Flashman's Escape (22 page)

“Why, thank you, kind sir. But my men are Catholic, and while I have had my disagreements with the Church, I think I still am too. I go to mass when we can get a priest to come up here.”

“Well, your next confession should be interesting.”

“Mmm, yes. If I have to do a penance, I might as well make it worthwhile. Perhaps I can perform a Christ-like miracle on Lazarus here.” With that she reached down and started to caress my resting manhood, which began to respond instantly to her touch.

I pretended to ignore her act of resuscitation while I sipped more wine. “You must have over a hundred fighting men here and their families. How do you survive?”

“Oh, there are deer and boar in the forest and farmers sell or give us food. We get supplies from enemy columns, but we generally attack small ones so that we can be sure that there are no survivors. That way it takes much longer for them to realise that the convoy is missing and has not been diverted elsewhere.”

“Aren’t you worried about French attacks?”

“We have to move camp sometimes and we have people in all the towns where there are French forces who will warn us if an attack is planned. We had messages about your column over a week ago telling us it was on the way.” She paused. “There now, you see? Lazarus has risen and come back to life. I have performed a miracle.” With that she leaned down and gave ‘Lazarus’ a kiss.

“You are a very wicked woman.”

“Yes, that is what they say about me,” she purred, running her fingers up my chest. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Remember when we met before, I had vowed to kill the Frenchman who had refused to help me and let my little son die when I was in prison?”

“Yes,” I agreed, recalling that she had been captured briefly by the French when Zaragoza finally fell.

“Well, I found him. He was one of the guards in a supply column we captured.”

“Did you kill him or was he already dead from the attack?”

“Oh, I killed him. He had let my little son die in agony over seven days and so I did the same to him. You have to use a hot knife to cauterise the wound or they will bleed to death too quickly,” she claimed matter-of-factly. “I put out an eye, cut off some of his fingers and toes, gelded him and then burnt his cock before slicing his guts open towards the end.” She listed the injuries with the same dispassionate manner that a quartermaster might use counting off supplies. The casual way she spoke about such horrors sent a chill down my spine, while my imagination conjured up such graphic images that my ardour was soon cooled.

Watching your child die must be awful, but to inflict that torture on another human being in revenge seemed monstrous to me. My mind struggled to reconcile the beautiful woman I had known and had just made love to with someone who could do such a thing. I know she had to appear tough in front of her men and she had probably seen far more brutality in the war than me, but the Agustina I had known before had definitely changed. I tried to rid my mind of a picture of her standing over her naked victim with a glowing hot iron in her hand. To try to distract myself I looked across at her naked loveliness. There were those now familiar curves and a face that looked warm and loving. There was not even a hint that she could be capable of such atrocities. As I watched she raised herself up on one elbow, but then frowned and looked a little disappointed.

“Oh dear,” she exclaimed. “Lazarus seems to have died again.”

Chapter 22

Agustina understood that talk of gelding and burning was not ideal foreplay to get me in the mood, and I confess that I never felt entirely comfortable with her afterwards. That is not to say that I was immune to her considerable charms and persuasive skills. Like a well-run monastery we continued regular communion during the night, observing the services of Matins and Prime, and we would have enjoyed the communion religious houses call Terce at mid-morning if someone had not knocked on the door. It was Gomez, ostensibly come to check on arrangements for the journey, but probably because he did not like me getting too close to Agustina.

A short while later and I was mounting my horse alongside Gomez and five other swarthy cut-throats. I saw then what Agustina had meant: they could no more have passed as soldiers than my Aunt Agnes. I was in my British uniform with the French coat once more in the saddlebags. Word had got round the camp that our mission involved earning the two-thousand-dollar reward and quite a few came to see us off. There was no cheering, though, and most looked damn sheepish when they caught my eye, remembering that they had been baying to crucify me just the previous day. Having given me a long, lingering farewell kiss in her room, Agustina was more formal in front of her men, wishing us all well before we set off along a forest track.

We had gone just a few miles when we reached a crossroads and Gomez pulled his horse up to a stop. I had already decided that I was set for a tedious journey as the man had ignored half my questions about the route and had given short, unhelpful answers when he did speak. Still, that was better than his companions, who pretended to speak only Basque so that they could ride in a group together behind me. Now, though, Gomez did turn to talk to me.

“Hand over your pistols,” he ordered curtly.

“What is this?” I responded indignantly. “You know I am a British officer and that I am on your side.”

