Rebellion

“And that upon our arrival in Bayonne, my orders are to take your sword and deliver you into the hands of the Bureau Secret – Savary’s men. You’re to be placed in restraints and taken to Paris for interrogation.”

The secret police. His stomach knotted.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m a soldier, Major, not a police lackey. I heard that the Emperor once said if he told Savary to murder his own wife and children, he knew the order would be obeyed without a moment’s hesitation. I’ve no desire to hand you over to his people.” The captain hesitated, then said, “And neither have my officers. We’ve been three weeks on the road together. Even before we swapped stories around the fire, your exploits were well known to us. We knew you to be a brave and honourable man. You’re no spy, Major, despite what General de la Martinière would have us believe. Spies skulk in the shadows. You wear your scarlet uniform with pride. You’ve never made an attempt to disguise yourself. You make no secret of the fact that you are gathering information. It’s been our misfortune, until now, that you’ve always had the better of us.” The young officer allowed his face to lighten and he said sheepishly, “I gave chase after you once, you know. I never told you that. It was about four months back, on the road to Huerta. You led us a merry dance.”

“I had a good horse.”

Fosse eyed the mare speculatively. “You still have, Major.” There was a catch in the chasseur’s voice.

A movement in the sky overhead caught his eye. A flock of buzzards was circling the summit of a nearby hill. Something had died or was dying on the slopes, he guessed. The birds were circling for the kill. Perhaps like Savary’s thugs.

“You’re suggesting I break my parole and make a run for it?”

The Frenchman ran a hand over his horse’s neck. His face remained neutral. “I’m merely suggesting you may wish to consider your options in the light of our conversation. Besides, I doubt an officer of your experience would be foolish enough to attempt an escape in broad daylight, in the open, flanked by two companies of armed infantry and a detachment of chasseurs. I would have little option but to order my men to hunt you down. I doubt you’d get very far. You’d be seen for miles.”

The captain stood in his saddle and looked out towards the bay. “The view is quite splendid, is it not? Though not the sort of countryside I’d like to traverse at night, I venture. Which reminds me, we must press on. The likelihood is that we will not arrive in Bayonne until after sunset.” The captain turned and looked at him. “You’ll forgive me, Major. I must rejoin my men. Enjoy the rest of your journey.”

With a brief salute, he was gone.

As he watched the captain ride off towards the head of the column, he pondered on the chasseur’s words. He recalled how, back in Salamanca, in contravention of their general’s orders, his guards had busied themselves with other duties whenever visitors were in the offing. Was it his imagination or had Captain Fosse just intimated that he and his men would avert their gaze at an opportune moment also? He had, he suspected, until Bayonne to decide.

It was dusk when the column finally reached the outskirts of the town. To the west, the last rays of sunset had finally given way to a dark aubergine sky. Although the coast was still three miles distant, the smell of the sea, carried inland along the river from the estuary, hung in the air like a sharp bouquet.

They entered one of the town’s squares, and halted.

“My men and I will try and find somewhere for us to bed down for the night,” Fosse told him as they dismounted. “I suggest you remain here while we go and look. I regret I don’t know the town that well. We may be gone for some time.”

The captain held his gaze for several seconds before giving a brief nod of farewell.

He watched Fosse and his men walk away. The rest of the column were paying him no heed. They had become used to his closer association with the chasseurs rather than the infantry and they were too busy attending to their own requirements. He retrieved his knapsack and the cloak from his saddle bag and slipped it on. He stroked the mare’s neck and she whickered softly. They’d travelled many roads together and survived numerous adventures. If her disappearance was noted as well as his own, it was likely the alarm would be raised a lot quicker than if he alone was seen to be absent.

He knew she’d be well looked after. Fosse would see to that. He owed the young captain a debt of gratitude. Some day, he hoped he would be able to repay him. He drew his cloak around him, adjusted his hat low on his brow, slipped the knapsack over his shoulder, and without a backward glance walked purposefully into the rapidly descending twilight.

He wondered how long he had before the alarm was raised. His fate lay in the chasseur captain’s hands and he knew there was a time limit on how long Fosse would wait before he started shouting. The captain might have been willing to offer him a way out, but it was unlikely he’d jeopardize his career any more than he had to. He had, he estimated, an hour, perhaps two at the most, before the alert was sounded. And then they would come after him.

It was a guaranteed certainty that when they discovered him missing, they’d assume he’d try to head south towards the mountains. They’d know he had allies within the guerrilleros who would be only too happy to escort him through the high passes and back into Spain. The French would search the town and then they would scour the countryside in the direction of the frontier.

But they would be looking in the wrong place, because he wasn’t going south; he was heading north.

The plan had been gestating in his mind long before the chasseur captain voiced his unhappiness at his general’s duplicity. The seed had been planted the day he and his escort left Salamanca.

