Flashman's Escape (23 page)

Jerome had been in the act of stuffing bread into his mouth when I asked the question, but now he almost jumped, as though startled. I thought I had somehow given myself away by being too keen to ask the question, but Jerome started peering over his shoulder as though he had something to hide. Then he beckoned for me to join him in a corner of the room. “You must not mention the English spy to anyone,” he whispered when I was standing beside him.

“Why not? Is he dead?”

“No. You remember he was to be tortured despite being captured in his uniform and giving his parole?” I nodded, still confused as to what was happening. “Well, when we got here there was no one from the ministry of war waiting for the prisoner.” That, I thought, was not surprising given that I knew the despatch from Marmont to Paris had been captured. They might have sent a duplicate message, but that could have suffered the same fate.

“So what has happened to this prisoner?”

Jerome glanced around him again to check we could not be overheard. “The major and the captains used to ride with the prisoner and thought he was an honourable man. They feel it dishonours us if he is tortured.” He paused as a pot boy walked past us collecting empty cups, leaving me almost beside myself now with curiosity.

“So what has happened to him,” I asked again.

“Lagarde says our orders were to deliver him to Bayonne, which we have done. It is not our problem that the ministry of war agents are not here to collect him. So we have let him go.”

“You have done what?” I gasped, astonished.

“It is a matter of honour,” stated Jerome defensively. He clearly thought I disapproved of their action. “But you must not say anything about this or the ministry will blame Lagarde for setting him free. He will say that he delivered the prisoner to Bayonne and let the people here argue about what happened.” Jerome gave a deep sigh before adding, “It probably will not matter, though, because the prisoner is refusing to escape. He says he has given his parole to travel to Paris. Lagarde has explained that he will be interrogated and tortured, but the man refuses to break his word.”

“He is a damned fool,” I replied with feeling.

“Yes, but Lagarde says his honour is now satisfied. It is up to the prisoner to make his escape.”

“Where is the prisoner?” I asked as casually as I could manage, while my mind reeled at this unexpected change in fortunes.

“The last I heard he was still in his cart in one of the central squares.”

I could not believe my luck. It sounded like no ambush would be necessary. We just had to grab Grant from the wagon. If he put up a struggle, we could take turns punching him. I grinned at the thought. Perhaps it would be easier to take him in the wagon out of the gate. One of the Basques could easily pass as a wagon driver, and with a French lieutenant riding as escort few people would ask questions. If they did, I could explain that Grant was an English prisoner who was to be exchanged with a French one. I was still considering the possibilities when I realised that Jerome was looking at me expectantly and I hurriedly rewound what he had been saying in my mind.

“Share lodgings with you? Of course, I would be happy to. And don’t worry, I will not say a word about the other matter. Now after a morning in the saddle and all this wine, I need the jakes, so I will see you in a minute.”

I went out of the back of the tavern into a small yard where there was a latrine against the wall. Ignoring that, I turned into a narrow alley which took me back out onto the street. I looked up and down but could see no sign of my Basque shadows. Damn, I thought, the one time I need them and they are not here. My horse was tied right outside the tavern windows; I would have to leave it for now. I was just heading up the street towards the centre of the city when I heard a voice behind me.

“Did you enjoy spending time with your French friends?”

I turned and saw Jorge standing hidden in a doorway. I walked over to him so that we could not be overheard. “I was doing my job and getting information,” I hissed at him. “Now why don’t you do yours and get a message to Gomez to say that Grant has been abandoned in a wagon in the city. He is in a square somewhere. We have to find him before someone else does, or he does something stupid.”

I turned and continued up the road to the citadel. When I reached it there was nothing in the square in front of the gates and everyone who entered the fortress was being questioned about their business by the guards. I pressed on towards the bridge and found nothing in the next square either, but there was a large stone arch leading to another open space and there I did find what I was searching for.

I saw the lone cart as I was walking under the stonework. Its canvas covering was still tied down tightly over the support hoops and so it was impossible to see if anything or anyone was inside it. The wagon had been left in the middle of this new square under some trees to provide shade for the horses as well as the vehicle. But once I was through the arch I realised that I was not alone. A half troop of dragoons were gathered in a corner of the square, near one of the buildings which appeared to be a hotel. It would have looked more suspicious to turn back having seen them, and so, taking a deep breath, I carried on walking towards the wagon. I was dressed as a French lieutenant, I reminded myself; there was no reason that they should be suspicious of me. Having calmed myself, I looked across at the horsemen and nodded in greeting to the lieutenant commanding the thirty men. He just nodded back and returned to inspecting his troopers. Behind the horsemen outside the hotel was a shiny, black open-topped carriage. Someone important was about to leave.

