by C. S. Quinn
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ I say. ‘I think I could be lowered into the dry moat with rope. The next part is more complicated. Some sort of grappling hook, perhaps.’
‘If I might bring some pirate simplicity,’ interjects Jemmy, ‘have you considered a plank?’
Danton and I look at one another.
‘Why, that’s excellent,’ says Danton. ‘A working man’s solution.’
‘I suppose there is a practicality to it,’ I admit, sad not to have the opportunity to lay hold of grappling hooks.
‘We have the will of the people,’ says Danton, joy spreading across his scarred features. His ugliness is less apparent now; he looks more like a war-torn general. ‘This could be a momentous day.’ His excitement palpable. ‘The Bastille is a sign of royal tyranny.’
‘Danton,’ I say, putting my hand on his shoulder, ‘it’s a good plan, but one of enormous risk. After I lower the first drawbridge, it is imperative you keep your people back. Do you understand? They must wait until the second bridge is lowered.’
He straightens his clothing and picks up his sword and pistol. ‘Then we shall make a stand,’ he says, attaching them to his belt. He finishes buckling his weapons. ‘Today may be the day I die for my country,’ he says. He frowns and places a hand on the table to steady himself, as though a wave of exhaustion has buffered him from an unexpected quarter. ‘What day is it?’
‘It’s Tuesday,’ I say. And then because he seems to need more clarity, I add, ‘I think it’s the fourteenth of July.’
CHAPTER 82
WE MARSHAL OUTSIDE THE BASTILLE IN AN ATMOSPHERE of great excitement. Frenchmen are arriving fresh from the Hôpital des Invalides holding raided muskets. Several hundred people are clustered around the prison and more join every minute.
I’ve retained Jemmy’s shirt, now belted at the waist, with my culottes beneath. I have exchanged my satin shoes for a pair of soldier’s boots courtesy of Danton.
‘I like you dressed as a boy,’ observes Jemmy.
‘I always had my suspicions about a man who wore a purple cravat.’
My eyes track up to the Bastille itself, an edifice of fairy-tale proportions, twice as tall as its moat is broad. It is a forbidding citadel with looming bastions and walls that seem to draw out endlessly.
Several dark cannon muzzles are trained on the mounting crowd and there is an occasional flicker of movement at the ramparts. But for now, the mighty fortress only watches, keeping its counsel.
Jemmy follows my gaze. ‘I’ll wager there’s a good view from the top,’ he says.
‘Buildings this large have been known to make their own weather.’ Danton crosses himself. ‘Lightning forks around it during thunderstorms.’
‘Fortunate, then,’ I say, ‘we’re here to take it down.’
Danton smiles and lowers his voice. ‘The impossible fortress? Perhaps. But we will make a stand and that is all that matters.’ His pale eyes light on mine. ‘If we can get you inside to rescue your cousin,’ he adds, ‘we will have done a great good today.’
Danton comes alive as the long plank appears. He approaches a huddle of jobbing workmen manoeuvring it, rubbing his hands together.
‘You got the plank, then, lads?’
They bring it, sweating, to the side of the moat and we go after.
‘Jesus.’ Jemmy crosses himself, as we reach the edge. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s more like an island in a lake than prison and a moat.’
I follow his gaze across the great open chasm dividing Paris from its notorious gaol. The bottom is spongy earth. Reeds and grasses grow.
‘Enough land down there for several hundred cattle,’ I say.
‘I know a fair few peasant farmers who would be glad of such an enclosure,’ agrees Danton.
A stone section rises from the centre, like a single tooth in a gummy mouth. It connects on one side to the Bastille and on the other to Paris by wooden drawbridges, but today these are raised.
‘Raise those drawbridges and you can trap people in the middle,’ I say. ‘There is an art to such simplicity.’
Neither Danton nor Jemmy share my respect for the architecture.
‘Where shall we put the extra muskets?’ A tanner with ulcerated legs has identified Danton as their natural general.
‘Make a row by the wall,’ says Danton. ‘Keep them upright and don’t make a heap, mind. Those pensioners risked their lives to give us working guns; we must see they fire when needed.’
