Authors: Rob Griffith
“Are you suspected?”
“Maybe Fouché knows my real allegiance and it suits his purpose to let me spy on him and his ilk. Maybe he doesn’t. I care little for my own life. For Dominique it is different. I wish to God she had not become involved but even her own parents could not control her so what am I meant to do, eh?”
Dominique blushed and glared at her uncle but said nothing. Instead of things becoming clearer, the more information I got the less idea I had as to what was going on.
“The Alien Office. What does it do?”
“You ask me that? You an Englishman?” Calvet laughed so much he spilt his brandy.
“I…”
“Calm down, my friend. I only joke with you. The best secret police is secret, is it not? The Alien Office was formed by your government to keep an eye on all the émigrés in London after the Revolution. Surveillance became assistance and then the Office began to correspond with Royalists still in France, and across Europe. They began to plot, to spy, even murder.” Calvet saw my incredulity. “Yes, some of your countrymen fight in red coats, some on the ships of your Navy, and some in the back alleys of Paris. It is all the same war, just different battles.”
“And Captain Wright?”
“He is a good man. He carries agents over from England and occasionally ventures ashore himself.”
I suppose I could have been more shocked but after having experienced a battlefield I had few notions left about the honour or nobility of war. If one dagger slipped between the right set of ribs in Paris saved a single British soldier’s life it would be worth it. Not that I had any intention of getting involved. Not then. I just wanted to get home. I was getting tired, even more confused and I needed a night’s sleep to digest what I had been told, so I yawned and stretched theatrically. Dominique took the hint and stood up.
“Come, uncle. Let us leave Monsieur Blackthorne to his rest.”
“Yes, of course. That is enough storytelling for one day. Sleep well, Monsieur Blackthorne. I think we have some busy days ahead of us. Tomorrow we will meet with some of our friends and plan your journey to the coast.” They exited and quietly closed the door behind them, unlocked this time, and I was left with just my thoughts and my fears.
I lay awake for a long time, trying to work out who or what to believe. However tempting it was to trust Dominique and her uncle I wasn’t naïve enough to think I had been so lucky as to fall in by chance with the very people who could help me escape. Neither could I credit that Captain John bloody Wright had lumbered me with the secrets of Bonaparte’s invasion plans while he escaped back to dear old England. I felt like a salmon; buffeted by forces I didn’t understand, swimming against the current to God knows where and all the while things smelt distinctly fishy around me.
I studied the papers and tried to memorise the lists of ports, the type of craft and the numbers of soldiers contained in the papers, just in case they were taken from me. I thought about destroying them but I didn’t trust my memory. As I read the lists I became more determined than ever to get back to England. Bonaparte planned to build thousands of invasion craft to ferry his armies across the Channel. Some were small gunboats, others large flat-bottomed barges for transporting horses and guns. Boulogne harbour was to be enlarged just to accommodate a fraction of the fleet.
If only half the craft reached their destination Bonaparte’s veterans would go through the Fencibles, Volunteers and Militia massed on the English coast like a hot knife through butter. I had to return home with the papers. However, when the Calvets and their friends came up with their preposterous plan the following day I seriously considered running to the nearest guillotine and putting my own head on the block. It would have been quicker and less painful.
CHAPTER SIX
The following morning I was properly allowed out of my room for the first time. As comfortable as it was I had become heartily sick of seeing the same four walls all the time. Dominique led me downstairs to a salon on the first floor. Whilst we walked she primed me with a very short character sketch of each of the men I was about to meet. I only half listened. I was just enjoying the novelty of being able to walk more than ten paces in any direction. The house was large and well furnished. The family wine business had obviously prospered for many years prior to the upheavals and tragedy of the Revolution.
I could hear voices, even laughter, ahead. The door to the salon was open but as we approached the conversations ceased, it was like walking into a tavern where you are not known. Dominique entered first and I followed. Large windows overlooked the square and outside the last of the blossoms were falling and the sun was winning a battle with the rain. Calvet was already there, along with the three others Dominique had warned me to expect. Claude was also there, and that was a surprise for me but more so for Dominique.
