For Our Liberty (39 page)

“Come now, you’re getting your sea legs. The wind is fair and at least we are heading for France and not beating away,” he said, putting his telescope to his eye and scanning the lightening horizon. I’m sure he just did it for show as it was still decidedly dark.
 

It was one thing feeling the motion of the ship below me but when I could see nothing but sea ahead one second and nothing but sky the next, my stomach began to protest again. I moved closer to the side of the ship.

“I’m beginning to think Mr Fulton might have the right idea with his steam powered boats,” I said. “I am heartily sick of being at the mercy of the vagaries of the wind. With a steam engine we could have sailed straight across the Channel and I could be in Paris by now.”

“And where would the fun in that be?” replied Wright. “Sail will never die. Even if all merchantmen, and God forbid men o’war, are fitted with Fulton’s inventions men will still sail just for the love of it.”

“I, for one, will not be amongst them.”

“Are you that impatient to get back to France?” Wright asked turning towards me.

“Yes. Yes I am,” I said. And I was. Desperate in fact. Partly for Dominique’s sake, but mostly to get back on to dry land.

“Would that have something to do with Mademoiselle Calvet?” he asked, with a hint of a wink.

“Yes, somehow I’m not surprised that you know of our attachment.”

“You can’t keep a secret amongst royalists, spies and confidential agents,” he said.

“That’s comforting to know.”

“You worry for her brother?”

“Yes, he’s in the Temple.”

“A place I know all too well,” said Wright. He looked away rather than have me see the pained expression on his face.

“How did you escape?” I asked, I knew most of the story but had my reasons to ask and hear it from Wright.

“We walked out the front gate. A forged order for our transfer, a couple of uniforms for our accomplices. It was risky but not difficult. Back then you could get anything you wanted if you paid the right official. We had our own food, regular visits from friends and communication all the way back to London. It was more like a hotel than a prison.”

“You can leave a hotel whenever you like,” I said.

“True, our escape took time to organise.”

“Could the same method be attempted again?”

“I fear not, things have changed. Even the French aren’t totally stupid. The Temple now is not a place I’d like to be. It’s a tight ship, so I hear.”

“Is there any hope of getting Dominique’s brother out?”

“I doubt it. Mademoiselle’s Calvet’s best hope is that you succeed and change the government of France so all the prisoners can be released.”

“That’s what Brooke said. Do you think it likely?”

He didn’t answer. The wind changed and the ship had to tack. Wright excused himself and shouted a long stream of orders. Sailors rushed on to deck and I got out of the way. I hoped Wright and I could finish our conversation later in the voyage but it wasn’t to be. The wind held direction and we continued to head for France but the seas remained high and the storms kept threatening to return. Wright was fully occupied running the ship and I only left the wardroom when the smell became too much for me.

The last words Wright ever spoke to me were after we had finally reached the French coast. I was last into the boat and as I shook his hand and bade him farewell he leant in close so no one else could hear.

“Watch your back, Ben. The traitor might be closer than you think,” he whispered. I didn’t have the opportunity to ask him what he meant, there were impatient shouts from the boat and I had to scramble down the ropes. I looked back up at Wright, he nodded to me and then turned away. I wanted to climb back up to make him explain himself, but I knew I couldn’t. I looked down and wondered if he had meant the traitor was amongst my seven companions.
 

I’d have been much happier if he’d stuck to a traditional ‘good luck’ or even just plain ‘goodbye’. I wished somebody would just bid me farewell with a platitude or encouraging word. Enigmatic doom-laden comments were not the kind of partings that I appreciated.
 

It was almost pitch black. The ship was rolling one way and the boat another and it was almost impossible to try and jump between them. After a couple of minutes of hesitation and hastily aborted attempts I just closed my eyes and jumped, hitting the boat by a miracle but almost capsizing it. The crew muttered but my colleagues looked at me sympathetically. The General’s ADC had missed entirely and now sat dripping wet and frozen at the bow.