I was nearly at the cart now. I just hoped that Grant was still inside. I walked round and pulled myself up onto the driver’s seat so that I would be hidden from the horsemen behind. Having had a final look round to check we could not be overheard, I called out quietly in English, “Grant, are you there?”

“Yes, who is that?” came a disembodied reply from behind the cloth.

“It’s Flashman.” I turned and started to untie the cord holding the covering behind the driver’s seat.

“What are you doing here?” asked the voice.

“I’ve come to check that they are serving port and nuts with your cigar,” I muttered irritably as I pulled open the fabric. There I saw Grant sitting miserable and dejected on a bench in the middle of the cart. At his feet was a pile of chains and manacles that Lagarde must have taken off before he abandoned his prisoner. “Why do you think I have travelled all this way across Spain and into France in an enemy uniform?” I hissed at him. “I am here to help you escape and you damn well will escape regardless of any paroles or promises, do ye hear me?”

His chin came up at that and he looked at me stubbornly. “You don’t understand about honour, Flashman. I have given my word that I would not escape before I reached Paris.”

I took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. Tempting though it was to bludgeon the idiot with whatever weapon came to hand, such activity would probably attract the attention of the horsemen outside. So instead I tried to reason with him.

“Yes, and in exchange for giving your word you doubtless expected to be able to travel freely instead of being chained in this cart for weeks. Marmont’s treatment of you has invalidated your parole. Even your French guards think you should escape and have set you free. In any event Wellington has ordered you to escape. He does not want you tortured and giving away details of his spy network.”

“I would never talk, even under torture,” he exclaimed hotly. “I know my duty.”

“Nobody knows what they will do under torture,” I told him scathingly. “Wait until they have broken every bone in your hands and feet, burned you, perhaps cut bits off and are then racking you until the pain is so bad that you are begging them to kill you. See how you feel about your precious honour then.”

Grant just glared at me sullenly.

“So forget about promises and Paris,” I continued. “I have got some friends in the city who will help get you back to British lines. Just wait here while I fetch them and then we will go.” I looked about the interior of the cart; the cover completely hid the inside. “In fact we may take the cart as well. Now wait here until I get back.”

Without waiting for a reply, I slid back out of the cart and dropped to the ground. Having, I thought, talked some sense into Grant, I now had to find the Basques so that we could get out of the city. I walked back to the main street I had been on before and stood for a few minutes in the square outside of the citadel. Several streets passed through this square, and so instead of chasing about the city I stood on the base of a statue of some local dignitary so that I could be easily seen and waited for the Basques to find me. It did not take long; five minutes later Jorge was studiously gazing at the inscription on the base of the statue while talking quietly so that only I could hear.

“Have you found him?”

“Yes,” I murmured, bending down to check on the fit of my boot as though it were pinching. “He is still in the cart. I will lead you to it. I will get in the cart with him so that my former comrades do not see me and you can drive the thing out of the city. We will say he is a prisoner being sent for exchange. Have you sent a message to Gomez?”

“Yes,
señor
,” he replied. I looked up at that. It was the first time that any of the Basques had called me
señor
. I sensed that the surly man was grudgingly impressed with what I had achieved. Perhaps finally he was starting to believe we were on the same side.

“Good, now follow me. I will go first and get in the cart. You follow on behind and drive it out through the city gates.”

I straightened up and started back the way I had come. I did not look back, but as I turned to go through the stone archway I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of Jorge walking about a hundred paces behind me. The cart had not moved and I had taken several paces towards it when a voice called out in English.

“Ah, there you are, Lieutenant.” It was Grant’s voice calling out from the front of the hotel building. I turned and just gaped at the vision in front of me. Grant stood there out in the open in his British uniform while beside him, standing companionably, was a French general.

“You should stay closer to your charge, Lieutenant,” warned the general in French, smiling. “I nearly had him arrested before I discovered he was an American.”

“The general is going to Paris,” declared Grant with a note of triumph in his voice. “He has kindly agreed to let us accompany him.”

Editor’s Note:
Incredible as it may seem, Grant’s release in Bayonne and his journey on to Paris and many of the events that follow are confirmed by various historical sources. Further details can be found in the historical notes at the end of the book.

Chapter 23

I was beyond speechless at these revelations. I was frozen to the spot, and while my mouth opened and shut a couple of times no words came out. What Jorge must have thought seeing my expression I cannot guess, but he had the sense to stay out of the square. “What… How…” I tried, speaking in English before words failed me again.

“You should speak in French, Lieutenant,” Grant warned in that language. “The general does not speak English. May I introduce to you General Souham?”

I was still lost for words as I took in the rapidly changing circumstances, but at least I had the presence of mind to come to attention and give a sharp salute. Souham took my inability to speak as due to being overwhelmed in his presence.

