Devil to Pay (26 page)

It was at this point that Delancey became aware of a coming problem. He foresaw no difficulty with the sentries or guard commander but he realized that there would have to be a change of horses. The proper coachman would have driven straight to the coaching inn but Tom Manning would not know where it was nor was there anyone in the party who could tell him. Rigault could inquire but that would seem ridiculous. Perhaps the horses would know their way to their stable? Worrying over this, Delancey told himself that the problem might not exist. There might be only the one main street and the principal inn might be obvious from the other coaches there. While he was still pondering this problem the coach drew up and a soldier appeared at the window, saluting when he saw Delancey's uniform. The sentry merely glanced at the documents which Delancey waved, stepping back again and telling the coachman to drive on. The coach now advanced more slowly because of the traffic and Delancey hoped that the horses would prove better-informed than the driver. They were not and the coach presently came to a standstill. Stepping down from the coach door, Delancey saw that the street forked and that Manning was at a loss. Going forward and speaking quietly, Delancey said, “To the right,” and so returned to his seat in the coach, hoping devoutly that his guess would prove correct. Looking out he presently saw that his choice, made at random, was almost certainly wrong. The street they were in led to the quayside and away from the centre of the town. There were ship's chandlers and sailors' taverns and more than a touch of squalor. Young women and errand boys were staring at the coach in wonder and perhaps with a hint of derision. Manning drew up and Delancey again went forward to speak with him, meaning to tell him to go back to the point where they had evidently gone wrong. Before he could do so, however, a seafaring man stepped up to him and said quietly (in English):

“Captain Delancey, I think? Perhaps you have lost your way?”

P
ART
F
OUR

F
OR A MOMENT Delancey felt that his mission—and his life—had come to an end. For a cold instant he could feel the fetters, glimpse daybreak through the bars and hear the tramp of the firing squad. Staring at the stranger, he could not remember having seen him before. Speaking in French, he said that there must be some mistake, he had not had the honour of meeting the citizen on any previous occasion.

“In that case it would be useless to remind you of David Evans, mate of the Dove.”

With an effort Delancey remembered that dark and insignificant figure.

“But is the
Dove
here?”

Evans shook his head. “She is due here a week hence,” he replied briefly. “There are some arrangements to make in the meanwhile.” So Evans was collecting the cargo, in effect, and the
Dove
was elsewhere, perhaps at Arcachon. Delancey had an idea but it had to wait. There was first the immediate problem.

“We have to change horses somewhere, Mr Evans. Can you pilot us?”

Without another word, Evans went over to Manning and gave him directions, finally joining him on the coachman's box. The coach turned, swerved into a street on the right, turned left, turned right again, coming into the main street and drawing up outside the Pomme d'Or. The ostlers ran forward and Evans joined Delancey in the parlour of the inn. Their further conversation was in French.

“Thank you, Mr Evans. Could you add to your kindness by giving Sam a letter from me?”

“Asking him to pick you up?”

“Yes, at some place near Cadiz.”

Evans considered this possibility for a moment before replying. “I'll give him the letter, sir, but I'm not sure that it can be done. We complete our cargo here. Once we have done that, the men will want to sail for home.”

“My hope must be that Sam can persuade them. Is there a useful small port near Cadiz—one known to you for purposes of trade?”

“Yes, there is Léon, a few miles to the south. We have an agent there called Davila, a man with whom we do occasional business.”

“If Sam were to go there, when would he arrive?”

“In about three weeks time. Say, on September 15th.”

“Very well then. I'll send the waiter for paper and ink, for a quill and some wine.”

While Evans drank his wine, presently joined by Rigault, Delancey wrote:

23rd August, 1796.

