For Our Liberty (34 page)

It was good to get out of the current and enter the small channel that led to Fulton’s ridiculous craft. I could feel weeds and Lord knows what else with my feet as I trod water and listened for any sign of the sentinels I felt were certain to be there, no matter what Dominique’s uncle had said. But I could hear nothing and because I was low in the water I could see nothing on the bank either. I paddled silently forward, heading for the shelter of a small jetty. The water was still and in the moonlight it looked like mercury. I was making no sound but ripples spread across the surface whenever I moved. I grasped the slime covered wood of the wharf and sheltered beneath it, the keg in my other hand. I stopped and listened again. Nothing. I inched forward, the strange shape of the plunging boat looked like some ancient sea creature from my vantage point in the water. I swam slowly along the copper hull and put my hand on the side of the steam launch. I had reached my goal, now all I had to do was destroy the craft.
 

I tentatively let myself sink until I was touching the bottom, my head and shoulders remained out of the water and I could use my hands. As quietly as I could I removed the lid from the keg. I took out the knife and slid it between two of the planks of the boat for want of a better place to put it, I prayed I wouldn’t need it. I fumbled for the tinderbox and almost dropped it, covered as it was with the lamp oil from the cloth. It wasn’t going to be easy to strike the flint against the steel while in the water. I hadn’t really thought the plan through very well. I could have climbed into the boat but the noise would have been too much of a risk and the thought of being caught naked, floundering about like a fish was not appealing. I put the keg gently into the boat, and then held the tinderbox with its precious flakes of char cloth and straw in one hand along with the steel, and then struck the steel with the flint. The sparks seemed very bright in the night, but they failed to light the tinder. I struck again, worried that I was making too much noise. On the third strike I saw one spark glow on the char cloth. I breathed softly on it and it glowed brighter, a curl of smoke spiralling into the night air. It was then I heard the footsteps.

I froze. The footfalls went from the mud of the yard on to the wood of the jetty. I breathed on the tinder again and was rewarded with a small flame as the straw took light. I quickly tipped the tinder into the keg already in the boat. The oil soaked cheesecloth burst into flame and I knocked the keg over, burning my hand. The sudden light from the fire bathed the yard in an orange glow. There was a shout and the boat lurched as someone leapt on to it. The flames were growing but could still be dowsed with a single bucket of water. I felt the boat rock as the guard panicked and tried to find something to put the fire out. He shouted for help. I reached up out of the water, using one hand on the boat to lift me higher, with the other hand I grabbed hold of the guard’s belt and then pulled him backwards. He fell into the water with an enormous splash. I grabbed the knife from the side of the boat and sank it into his stomach, while at the same time allowing his weight to pull me down into the water. His eyes were wide and he opened his mouth in a silent scream as he died.

Muskets fired from the shore and chips of wood flew from the launch and jetty, at least one shot clanged into the copper hull of the plunging boat. I swam down, deeper and deeper. The noise of the guns, the crackling fire and the shouts of more and more men emerging from the sheds around the yard were suddenly muffled. I let go of the guard I had killed and let him sink with my knife still in his belly. I kicked downwards, blessing all those summers as a child spent playing and swimming in the sea at Brighthelmstone. The water was black but as I looked back up at the surface I could see musket balls slice into the water, leaving a silver trail of bubbles behind them. My lungs were bursting and I tried to put some distance between me and the chaos before rising for air but it wasn’t enough. As soon as my head broke the surface a fresh volley of shots hit the water around me like the deadliest of hail storms. I ducked back down and swam for my life. Shots continued to enter the water, coming ever closer. I felt the tug of the current and knew I might just live. I rose to the surface in the Seine, gasping for breath. I could hear shouts behind me and struck out for the opposite bank, praying I could make it back to the Ilse Louvier and my clothes.

