Flashman's Escape (33 page)

“You didn’t?” gasped Grant. He stepped back as though I had slapped him.

“I did, and because I had a genuine liking for her and the boys, I have convinced her to be out of the city when they attempt to raise the second republic. It will give her a chance to get away when the plot fails.”

“You are an evil and despicable man, Flashman,” persisted Grant. “You have no honour, and I think you have spent so long in that French uniform that you have forgotten which side you are on. We had a chance to end the war and bring glory to Britain. Instead you have betrayed our allies in the basest way.”

“You bloody fool,” I roared at the ungrateful bastard. “If I am such a traitor, just think where you would have been without me. Right now you would either be dead or in some basement screaming every secret you know. Meanwhile Sophie would be a sitting duck for the minister’s scheming. If we do get out of here, it will be no thanks to you.” With that I got up and stormed out of the little cabin. I preferred the company of a man whose son I had recently held at gunpoint to my countryman.

Chapter 32

The journey across France should have been a pleasant affair; the weather was fine most of the time and there was no hint of any pursuit. For the first few days I worried that Anna might have talked about our planned means of escape. Every time we passed a town I expected squads of troops searching every boat, but there was nothing. The boat was only searched once at roughly the halfway point. But we had barely settled in the secret compartment when the captain was pulling the hatch open again. He explained that it was a cursory inspection, with a small bribe in smuggled goods paid to get the guards to turn a blind eye to other contraband.

Considering our introduction, the captain had been quite reasonable. That first morning when I had gone on deck he had asked if he could borrow my pistol. I sensed that this was a test of trust, and as I could not shoot anyone without attracting unwelcome attention, I handed it over. He cocked it, pointed it over the side and fired. The lock clicked harmlessly without discharging a ball. The captain nodded, satisfied, and handed the weapon back. We both thought it was unloaded, but when I looked later I discovered that there was powder and a ball in the barrel, there was just no powder in the priming pan.

Leaving our distinctive jackets below, Grant and I spent most of our time on deck, although the barge crew needed little help to sail. It was certainly the most peaceful journey I have ever had across an enemy country, with friendly waves to other boatmen and those living near the canals. There were only two beds on the boat and the little cabin had barely enough room to swing a rat never mind a cat. We settled into two watches so that all could sleep. I was with the captain and Grant was with the boy, Lucien. The boatmen did most of the work, but at least, having had a year in the navy years ago, I knew how to haul up the sail and tie off a rope when required. Most of the time our duties consisted of helping to open and close lock gates.

It took us nearly three weeks to get to Nantes and Grant barely spoke to me at all during that time. I did not miss his company. The one time we did have a conversation he haughtily informed me that he would be writing a report once we reached England. He told me he would be certain to include an account of my treachery and deceit. I was not unduly worried: Wellington had been furious he had given his parole and he would be livid to hear from Curtis that Grant had refused to escape and had gone on to Paris. Wellington was a pragmatic man and would not consider the journey to Paris a matter of honour at all, especially as he knew Grant had seen the letter from Marmont to the minister of war. Our general would be far more concerned with the risk that Grant could divulge all the information he knew under torture.

To any rational person I had gone well beyond the call of duty in accompanying him to the French capital and organising his escape. The more Grant cold-shouldered me and stared at me in his condescending and contemptuous manner, the angrier I got. Increasingly I came to wish that I had left him behind for his inevitable arrest and torture; a spell on the rack was just what the ungrateful wretch deserved.

As my mood darkened so did the weather. By the time we reached Nantes even the canal was choppy and angry storm clouds scudded across the sky. We had made it across France but a big obstacle still remained.

“What chance do you think we stand of getting out of France?” I asked the captain as we stood on deck, sailing towards the city docks.

“A better chance in this weather,” he replied, hunching under an old army greatcoat as a squall of rain brushed over the boat. “In fact this storm might work in your favour.”

“Why is that, fewer guards about?”

“Yes, but more importantly the British blockading squadron will be blown off station. That means that a few of the faster trading ships might make a run for it.”

“Would you be able to help us get a passage? You must know a lot of the captains.” I hesitated. I did not want my next words to sound like a threat. “It would be better for all of us if Grant and I were not found in the port.” The captain looked at me warily and so I added, “We would not say anything voluntarily, but I was sent to stop Grant getting interrogated. They will torture him if they find him and a man can say anything to stop the pain.”

The captain nodded slowly in understanding. “I will speak to some of the captains. Do you have any more gold?”

I took off my belt and removed the remaining six coins so that he could see that there were no more left. “That is all we have, but we don’t mind working during the passage too.” In fact I would be delighted to see Grant being started with a rope’s end to do some menial work for a change.

