Flashman's Escape (24 page)

Chapter 24

Souham was travelling to his home at the north of the city and so I asked him to leave us near the Tuileries, the old royal palace gardens which were now a public park. It was a place I remembered from my only other visit to Paris back in ’02. I had no idea if there even was an American embassy in the city, never mind where it was. I told Souham that Grant would want to find some lodgings and rest from the journey before reporting to his superiors. As the old boy was keen to get home to his family he did not press me with questions. After brief handshakes and good wishes for the future all round, Grant and I were left standing on a street in the middle of Paris as Souham and his carriage disappeared around a nearby corner.

Without the influence of a general to speed our progress and allay any suspicions, I suddenly felt very alone and exposed. We were now in the absolute heart of enemy territory, with no friends or allies and no means to get back to England or Spain. On top of that, my companion was a wanted man and an idiot who insisted on wearing the uniform of France’s most notorious enemy.

I suspected that his American persona would fall apart like a loaf in sea water as soon as we met anyone from that country, and there were bound to be some Americans in Paris. What really made my blood boil was that we were both in this dire situation because the buffoon had given his word to a French marshal who had planned to betray him anyway. Feeling the rage start to build in me again, I turned away from Grant and walked through the gates of the Tuileries. There was a bench screened from much of the park by rose beds and hedges and I walked towards it, needing to find a space to think. Grant made the mistake of following me.

“Look, Flashman, I know you did not want to come to Paris. But as you know it was a matter of honour for me and well, now we are here, I think honour is satisfied.”

“Well, that is a weight off my mind,” I muttered in a tone of sarcasm that was entirely lost on Grant.

“It is for me too,” he agreed, smiling. “In fact now I think we can try to escape… Oof.”

There is something eminently satisfying about punching someone really hard in the solar plexus. Watching their eyes bulge as they double over in agony, then there is that gasping sound as they try to get their breath. The best part, though, is that they are incapable of interrupting as you tell them what you
really
think of them.

“Yes, your honour is a
huge
comfort to us all, isn’t it?” I whispered hoarsely at him in English, heedless of any passers-by who could be watching. “I am sure that you will find it immensely helpful when they are pulling out your fingernails and breaking your bones. As you are screaming for them to let you die, having given away all of Wellington’s agents, at least in your last babbling moments of agony you will know that you have kept your honour.”

I glanced up and saw two Parisian ladies standing in a gap between the rose beds, appearing alarmed at the scene before them. “An English prisoner. He has eaten some bad mussels,” I explained, gesturing to Grant, who had by now sunk to his knees and was still bent double, gasping for breath.

“It must be very bad,” exclaimed the younger one while her companion smiled in amusement.

“Don’t be naive, Beatrice; he punched the prisoner,” stated the companion as she walked past. “Food poisoning does not stop you breathing.” At that she glanced over her shoulder to give me a smile, clearly not minding a British prisoner getting roughed up.

I waited until the pair had disappeared around a corner and turned again to Grant, who was by now trying to get back to his feet. I kicked his legs from under him, sending him crashing back to the ground.

“You think this is all about you, don’t you?” I snarled. “What use is your honour to me, standing in front of firing squad when I am found in an enemy uniform? Did you use your brain at all before you marched up to Souham’s coach?”

“You can’t…” Grant gasped between breaths, “hit me… I am senior… to you… Oof!”

Having proved Grant wrong, I left him writhing on the ground and strolled off through the park. Once I had outdistanced the groaning and retching sound behind me, it was a pleasant sunny day. I walked across the park until I got to a bench where I could watch the boats going up and down the Seine and the people walking on the opposite bank of the river.

When I was last in France I had spent most of my time with other British people here to enjoy the sights during the brief peace treaty of Amiens. I had met an old French general who had served in India and might have helped us, but that was ten years ago. I had no idea if he was still alive or in Paris, and I could not remember my way to his house even if he was still in the city. Scrutinising the people going about their business, I saw that my French lieutenant’s uniform could be a blessing or a curse. It was a curse if I was caught in it for I would be shot as a spy. But it was a blessing as the perfect disguise if I was not caught. Virtually every man I could see was in some uniform or clothing relating to his occupation. Had I been in civilian clothes I could still have been shot for a spy, but I would have stood out far more.

I reached down and touched my belt. Since Albuera I had restocked it with a dozen gold guineas and that seemed the only positive in my situation. I could not stay in Paris as sooner or later I would be caught and executed. So I had to try to make my way back to safety. The shortest route was north and across the Channel to Britain. But with the navy blockading French ports and the English Channel to cross, it seemed unlikely that I would get home that way. This left trying to retrace my route back to Spain. Without a general’s carriage and escort to speed my progress through roads and checkpoints it would take weeks. As well as the French, I would also have to deal with the partisans if any of the Basques survived to report my apparent treachery. Even if I eventually returned to Spain I would then have to make my way across the occupied half of the country before I reached safety. I looked up as the two ladies I had seen earlier walked along the path in front of my bench. The older girl smiled at me and nodded over my shoulder. “Your prisoner seems to be recovering,
monsieur
.”

I looked behind and there staggering towards me was Grant. He had his hat in one hand and he was holding his stomach with the other. He was still breathing heavily and he had a tuft of grass stuck in one of his epaulets. I shook my head in dismay. Getting across France and occupied Spain would be hard enough on my own, but with Grant it would be impossible. I turned back to face the river as he walked up to the bench and sat down at the opposite end from me.