“Don’t worry, lad,” he said, walking over and offering a hand to shake. “I was once a private in the old royal French army. I know it is the sergeants and you junior officers that do most of the work.” I shook his hand and he led me towards Grant and the carriage beyond. “Where will you be going when you get to Paris, sir?” he asked Grant.

“Oh, I suspect I will get orders when I reach the city,” explained Grant airily. “And I must thank you again for your generous offer of transport.”

“Think nothing of it. My adjutant has heard all my stories at least once and has few good ones of his own to tell. It will be good to have someone new to talk to on the way.”

With that I found myself steered towards the shining landau carriage… and Paris beyond. I wracked my addled brain, but I could not think of a way to slide out of this one. With the dragoons mounting up in front and behind the carriage, a run for it was also out of the question. The general and Grant took the forward-facing seats while the adjutant, who introduced himself as Gaston, and I took the seats opposite. The coachman cracked his whip and we moved off.

I sat there, feeling like I was in a daze, as I watched the buildings pass by. Grant refused to meet my eye and contented himself asking the general about Bayonne. One person who did meet my eye, though, was Jorge, who stood in a doorway watching the carriage drive past. With the general sitting opposite me I could not make any signal and had to just stare blankly back.

Within a few minutes we were crossing the bridge, which was a damn rickety affair. The original stone bridge had been swept away by floods years before and a temporary bridge had replaced it. The noisy wooden roadway was suspended between some of the original stone supports of the old structure and some anchored boats. The flimsy construction had already been cleared of other users so that the general and his escort could have an uninterrupted passage. It was as we reached dry land again that I saw Gomez. He was standing amongst the crowd forced to wait to use the crossing. I saw him look scornfully at the general and then curiously at the man in red beside him. When his gaze switched to me sitting opposite the general, his jaw dropped and then his face was suffused with rage.

Thinking back, I can see things from his point of view. He had been convinced I was false from the outset, a French infiltrator only pretending to be British. Now, instead of rescuing Grant as planned, he saw me sitting opposite a French general who was carrying Grant away to Paris with a guard of dragoons.

“Flashman, you treacherous bastard,” he roared in Spanish. Then he had the audacity to raise one of my own pistols against me.

The carriage was already picking up speed as the gun fired. Pistols are notoriously inaccurate at any range and I thought I would be safe, but this ball managed to smash the top of the carriage door. As this was just inches from me it was one of the truest pistol shots I have seen against a moving target. Gomez did not have long to appreciate his marksmanship, though, as a second later a dragoon’s carbine shot him in chest. More guns fired as several more of the Basques tried to make a run for it, when they would have been perfectly safe if they had just stood still and looked innocent. I watched in horror as two more of the partisans were hit and the crowd waiting to cross the bridge dissolved into chaos and panic.

“What did he shout?” asked the general, who had half stood in the carriage and was now kneeling on his seat to see what was happening behind us. “It was in Spanish,” the general continued. “I understood ‘bastard’ but what is a ‘flashman’?”

Grant stayed silent but caught my eye. He must have realised that those men were some of my accomplices and that they had died as a result of his decision to head north.

As no one else offered a suggestion, the adjutant spoke up. “Perhaps a flashman is another one of their words for the French.”

“Come on, leave them,” roared the general, waving for his escort to break off the pursuit and re-join the carriage. “So,” he called, turning and slumping back down in his seat, “apart from the American here, we are all flashmans.” He paused and grunted. “Well, that cove looked furious, so it is bound to mean something foul.”

“Quite so,” agreed Grant, now recovering his spirit. “Probably a dishonourable and treacherous creature. You certainly would not want to be called a flashman.” He shot me a spiteful glance and I came within an ace of denouncing him as a wanted British prisoner there and then. The only thing that stopped me was the fact that I would be arrested instantly too.

“Oh, I am sure that there are worse things than flashmans,” I claimed coolly. “The Scots for example.”

Grant bristled at that; he was immensely proud of his Scottish heritage. But Souham got in first. “Ah, I think you have faced their Highlanders, have you, Lieutenant? Damn brutal creatures, aren’t they?”

“I have come across them, sir, yes,” I agreed. In fact I had commanded a company of them in India, and so I spoke with some authority on the subject. “They fight like tigers but they stink.”

“Stink, eh?” The general laughed. “Well, I never got that close to one. Still, I would not say that in front of Marshal MacDonald, but he is on his way to Russia now.”

With Grant glowering at me, we settled down to the journey, the general happily regaling us with his adventures. He had been born into poverty and joined the royal French army as a boy, serving as a private for eight years before the revolution. By the time we met him, he had been a general for nineteen years with a string of victories behind him. It never occurred to the general to question our intentions. After all, why would an escaping prisoner try to reach Paris, the centre of the enemy empire? But he did have a curiosity, particularly about America, and that was nearly our undoing. The closest Grant had ever been to America was a posting in the Caribbean. It was just as well that the rest of us in the coach had not even been that far.