“What are you doing here? Get back to your room,” she said, like a governess discovering her charges under a table during a ball.
“No, I can help. I want to help,” Claude replied. Planting himself more firmly in his chair.
“Claude it is too dangerous. You’re just a boy,” she said, looking so anguished that I was about to leap to her aid and suggest to Claude that he did what his sister said when Calvet intervened.
“Let him help, Dominique,” he said. “He is almost a man. I asked him to come.”
Dominique glared at her uncle, and then back to Claude. She looked furious, but quickly controlled herself. The other three men were looking at their shoes, embarrassed by the argument. She looked back at Claude and nodded, grudgingly, but didn’t say anything. The room was silent for a few moments.
“Jules Montaignac, at your service,” said one of the three as he came to shake my hand, obviously eager to break the awkward silence.
“Ben Blackthorne,” I replied. Montaignac was in his early thirties. He was taller than me with short brown hair and a too-quick smile. His handshake was as brief and insincere as his smile and I immediately disliked him. We men seldom take against another simply because they are more handsome but I was prepared to make an exception in his case. Dominique had told me he was a lawyer and a deputy of the Corps Législatif, the latest and largely toothless French parliament. A politician and lawyer. Two more reasons I had for not liking him. You can imagine what I thought when I found out later that he and Dominique had been lovers.
Montaignac, taking charge, introduced the other two men. Ferdinand Fauche, was Swiss, a former teacher at the university and quite possibly the fattest man I have ever met. He made the then Prince of Wales look svelte. Fauche wore a green suit of superfine that must have been reinforced by an inventive tailor to withstand the strain around the buttons. On top of his rotund body sat an equally round head. He did not appear to have any neck that I could see. A mop of unruly black hair framed a ruddy countenance and a friendly smile. In contrast to Montaignac his greeting was warm and genuine, even if his handshake was like holding a pound of sausages.
The last of the three was André Duprez. He was a small man, but anybody would appear small next to Fauche. Even before Montaignac introduced him I had him pegged as a clerk. He was slightly stooped with worn elbows. Montaignac said he worked at the Ministry of Marine, but he said it as almost as an apology and Duprez frowned at him. Duprez was quiet and said little, but the one thing that endeared him to me was that he obviously shared my opinion of Montaignac. He refused a seat next to him and cut short any attempt by Montaignac at small talk, all of which seemed designed to emphasise to me how important the Corps Législatif was and, of course, how he was one of its leading lights.
“Let’s get to the business,” said Duprez, brusquely.
“Yes, indeed. We have much to discuss,” said Calvet, taking control of the conversation back from Montaignac and indicating everybody should sit.
I chose the most comfortable looking chair to sit in, supposing correctly that a group of Frenchmen would not come to any decision quickly. I looked around the room, noticing a few things that didn’t seem to fit. Above the fireplace there was a gilt mirror that was too big, on one wall there was large painting of classical ruins that looked as if it had been cut to fit the frame. A pair of garish vases stood either side of a door. As a male of the species I am aware that my opinion of decoration counts for nought but they looked out of place. I suspected that they had been purchased by François Calvet to impress, but they did the reverse. He must have been eager to put his own stamp on his brother’s house but they all looked like new and unwise additions to an otherwise pleasant and homely room, the walls were a warm cream colour and the chairs mostly a dark, rich leather.
Calvet waited until everyone was looking at him. “We need to think of a way for Monsieur Blackthorne here to get to the coast, quickly, safely and without the risk of him being stopped and searched by the gendarmes,” he said.
“I was speaking to the owner of the fromagerie where I buy most of my cheese. He had a delivery yesterday, some wonderful cheese from just outside Caen…” began Fauche.
“Please Ferdinand, get to the point,” said Montaignac.
