Rebellion

And his eyes opened.

“Time to get up, Major.”

The hand was still on his shoulder as he reached for the pistol beneath the saddle he’d been using for a pillow, forgetting, not for the first time, that the weapon had been taken from him. The memory caused his face to harden. He moved his arm and felt for his sword. At least they had left him that. He traced the hilt reassuringly. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the man gazing down at him.

Dressed in the uniform of chasseur, the insignia at collar and cuff indicated he held the rank of captain. He was young, in his early twenties, with dark hair and soulful eyes. He looked concerned at having interrupted his charge’s sleep.

“There’s coffee by the fire. It’s still hot.” The captain, whose name was Fosse, gave a small, almost boyish smile. “But I apologize in advance. The taste is execrable.”

Pushing the blanket aside, he watched the officer walk away and thought about the dream. It wasn’t the first time it had come to him and he doubted it would be the last. He’d relived the nightmare a lot over the six weeks since his capture. During that time the anger he’d felt at Leon’s death had not diminished.

They had returned his horse. It had been caught by one of the foragers on their way down from the ridge. He’d been allowed to mount up, only to have a sergeant of dragoons take the reins. Then, leaving Leon’s corpse where it had fallen, they’d escorted him out of the woods. The infantry had returned to their foraging. The dragoons and their red-coated charge had retraced their path towards the village before turning north. He’d known immediately where they were taking him.

Sabugal.

Marmont’s headquarters; the army commander whose manoeuvres he and Leon had been tracking for the past two months. It occurred to him that Leon would have found that amusing.

The forty-mile ride along rutted, water-logged tracks, through wooded hills and valleys and across tarns swollen by rainfall, had been hard going. He’d travelled most of the way in silence, wrapped in his cloak, fighting the chill in his bones brought on by the weather, his grief at Leon’s murder and an increasing awareness of the gravity of his situation.

When he arrived at Sabugal he’d discovered that word of his capture had preceded him. A small crowd had gathered; mostly officers who knew of his work and who, despite his being the enemy, had been anxious to make his acquaintance; to be able to say that they had shaken his hand.

The French were billeted in the citadel; a Moorish castle, the ramparts of which had been visible from miles away, long before he and his escort crossed the old stone bridge and entered the town. There he’d been questioned; first by Marmont’s bloated, bad-tempered chief of staff, de la Martinière, and then by the marshal himself. He’d given them nothing, other than his name and rank; which they’d known anyway.

De la Martinière had wanted him shot as a spy. Marmont, an urbane man with a liking for the finer things in life and, fortunately, the antithesis of his subordinate, had asked him for his parole.

There was no doubt that both of them believed he’d been engaged in spying activities, but Marmont, unlike his foulmouthed general and in adherence to the articles of war, had been unprepared to execute a British officer in uniform, accepting his word that he was not a spy but a field intelligence officer, a fine distinction but one which, nevertheless, reflected the acceptance of the code that existed between the two opposing armies.

He’d given his parole willingly for the advantages it allowed. Parole meant he’d still be a prisoner, but at least he would enjoy some freedom of movement so long as he agreed not to attempt to escape, not to pass intelligence to the British army or its allies, nor to serve against the armies of France, until such time as he had been exchanged, rank for rank. The agreement didn’t say anything about gathering intelligence during his captivity and passing it on later.

It transpired, however, that the marshal’s idea of parole bore little resemblance to the accepted interpretation of the term, for he had been granted no freedom or privacy beyond that accorded to a regular prisoner. Instead, they had secured him in a room and placed a sentry on permanent duty outside his door.

Well, he’d thought, two could play at that game. If the French commander was prepared to ride roughshod over their agreement then surely that invalidated his pledge not to pass on intelligence. In his mind he was therefore free to relay as much information as possible back to Wellington’s headquarters.

The opportunity to do that had arisen when Marmont and his staff, with their British parolee in tow, had transferred their headquarters to Salamanca. There were British agents in Salamanca, notably one Dr Patrick Curtis, Rector of the Irish College and regius professor of astronomy and natural history at Salamanca University. Curtis had been running an intelligence organization from the college for years. Stretching all the way from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees and beyond, it was composed for the most part of priests and alcaldes, all linked by a spider’s web of runners. And it had been providing Wellington with information since the outbreak of the war.

