knew what he was about. A brace of grimy faced children peered wide-eyed from a gateway before darting back into their yard. We picked up our pace and crossed another street, Wright checking it was clear before waving me across. He must have missed something because I heard a shout as a musket ball sang by. This time it was my turn to act the hero. I don’t know why; it must have been the shock or perhaps I was too exhausted to run any more. I put the corporal’s musket to my shoulder and told Wright to run. He ignored me and took the gun, thrusting his spent pistol into his belt.

“No. I know my way around here better than you.” He said it with such grim determination that I only half-heartedly spluttered an objection. He paused and I sensed some conflict or indecision within him. He looked hard at me, I felt I was being judged. He sighed. “Besides, there is something I must ask of you. Take this,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. He handed me a slim oilcloth-wrapped package. “Get to Calais and back to England. Go to the Alien Office in Crown Street and ask for Henry Brooke. Tell him I gave you this. He’ll know what to do. Give it to no one else. Understand?”

I handed it straight back to him. I knew a poisoned chalice when I saw it. Whatever Wright was involved with I wanted none of it.
 

“You must take it, Blackthorne,” he said. “The police were coming for me. Someone knows I have those papers. Someone is trying to stop me getting them to London.”

“No, sorry. I don’t know you. I don’t want anything to do with this,” I said.

“Please Ben, you must. If they knew I’d be here they’ll know where I was going. I’ll draw the guards away. You run for your life, but please take the papers. We are at war again and there’ll be French soldiers on the streets of London before the year is out if Brooke doesn’t get that information.”

I took the packet back. What else could I do? I had no idea how he expected me to get to Calais or who the devil Henry Brooke was. All I knew for certain was that if the safety of England depended on me then all was already lost. I didn’t have the chance to question Wright any further because three guards appeared at the entrance to the lane. I had started the morning confused, made my way quickly past taken aback and on to outraged but now I was simply bewildered. He gave me a shove in the right direction before kneeling, musket at the ready. I didn’t need any more encouragement and left him to it. I felt a tad guilty about that at the time but he was really very insistent.

“Go! Damn it! Go! The river is only fifty yards away.” Wright turned and took aim. I ran. I heard a shot and a cry, and tried not to think about what might have happened.
 

I ran down onto the Quai de la Tournette; Notre Dame was across the river to my left, the Ile Saint Louis in front of me. The Seine was narrower than the Thames but no tide cleansed it each day so it smelled even worse. Across the river came the rhythmic slapping sounds of the washer women beating clothes on their ramshackle barges that lined the opposite bank and made the navigable channel even narrower. The Quai was crowded and I tried to calm myself down and act like a Frenchman, or at least less like a deranged lunatic. I was filthy and stank worse than the river, but in Paris that helped me blend in. I proceeded to walk through the crowd, keeping my head low, avoiding the eyes of others and moving at the same pace as everyone else.
 

Barges were being unloaded, piles of vegetables, sacks and barrels narrowed the street to only a few yards, and that was why he saw me. I chanced a look over my shoulder and my eyes met the hard stare of the man in the grey coat. He was standing on a cart, carefully surveying the narrowest stretch of the road. I looked away but it was too late. I heard a shout and the multitude behind me began to part like the Red Sea. He signalled to his men and they quickly and efficiently began to close on me. The bayonetted tip of a musket wavered through the crowd in front of me, and then another. There were no roads off the Quai close enough so that left only one direction; I dashed between two carts and jumped down on to the wooden jetty. I had often thought that the Seine was so crowded with boats that you could walk across it but never thought I would put the theory to the test.
 

A barge was just casting off, two men pushing the bow into the crowded river. I leapt on board, scrambling over the canvas-covered loads. The bargeman at the tiller shouted and swore as his men began to come after me. I ducked as one swung at me with a boat hook and then I kicked him in the crotch. Three more stepped over his doubled-up body, including the red-faced man from the tiller. Three-to-one are odds that I try to avoid, especially when the stakes are high.
 

The bow of the barge had swung well out into the current and another barge had put its rudder hard over to avoid us. It was going to be damn close, but not close enough for my liking. The water did not look at all inviting but I had little choice. I stood up on the side rail, steadying myself on the rigging. I kicked the nearest bargeman in the face and then leapt for the barge that was by now trying to sweep past us. I knew I wasn’t going to make it a split second after I jumped, but it was a bit late to change my mind. I crashed into the side of the barge like a bull at a gate and just as gracefully. My hands scrabbled for grip and my feet flailed about in the Seine. A face appeared above me, leaning over the side and letting fly a broadside of abuse. I had managed to get one leg up on the rail but I felt hands trying to push me back down. I reached up and grabbed my abuser by the collar and pulled. He went over the side and I got enough purchase to get myself over on to the deck.
 