Dear Mr Carter,

Nemesis
has been wrecked on the French coast and I am on my way into Spain with five other survivors, the rest being taken prisoner. My hope is to procure some intelligence about the intentions of the French and Spanish fleets now at Cadiz. Having learnt what I can of the enemy's purposes, perhaps at Cadiz itself, I shall go to the port of Léon, hoping to be there from the 15th to the 21st September and in touch with Señor Davila. Should it be possible for you to call there at that time I should be more than grateful for a passage to Guernsey. In view of the possible value of the intelligence I hope to gain you could very properly ask any British man-of-war to cover our withdrawal. There is no state of war as yet between Britain and Spain but I have no doubt that war will be declared in the near future and of a certainty before the end of October. I am fully cognisant of the dangers inherent in your playing a part in this operation and would not ask it of you except as tending to the king's service.

I have the honour to remain,

Your former foe but present friend,

Richard Delancey

The finished and signed letter was pocketed by David Evans who finished his glass and walked with Delancey to the coach. “If you could have stayed here,” he said, “until the
Dove
arrived!”

“How could we?” asked Delancey, and Evans, glancing at his uniform, could guess at the dangers run until the frontier had been passed. After a hurried farewell the coach was on the road again, leaving St Jean-de-Luz by the road to the south. Two hours later the coach was at the frontier and passed without hindrance into Spain.

Traffic increased as they approached the town of San Sebastian but no particular notice was taken of the escorted post-chaise, which must have been a familiar sight. The coach reached the main gate as darkness fell and the sentry did no more than glance at the documents that were shown him. Martin Ramos, chatting with him for a moment, was told that the principal inn, where senior officers lodged, was the Réal. If that were full up the courier might try the Sancta Trinidad. Guessing that Captain Laffray might have been known at the Réal and might be expected there, Delancey chose the lesser inn where he was made welcome. The coachman and spare driver were lodged with the two troopers in the hayloft over the stable, where Ramos had the chance to hear the ostlers' gossip. Delancey himself was given a room and Rigault had the room next to it. Their supper was sent upstairs at Delancey's request and then began a difficult negotiation which centred upon the cleaning—and even the repair—of uniforms. The inn servants knew little French but they were finally persuaded to take the soiled uniforms away, leaving Delancey and Rigault in civilian clothes for the evening. The two troopers made similar arrangements for themselves. All, it was hoped, would pass muster by the following afternoon.

News of brigandage on the road came to San Sebastian next morning and Ramos soon knew all about it. A peasant had found some recently buried bodies by the roadside to the north of St Jean-de-Luz. He had been attracted to the spot by a dog's howling. Finding a corpse, he had hastened to inform the gendarmes. Their investigations led them to discover five more bodies, all clearly murdered. There were no brigands, it was thought, on the French side of the frontier, and the gendarmes concluded that the criminals were Spanish. They sent word, therefore, to San Sebastian; as also, however, to Bayonne. The authorities there knew of no travellers who had gone south in that number on the previous day—except, of course, for the French courier and his party. Troops of cavalry were sent out and rewards were offered for information. Messengers came and went and rumour had it that the bandits were deserters from the French army. Who their victims were no one could say for neither travellers nor local people were missing. Could the bandits have fought each other? Hearing these rumours, Delancey knew that he would have to ask the military commandant for an escort. It was usual, he knew, and all this talk of brigandage made it seem more essential. To go on without escort would seem, in fact, highly suspicious. He decided, therefore, to call on the commandant, walking to the citadel that afternoon—as soon, in fact, as his uniform was fit to be seen.

Reporting at the guard room and giving his name as Captain Rochambeau, Delancey asked the commandant to spare a few minutes of his time. He expected to have difficulties over language but he was received almost at once by a senior officer whose French was very fluent indeed.

Colonel Diego de Altamirano listened politely to Delancey's explanation of his presence and his plans. He agreed at once to provide a cavalry escort for the journey to Vittoria. It was only then, when all had been agreed, that he asked an awkward question: “With what escort did you arrive here?”

Delancey did not hesitate to answer truthfully: “I have two dragoons with me.”

“From St Jean-de-Luz?”