We docked a short while later and the captain set off into the rain with his bills of lading and to see if any passage could be arranged. He had explained that nearly everybody in the city was involved in trade, legal and illegal, and in most cases they were involved in both kinds. People were used to turning a blind eye as smuggling was a way of life.

As the storm lashed down Grant and I sat with Lucien in the tiny cabin. Very little was said as Grant and I stared stonily at each other, while Lucien busied himself caulking some leaks in the cabin roof. Even though it was the middle of the day, the dark sky, now interrupted by flashes of lightning and thunder, made it seem as dark as dusk. Eventually, during a prolonged flash of lightning, we caught a glimpse of the captain making his way back to the boat. A short while later the hatch was thrown back, soaking us with rain, as he climbed down into the cabin.

“I have got you a passage,” he announced, “but you need to move quickly. It is on an American barque that is planning to leave on the next tide.”

A few minutes later and Grant and I were running up the canal docks towards the adjacent port for seagoing ships. We were both soaked through to the skin in moments, but because of the torrential downpour few other people were about. Those we did see were huddled against the weather and taking no notice of us. Grant’s coat was now dark with the water and we probably both just looked like grey figures through the rain. We were aiming for a big shed on one of the wharves that had a white ‘LV’ painted on it. It had doors at one end facing the canal moorings and at the other end it opened out on the dock for ships. We reached the door facing the canal and pulled it open a few inches. This was the riskiest part of the journey: if people were inside, we would not be able to make the rendezvous.

The shed was empty, illuminated by a couple of lanterns fixed to supporting beams. In their dim glow we saw what the captain had told us to expect. There was a pile of crates and sacks in the centre of the shed, but to one side lay a row of barrels. They looked like brandy barrels but their real purpose was for smuggling, usually silk. The captain had explained that the tops of the barrels had not been coopered in the normal way. They were hinged so that cargo, or in this case people, could be hidden disguised as wine. All we had to do was chalk two ‘x’s on the lid of two barrels and climb inside. Then we would be rolled onto the American barque right under the noses of the harbour authorities. We both ran to the barrels. I found an empty one and I felt in my pocket for the stub of chalk that the captain had given me to make the marks. Grant was already sliding into his barrel.

“Chalk mine too, Flashman,” he ordered curtly before slamming his lid shut.

I raised my hand to make the marks, but then I suddenly stopped. Until now I had been obliged to protect Grant because if I didn’t it would increase the risk of me being caught. But once I was on that ship I would be away safely to a friendly port or captured by a friendly navy. It would not matter to me what happened to Grant. In fact with Grant promising to make trouble for me when we did get back to the British, it would be better for me if he did not make it. But could I really abandon a comrade, even one as annoying as Grant, in enemy territory when rescue was at hand?

“Flashman, have you chalked my barrel yet?”

“I am just doing it now,” I replied. I scratched the wood with my fingernail so that he heard a mark being made. I was still uncertain if I could really just leave him in the warehouse and I stood there with the chalk still poised in my hand. Then Grant made up my mind for me.

“You know, Flashman, I will have to write that report. But don’t worry: I will also include how you helped me in my escape.”

The damn nerve of the man: how I helped
him
in
his
escape. I could see now how the report would be written: the gallant Grant risking all for his country with the snivelling traitor Flashman stabbing him in the back. This was a man who had risen to glory entirely on the back of his guide Leon’s efforts and not once had he given the man any recognition. It was clear that he was now planning to exploit me in the same manner. Well, to hell with him, I thought, as I moved away.

They would be expecting two barrels and so I looked down the line until I found one with some sack-wrapped bales in it. I put two chalk ‘x’s on that and them moved back down the line to my barrel and gave that the same markings. I was just getting in my cask when Grant spoke again.

“Are you still there, Flashman?”

“Yes,” I said, glancing again at the blank end of his cask.

“Do you think the crew will be surprised when we climb out of the barrels?”

“Oh, I am sure that there will be lots of surprise when the barrels are opened,” I told him. “Now keep quiet as I think I can hear someone coming.”

Epilogue

I cannot recommend a barrel as a means of transport. It was hard work keeping my feet and back braced against the sides as it was rolled along, and whenever we hit a pothole I was nearly sent flying. The continual rotation was also making me feel queasy. Once we were outside, the sound of the rain, thunder and the grind of the barrel against the road seemed very loud. But listening carefully I discovered that the man pushing my cask was French. He was complaining about having to work in the rain. From the way he spoke about the crazy Americans wanting to sail in this weather, he was clearly not part of the barque’s crew.