“Look, I know you are cross with me,” he began. “I understand that, but we have to work together if we are to get out of here.”

“Really? I was just thinking that I would do rather better on my own.”

“You can’t do that,” he cried, sounding alarmed. “Wellington sent you to rescue me; what will he say if he finds out that you abandoned me in Paris?”

“That assumes that you live long enough to tell him.”

“What do you mean?” asked Grant. “Are you threatening to kill me?”

“Of course not. I may be a lot of things but I am not a cold-blooded murderer. I meant that you would not last a day in this city in your British uniform without my help. You will be arrested and eventually they will tie up the British major that has appeared in Paris with the one that has gone missing in Bayonne. You will not get the chance to get a message to Wellington.”

That gave Grant something to think about and he sat there silently for a full minute before he spoke again. “What you say may be true, but if they do capture me then they will find out about you too.” I looked sharply at him at that and he hurriedly continued. “I am not saying that I will deliberately betray you. That would be dishonourable. But they will know that I must have had help to get here so quickly from Bayonne. If their torturers are as good as you say, it will not be long before they are talking to Souham and finding out about the French lieutenant who travelled with me.”

I had to grudgingly concede that he had a point. If descriptions of me were circulated with a reward to all the towns between Paris and Spain, I would stand no chance at all of escaping. Whether I liked it or not, Grant and I were still bound together.

“Well, you will have to get rid of that British uniform. Everyone will notice you wearing that.”

“I will not,” insisted Grant hotly. “I would be shot as a spy if I were not in uniform.”

“You bloody idiot, you will be tortured to death if you are caught wearing it. At least a firing squad is quicker.”

“No,” declared Grant flatly. “It is matter of honour; I must wear my British uniform. Anyway claiming to be an American seems to work. If Souham believed it, others should as well.”

His jaw was set and I knew by now that on matters he perceived as pertaining to his honour he could not be shifted. For a moment I considered punching him again, but instead I got up and began to wander along the river bank. To stand any chance of getting out of the city, never mind France, with Grant in his uniform we were going to need some help. I thought back to my last time in the city and tried to remember anyone who might assist us. I desperately tried to recall the route to the old general’s house but it would not come. Grant had started to follow dejectedly in my footsteps and I turned to face him.

“Do you know anybody in this city that might help us?”

“No, I have never been to Paris before.”

I turned away in disgust and stared out across the skyline of the city. In front of me I could see the
Île de la Cité
, the island in the middle of the Seine that was the oldest part of the French capital. On it I could just make out the Conciergerie, the old prison that I had visited on my previous trip. There is every chance I could be a prisoner in it this time, I thought. I gazed further along and saw the twin turrets of the Notre Dame cathedral beyond.

I looked back at Grant. “What about wearing something over the top of your uniform, then perhaps we can travel by night and…” My voice trailed away as a nagging thought crossed my brain. It was as though I had an idea but it was tantalisingly out of reach. I turned back and looked across the river. “Notre Dame,” I exclaimed. “That is it.”

“What is it, what about Notre Dame?” asked Grant, coming up and staring across the river.

“Three years ago,” I explained, “after the battle of Talavera, the battlefield caught fire. Many wounded of both sides were trapped in the long, dry grass as the flames approached. There were lots of us trying to pull them to safety and one of the men I saved was a Frenchie. He told me that his father was an organist in Notre Dame. In fact he offered me a concert if I was ever in Paris.”

“But we don’t want a concert,” queried Grant, puzzled.

“Of course not, but if he feels indebted to me for saving his son’s life, he might help us get out of the city.”

“Or he might be a fervent Bonapartist that sees us arrested,” pointed out Grant.

“Do you have any other ideas?” I asked impatiently and Grant just shrugged in response. “It is the only plan we have. You can sit at the back of the church while I talk to the organist. If I am arrested, you can still try to get away.”

It was, I thought, a tenuous chance. The man I rescued had a wounded leg. He could have died before he told his father I had saved him, or the organist could have been dismissed or moved on. There were a hundred reasons why it might not work, but when it is the only option you have, you cannot stop the hope soaring. It was something to pursue; without it the chances of survival were looking bleak indeed.

We made our way across the Pont Neuf Bridge onto the island and past the forbidding walls of the prison. They seemed to emanate a chill despite the sunshine in the rest of the city. We hurried past the gaol and wove through the streets towards the huge twin towers of the cathedral. A few minutes later and we were standing in front of them. The ancient building looked tired and rundown, and various street sellers in the square outside were hawking food and trinkets. But plenty of people were passing through the large open doors as we joined them.

“God, it looks awful,” Grant murmured as he looked around inside.

“Remember to speak French,” I hissed. “After the revolution all religious buildings were stripped of anything of value and this one was turned into a temple of reason. There was a fake mountain built in here and statues to goddesses of truth, liberty and philosophy.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I was here before as a tourist in ’oh-two, and a guide told us about it. Napoleon gave the building back to the Church, but there is no money to restore it to its former glory.” I looked about the bare walls for any sign of organ pipes. “Let’s hope that there was still money for an organ and music.” It took a moment before I spotted the pipes under a round window on the west side of the church. “Wait here,” I told Grant. “I will look for the organist.”