For Our Liberty (42 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Despite my somewhat libertine habits I’ve always been a morning person, being quite content to be up, if not with, the larks then soon after. Unless of course I have company in the bed chamber or if I’ve been on the mop the night before and then I might need a wet to clear my head. However, I have always been averse to rude awakenings. Give me gentle sounds of a city emerging from its slumber and dappled sunlight across the sheets and I will rise smiling and fit to face the day. A quick shove and the sheets being ripped from my snoring form will likely get you a stream of invective and a kick in the unmentionables, as General Pichegru found the morning after my assignation with Dominique.

“Mon Dieu, Blackthorne. Get up, damn you. There’s work to be done!” said the General in a slightly higher tone than normal. I apologised profusely and did as he asked, fighting that bleary off-balance feeling that you have when woken suddenly. My confusion wasn’t at all helped by the clothes Pichegru thrust towards me as he left me to my ablutions. Quite why I was to be dressed as a footman I did not know, and since the General was still holding himself and was mightily red-faced I decided it was not politic to ask too many questions.

My room was small and not dissimilar to the room where this story began. I managed to fall back on to the bed twice as I squeezed in to the livery. Only the splash of ice-cold water from the bowl on the dresser managed to finally rid me of my torpor, just in time for me to struggle with the buckles on some very tight shoes and finally to smooth down the stockings so that I looked half presentable. I walked carefully downstairs, mindful of the creaking from the breeches that threatened to come asunder at any minute. I did wonder whether this disguise heralded a final collapse of the conspiracy and an attempt to escape Paris dressed as a servant. Curiously, this thought did not perturb me over much, beyond wondering how I could slip away to Dominique. I need not have worried though, the final disintegration of the plot was some days away yet, although you would not have known it given the diatribe I was about to be treated to over an all-too-hurried breakfast.

“How, in the name of God, does the Alien Office expect me to conduct a conspiracy against Bonaparte when your damned papers reveal the whole plot for your fat merchants to read over breakfast? Merde! I should have stayed in exile.” Pichegru said as he thrust a week old copy of The Morning Chronicle towards me over the table, spilling the milk as he did so.

As I quickly read the article he was pointing to with a finger still sticky with strawberry preserve I had to admit that he had a right to be irritated. He was named as a leader in intrigues against the French government but, fortunately, the story placed him in London and not Paris.

“It tells Bonaparte nothing he did not know already, sir. And since it says that you are in London perhaps it will put them off the scent.” I said, trying to mollify his frustration.

“They know I am here. I would not be surprised if they know what I am having for breakfast. That fool Querelle was taken by Lacrosse and confessed all once he saw the guillotine blade being sharpened. They now know Georges Cadoudal is in Paris and will be hunting under every stone for him. We must proceed with dispatch. I am meeting General Moreau this morning. We must get agreement between us and act without delay.”

“If you are convinced that news of the conspiracy has reached Bonaparte’s ears then is not caution called for? Better to live to fight another day, perhaps,” I said fearing that precipitate action could leave me with no opportunity to aid Dominique, but also thinking that the news that Cadoudal was being hunted boded well for my plan to unmask the traitor.

“Fear not, or at least not yet. We are fortunate that there are always plots against Bonaparte and so he might not treat ours with any urgency. If we act quickly and with support from others then there is still hope for success. Come, there is no more time to eat. We must go.”

Pichegru stormed out of the room and I grabbed a croissant and went after him, stuffing the pastry in my mouth and brushing the crumbs from my crimson coat. We went to a stables just around the corner and there on the cobbled courtyard stood a hired coach for us, steamy breath rising from the impatient pair of greys. As he entered the coach Pichegru told me to take my place at the rear and to keep my eyes open for trouble. I was to bang twice on the roof if I suspected we were being followed or watched. I had brought my pistols and my carbine wrapped in a cloak and was still checking them when the coach lurched forward. I hung on to the small hand-holds for dear life as the driver wove through the crowded streets. We reached the Seine and travelled along the left bank. It was a fine morning but bitterly cold, with a clear sky and hint of mist lying on the river. The snow had mostly gone but black and grey piles of slush and sludge filled the gutters. The Pont de la Concorde was chock full of slow moving carts and it took us a full ten minutes to cross.
 

I had never really paid much attention to the plight of the footmen you see everyday clinging to the rear of coaches, except to perhaps wonder at what they could hear as I wooed their mistresses. It has to be said that it is a damned unpleasant job. Not only are you likely to get splashed with mud and filth but the constant stop and start of city traffic means that after the first five minutes you fear that your arms will be wrenched from their sockets, and worst of all you have to face the very real risk of your arse being chewed by the horses of the cart behind you. Thankfully we were soon coming to a halt under the skeletal trees of the Champs Elysées.
 

The road was still busy with drays, coaches and even a squadron of Hussars out for morning exercise. How Pichegru expected me to spot trouble in that morass I did not know but all I could do was to keep vigilant. It seemed as though we were drawing no special attention. A carter glanced in our direction and leered, no doubt thinking a parked coach meant an early tryst and not a plot. A vagrant relieved himself against a tree across the road and looked twice in our direction but then buttoned himself up and moved along. The only suspicious moment came when the stream of carts and coaches came to a stop for a moment, just when a small delivery cart piled with barrels and with one tired looking nag in the traces stopped opposite us. The driver, a small weasel of man, looked about him but seemed to avoid glancing in our direction.

After a couple of minutes a well-dressed figure emerged from a stylish cabriolet parked some yards ahead of us. He was a handsome man, with powdered hair in a queue and an animated eye that spent a little too long looking up and down the avenue. I held my carbine under my cloak and clicked the lock back, my finger curling around the trigger. Pichegru popped his head from the window of the coach and greeted the newcomer, inviting him.