“I must say,” said Souham as we bowled through the French countryside that first afternoon. “I am surprised that the American army fights in red. Did that not cause confusion when you were fighting the British?”

“It does, sir,” agreed Grant, taken by surprise. He said no more, and while the general looked at him expectantly, Grant just stared at the floor of the carriage. He was clearly unable to think of anything more to say on the matter.

The general was just about to ask how this confusion was avoided when I decided to speak up. “I imagine that they have soldiers in all sorts of uniforms, like us. In the French army we have men, Hanoverians and Swiss I think, who fight in red coats. I have not seen them but I imagine that causes confusion too.”

“Yes,” agreed Grant, latching on to my lead. “We have men who fight in all sorts of colours.” He paused, plainly racking his brains for some fact that would add more authenticity to this lame confirmation. “And we have the savages of course; they fight in brightly coloured war paint and are festooned with feathers and tiger and leopard skins.”

“Really?” enquired the general. “I had no idea that they had tigers in America.”

“Oh yes,” confirmed Grant, warming to his theme. “We have lions and tigers, and buffalo the size of elephants for them to hunt. No man starves in America as there is always plenty of game to eat and good land for farming too.”

He went on at length, extolling the paradise that he claimed was the land of his birth. We all sat there taking it in, and if the Frenchmen believed every word, I was not sure what was true and what wasn’t. I thought Grant must have heard something about America from his time in the Caribbean islands, while I had not been further west than Lisbon. He did make it sound a fantastic place, but as I discovered later his grasp on the flora and particularly the fauna of this new land was not exact. I remember Gaston, the adjutant, interrupting at one point to ask about snakes. Someone he had met in Spain had been to the Spanish colonies in America and claimed that the snakes had rattles on their tails so that you could hear them coming.

Grant instantly dismissed this as nonsense. “How,” he asked, “could the serpent hunt if its prey could hear it coming?” He laughed at the adjutant and suggested that he had been the victim of a tall story. I confess that at the time I thought Grant’s dismissal made sense. It was only years later that I was to discover the hard way that he was wrong.

If you are going to flee as a fugitive across a country then I can heartily recommend an enemy general as a travelling companion. As members of Souham’s party we were given the finest rooms in every coaching inn we stopped at and the best food and wine available too. Even if the French had been searching for a missing fugitive, and there was no sign that they were, we would have been beyond all suspicion. If it were not for the fact that we were travelling in precisely the opposite direction to the one I wanted to go then things would have been perfect. Twice I tried to get Grant on his own so that we could talk in private, but each time he ducked away back to where people were standing. He knew I was livid with him, but now I was committed to travelling to Paris as he had wanted. To try to escape or do anything to raise suspicion would only land us in deeper trouble.

For most of the journey we stayed on the safer topic of the war in Spain. It was something we all knew a lot about, even if Grant and I had to try to remember to see things from the French perspective. Souham had been fighting the Spanish in eastern Spain and sported a nasty scar above one eye, incurred when his division had routed a Spanish army twice the size of the French force. He had followed the war against the British but had not seen any of it. I remember describing the horror of Albuera from the imagined perspective of a French officer. Grant talked about being taken on a reconnaissance ride to see the British army marching after Badajoz fell. He seemed to be describing the scene he must have witnessed before he rode away and was captured. But for the most part Souham talked about his earlier campaigns.

Grant and I encouraged him by asking questions and prompting more tales. There was less chance of us giving ourselves away if the general was talking. But the stories of his rapid promotion during the chaos of the revolution and the early Napoleonic campaigns were genuinely fascinating. Despite his humble beginnings and lack of education, he had a sharp strategic understanding. I was not surprised to learn later that when he returned to Spain and commanded an army against Wellington he manoeuvred cleverly to force the British army back some two hundred miles without the need to fight a battle.

The roads from Paris into Spain were among those that Napoleon had ordered straightened and tree lined so that he could move his troops quickly around his empire, with some protection from the sun and wind. While the days were hot, there was not yet much shade from the very young poplar trees that lined many of the new, fast roads we travelled along. Several times we passed semaphore towers that could transmit messages from Paris to Bayonne and the Spanish border in a matter of hours. One was relaying a message as we passed it. A man with a telescope was watching the next tower in the chain and calling out the signals to his colleagues, who with ropes controlled the huge signal arms at the top of the structure. I could not help wondering if a message about Grant had already overtaken us. But we would not have long to find out. With Souham’s tales to keep us entertained, it seemed no time at all before we were approaching the outskirts of Paris.