I stood, gingerly. My ribs hurt like the devil but at least I had only got my boots wet. The guards were still on the dock opposite. I gave them the same salute our archers gave the French at Agincourt. The man in grey grabbed a musket from one of his men. I felt safe enough, the range was at least a hundred yards, he’d be lucky to hit the barge. He fired. The ball thudded into the mast two inches behind my head. He snatched another musket. I thought it was probably time to go. I jumped from the other side of the boat and landed on the deck of one of the washer women’s barges. The women screamed as I upset their tubs, one caught me on the rump with her beater. The second ball hit a tub just as I ran past. He was a bloody good shot, or just very lucky. I jumped from the barge to a jetty.

A splintering of wood and a stream of colourful Gallic curses announced the collision of the two barges but I didn’t turn to look until I was up a flight of steps and into the throng that had gathered to watch the fun. The man in the grey cloak was leading his men through the crowd towards the nearest bridge. The barges were entangled in the middle of the channel with another looking as if it would collide with them at any second.
 

I adjusted my coat, ran my fingers through my hair and lost myself in the narrow alleyways of the Ile de la Cité. If I had any hope of getting back to England I knew I would need help and that it would probably not come cheap. I knew a man who, for the right price, could arrange anything. The only trouble was that I didn’t even have enough money on me to pay for a decent meal and I didn’t think he’d accept credit. My only hope was no hope at all.

CHAPTER TWO

I walked through Paris trying every second to not break into a run or duck into an alley and hide. I’ve stood in battle next to my comrades as canon balls smashed through the ranks but being alone with a whole city against you and the guillotine’s blade poised above your neck like Damocles' sword was altogether more intimidating. The hangover didn’t help either.

Hurrying through the streets that day was a lot like seeing a much loved friend who’s usually witty and charming, nursing a bad case of gout. Whether it was me or whether it was possible that an entire city had changed its disposition overnight I cannot say. I wandered among the crowds and felt, for the first time, like a foreigner, like a lover spurned by his mistress. All my clothes were of the French cut and my French, after nearly a year of gambling and seduction was flawless, but all the same I kept my mouth firmly shut. I felt sure that I kept attracting glances, hard stares and that long look that Frenchmen give you when they are assessing whether you will try to sleep with their wives or whether your own may be in need of some attention. No one else was strolling, dawdling, or promenading either; everyone had something to do or a place to be. The small knots of men on street corners exchanged frowns and serious opinions where yesterday they would have shared a pipe or two, talking about little but making it last.

Twice I rapidly turned corners to avoid municipal guards who seemed to be demanding papers at random, spreading fear and chaos like hounds diving into the rough. I spotted no other Englishmen at all. Even on the shaded paths of the Tuilleries I saw no dowagers taking the air, no lovelorn lords composing odes to actresses beside the fountains of the gardens of Apollo and Daphne, no future admirals scaring the swans with their model sailing boats on the ponds. All my countrymen must have either had more sense than I, and got out of Paris long before, or been ensnared in Bonaparte’s net. Still, there must have been thousands of English tourists in France and some would have been in the same pickle. If they were then they were avoiding the usual haunts.
 

Legac's café was closed. The windows of the Palais des Tuilleries were shuttered and there was no sign of the new occupant of the Royal apartments. Bonaparte was no doubt busy planning the war. The Palais de Louvre was deserted, no serried ranks of philistines marching past the treasures of Renaissance Italy just to say they had been, no lechers ogling the nymphs. Even the girls had abandoned their usual haunts outside the Palais Royal; at that time of the morning there should have been at least been one or two ready for business.
 

It was damned hard to be both cautious and nonchalant at the same time but I was approaching my goal and did not want to be caught. I had considered going back to my hotel, but the Grange Batelière was popular with the English and would have been guarded. Besides, at fifteen Louis a month for a tiny room in what had once been the servants’ quarters I felt no compunction to go back and pay my bill. So, I pursued my original plan. I walked twice past the green door of the Salon de la Paix before I saw the man leaning against the colonnades and picking his nose as if he was taking a shortcut to scratching the back of his head. His clothes were last year’s cut and well worn, the sign of a junior public official. I knew I had been ridiculously optimistic in supposing that the salon, where I and every other Englishman in Paris had spent many hedonistic and slightly hazy hours, would not have been watched by the police, but the only man that I thought had a chance of getting me back to England would be inside. Even if my sense of self-preservation wasn’t enough, the weight of the packet in my coat made me aware of a slight flush of duty, much like the coming on of a fever.