Another musket shot rang out from the bank and I felt a sting as the ball creased my thigh. I swam harder, ignoring the pain, letting the current take me away. More shots came but I was out of range. I didn’t stop though. I kept on swimming for all I was worth. I had failed to destroy Fulton’s craft, I did not doubt that however many men were trying to kill me from the shore more were putting out the fire and more still would be passing word to hunt for me on the right bank. I had failed, but I was going to be damned if I was going to die naked in a French river. I swam until my lungs burned and I could go no further.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Dominique had still been asleep when I got back to her rooms just as the sun was rising. I was exhausted, filthy and ached all over. I had managed to reach the shore, but far from the shed where I had left my clothes and had to make my way across the Ilse Louvier to find them again. I’d barely had the strength to get dressed let alone walk back, I’d been lucky to find a fiacre outside the Palais Royal.
 

I shrugged myself from my clothes and limped over to dresser and poured some water from the jug into the bowl and began to wash myself. I was surprised and grateful when a cool hand touched mine, took the cloth and relieved me of my task. She tutted when she saw the long thin bruise where the ball had hit my thigh, fortunately the range and water had robbed it of most of its power so it hadn’t broken the skin. It still hurt like the very devil though. Once I was clean she guided me over to the bed and then lay down beside me, one leg hooked over mine, an arm around my neck and another on my chest.

“Did you do it?” she asked. I think she already knew the answer from the manner of my return.

“Not quite,” I sighed as her fingers traced a lazy figure of eight on my torso.

“They were guarded?”

“Yes, your uncle was wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” she said and kissed my shoulder.

“It’s not your fault. I should have been more cautious,” I said wondering how long I would have had to wait in the water before I spotted any trouble.
 

“What now?” she said.

“We carry on with the plan.”

“Merde. You can’t be serious?” she replied, pushing herself up and looking down at me with bewilderment.

“I am. I have failed to accomplish one part of my mission, I’m not about to fail with the other. I will take Fulton back to England.”

“But you’ll be caught, killed.”

“No, the plan will work. It has to. We’ll get everything in place today. Will you help me?” I asked, looking up her.

“Of course, but Ben…” she started to say but I kissed her, reaching my hand behind her head and pulling her down. Sometimes the only way to win an argument with a woman is to make sure her lips are otherwise occupied.

Dominique and I had a busy day, despite the fact that we had to return to the same argument several times. I mostly rested while Dominique visited various friends and contacts to get what we needed. We refined the plan and I got myself ready. I arrived at the theatre of Citoyen Montansier just as the usual crowd began to gather. Foxed army officers paraded with their favoured girls on their arms, and groups of young bloods who fancied themselves mutton-mongers and had the money to pay for the skirts’ attention stumbled drunkenly with girls far too young steering them towards the theatre’s door.

The Montansier sat like an ugly sister in the middle of a row of far better buildings, just around the corner from the Palais Royal. The performance was to be Molière’s Malade Imaginaire but I didn’t intend to watch. I had seen it earlier in the year at the Théâtre-Français with Antoine Michaut at the top of the bill. It wasn’t Shakespeare but it had been amusing enough, and I had only attended due to an appointment with one of the actresses later that night. The wealthier English tourists referred to the Montansier as a blackguard theatre and so naturally enough I had frequented it in the past but, truth be told, it was rough even for my taste.

The women were almost uniformly ugly, so ugly in fact that even their painted faces and revealing clothes could not hide it. After you have seen one pair of powdered jugs with rouged nipples you’ve seen enough. They were a caricature of womanhood. As for the men, their manners and speech were coarse, and their dress lacking the style that one usually associates with the French, even in those mean times. One barged into me and slurred an obscenity that if he had said it in London would have had him called out in a flash. You might wonder at my snobbishness, pot calling kettle black and all that, but remember these are Frenchmen we are talking about and even the lowest born Briton can look down on the French.