The tanner nods.
‘We have shot, powder?’ Danton is appraising the situation.
‘Very little shot and even less powder,’ says the tanner. ‘Citizens are handing out what they have in private supplies. Some of us thought to buy bags of nails for bullets,’ he adds with a gap-toothed grin. He slaps his musket, which jingles.
Danton raises his voice. ‘Soldiers of France,’ he announces, ‘we have but little shot and powder. With God’s will and our courage, it is enough. The rest, we will find inside the Bastille!’ He points dramatically towards the prison.
The men turn to see Danton’s massive frame, the barrel chest and scarred face. Meaty cheers go up. The people have been waiting for a leader.
‘Three hundred barrels of gunpowder; the same of shot. Enough to charge every musket! And we must have it,’ declares Danton. ‘By God, we will have it. Comrades, this is a war. We are under attack by a foreign army!’
A crescendo of agreement reverberates around the crowd. The people are flushed, giddy with the excitement of what they have achieved.
More are arriving all the time, a steady flow through the markets of St Antoine. They come in twos and threes, alone or in a pack, drops of water making an ocean.
At the brink of the moat, the workmen holding the long plank let it drop. It falls towards the isolated stone section and slams loudly into place, forming a makeshift bridge. People shout and cheer. Their joy and hope is palpable. They are daring to breach Paris’s infamous prison and no one is trying to stop them.
Without warning, a man in peasant’s clothing makes a run for the plank. He jumps unevenly on to it and walks, hands aloft in triumph.
‘That’s the way, Robert!’ shouts a woman from the crowd.
He’s only halfway along when a gunshot cracks from the Bastille. The man stumbles, then slips and tumbles. He disappears out of sight into the cavernous moat.
‘Shit!’ Jemmy runs to the edge. ‘No blood or bullet-wound,’ Jemmy announces, ‘but I think he’s broken something.’
Danton shoulders in.
‘We need to get him out,’ he says. ‘You men,’ he points, ‘get down there.’
Groans of agony can now be heard from deep in the moat.
‘A warning shot,’ says Danton, looking up at the Bastille.
A strange ratcheting of metal on metal echoes suddenly in the middle distance. We look up, alarmed. Slowly, on the ramparts, a gibbet rises up from the depths of the prison.
It swings, creaking in the breeze. Inside is a half-rotted corpse hanging like a hideous flag on the top of the battlements.
Danton swallows.
‘One of the prisoners from the dungeons,’ he says. ‘They mean to frighten us away.’
The effect on the throng of Parisians is immediate. There is a dreadful hush as people cross themselves and look to the ghoulish spectacle. Mutterings and whispers go around of torturers and hidden dungeons.
‘Better I get over that plank and cut the drawbridge,’ I say, ‘before the fight goes from the crowd.’
Jemmy puts a hand on my arm.
‘It was never agreed,’ he says, ‘that you would be the one to negotiate the plank.’
‘I have the sharpest knife.’
Jemmy fingers the hilt of his sword. ‘You are better than me at many things,’ he says, pushing a dark lock of hair from his face. ‘Using long words, waving knives around,’ he tilts his head, ‘maybe even fighting, in certain circumstances. But at least let us both
agree: pirates are good at walking planks.’
I hesitate. ‘Very well.’
Jemmy makes towards the plank.
‘Wait.’
He turns around.
I pull my knife from my dress. ‘You’ll need this.’
Jemmy’s hand clasps around the handle of my Mangbetu blade. He holds it up wonderingly.
‘I’ll bring it back,’ he promises. ‘Get over your fear of guns and get yourself a musket. I might need covering fire.’
CHAPTER 83
GOVERNOR DE LAUNAY IS PACING THE INNER BASTIONS OF the Bastille with a frantic air.
There’s an assembled guard, a handful or so of troops, awaiting instruction. Their opinion of Governor de Launay has been steadily falling since last week.
Adding to the general feeling of unease is the presence of a ghoulish-looking musketeer with a blood-red eye and a terrible metal hand. This Janssen fellow had simply arrived in the Bastille, in the early hours of the morning, bearing a letter from Monsieur Robespierre.