“Yes, well, he said the driver got stopped twice on the road and was searched at the gates of the city. And that was for a cart coming
into
Paris. Checks going out are far stricter.”
“I agree, the roads are too risky,” said Calvet. “General Moncey has doubled the patrols by the gendarmes.”
“How about the river then?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s possible,” said Duprez. “There are barges heading for the coast all the time, many with supplies for the army. Barges are larger and have more places to hide.”
“True, but they are also being searched so it is still a risk. Blackthorne has no papers,” said Calvet.
“Surely you could procure him some, uncle?” said Dominique.
“Yes, my dear, but it would take a day or two,” said Calvet. Dominique frowned and I think she was thinking the same as I. That Calvet had had plenty of time to get me papers while I was recovering from my wound.
“Any delay is unacceptable. I am disappointed that the papers are not on their way already,” said Duprez.
“May I ask if it was you that stole the plans?” I said.
“Yes. Yes it was. Although I now wish I hadn’t taken the risk. It looks as though the plans will never reach your government,” said Duprez, standing and pacing up and down near the windows.
“They will, I assure you. I’ll make sure you get the thanks of our government,” I said.
“I didn’t do it to get thanks,” said Duprez, stopping and turning towards me. “I did it to stop that tyrant Bonaparte, it seems you English are the only ones that can stand up to him, though how you’d fare without La Manche protecting you I don’t know.”
“Captain Wright would have been back in London by now had Lacrosse not turned up that morning.” I said.
“Yes, strange how he knew where to find him,” said Fauche, shifting in his chair so that it creaked and groaned.
“A man like Lacrosse has ears everywhere. We have to be careful this time that no one knows of whatever plan we decide upon,” said Calvet, leaning forward. Duprez had sat again but still seemed anxious.
“How about a disguise?” I suggested.
“Ben, this isn’t a comedy. We can’t dress you up as an old priest or put you into one of my dresses. You’d be spotted at the city gates,” said Dominique. “You’d still need papers. Everyone needs papers.”
“So, you seem to have ruled out travel by road and by water. What do you expect me to do, fly? There must be a way,” I said, getting a little exasperated.
“You could always use a balloon,” said Claude. Everyone looked round at him, as if just remembering he was there.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Dominique, a little sharply. “Claude, balloons are dangerous and unpredictable. We need a better plan.” She softened and smiled at her brother, but he looked away.
“But Monsieur Blanchard made it all the way across the Channel nearly twenty years ago,” Claude retorted.
“And I seem to remember he almost landed in the middle of the sea,” said Dominique.
“The boy might have something,” said Calvet. “There is somebody, an aeronaut, who owes me a very large favour. I made certain that some complaints against him went away. He has a balloon.”
“Are you really suggesting that I fly from Paris in a balloon?” I asked incredulously. “I agree with Dominique. It’s ridiculous. The whole of Paris would see us.” It was my turn to stand and pace beside the windows.
“Not if you left at night,” suggested Montaignac. I couldn’t believe he was taking the suggestion seriously.
“Yes, that is true. But where would he be able to, how do they say, lift off?” asked Fauche. I thought a man of learning would have more sense than to give credit to the idea but perhaps he felt an affinity to balloons due to his similarity of shape.
“The convent of Saint Catherine. Its walls are high and it has been deserted for years now,” said Duprez. They were really considering it. I was speechless.
“Yes, we could get the balloon ready in the courtyard. Out of sight. By the time they were in the air it would be too late for anybody to stop them and as long as the night was dark they probably wouldn’t be seen,” said Calvet. “Who looks up?”
Everyone was quiet for a moment, thinking the plan through and I hoped realising the impossibility of success.
“When?” asked Montaignac.
“Tomorrow night,” answered Calvet.
I really couldn’t believe it. They weren’t joking. The science of aerostation was not unknown to me; I had read the reports in the newspapers and overheard those more learned than I predicting dire consequences to those who dared try to imitate the birds; giddiness, shortness of breath, freezing temperatures.