Rebellion

“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.

“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.”

The general’s aide appeared at the entrance. “Your baggage is loaded, sir.” The officer’s glance slid sideways.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll be there shortly.” The general paused, then said, “You can inform the driver there’ll be two of us. Major Hawkwood will be joining me. He’s an American, you know; come to offer us his support.”

“Very good, sir.” The lieutenant nodded. “You have luggage, Major?” There was no hint of suspicion or even surprise on the aide’s face, which suggested the lieutenant was well used to dealing with his general’s last-minute whims and would probably have been equally unabashed had the general introduced the newcomer as the Sultan of Rangoon.

“I regret I was separated from my valise. I’ve made arrangements for it to be sent on. I’m carrying all I need.” He indicated the knapsack.

If he asks for my papers, it’s all over.

“A pity the same couldn’t be said for our Marshal Marmont,” Souham said as his lieutenant disappeared once more. “Do his cooks still travel with him?”

He nodded. “All twelve of them, General.”

“A hell of a way to go to war.” The general parked the cheroot in the corner of his mouth and shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

The aide was back again, his message delivered. “The coach is ready, sir.”

Souham nodded. “Right, thank you, Lieutenant. You can relax. Go and get yourself a drink. And mind the bastards don’t serve you from the bottom of the cask.” He turned and removed the cheroot from his lips. “Shall we, Major?”

They left the hotel and the driver held the coach door open as he followed the general up the steps. It occurred to him, as he took his seat and the driver retracted the steps and closed the door behind him, that he hadn’t bought a ticket.

As if reading his mind, Souham smiled. “You can spread yourself out, Major. We have the vehicle to ourselves. Rank, as they say, has its privileges.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. It meant they weren’t likely to be disturbed until they’d reached their destination. He recalled then that Souham wasn’t only a general; he was also a count. He’d received the title after his victory at the battle of Vich; the same engagement that had cost him his eye.

There was a jolt as the driver released the brake and then the coach moved slowly off.

The general removed his hat and ran a hand through his thinning locks.

“So, Major, I’ve a cousin who served with Rochambeau during your war of independence. He tells me that America is a beautiful country.”

“Indeed it is, sir.”

Jesus, he thought.

He wondered how long he’d be able to maintain the charade. What he knew of America he’d gleaned only from his service in the West Indies, during conversations with American merchants in Dominica and St Christopher. He knew a little about the eastern side of the country. Everywhere else was a mystery.

“So you’ve never been there yourself, General?” he ventured.

Souham shook his head. “Sadly no.”

Maybe the gods are back with me, he thought.

A vision of the moments before his capture came into his mind. He saw the dragoon lieutenant raise the sword – his sword – and drive it home. As the light died in Leon’s eyes he felt the spark of anger deep within him; as if a tiny ember had burst into flame. Somehow, he would make them pay. He didn’t know how. But one day he would exact his revenge for the death of his friend.

The vision faded. He realized his fists were clenched and that the general was gazing at him with a quizzical expression.

“Forgive me, sir,” he heard himself say, while risking what he hoped was a rueful smile. “It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I’m a long way from home.”

Souham shook his head. “No need to apologize, Major. You’re not alone in that. We all are.”

From outside, above the noise of the coach in motion, there came the sound of hooves on cobbles as a body of horsemen entered the square. He heard voices, someone shouting orders, but the words were indistinct. Parting the blind, he looked out into the night, to where the riders were milling. Torches flickered. He could see dark uniforms and darker-coloured shakos.

Chasseurs.

As calmly as he could, he readjusted the blind and sat back.

“Your aide had better get a move on, General, if he wants to slake his thirst. There’s a unit of cavalry out there who look like they’re about to drink the town dry.”

The coach hit a pothole and bounced. The noise of the horsemen faded, drowned by the trundle of the coach wheels as they left the square behind. He felt his pulse begin to slow.

Across from him, General Souham’s right eye glinted with amusement. “I fear you’ve severely underestimated Lieutenant Bellac’s determination where alcohol is concerned.”

Taking another pull on the last inch of cheroot, the general smiled. “So, Major,” he said, settling himself back into his seat. “We’ve a ways to go. To pass the time, you can tell me all about America.”

As he watched the light of expectation steal across the general’s face, the thought struck him that this had all the beginnings of a very long night.

Chapter 2

Hawkwood waited for the attack. He knew it was coming and he knew it was imminent. Timing his retaliation would be crucial.

The inscrutable expression on his opponent’s face wasn’t helping matters.

It seemed to Hawkwood that Chen hadn’t moved a muscle for at least five minutes. It was as if the Chinaman was carved from stone. Neither did he appear to be breathing hard, which was just as disconcerting, but then in their brief association Hawkwood couldn’t recall a time when Chen had ever broken sweat.

While he, on the other hand, was perspiring like a pig on a spit.