“No, from Bayonne.”

“So you will want to return them to their unit. The routine is to collect six or eight of these men and then send them back with the next coach bound for France. We have four already and your two can join them.”

“I had intended, Colonel, to keep these men with me for the present. One acts as my valet and the other as my Spanish interpreter.”

“How unfortunate! Our treaty with France, concluded on August 19th, does not allow French troops to pass through Spain in uniform. Any escort you have must be Spanish. I can assure you, however, that the escort commander will have some knowledge of French and that you will need no other interpreter. Tell your two men to report here tomorrow.”

Delancey had a quick decision to make. He had either to agree easily as one who cared little about it or he must fly into a rage as befitted a French officer when opposed by a mere Spaniard. He decided to give way gracefully.

“I quite understand. You do not wish to see foreign armies on Spanish soil—not even an army of two!”

“Of four, to be exact,” said the Colonel blandly. “We Spaniards are often thought to be obstinate and proud. On which day, Captain, do you plan to resume your journey?”

“Tomorrow, Colonel, if that is convenient.”

“By all means. The escort will be at your inn tomorrow morning— you can settle the exact hour with my adjutant. My hope is that you will have a good journey. There was recently an incident on the road— as you will probably have heard—but that was in the other direction, and on the French side of the frontier. I am somewhat mystified by that affair and am wondering still what lies behind it.” “Is brigandage so unusual then, Colonel?”

“No, sir, not brigandage as such. What is unusual is the brigand who strikes only once and then disappears.” “What else can he do while the hunt is up?”

“He still has to live. However, the brigand is my concern not yours and I don't expect him to appear on the road to Vittoria.”

Delancey said farewell to the commandant but came away with the feeling that the colonel was a great deal more astute than seemed desirable. Back at the Sancta Trinidad he told Rigault about the meeting and about the problem of the two dragoons.

“Very well,” said Rigault, “Bisson and Hodder will put on civilian clothes. The dragoons have deserted, leaving their horses behind.”

It was a reasonable policy, and perhaps the best, but the dangers were obvious, beginning with the gossip which would circulate among the servants at the inn. Perhaps a more elaborate story would better serve the purpose; something perhaps to do with a secret mission.

Delancey's party was to leave next morning but the troop of militia cavalry failed to appear. Instead of the escort the commandant's adjutant came to the inn and asked to see Captain Rochambeau. With great politeness and regret he said that there was some unavoidable delay over the troop that had been detailed for the journey. The new time of departure would be midday and the commandant would be grateful if Captain Rochambeau would, in the meanwhile, come to the Citadel, bringing with him the two dragoons who were to join the next carriage for Bayonne. The purpose of the visit would be purely routine and the commandant did not expect to detain the captain for more than a quarter of an hour. There was a hasty conference in Rigault's room while the adjutant waited on the ground floor. Bisson wanted to make a dash for the town gate but Delancey pointed out that the doors would possibly be shut and that any attempt to leave might end merely in their arrest. No, their only policy was to bluff their way through. It was far from certain that the commandant had detected their imposture and he would be very reluctant to make the sort of mistake which would incur the wrath of the French Republic. The king of Spain was a subservient ally of France and would willingly sacrifice any mere colonel whose head the Directory might demand. To be puzzled was one thing, to risk one's whole career was another. The time was approaching when Delancey would have to lose his temper and remind the colonel of what was at stake. He would be accompanied by Rigault in his sergeant's uniform with Bisson and Hodder dressed as civilians and he would have to admit that they had come in disguise. His difficulty would be in explaining why

At the Citadel, Delancey and his party were shown at once into the commandant's room. The colonel was full of apologies for the delayed escort. He regretted having to waste the captain's time over a trifle. He hoped that the captain would understand that routine matters, however tedious, had still to be transacted. Would the captain be seated for a moment? Would he remove his cloak? With some reluctance Delancey allowed the adjutant to help him off with his cloak and hang it on a peg.