by C. S. Quinn
Danton advances on me and crushes me to his huge chest, kissing me on either cheek.
‘The prisoners from upstairs are all in the east wing,’ says Danton. ‘That way.’ He points back through the smoke. ‘You can thank de Launay for the information,’ he adds. ‘He gave everything up when we cornered him. Not sure it will save him, though,’ he concludes philosophically, rubbing his wide jaw. ‘He’s really pissed people off.’
CHAPTER 100
I MOVE DEEPER INTO THE BASTILLE DUNGEON. THE SLIMY walls and stink of unwashed prisoners are giving way to something else now. There’s an unmistakable tang of blood in the air. I pass a strappado – a brutal crane-like hoist used to dislocate shoulders. A bench houses an array of bloody tools: boots for breaking the bones of feet, thumbscrews, pincers; there’s something especially horrible about how they’ve been thrown together, as though some bored gaoler might rummage casually for their next careless infliction of agony.
I look around. All the doors so far are open. If people were contained here, they’ve already fled.
Despite the deserted feel, there’s no mistaking this was once a very professional facility. All the latest devices, I think grimly to myself. No expense spared.
Another room houses a little bench and tools. It takes me a moment to realize this is an invention room, a place where some blood-soaked torturer experiments with ways to inflict pain. Several metal devices that I recognize from Russia and Germany have been taken to pieces. An iron chair with a brazier beneath the seat is half under construction.
I realize I’ve come to a dead end. Thinking I must be mistaken, I scan all the doors again. Open, every one.
I check a rising feeling of claustrophobia, a desperate sense that if a door were to clang shut in here, no one would ever find you again.
The silence is deafening. I notice another sound. Flowing water. I’m guessing this part may have been crudely connected to an underground tributary or similar, so gaolers might more easily wash away bodily fluids.
The thought sends a bolt of nausea through me. Under my feet, I see water streaming at a steady pace. My eyes fall to the ground. There’s a grille set into it: a hole allowing the water to drain away.
I almost walk right over it. A horrible memory surfaces.
A small space beneath the earth. Fear and crushing heat.
I stop and look down.
Pushed up against the grille are blueish fingers.
I drop to my knees, staring down. There’s someone inside.
A girl, still alive, her palms pressing helplessly against her confines.
My heart seizes.
It’s Grace.
‘Grace?’ I can hardly believe it. There she is. The face of my lovely cousin pressed up against the grating.
‘Grace!’ I grab at the grille with both hands and pull with all my might. It won’t budge.
Her face swims into view.
‘Attica!’ She manages a smile, but her words are weak and slurred. It’s then I see she’s up to her neck in freezing water. She must be on the verge of losing consciousness from the cold.
‘Hold on,’ I say, ‘I’ll get you out.’
I take out my knife, trying to dig it in the edge and lever up the thick metal. But it’s no good.
‘Attica! Look out!’ Grace’s eyes are wide in fear. It’s only when I feel the weapon kicked from my hand that I realize I heard her warning too late. The next boot is to my stomach and throws me up and across the slippery flagstones.
I see my blade go spinning into a dank corner of the dungeon. My face is pressed on to a wet stone. I put a hand out to stand, when a third kick sends me back to the floor.
I breathe out, sickening pain filling my solar plexus. Through my swimming vision I see a pair of musketeer boots.
Oliver Janssen.
I curl up to sitting, back against the mouldy wall, hunched over slightly.
‘How convenient,’ growls Janssen. ‘You’ve led me straight to the diamonds and now I can eliminate you and your troublesome cousin all at once. Perhaps Robespierre is correct, women do have their uses.’
The corner of his mouth tweaks in what could be a smile.
Janssen looms over Grace, assuring himself she is contained. ‘A clean death, drowning,’ he says. ‘The Society of Friends will like that.’
He draws his sword and heads towards me, metal hand curled high like a weapon.
‘Yours will not be quite so simple.’
Thoughts are flashing through my brain. From the oubliette I hear a gasping sound, as though Grace is trying to keep water from flooding her mouth.