The crew pulled on the muffled oars and we edged slowly away from the Vincejo. I could hear the crashing of the waves beneath the cliffs ahead. I feared that our landing would be no easier than our embarking and resigned myself to ending the night wet and cold. The waves tossed the little boat like a die in a cup and we all held on for dear life. The roar of the surf got closer and I could begin to make out the shore more clearly as clouds parted and meagre star light illuminated the night. The young midshipman in charge of the boat began to shout orders to the sailors, attempting to time our arrival on land with the waves now threatening to swamp the boat. With a sudden surge we leapt forward, carried by a wave right on to the narrow shingle beach, the Midshipman shouted at us to get out. We scrambled on to the beach while the sailors dumped our luggage further up. I was just saying a silent prayer of thanks that we hadn’t got a complete drenching while I helped the General out of the boat when a massive wave almost washed me off my feet. I stumbled and ended up on my behind while another wave completed the work of the first and I was soaked from hat to boots. I picked myself up and squelched up to the base of the cliff in ill humour then helped the others pick up the luggage and get ready to move. We all felt rather sorry for ourselves.

Lajolais had obviously landed on that particular beach before and led us to a narrow cleft that ran up the cliffs. A path had been cut into the rock, barely a foot width wide, and ropes hung down to help you pull yourself up. Silhouetted against the dark scudding clouds I could just see a head peering over the top of the cliff perhaps a hundred feet above us. I hoped it was our guide to take us further inland. I learned later that we were near Biville, between Dieppe and Le Tréport, and that the route up the cliffs had been created by smugglers. The cleft ensured that the path was hidden both from the sea and the land above.

For some reason I found myself in the front of the line to climb up the path. I looked round and all the others shuffled and looked at their feet. I turned back, muttering to myself about how it was their country and not mine we were hoping to save. I put my arm through the handle of my portmanteau and hitched the bag over my shoulder, it wasn’t heavy but I felt the weight of the £30,000 in it all the same. Grasping the rope with both hands, I put one wet boot on the path and began to pull myself slowly along and up. The path wasn’t really a path, it was a ledge that zigzagged up the cliff. Perhaps not even a ledge. At best it accommodated half my foot, but usually no more than my toes. The rope was freezing and wet and the nearest analogy I can think of is that it was like trying to pull yourself up a very tall book case whilst holding a very long eel. The first thirty or so feet were difficult, after that it got worse. Even though I did not make the mistake of looking down, as I climbed I became very aware what a slip might cost me. I was nearly half way up when the cliff crumbled beneath my feet.
 

One second my feet stood on rock, the next they stood on nothing. Rocks slid down the cliff and I heard curses from below. My hands began to slip on the rope as they took all my weight and I knew I had moments before whomever was climbing up behind me had more than rocks falling on his head. My feet flailed, desperately searching for something more substantial than thin air to hold my weight. My hands slipped again, the rope burning my palms. The portmanteau slipped from my shoulder on to my arm and hampered my grip even more. I managed to twist my wrist to wrap the rope around it slightly, it helped but I could still feel it sliding through my fingers. Just when I thought I was certain to fall, my left foot found a rock projecting from the cliff, but as I put my weight on it the rock came loose and fell. I swore. Then my foot found the hole left by the rock. With my weight held by that one foot I managed to get a better grip on the rope and pull myself back up very slowly. My heart was hammering in my chest and my arms and shoulders felt as thought they were on fire. My right foot found the path again, it became wider and I damn near raced to the top before anything else could befall me.

A hand grasped the back of my coat and dragged me on to the cliff top. I lay on the wet grass and stared up at the sky while I got my wind back. I could hear the scrabbling of the next man up the rope and roused myself to help him. The man who had helped me was a portly middle aged farmer, by the look of his clothes. I thanked him and then when the head and shoulders of Lajolais came into view grabbed hold and helped the farmer get him up on to the grass. It took half an hour at least for us all to be at the top. None of the other climbers seemed to have the problems I did, perhaps they learned from my mistakes. When at last Major Rusillion joined us we followed the farmer along a narrow track. It had started to rain again, and we were all soaked and shivering by the time we saw the light of the farmhouse ahead. I’ve never wanted a warm fire more and we all began to walk even quicker, not caring to look for signs of patrols or a trap. We just wanted warmth.

