HMS Diamond (35 page)

      
Three of them were portly middle-aged merchants that had known each other for many years. The fourth was a stranger, a man who just happened to be staying at the inn and was invited to the gentleman’s table. His name was Couriol.

      
He was younger than the other three and would have been viewed as handsome had it not been for the scowl that seemed to be permanently etched on his face. His piercing black eyes stood under shaggy brows giving him the appearance of fierceness—even evil. But what made him even stranger was that it seemed he could not keep his eyes off one of the other diners, M. Lesurques.

      
Joseph Lesurques was holding forth, talking about his family, his recent retirement, and having just moved to Paris from the small town of Douai. He described the apartment he had taken on Rue Montmartre and the plans he had for furnishing it. But, before he could finish, the young stranger who, until now, had been silent interrupted him.

      
"Those are wonderful plans," he began, "but how do you know what tomorrow has in store for you? I mean, I hope you find peace in your retirement but, if you do, you will be very lucky indeed. For the past five or six years, there has been no
citoyen
, high or low, who could predict what the next day, let alone retirement, would bring."

      
It was an odd comment. Its pessimism was in sharp contrast to the flamboyant style of his clothes; but, after an awkward pause, the men ignored it and went on to discuss other matters. In spite of the somber young man the breakfast passed pleasantly and they soon adjourned to the
Palais Royal
, where after coffee at the
Rotonde du Caveau
, they separated.

***

      
After having dinner with their jailer, Smith and Walker arrived back at their nominal jail and were greeted by a squad of soldiers led by a full colonel who ordered them seized, bound, blind-folded, and taken behind the building where they were none-too-gently placed in a cart with Midshipman Wright, and "John Bromley," Smith’s alleged personal servant. To be sure, they protested their treatment, but to no avail. No one would talk to them other than to order their silence, not even the colonel who was supervising the detail.

      
They were deposited at the main gate of La Havre’s central prison and rushed inside. The blindfolds and bonds were removed, but still no one would talk to them. After a few moments a captain appeared with a pile of clothing, dropped it on a table, ordered the men to put the clothes on, and left. The clothing was little more than filthy rags and everyone looked to Smith as if to ask: What do we do now?

      
Smith looked at the guards with their muskets and bayonets, shrugged in resignation, and started taking off his uniform. After changing they were taken down a flight of stairs and shoved into a large cell.

      
They could smell the room long before they got near it. It was the smell of too many men, confined in too small a space, for too long a time. Adding to the stench were two open latrine pots and floor straw that had not been changed in over a year. From down the corridor came the sound of two men viciously fighting, but the guards paid no attention.

      
At first, because of the darkness, nothing could be seen. As their eyes adjusted they could make out about twenty-five other prisoners sitting on the floor or on wooden crates. There was no mistaking. These were not captured British seaman; they were the dregs of Le Havre.

      
The prisoners glanced at the new arrivals with studied indifference as the four men found an unoccupied corner where they could huddle.

      
"Sidney, what’s going on?" Walker asked.

      
"I have no idea, but something has gone terribly wrong. I’ll admit that perhaps our previous situation was a bit generous. But, if we were going to be placed with other prisoners of war, I would have expected we would be with other officers, or at least British seamen. These are common criminals—and by the looks of them, nasty ones at that."

      
As the men were mulling over Smith’s comments, a large shirtless man came over, kicked Bromley in the leg and said something in French. Bromley looked confused and glanced over at Smith who was equally puzzled. The man repeated his statement, only louder this time.

      
"What’s he saying?" Walker asked of Bromley.

      
"I have no idea."

      
"But he’s speaking French. That’s your native language."

      
"He’s not speaking any French I’ve ever heard."

      
"That’s ‘cause ee’s talkin’ argot." The voice came from a man several prisoners over from the group. He was of medium height and thin build and wore a pair of improbable wire-rimmed glasses with one of the lenses badly cracked. He got on his knees, scrambled over and sat Indian-style next to Smith.

      
"What did you say?" Smith asked.

      
"I said ‘ee’s talkin’ argot. And he says he owns this ‘ear corner and if you wants to sit ‘ear you gots to pay rent."

      
"What on earth are you talking about?" Asked Smith.

      
The man sighed as if he was talking to a particularly slow schoolboy. "How would you say..." he thought for a moment, "...’The Bourgeosie is stupid’ in French?"

      
"Le Bourgeoise est stupid." Smith replied.

      
"Well, down ‘ere that would be... ‘Le dab est sinve.’"

      
"You’re serious?" Smith inquired.

      
"Very. What’s the French word for bread?"

      
"Pain"

      
"In argot it’s ‘arton.’ What’s the French word for night?"

      
"Soir."

      
"Down ‘ere it’s ‘Sorgue.’ You’re British, what’s the French word for English?"

      
"Anglais"

      
"‘ere it’s Angluche. You see, we gots our own lingo, one that the guards—most of them anyway—don’t understand."

      
The ‘property owner’ was losing patience. He lashed out again with his foot, this time catching Walker. Walker slowly got to his feet and said, "I’ll handle this, captain."

      
Walker stood directly in front of the man. "Allow me to point out, my friend, that your claim to ownership of this corner is, at best, questionable. Indeed, I might even hazard the opinion that it is a wholly indefensible claim either in law or in logic. However, we are not ungenerous men. So, in payment, please be so good as to take THIS."