Even the officers assigned to guard him had expressed disgust at their commander’s decision to deny their captive the privileges allowed under the terms of parole, one of which was the right to receive visitors. They had viewed it as a stain on their honour and in defiance of their orders had turned a blind eye to members of the local populace who wanted to pay their respects.

Curtis and his agents had made contact two days after his arrival.

It hadn’t taken Marmont long to suspect that messages were being passed between his prisoner and the wily old Irishman, and he’d summoned Curtis for questioning. He’d even considered placing him under arrest and imprisoning him, but he had no proof and Curtis was well respected in the city, particularly within the church’s hierarchy, so Marmont had had little option but to give the priest the benefit of the doubt and let him go. But the incident had been enough to convince the marshal to take prompt remedial action against his prisoner.

“You’re to be transferred,” Marmont had told him. “I’ve two companies of infantry returning to France. They’ll escort you as far as Bayonne. From there you’ll be taken north, to the prison depot at Verdun, where you will be assigned a place of internment, there to await an offer of exchange.”

The march across Spain through Valladolid, Burgos, Vitoria and San Sebastian had taken nearly three weeks. Now they were on the home stretch. The previous night they’d made camp outside Biriatou, a small village nestling among the Pyrenean foothills. It was their last day on the road.

The captain was right, he thought. The coffee was atrocious. It tasted as if it had been made from acorns. There was some bread, too; a slice of cold bacon and a wedge of gritty cheese. The captain had apologized for the quality of the food, but now that they were over the border and back in their own country, he’d been assured it would be easier to pick up supplies.

He finished the coffee and tipped the grounds on to the ashes of the fire. The troops were breaking camp around him. He rolled up his bedroll, buckled on his sword and picked up his saddle. They would be in Bayonne by nightfall.

They were two miles north of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, with the mounted troops leading the two infantry companies, when the chasseur captain broke away from the head of the column and fell in beside him. Leaning over from his saddle, the captain lowered his voice, “We have to talk, Major.”

He waited for the captain to continue. It had turned into a glorious day. They were high up and the views were stunning. To his left, looking out over the green-clad hills, he could see the reflection of sun on water: the Bay of Biscay. There were ships, he saw. They were some way off the coast and it was hard to make out their flags at that distance. The French didn’t have that much of a navy left. From her lines, he thought one of them might have been American.

“You look like a man with a weight on his mind, Captain,” he prompted, speaking in French.

The chasseur bit his lip. “I think it would be better if we conversed in English, my friend.”

An odd response, as was the use of the word “friend”. He stared at the captain, trying to read the expression on the young officer’s face. “As you wish.”

The chasseur captain cleared his throat awkwardly. “I regret to say, Major, we’ve not been entirely truthful with you.”

“How so?” He frowned.

“My orders, as you know, were to escort you to Bayonne.”

“Indeed, and you’ve been splendid company. I’ll miss our conversations around the fire.”

“As will I, Major. Fate has declared us to be on different sides and yet I feel there is a strong bond between us and it is for that reason that I must warn you that you have been severely misled.”

“By whom?”

“That whore’s son, de la Martinière!” The captain spat and then recovered as he collected his thoughts, before adding just as vehemently, “And, it grieves me to say it, by Marshal Marmont also.”

It was plain to see why the captain had requested they spoke in English. He hadn’t wanted anyone else in the column to hear his outburst against his superiors.

“I’m not with you, Captain. In what way?”

“Upon your arrival at Bayonne, you are expecting to be met by another escort who will take you to Verdun, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Not so. The marshal sent a dispatch shortly after your arrival in Salamanca. It was to Paris, for the attention of the Duke of Feltre. It was in the marshal’s name, but it was composed and signed by de la Martinière. The general told me that himself.”

He felt a stirring in his gut. The Duke of Feltre, he knew, was Bonaparte’s Minister of War. Before he could comment, the captain’s mouth twisted with disdain. “The dispatch gave details of your capture and the papers that were taken from you.”

“Papers?”

“The notes you made on the composition and strength of our army, our ordnance and our troop movements.”

There had been no papers. He knew better than to carry such incriminating evidence on his person. Whatever intelligence he accrued during his missions as an exploring officer was always kept in his head.

“What else?”

“Notification that you were captured in uniform and that you gave your parole but that you were not to be trusted and that you should be watched at all times . . .”

The captain’s voice tapered off. He looked uncomfortable.

“And?” The unpleasant feeling that had started in his belly began to spread through him.