We stumbled into the farmhouse to find the space before the fire already taken by a very stout gentleman, and one I recognised instantly.

“Welcome back to France,” said the man who had trained me in England before my first mission, Georges Cadoudal was a Breton who had fought the revolution almost since its inception. He was a big man, with tight black curls and side burns. He greeted each of us warmly and thankfully relinquished his place near the roaring fire, which was the only warmth we wanted at that moment. The farmer’s wife and daughters helped us out of our coats and gave us warm broth at the table. After the days on the ship the farm seemed like a palace. I could stand full height and the floor stayed still. The smell, and taste, of home cooked food was intoxicating and even the daughters were comely. As they helped the last of us from our coats Cadoudal turned with a worried look to the General.

“Where is the Prince?” he asked looking amongst the eight of us.

“It was deemed too dangerous yet, he will come when it is done,” said Pichegru with the air of a man unconvinced by his own argument, and hastily tucked into his soup.

“That isn’t what was agreed,” Cadoudal said.

I had gathered on the journey over that the original plan had been for one of the Bourbon Princes to accompany us to be ready to take over when Bonaparte was ousted. The Comte d’Artois, Duc de Bourbon, or Duc d’Orléans would have been a figurehead for the coup to rally around, but as Pichegru had said, in the end it was decided it was too much of a risk to chance them falling into Bonaparte’s hands.
 

“Moreau is expecting a Prince,” said Cadoudal striding back and forth in front of the fire, annoying me at the time as he was preventing its warmth reaching me. I was only half listening to the argument while I sipped the hot soup and tore into the warm loaf.

“And he will get one, after Bonaparte is overthrown,” said Pichegru, mopping up the last of his own soup with a hunk of bread.

“I have told people a Prince is coming, that fact alone persuaded many doubters of our seriousness,” said Cadoudal walking forward and thumping his fist on the table.

“I have letters, don’t worry,” said Pichegru. “Sit, have some food, Georges.”

“Letters will not suffice,” said Cadoudal ignoring the invitation and pacing again.

“They will have to,” said the General, obviously growing weary of the argument. One that he had probably anticipated.

“Moreau will not act now.”

“He must. Leave him to me. I will persuade him,” said Pichegru, again motioning for Cadoudal to sit.

‘No, I promised a Prince. To everyone. You’ve made me look like fool. A fool.”

“It wasn’t my decision, Georges.”

“We are finished,” said Cadoudal and stormed out of the room. As you can imagine that rather killed the conversation for some while. I held my bowl out for more soup and reflected that perhaps enigmatic comments were on balance better than outright predictions of total failure.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

After a day recovering from our landing at the farmhouse of La Poterie under the diligent care of the Troche family we split up. The brothers Polignac, the Marquis de Rivière and Lajolais being the less renowned were to make their own way to Paris using the normal coach services. Cadoudal and Pichegru were too well known so they, Major Rusillion and Picot (I’ve remembered the name of the General’s aide now) were to follow prearranged lignes de correspondence.

Travelling by night they would travel between maisons de confiance, isolated farms and chateaux owned by sympathisers. I could have gone with either group, but a sense of duty and a dislike of Lajolais made me opt to stick with the General. A decision I came to regret.

Like most journeys, it began well enough. We were guided each night between the safe houses by a local royalist or anti-bonapartist; the two groups were not always one and the same. We had good mounts. The food was simple but there was plenty of it, each host family falling over themselves to treat us well. The conversation between the five of us was genial enough to begin with but, as with all travelling companions, we soon began to get on each other’s nerves. Picot constantly moaned he was cold or wet, or both. He had a point. It was January after all. But moaning about it didn’t do anybody any good. Even the General snapped at him to be quiet on more than one occasion. It was Cadoudal that annoyed me the most. He seemed able to pontificate on any subject under the sun, and for an inordinate amount of time. I was thankful that on most nights caution dictated we rode in silence.