      
The man, lulled by Walker’s soft speech, never saw the blow coming. It caught him on the side of the nose, breaking it with a resounding crack. The man howled, clutched his face and bent over.

      
"And THIS. And THIS." Walker continued to pound him on the back of the head and ribs. "You abortive son of a sea-cook. If you want further payment, damn your eyes, I’ll cut out your liver and feed it to you. Would that be payment enough?"

      
Walker gave the bent-over man a shove that sent him sprawling on to the cell floor, where he quickly scrambled to a far corner. The other men in the cell looked up briefly, but said nothing and went back to their conversations. Walker sat back down.

      
Smith looked over in surprise. "Lucas, I didn’t know you had it in you."

      
"Because you assume there are no bullies to deal with in America?"

      
Smith laughed and turned to the English-speaking prisoner. "Now how about you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here."

      
"Name’s McHale. Jimmy McHale. Me mother was French so I knew the lingo and decided to come over ‘ere ‘tween the wars to find work. All them paid-off British seamen, ya know, made work ‘ard to come by."

      
Smith nodded.

      
"Fact, I was in the navy meself." At this he took off his shirt and showed the group a tattoo of an anchor topped by a crown on his arm and a medal tattooed on his left chest.

      
"I understand the anchor, Walker said, "but what’s the medal for? Were you decorated?"

      
"Well, not exactly; but I should’a been, with all I put up with. So I decided to award meself one, like."

      
"How’d you get here?"

      
Ah, it seems I ‘ad a bit of a disagreement with a shopkeeper over whether I actually paid for somethin’. I can be a bit firgetful at times, ya understand. So they clapped me in this ‘ere brig."

      
"How long is your sentence?"

      
"Sentence?" The man laughed. "I ain’t been tried yet."

      
"How long have you been here?"

      
"‘bout two years."

      
The four looked at each other with concern.

      
Several days later they were led out of the cell and taken to the main gate of the prison. There a coach was waiting for them along with a squad of soldiers and the prison commandant.

      
"Gentlemen, you are to be transported to Paris," he began, "but before you board this coach..."

      
Smith interrupted him. "Commander, I demand to know what is happening. My friends and I are British officers and Bromley is my personal servant. Why are we not being held with other British officers? Why are we being treated like common criminals?"

      
"Because you
are
common criminals." And with that he explained their new status as arsonists and spies.

      
Smith was beside himself. "But that’s absurd. It’s a lie. It’s nothing more than..."

      
The French officer held up his hand. "Monsieur, I have no idea if it is a lie or not; but the Directorate thinks it’s the truth. So, you’re going to Paris and there are two ways you can go. I can shackle your legs with irons and tie your arms behind your back; or, if you will give your parole, you can travel as gentlemen. The choice is yours, but the trip will take four days—or longer depending on the roads and the mood of the coach driver—and I can assure you that traveling in irons will be something less than a completely comfortable experience.

      
Smith thought for a moment. "I believe I speak for the group. You have our word as gentlemen that we will do nothing to cause our escape."

      
The commandant seemed satisfied with that and the four boarded the coach.

***

      
Two days later four men mounted rented horses and left Paris by the Rue de Vaugirard. They were laughing and joking—looking to the casual observer like four gentlemen who were simply out for a pleasant days ride. A more careful observer, however, might have noticed how forced their gaiety seemed, how hollow and convulsive their laughter. He might have noticed the brooding scowl on the face of the man with the shaggy eyebrows and penetrating eyes. He might even have noticed the lumps the men had under their long cloaks just about where a saber would be carried.

      
Earlier that morning, the coach containing Smith and his compatriots got underway from the town of Pacy-sur-Eure where they had spent the night. They had taken on an additional passenger that morning. He said his name was Laborde, a silk merchant, and he needed immediate transportation to Paris. It was pointed out to him that there were already four people in the coach. The man seemed surprised that there were other passengers, but said he didn’t mind. He would ride on top with the driver. In fact, he preferred to ride there.

      
About noon the four horsemen arrived at the tiny village of Chaville, not far from the old royal palace at Versailles. One of the men had proceeded ahead to place their meal orders at the
Hotel de la Poste.
They all ate heartily and, afterwards, had pipes along with their
café
and sat around quietly talking. About three o’clock they remounted and followed the road past Versailles and into the thick elm forest that lead to the town of Plaisir where again they halted.

      
One of their horses had thrown a shoe and one of the men had broken the little chain that fastened a spur to his boot. While one of them went in search of a blacksmith for his horse, the other three went in to Madame Chátelain’s, a
lemonadière
, to refresh themselves. The man with the broken spur asked for a needle and some strong thread to make repairs. One of the serving girls saw he was rather awkward with the needle and offered to make the repair for him. When the fourth man finally rejoined the group, they played billiards for several hours before again mounting-up about 7:30.

      
Madame Chátelain stood in the door watching the strange group ride out of sight when a serving girl pointed out that one of the men had forgotten his sword. She thought of sending a stable-boy running after them; but knew he would never catch up. About an hour later, however, the man with the broken spur came rushing back at a full gallop. He claimed his sword, attached it to his belt, tossed down a quick glass of brandy and, again at a full gallop, chased after his comrades.