Rumours that the Emperor was planning to invade Russia had been circulating for months. The troop movements he and Leon had observed on their sorties confirmed that the French were transferring an increasing number of men northwards, in particular contingents of the Imperial Guard. They were either being used to plug the gaps in the Empire’s home defences or else they were part of an impending invasion force. But were they really destined for Russia, or somewhere else? There had even been talk that Bonaparte had resurrected his plan to invade England. Which was it? It was his duty to find out, he had decided, and to accomplish that he’d have to travel into the heart of the Empire; to the last place they would think of looking for him.

He glanced around. The streets were quite busy and there were a lot of military personnel in evidence; not that unusual, given Bayonne’s proximity to the border, which made it one of the main staging posts for troop movements between France and Spain. In the poorly lit streets, however, one uniform looked much like any other. Nevertheless, he kept his cloak about him as he made his way towards the town centre.

As he drew closer to the main concourse, he spotted the entrance to a narrow alleyway and stepped into the shadows. He used the knife concealed in his boot to unpick the stitches on the inside of his jacket. It took but a few seconds to withdraw the bank notes and the two dozen guineas sewn into the lining. Then, stowing the knife and slipping the money into his pocket, he retraced his steps to the street. He kept his head bowed. All he needed was to run into Fosse and his men coming towards him from the opposite direction.

He struck lucky at his third port of call. The hotel concierge, taken in by his military cloak, weather-stained headgear and sword, was only too happy to help an officer he thought was part of the Grand Army.

In answer to his query, the concierge advised him that a public diligence was due to depart from the square outside the hotel very shortly and that one of the guests, General Souham, was booked on it. In fact, he was the only passenger.

He thanked the concierge and took a seat in the darkest corner of the lobby. General Souham! It wasn’t often you were about to introduce yourself to the Divisional Commander of the Army of Portugal. He bowed his head and pretended to doze. Just another battle-weary officer seeking rest and recuperation from the war.

It was twenty minutes before the general entered the lobby, accompanied by his baggage and a weary looking aide-de-camp. Even if he hadn’t been wearing his uniform, the general would have been an easy man to identify for he was very tall, well over six feet in height. Greying hair showed beneath the rim of his hat. In addition to his distinctive height, two other features marked him out: the livid scar, half visible on his temple, and the black patch that covered his left eye socket. He was also smoking a thin cheroot.

He waited until the aide had disappeared outside to supervise the loading of the general’s luggage before he made his move.

The general took a draw on his cheroot, savouring the taste. He looked like a man who was relaxed and at ease with himself. But then he could afford to be. He was a general and every other soldier within sight and earshot was his subordinate.

“Forgive me, sir, General Souham?” He spoke in French, as he had with the concierge.

The general’s head turned and he found himself perused through a spiral of cigar fumes. The general’s right eye searched for recognition and an indication of rank. “And who might you be?”

Some senior staff might have shown irritation at being approached unexpectedly by a lower ranked officer. On this occasion there was only curiosity.

“A fellow traveller, General, if you’ll permit.”

A frown creased the scarred brow.

It’s now or never, he thought.

“I understand from the concierge that you’re about to board the diligence and I wondered if you’d allow me to share your coach. I’ve been on attachment to Marshal Marmont’s staff and recently arrived from Salamanca, en route to Orleans. I’d be more than happy to share any expenses.”

The general’s right eyebrow lifted as he picked a shred of tobacco from his lip, not so much surprised by the request as intrigued.

“Your name again? I didn’t catch it.”

“My apologies, General. Major Hawkwood, 11th Regiment of Infantry.”

The general’s frown deepened. His eye moved to the patch of red jacket showing through the gap in the cloak. “Really? That’s an interesting name. You’d better explain, Major.”

“I’m an American, sir, as is my regiment. Assigned to the Imperial Forces by President Madison with the permission of Emperor Bonaparte. I’ve been serving at Marshal Marmont’s headquarters in a liaison capacity. The president is most interested in the Spanish campaign.”

“Ah,” the general said drily, as if everything suddenly made sense. “Is he now? That’s comforting. I’m sure we’ll all sleep easier in our beds. And when you make your report to your President Madison, what will you tell him?”

“That the Emperor probably needs all the help he can get.”

The general stared at him. “Well, your French is excellent, Major. If you hadn’t told me, I’d have taken you for a native. But I’ll say this: it’s a damned good thing you’re a soldier and not an ambassador. Diplomacy isn’t your strong point.”

“No, General. It’s probably why I’m still a major.”

The corner of the general’s mouth lifted. “And how is the Marshal?”

“He’s well, sir. Still complaining about the quality of the wine.”

“Sounds familiar. He always did appreciate his home comforts.”