I had my query as to the ability of footmen to over hear conversations answered as soon as General Moreau entered the coach. I could hear everything and followed the conversation whilst keeping my eyes open for trouble.

“Good day Jean Victor, thank you for meeting with me.” Pichegru’s voice was calm and conversational, in contrast to Moreau’s reply. The General’s voice had an edge to it, a nervousness that he was trying to disguise.

“Enough of the pleasantries, Pichegru. What do you want?” Moreau’s tone was impatient and I could feel the coach sway as he fidgeted in his seat. Three gendarmes were riding up the street behind us and I tensed for action but they rode past without a glance in our direction.

“Events are delicately balanced. The conspiracy is almost complete, all we need is confirmation of your support and everything will be in place to have that Corsican upstart removed,” Pichegru said, contradicting the despairing diatribe I had been treated to early the same morning.

“Do not play me for a fool. That bastard Lacrosse has ears everywhere. He knows who you are and where you are. Your conspiracy is about to collapse and I want no more part in it.”

“It is true that there have been some inconveniences, but most battles are won when defeat seems certain. You have always shown courage on the field of battle; show it now on this field. If we strike soon and strike hard, we can still be victorious. We can still defeat the tyrant,” Pichegru was not quite succeeding in keeping the desperation from his voice. A mail coach thundered by and I only heard Moreau’s reply because he almost shouted it.

“And replace him with another?” Moreau asked, his anger clearer now.

“Louis XVII will not be a tyrant. He will be a constitutional monarch. The people will still govern.”

“I would fight for a new republic, never for a new king,” Moreau said. He was known for his republican views, but rumour had it that his real reason for hating Bonaparte was the Corsican’s rapid rise and self-aggrandisement. Something that bothered Moreau’s wife more than it did the General but Madame Moreau had plans for her husband and enough ambition for both of them.

“The powers of Europe will not allow a republic. It is too much of a threat to their hold over their subjects. We will always be at war, as we have been for these last ten years.” Pichegru’s voice was weary now. These sounded like old arguments.

“Better to be fighting and free, than servile and at peace,” said Moreau.

“That is just rhetoric, Jean Victor. You don’t believe it any more than I do. We are practical men and we must do practical things. Let us put aside what happens after Bonaparte has gone and concentrate on his going. Do you not agree that he must go?”

“Of course. That arrogant peasant has surrounded himself with the trappings of royalty, he has betrayed the revolution.”

“And yet it was you who helped him to rise to power,” needled Pichegru.

“Yes, it was. And I regret it more than any other mistake I have made. But France needed strength. It did then and does now. If we replace the Corsican with a Bourbon, the people will not stand for it.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“The conspiracy continues, but when Bonaparte has fallen I take his place as Consul until the people are ready to accept the return of the King. We need a period of transition.”

“And how long would this period be?”

“A few months, perhaps a year. The Bourbons can only return with the consent of the populace,” Moreau said, getting to the core of Madame Moreau’s plan. I would have bet everything I didn’t have on the period of transition becoming longer and longer once Moreau was sitting in Bonaparte’s still warm throne.
 

I saw the small delivery cart come back down the road towards us. The weasel man looked in the direction of the coach but looked away when he saw me watching him.

“These terms are the only ones upon which you would support the removal of the tyrant?” Pichegru asked with obvious resignation.

“Yes.”

“Then I will have to discuss your idea with the others.”

“Do not tarry, delay will be death for us all.”

There was something wrong. I could accept a delivery cart coming and going, but as I looked I realised that the old nag was strolling along and not straining at all, despite the slight incline. The barrels were still piled high but must be empty. I thought back to when I first saw the cart. The horse hadn’t seemed to be working that hard then either. A cart coming and going with empty barrels was suspicious. Then I noticed that the vagrant I saw earlier glanced in the delivery cart’s direction as well. There was the slightest nod of recognition between the two.

I banged on the roof of the coach immediately. Moreau leapt out like a guilty husband back to his own cabriolet and Pichegru shouted at our driver to go. We leapt forward to the sound of whips cracking. The vagrant ran towards us and the carter leapt from his seat. We raced along the avenue of trees beside the road, branches brushing the top of the coach and forcing me to crouch.
 

We scattered pedestrians left and right until we came to a small side road. Moreau’s coach was slow starting off and we had no room to pass. The vagrant had almost caught up to us. I held on to the coach with one hand and leant around with my carbine in the other. I tried to aim but with the rocking of the coach and my precarious position I doubt very much if a barn door would have had much to fear from me. I fired anyway and the shot went wide and high into the trees, bringing down a few twigs, but it made our pursuers pause.
 

The carter drew a pistol and fired and the ball struck the wood of the coach by my side, a splinter narrowly missing my face. The carter also fired but thankfully his aim was worse than mine. Both were still still running after us but falling behind as the horses found their pace. Our driver swung the coach around a corner into a side road and I had to hold on for my life as my hand with the carbine flailed around and my tenuous grip on the coach was almost lost. I managed to stuff the carbine back into my cloak and get my other hand back on the coach. I looked behind us and our pursuers had given up, they were leaning over, hands on knees, trying to get their breath back. I wondered if they had been waiting for us, or following Moreau. Were they more evidence of treachery or just Bonaparte’s suspicions of all potential rivals. Moreau’s coach turned left at the next junction and we turned right. I had a feeling that the parting of ways would be permanent.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“Has anything happened?” I asked as I returned to the small dusty storeroom. Dominique turned, shook her head and then went back to staring out of the window. The sun was doing its best to come through the grimy window, giving her a halo and illuminating the motes of dust and flour in the air.