Just when I thought I could stand the jolting no longer I felt the barrel lurch in a sideways motion and realised that it was being swung in the air. I have seen ships loaded many times and could picture my barrel being rolled onto a cargo net that was then hoisted into the air by a rope from one of the ship’s yards and lowered into the hold. There was a thud as I landed on board and I could hear more voices talking in the background. Then a voice was very close at hand speaking quietly.

“Stay still and silent. There are still a load of Frenchies in the hold. We will get you out when we can.”

I seemed to sit in that barrel for an age and I cracked the lid open slightly so that I could get some fresh air. The storm was so severe that even in the harbour there was a swell that kept planks and lashings creaking together. I was not going to do anything that risked discovery this close to salvation. A few weeks ago, when I had sat in Clarke’s office listening to his threats and plans, it seemed impossible that I would be here now. But I had made it. With luck when Grant discovered that he had been left behind, I would be long gone. Let him see how
his
escape would go then, without me to help.

I knew we had cast off when the rocking motion changed. Instead of swaying from side to side my barrel was now swinging at a diagonal angle. That is it, I thought: we are free from French soil; and from the strength of the wind, there could be no turning back.

When I was finally released from my barrel by a grinning American tar, we went straight over to the second barrel that they had brought aboard. I had to feign dismay to find it full of a dozen bolts of silk. The sailor beamed in delight at the valuable booty.

“We have to go back to that warehouse,” I cried to play my part. “My companion must still be there in another barrel.”

“Can’t do that, mate,” said the sailor. “We are already shooting the ship through the harbour entrance.”

I ran up the ladder onto the deck and was nearly knocked flat with the force of the wind sweeping across the harbour. Even under just top sails the barque was accelerating across the harbour, followed by shoals of white-capped waves. I went to the rail and stared aft. I could still just make out the warehouse as there was a ‘LV’ on the front as well as the back. Inside there somewhere Grant must still be crouched inside his barrel, waiting to be rolled onto the ship. I wondered how long he would wait and what he would do next. I might have felt a twinge of guilt then as the warehouse disappeared behind a squall of rain and spray.

The Indians believe in something called karma, meaning essentially you get what you deserve. There may be something in it, as Grant’s journey home ultimately turned out to be a lot easier than mine. He did manage to escape France a few weeks later. After further adventures along the coast, he got a fishing boat to take him out to one of the blockading British ships and there he was rescued. He never did write his report though, as by the time he got back to London the Malet scheme had already enjoyed its brief moment of glory. Indeed, the selfish bastard never mentioned the part I played in keeping him alive to anybody. Wellington did refer to despatches he had received from Grant while we were in Paris, although the details of those despatches were kept secret.

Incredibly the second republic did exist for a few hours. Dressed in his general’s uniform, Malet persuaded some of the Paris garrison to support him, while his forged documents secured the release of republican comrades including Sophie’s lover, General Lahorie. The conspirators arrested several officials including Savary, the minister of police. For nearly a day Lahorie sat in the minister’s office as the new republican minister, issuing decrees and prison releases. Clarke of course made sure he escaped arrest by the new republic’s troops, and soon vigilant officers realised that they had heard from the emperor after the date of his death given in Malet’s proclamation.

The conspirators were swiftly rounded up, with the exception of Sophie. I never discovered if she did leave town when the republic was declared, but it seems that Savary managed to protect her after all. For the rest of the plotters, and some innocent parties implicated by Clarke, little mercy was shown. Malet and eleven others were executed by firing squad a few days after the attempt. I heard later that the game old duffer even directed the firing squad himself. Certainly the soldiers seemed sufficiently impressed to aim elsewhere. Once the smoke was cleared Malet was left still standing and untouched by lead. He ordered them to reload, shouting, “You have forgotten me,” while a mortally wounded Lahorie at his feet gasped, “Me too, for God’s sake.”

Of course I knew nothing about all of these events to come as I introduced myself to the ship’s captain. Initially he paid me little attention, concentrating on getting his vessel out of the harbour in the middle of a storm. I was told to lend a hand on the braces and be damn smart about it. The barque was called the
Mary Ellen
and it moved through that tempestuous sea with the speed of a porpoise. The strong easterly wind had scattered the British squadron and blew us well out into the Bay of Biscay. For the first twelve hours I spent on that ship I was cold, wet and usually hauling on some rope or another. It sounds a miserable existence but it wasn’t, for every minute took me further from France and closer to safety. The
Mary Ellen
had been designed for speed and it was exhilarating to work with the crew to make it race through the waves. I had been in some fast sea chases years before when I had sailed with Cochrane in the navy, but I had never sailed as fast as then. As the storm eased we pressed on more sail and positively flew along.

As the sun rose on my first full day at sea I felt a hand clap me on the shoulder as I sat, exhausted, with two other seamen, sheltering from the spray.