For a moment I wondered if it was Gomez who was a French spy and the story about his lost family was just a cover. But then I heard hammers cocking behind me and turned to see the other Basques all with pistols or carbines levelled in my direction. I realised that I did not have a choice and slowly reached into my pockets to withdraw the weapons.

“You can keep your fancy sword,” continued Gomez, “but when I am riding in front of a man I do not trust, I do not want him to be able to shoot me in the back.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, there are six of you. How am I supposed to kill six of you with two pistols? And anyway, your chief has told you that she knows me as British from three years back.”

“Agustina might trust you, but I do not. From what I hear you have spent time wearing many different uniforms and I wonder where your true loyalties lie. If we get back here with Major Grant then I will give you your pistols back and apologise. But until then my men and I will be watching you closely.”

I suppose I should have been glad that they let me keep the sword, but if we had happened across strangers, it would have seemed odd for an officer to be seen without such a weapon at his hip.

With comrades like those you can imagine how joyless the journey was over the mountains. Everywhere I went, even to the privy, one of the Basques would be watching me. We often stopped at little villages in the hills. They would all talk Basque so that I could not understand and often I could tell that they were talking about me. From the hostile looks, whatever Gomez and the others were saying it was not favourable.

One morning after about four or five days of this icy camaraderie, Gomez called me over.

“We are in France now,” he announced. “From now on you wear this.” And with that he threw down on the dirt my French coat that he had taken from my saddlebag. As I shrugged the blue cloth over my shoulders, the look of dislike from the villagers intensified. Despite being in France, the French army was clearly not popular with the Basques.

We picked up a local guide on the French side of the border who took us north via back roads and footpaths where we were unlikely to meet any genuine French soldiers or French authorities. Just to be on the safe side Gomez had one of his men ride scout ahead, and often we would leave a man back to check we were not being followed. Eventually, after two days of this furtive travelling, we crested a hill early one evening and saw a large town some miles ahead of us and a stranger sitting under a tree.

Gomez pointed at the city and announced, “Bayonne,” before spurring on to talk to the stranger alone. The rest of the partisans and I rested just below the crest of the hill so that we would not stand out on the horizon. After some minutes Gomez came back and announced that the French column was approaching the city several miles to our east. We rode along the ridge for a while until we could see the main road. I reached into my pocket for my telescope and studied the dusty little snake that seemed to be moving along it. The sun was low in the sky behind me but there was enough light to show that they were still moving along in six blocks comprising infantry, a cannon and two wagons in each segment. As far as I could tell the infantry detachments looked roughly the same size as when I had last seen them. At the front I could just make out a group of horsemen. I felt a touch of admiration for Lagarde, who seemed to have brought his men cautiously, but unscathed, through hundreds of miles of partisan territory. He would have probably cursed me and my stupidity, thinking I was the only casualty of the journey.

“The city gates of Bayonne shut at dusk so they will camp at the town of Villefranque tonight,” said Gomez. He turned to look at me. “They will enter the city tomorrow morning and you will enter just afterwards. Jorge and Hernando” – he gestured at two of the Basques – “will come with you. Find out when and where Grant is travelling to Paris and let them know. They will get a message to the rest of us.”

“Where will you be?” I asked.

“The river L’Ardour runs through the centre of Bayonne. There is only one bridge leading north. To get to Paris, Grant must cross it. We will be waiting on the Paris road.” He gave me a guarded look before adding, “You do not need to know precisely where.”

I just sighed in response; I had given up trying to convince them that I was on their side. They were clear that they would only trust me when I had proved my loyalty with actions rather than words. Gomez had explained once on the journey that the three worst defeats the partisans had suffered were after informers gave information to the French. “Everyone has their price,” he had told me – not always money; sometimes it was a threat to torture or kill a loved one. He did not trust anyone any more and “especially not bastards with a French uniform in their saddlebags”. There was, consequently, the usual frosty air around the campfire that evening as the Basques made their final plans together and probably debated whether I would indeed betray them.

The following morning Gomez and all but two of the Basques set off to ride ahead and prepare an ambush on the Paris road. I took a more leisurely approach, boiling the last of my tea over the campfire and gnawing a crust of bread for breakfast. Jorge and Hernando watched my every move as though even by making tea I could somehow be signalling to the enemy.

As the sun climbed into the sky we rode towards the city and from another hilltop watched Lagarde and his men approach Bayonne. There were huge walls around the city that would have looked star shaped if viewed from above. One by one the columns of men, cannon and wagons entered under a huge arch in the fortifications and disappeared from view. I watched carefully with the glass. There were sentries at the gate but they did not interfere with soldiers. They only approached civilians; they seemed to be charging a tax on goods taken into the city.