It wasn’t as if the room was warm. In fact, it wasn’t really a room at all. It was a cellar and it was situated beneath the Rope and Anchor public house which sat in a grubby lane a spit away from Queen Street on the border between Ratcliffe and Limehouse. Tallow candles set in metal brackets around the walls and in a wagon-wheel chandelier suspended by a rope from the centre of the ceiling were the only sources of illumination.

The rest of the walls were bare save for a row of metal hooks by the door, from which were suspended Hawkwood’s coat and jacket and what looked like an array of farming implements and a selection of tools that would not have looked out of place in a blacksmith’s forge.

The cellar’s flagstoned floor was covered by a layer of straw-filled mattresses, thin enough so as not to hamper movement and yet of sufficient bulk to absorb the weight of the cellar’s occupants and to prevent injury were they to stumble and lose their footing. They were also there to dampen sound.

Aside from Hawkwood and Chen, the cellar was empty, though anyone entering who happened to glance over their shoulder towards one of the darkened corners would have been forgiven for thinking there was someone standing in the shadows watching proceedings. A closer inspection, however, would have revealed the figure to be merely a crude wooden effigy. Though even that description would have required a degree of imagination, for the effigy was in fact nothing more ominous than an oaken pillar into which had been inserted four limb-shaped spars. It had been constructed to represent a man’s body with arms extended, but to the uninitiated it looked more like a leafless tree trunk.

Chen launched his strike. He seemed to do it with a minimum of effort and without a noticeable change of expression. In fact he didn’t so much move as flow. Candlelight whispered along the blade as the knife curved towards Hawkwood’s belly.

Hawkwood stepped into the attack and drove the tipstaff against Chen’s wrist, turning the blade away.

Both men stepped back.

“Good,” Chen said softly, his face betraying no emotion. “Again.”

Unlike Hawkwood, Chen was wearing neither shirt nor breeches but a wide-sleeved, indigo-coloured tunic cinched about his middle by a black sash. The tunic reached to Chen’s thighs. Beneath it, he wore a pair of matching blue trousers, tucked into a pair of white leggings. His feet were shod in a pair of soft-soled, black canvas slippers.

Chen repeated his attack and once more Hawkwood countered.

“Again,” Chen said patiently.

They practised the sequence a dozen times, without pause, by which time the handle of Hawkwood’s tipstaff was slick with moisture from his palm. Chen, on the other hand, looked as if he’d just awakened from a refreshing afternoon nap.

Hawkwood had often wondered about Chen’s age. The man’s features were, like his skull, smooth and hairless. He could have been any age between thirty and sixty. It wasn’t as if the city was knee-deep in Chinamen that Hawkwood could make a well-informed judgement. Lascars there were a-plenty; many of them ensconced within the East India Company barracks along the Ratcliffe Highway. But Chinamen were still something of a rarity and could probably be numbered if not on the fingers of one hand then certainly in the low rather than the high hundreds.

Hawkwood and Chen’s paths had crossed three months before at, of all places, a horse fair on Bow Common.

Hawkwood had gone there with Nathaniel Jago who, to Hawkwood’s astonishment, had expressed interest in buying a horse. He had a hankering, he’d told Hawkwood, to invest in a carriage so that he and Connie Fletcher could take five o’clock drives around Hyde Park with the rest of the swells.

Connie Fletcher was a former working girl turned madam who ran a high-class bagnio off Cavendish Square. Jago and Connie had been keeping company for nearly a year which, by Hawkwood’s reckoning, had to be some kind of record. Hawkwood had tried to envisage Jago and Connie surrounded by the cream of London society all trying to cut a dash along the tree-lined avenues, and had failed miserably.

He suspected that the idea of riding in a carriage had been more Connie’s dream than Jago’s, in an attempt to garner some degree of respectability, for when they had served together in the Peninsula, his former sergeant’s aversion to anything even remotely connected with equestrian pursuits had been legendary, and that included, in some instances, cheering on the cavalry. Horses were good for just one thing, Jago had told him, and that was as a supplement to rations, and only then if chickens were in short supply and the beef had turned maggoty.

Hawkwood wondered if this new-found hankering was a precursor to an attempt by Connie to persuade Jago to make an honest woman of her. Now, there was a thought to keep a man awake at night.

In the event, neither of them need have worried, for the quality of horse flesh on offer had been nothing to write home about: scrub horses and sway-backed mules for the most part. So, with Jago grumbling that he’d have to wait until the Barnet Horse Fair to continue his search, they’d turned their attentions to the peripheral entertainments, one of which had been a boxing booth. Other than its size – it was considerably larger than either of its immediate neighbours – there hadn’t been much to distinguish the tent from the rest of the tawdry marquees with their fortune tellers, palm readers and freak shows, had it not been for the placard above the sagging entrance which, in florid and faded lettering, proclaimed: Billy Boyd – The Bethnal Green Bruiser – Challenges All Comers!