“The old man wants to see you,” advised the man I knew as the master’s mate. “He is in his cabin, aft.”

I stepped over to the hatch and lowered myself into the gloom below. Mostly by feel, I worked my way back until I found the door to the stern cabin. I knocked and a hoarse voice called out, “Enter.”

The ‘old man’ was not that old, probably in his early fifties, with a weather-beaten face and steely grey eyes. “Help yerself to coffee, sir,” he offered, gesturing to a tray of breakfast on his desk. “The bread is still fairly fresh and there is some butter.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied. Realising that I had not eaten for hours, I helped myself to a large hunk of bread and a cup of coffee. Sipping the hot liquid, I discovered that it also contained a generous slug of brandy.

“So you are my passenger,” the captain continued. “I am sorry we missed your friend. You had better have this back.” He pushed the three guineas for Grant’s passage across the desk. I looked up in surprise and he continued: “I am an honest man, sir. I won’t take what I have not earned, especially when I have acquired some very valuable silks by mistake.” He chuckled. “I pity the poor captain expecting those and finding your friend instead.”

“Do you think he might have got away on another ship then?” I asked.

“He might,” agreed the captain. “We were not the only ones planning to take advantage of the storm.” He grinned again and held out a huge hand to shake across the desk. “I am Captain Henry Sawyer, from Boston. I have not yet had the honour of your name.”

“Captain Thomas Flashman, late of the British army in Spain, but escaping from France to avoid being a prisoner of war or worse.”

“Aye,” said Sawyer. “But you are wearing a French uniform and I heard you travelled from Paris. I think you must have a good tale to tell, sir, and we have a long distance to travel. Help yourself to more coffee and tell me how you come to be on my ship.”

So I told him, all the creditable bits apart from the details of the Malet affair. New England people are hard to impress but I think I managed it. Several times he rocked back in his chair and exclaimed. At the end he told me he was quite glad Grant was not on his ship as he sounded an ungrateful squab. In return he told me that his ship was bound for his home port of Boston, which would take three to four weeks to reach. From there he advised there were usually plenty of ships going either to straight to England or Canada from where I could get passage home.

Just a few weeks later and I was sailing along a coast with familiar names like Falmouth, Truro and Plymouth on the chart. I was not off Cornwall or Devon in England but Massachusetts in New England, heading towards Boston harbour. It was a busy port and no sooner were we tied up to the quay with the gangplank down than the usual group of harbour officials could be seen coming towards the ship: half a dozen men including, I guessed, the harbour master and several uniformed men whom I took to be customs and excise people.

“Henry, good to see you back,” shouted their leader. “Was it a good voyage?”

“Very satisfactory, Caleb,” responded the captain. “I will bring you the manifests from my cabin presently. Come aboard, come aboard.”

“Any passengers?” asked the man called Caleb as he shook the captain’s hand.

“Just this fellow,” replied the captain, gesturing me to join their group. “Let me introduce Captain Thomas Flashman. Ignore that French coat; he is actually a British officer. You must hear his tale, Caleb; it is quite incredible.”

“Really?” answered Caleb, shaking me by the hand. “It sounds intriguing.”

“Oh, it is,” enthused the Captain. “This fellow was sent by Lord Wellington himself to rescue another officer who had been captured by the French. He had to masquerade as a French officer and escape partisans to do it, but he finally got his man. Then, would you believe it, they ended up in Paris hiding from the French in their own capital.”

“We were not spying,” I interjected. “Just trying to avoid capture and being made prisoners of war.”

“Yes,” agreed the captain. “They travelled from Spain to Paris and then managed to travel from Paris to Nantes, all with the other fellow insisting on wearing a British uniform.”

“What happened to this other fellow?” enquired Caleb.

“He seems to have been put on a different ship,” I explained.

“Well, sir,” said Caleb, “I congratulate you on escaping France. You certainly went to great lengths to avoid being captured, which makes my next duty more regrettable.” He turned to the uniformed men with him and said, “Grab him, lads.”

“What the devil is this?” I shouted as the men reached out and grabbed my arms, one of them sliding a manacle over my wrist.

“Caleb, what is happening?” demanded the captain, also clearly taken by surprise.

Caleb held up a hand for silence. “Gentlemen, I have to announce that Captain Flashman is a prisoner of war.”

“You surely have not allied yourselves to the French?” I asked, appalled. I could not understand it: why would the United States enter the war now on the side of France? If they had, why had we not heard something in Paris?

“No, sir,” announced Caleb. “The United States has declared war on Great Britain, and you have just admitted to being a British officer. After hearing only a little of what you have been through, it is my sad duty to tell you that you are now a prisoner of the United States of America.”