Rebellion. James McGee

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