Pools of orange light from the flickering lanterns lining the entrance illuminated the drunken clinches of the men and the frantic escapes of the women determined to give nothing until they had been paid. I walked up the steps to the entrance, weaving my way distastefully through the boisterous clientele, and then stood leaning against one of the columns in as nonchalant a manner as possible. Yes, I suppose that I have no right to be so outraged but even then I was trying to distance myself from the kind of life that I saw all around me. I lit a cheroot from one of the lanterns whilst I watched the crowd for Fulton.
 

Why, you may ask, was I not skulking in the shadows as you might expect of a hunted man? Well, the first thing that I had asked of Dominique was for her to procure me a disguise. Not for me the theatricality of a false nose or ridiculous beard though. I had adopted the best disguise that I could think of – a uniform. If you consider for a moment the last man you saw in uniform. Can you describe him? No? All you can see is the uniform isn’t it? A man in a uniform instantly gets categorised like some poor impaled butterfly. He gets labelled and then forgotten. The particular uniform that Dominique had borrowed from a sympathetic friend whose husband had been killed in the wars was that of a major of the 5
th
Chasseurs. His widow now hated the regime and was eager to help. For my purposes the uniform could not have been better, although I wasn’t enamoured with the symbolism of wearing a dead man’s clothes. Thankfully, even if I had had the most distinctive features they would not have been noticed against the extravagance of the late Major’s apparel.
 

On my head was a black shako with a large black plume with a yellow tip. My dolman jacket and breeches were of a deep forest green, but were awash with silver lace and silver buttons with yellow collar and cuffs. The sabre I wore hung at the usual stylish but impractical height against my leg, its tip resting against my bright red leather boots. The French know how to design a uniform. Of course such an ensemble could only be worn with nonchalance and panache and so I had to play the part. It was one that I relished, I must admit. My former British Army uniform was drab in comparison and I did feel that a Major’s chevrons suited me.
 

The other thing about uniforms is that the feminine gender can be rather partial to them, a fact that had made me decide against selling my commission on more than one occasion, no matter how badly I needed the money. I had a hard time looking out for Fulton between pretending to return the appreciative glances and being distracted by ladies showing much more than their admiration. Most I could dismiss as common whores but one raven-haired beauty walked by and looked me up and down, a Creole I guessed from her café au lait complexion. She wore white silk and her dark brown eyes smiled above a feathery fan as she passed me. Even with a vital mission to perform I was tempted to follow her. Also, Dominique would certainly have killed me. With reluctance, I wrenched my gaze from her receding posterior and slowly swaying hips and returned to watching for that damn American.
 

Eventually I spotted him in the crowd pacing up and down. One reason I had chosen the theatre for our meeting was that it would be natural for him to be waiting for someone and I did not trust him to be able to hide his anticipation. He was taking out his watch, pacing up and down and scanning the crowd but I hoped the secret police watching him would not be alarmed given that there were any number of nervous men in the crowd calculating whether they could afford a girl that had caught their eye. Fulton looked straight past me, twice. As I had hoped, I was invisible in my uniform but I still retreated slightly into the shadows, waiting for the next scene of our drama to be performed.

Our first actor entered stage left. I had met him only briefly an hour before but there could be no mistaking him. He was as thin as Fauche was fat, and lanky with it. His clothes hung on him like the sails of a becalmed ship, and were just as stained and creased. I had not asked his name and he had not offered it when Dominique had brought him to her rooms. He was dressed in black and grey and had the ink stained fingers of a clerk, but his manner suggested he had a higher station in life, perhaps a tutor. His face was long, thin and sallow and his teeth worn away around the step of the pipe that constantly jutted from his lipless mouth.

He performed the simple part we had allocated to him with the aplomb of the great John Kemble himself. He did what he had been directed to do and did it with style. He walked up to Fulton and asked him the time, and then walked on his way. It was a small role, but a vital one and it had the desired effect for the rest of the production. As our actor walked out of the pool of light around the theatre entrance I saw that he was being followed. One of Fulton’s watchers had detached himself from the American and would now be occupied following my thin friend on a tour of some of the less well-known taverns of Paris. One down and one to go, I hoped.