“We go now,” insisted Jorge, mounting up.

Soon we were riding down to the main road approaching the gates. There were poorer houses and hovels outside of the city walls which would be sacrificed in any attack. The paltry size of these dwellings made the huge stone walls of the city look even larger. Closer to, I could see that there were also half-flooded ditches in front of the walls while cannon seemed to bristle from every embrasure. It would be a formidable place to capture, I thought. The gate house was massive with two sets of gates. While only half a dozen soldiers were visible, I did not doubt that more were garrisoned in the stout towers on either side of the entrance. The Basques had dropped back now and were helping a woman drive some geese towards the city as though they had come together as a group. I had no papers: Lagarde had kept the orders to join his column and I had burned the damming letter from Marmont in a fire; it had caused me enough trouble already. If challenged, I had planned to say I was a straggler from Major Lagarde’s column, but in the event no deception was necessary. The guards barely gave a lone French lieutenant a second glance. I watered my horse at a stone trough beyond the gates while I waited for my Basque shadows. After the old woman had paid her tax on the geese, they followed me into the city. Making sure that they had seen me, I remounted and started to walk my horse through the crowded streets, searching for a sign of the wagons and cannon that had travelled from Spain. I thought that they would be in or near the citadel and so I headed towards the centre of town. I had nearly got there when I heard a voice calling.

“Moreau, Moreau! My God it is you. Moreau, over here!”

For a moment I did not realise that the voice was calling me. I had not used that name for a week. But then I looked round and saw Lieutenant Jerome running towards me.

“Moreau, we thought you were dead. Lagarde would not let us ride after you as he thought it was a trap. Come, man, come down from your horse so that I can greet your properly.”

Jerome had grabbed hold of my horse’s bridle and was beaming up at me. I had no choice but to smile back and dismount.

“It is good to see you, old friend,” I cried, throwing my arms around him. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of Jorge glaring at me with suspicion.

“You must come with me into the tavern,” called Jerome enthusiastically. “Everyone will want to see you, especially the major. He said losing you was the one thing that spoiled the trip.”

The young lieutenant was already pulling me towards the door of the tavern. I only just had time to tie my horse to a post before more of my former comrades tumbled out to see what the disturbance was. There was much exclaiming then about how they thought I had been lost and how pleased they were to see me. After the frigid companionship of the Basques, I was genuinely touched by the warmth of their welcome. It was not hard to return their greetings with enthusiasm. Quite what Jorge made of the hearty reunion I could only imagine.

Eventually I was pulled inside the tavern and a cup of wine was pressed into my hand. Then the crowd cleared in front of me and Lagarde appeared, beaming with pleasure. He grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks to the delight of those watching.

“I am so pleased to see you,” he cried. “I thought we had lost you back there to a partisan trap. I hope you understand why we could not risk searching for you. What happened? Why did you charge into the woods?”

“Of course I understand,” I replied, “and you were right: it was a partisan trap. I was a chump to fall into it, but at least I got away again.”

Of course after that they all wanted to know what happened. So I gave them a story that I had started to make up the moment I saw Jerome, for an explanation would obviously be needed.

“I thought I saw a partisan in the trees and so I shot at him, but he ran off. He seemed to be on his own, so I chased after him. But once well into the trees a whole line of partisans appeared between me and the column, forcing me to ride deeper into the forest. They must have been planning an ambush, which I had disturbed.”

“How did you get away?” asked Lagarde.

“I rode deep into the forest to get away and got lost. Then I spent several days trying to get out while avoiding partisan groups that were living among the trees. I was nearly caught once, but got away. Eventually I made it back to the road. I have been following on behind you ever since and now I have caught you up,” I declared, smiling happily. “Have you been here long?” I asked innocently.

“We arrived this morning,” cried Lagarde. “Here, let me get you more wine. Do you need food? There is ham and bread on that table.”

I made my way to the food while glancing about at the throng in the tavern. I wondered if they had brought Grant with them for a farewell drink before they handed him over, but there was no sign of him. Still, I was at least among the people who could tell me what happened to him, although I had to be subtle about it.

I pulled on Jerome’s sleeve. “What have you done since you got here? Have you found any lodgings yet?”

“Not yet. The men and most of the carts have gone to the citadel. Then we came to the tavern to celebrate our return home to France. Here, pass me some bread, will you?”

“It is good to be home among friends,” I agreed. I had noted that he had said
most of the carts
and wondered if that included the one Grant was in, or was he already on his way to Paris in it? As casually as I could, I asked, “What happened to that English spy? Is he in the citadel?”