It reminds de Launay of the German play he once saw acted in the Versailles water gardens, back when the old King was alive. About a pact with the devil.
He never agreed for a man like Janssen to have access to the prison. But then, as Robespierre’s letter cleverly insinuates, the small print was never exactly defined and a promise is a promise.
So now this musketeer is roaming the Bastille, unnerving guards. It really is intolerable, but de Launay has other things on his mind.
The ungainly roar of the crowd in the distance brings a strange feeling to the pit of his stomach.
‘They have breached the first drawbridge.’ De Launay turns to his guard, chewing the end of his finger. ‘They mean to free the prisoners.’
‘The second drawbridge is secure,’ his guard assures him. ‘It can only be lowered from inside the Bastille.’
‘The inmates are locked in the dungeon?’ confirms de Launay, his eyes lifted in some unspoken calculation.
‘The last are being taken down now,’ says the guard. ‘We had to move the Marquis de Sade to another prison. He kept shouting to the commoners that he was being murdered.’
He frowns. ‘Janssen was poking about there,’ he adds, ‘said he was looking for a prisoner, but wouldn’t tell us which one. Said he had your permission to go where he pleases.’
De Launay feels his face redden, both at the affront and at the fact he cannot contradict it.
‘Janssen shall have to wait,’ he says, attempting to salvage some authority.
‘He may not be happy,’ says the guard ominously.
De Launay opens his mouth and shuts it again. Really it is quite impossible that a commoner might treat the Bastille with such freedom.
A blood-thirsty roar from outside the prison makes de Launay start. He smooths his lacy coat, trying to disguise the reaction.
‘Fortunately,’ he says, with a faint smile, ‘the mob knows nothing about our little gauntlet.’
‘A gauntlet?’ The guard is confused.
‘The courtyard,’ says de Launay, his expression slightly manic. ‘The courtyard for trapping and killing invaders.’
CHAPTER 84
GRACE SENSES THAT TIME IS RUNNING OUT. PRISONERS ARE being moved. She hears them: asking questions, pleading. No reason is given, but Grace has read a good deal about the Bastille. She has heard how murders are done. Inmates are taken to the dungeons and discreetly strangled. There is a special room where it happens.
A sudden noise comes through the window: people cheering as though a significant victory has occurred.
She moves to the bars. Her eyes widen. There is a plank halfway across the immense moat. She can scarce believe it.
Her eyes scan the crowd. She can just make out a woman with long dark hair lifting a musket from a pile of guns. Recognition surges, then Grace smiles at her idiocy, shaking it away.
Just for a moment, she thought it to be her cousin Attica. That is what happens when you don’t see a familiar face for so long, decides Grace, you begin making pictures in your head.
Even so, it occurs to her that perhaps Lord Pole or Godwin is trying to find her. If she is put in the dungeons they may never even know she was here.
Something else strikes her. The courtyard she was taken into before entering the prison. It’s lined on every side with weaponry. Grace doesn’t know a great deal about warfare, but even she can recognize a killing ground when she sees one.
If those people get over the drawbridge and get through the door, they’ll be gunned down by soldiers hiding behind their holes in the wall.
She hears footsteps again and knows her time has come.
Grace cups her hands and shouts as loudly as she can from the window.
‘Don’t cross the drawbridge!’ she bellows in English. ‘You’ll walk straight into a trap!’
No one gives any sign of having heard. Her words are drowned out in the battle cries.
With a feeling of despair, Grace pulls the great diamond necklace from her dress. She hates it with a passion she could barely imagine in herself. The harm this dreadful symbol of greed and lust has done is incalculable.
An idea comes to her. Grace has read her fairy tales. If she is to be moved, perhaps she can leave a trail of breadcrumbs. Someone may realize she was here, in this room, and try to deduce where she was taken.
Glancing to the door, Grace breaks off one of the smaller diamonds from its silver casing. It gives her a malignant pleasure to damage this gaudy thing.
For a moment, she holds the glittering gem around the palm of her hand with her finger and wonders how much it alone is worth. She turns to the open window and puts the tiny diamond on the ledge, just out of sight behind the bars.
Tap tap tap.
Up come the footsteps, closer and closer. A wave of dread washes through her. The dungeon awaits.
CHAPTER 85
I WATCH, HEART IN MOUTH, AS JEMMY HOPS LIGHTLY ON TO the long plank. The soles of his leather boots flex with the wood. Beside me, Danton stares, fist held close to his face.
‘He’s fast,’ concedes Danton, as Jemmy moves gracefully at speed. ‘But it’s a long plank.’
Jemmy is a quarter of the way along when a few of the crowd begin to cheer him. Seconds later, shots ring out.
I heft my musket. Danton has shaken down the assembled people for ammunition and powder. The result is enough for a handful of shots. Not much more. And I have to ration carefully. Too much and I’ll soon run out, too little and the charge won’t be sufficient to hit my target.
Another gunshot resounds, sending a shower of splinters from the plank. Jemmy ducks, wheeling on one leg.
‘Attica!’ His voice carries a note of accusation. ‘Stop rationing your powder!’
I sight the man I think is firing and pull the trigger. The shot chinks harmlessly on a thick metal window bar, releasing sparks.
The guard on the other side ducks away, unharmed. I’m wondering if it’s worth staying trained on this particular area when another shot rings out.
Jemmy is halfway across now. The plank sags and reverberates with his weight. His pace has slowed as he steps cautiously on the moving walkway.
I’m reloading when I hear a third, fired from another quarter of the prison.
Breathing to steady my aim, I shoot in one direction, then reload and discharge at another. I’m not managing to kill any guards, but it’s slowing their attack, at least.
It’s then I see the cannon, turning towards the moat.
‘Jemmy!’ I shout. ‘Run!’
I see his head tilt up and recognize the dark muzzle now pointed square in his direction. He races, faster than I would have thought possible, along the final half of the plank.
‘He’s going to make it!’ Danton’s fists are clenched. ‘He’s going to make it!’
Jemmy is a few feet away when his makeshift bridge is simply obliterated, smashed into a thousand pieces by a cannon ball.
‘Ah, but he was so
close.’ Danton’s excitement fades. He rubs his chin thoughtfully.
‘Wait!’ I take his meaty arm. ‘He’s made it! Look!’
Jemmy pulls himself with great effort, up on to the stone midsection.
The people explode into cheers and applause. Jemmy stands before the raised drawbridge now. He moves to the side and begins to climb.
‘He’s in!’ Danton can hardly contain himself. ‘He’s got to the mechanism.’
The crowd grows silent as we watch the looming drawbridge. Then its shape changes. Slowly at first, then faster.
‘It’s lowering!’ I say to Danton. ‘Jemmy has cut the ropes.’
There’s a shriek of wood as the enormous drawbridge plummets directly towards us. The assembled onlookers flee as the foot-thick door free-falls.
Danton and I only watch as the great bridge smashes into the ground, driving up a cascade of loose soil.
‘The impenetrable fortress has a chink in its armour,’ says Danton with a grin.
We look out on the wide bridge now spanning half the moat. The remote prison door is suddenly a good deal nearer.
People are waving muskets, drunk with exhilaration.
Danton turns back to his people.
‘One drawbridge down,’ he grins, ‘now for the second.’
We’ve bridged the gap to the middle of the moat, but a chasm of equal size to the first still stands between us and the prison entrance.
Danton sighs. ‘There is a chance de Launay will see reason. He knows the people are entitled to bear arms at times of war. I doubt he keeps enough food in there for a long siege. Perhaps he will simply capitulate.’ He smiles at me. ‘Thanks to your pirate friend, we can begin ringing his doorbell, can we not?’
‘Don’t run away with that idea,’ I say. ‘The plan is to cause a diversion, remember? Let Jemmy and I open it from the inside.’
I see something wistful in Danton’s small eyes. ‘A dishonourable way to win,’ he says. ‘Ah, so be it.’