‘My knife,’ I manage, breathing hard. ‘Give it to me.’
Janssen cocks his head, red eye dilated half black in the gloom. ‘What?’
‘You say you are still a musketeer,’ I say. ‘Prove it.’
Janssen laughs, a horrible, grating sound.
‘You think to fight me?’
‘I am entitled to demand it from a true musketeer. Nowhere is it written that a woman hasn’t the same right.’
Janssen considers. ‘Very well,’ he says, striding to where my knife has fallen. He tosses it into my hand. I stand, catching my breath, steadying myself against the wall.
Water has begun to bubble up from the grating where Grace is contained now. She must be entirely submerged.
‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Janssen,’ I say, ‘perhaps you think yourself entitled to a heroic end. A grapple, a fight. I’m sure you would be an interesting opponent. But I simply don’t have the time for you.’
I turn the curved knife easily in my palm.
Janssen’s eyes follow it. He draws his sword.
‘I can tell you have never fenced,’ he says disdainfully. He extends his blade, relaxed, expert.
‘Fencing is a sport and I’m a professional,’ I say, circling away. ‘I don’t tinkle with blades, I kill people.’
There are several feet between us now. I’m flat against the wall, with no space to adopt a good sword-fighting stance.
Janssen laughs. ‘Do you really think you can win a sword fight with a musketeer?’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I am larger, stronger, better trained and you have left yourself no room to–’
He stops talking suddenly. The black Mangbetu blade is buried deep in his blood-red iris. His good eye swivels to it, then flutters in spasm. I drop my hand from where I had raised it to throw the knife.
‘Men are superior in every way,’ I agree, as he falls to his knees, staring sightlessly at the dank dungeon, ‘but for an unfathomable preoccupation with honour.’
CHAPTER 101
AS JANSSEN FLOPS LIFELESSLY TO THE FLAGSTONE FLOOR, I run to the grating where Grace is trapped.
Her cheeks are swelled, eyes screwed shut.
She’s still alive, I tell myself. She’s still alive.
I race to the strappado – an awful hoist for breaking limbs – and winch down one of its rope with a grunt of effort. I fasten it to the grille and turn the strappado’s great winching wheel.
Slowly the grate lifts. I heave Grace’s unmoving body from the watery hole.
‘Grace?’
I grab her and drag her free. She’s sopping wet, cold and stiff. Her dress is plastered to her body. For a moment I don’t dare breathe.
Her eyes open.
‘Attica,’ she manages groggily through blue lips. ‘Why are you dressed as a boy?’
I press her to me and hug her tight. She’s coming back to herself now. I remember the feeling all too well. You get so used to being enclosed after a time, being back in the world feels like your skin is raw.
‘How did you know I was down there?’ she whispers.
‘I’ve been put in something similar,’ I say, ‘as a girl.’
She coughs. ‘Most people wouldn’t think a prison could be under your feet,’ she says.
‘No,’ I agree. ‘They wouldn’t.’ I begin rubbing her arms and calves. My mother used to tell me I came out of the hotbox with t
he poise of a queen. It unsettled the plantation owners so greatly they abandoned the practice for a time. I’d forgotten that.
‘Can you stand?’ I ask Grace.
‘I think so.’ She tries, leaning on my arm, but staggers. Her eyes fill with tears and she throws herself into my arms.
‘We can wait,’ I say, hugging her. But she shakes her head rapidly.
‘I wasn’t down there very long,’ she says, moving back and frowning at her weakness. ‘I can do it. Besides,’ she adds, ‘I can’t stay here another minute.’
I smile. This is the Grace I remember.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s take you home.’
She stands steadily now. I look about and see some old sacking. I lift it up.
‘Here,’ I say. ‘You can use this to disguise your fine clothes.’
She nods. Grace reaches into her dress and retrieves a great weight of glittering diamonds, strung piece by piece on to silverwork wide enough to be a belt.
‘We are dead if anyone finds us with these—’ She’s halted by a boom from above.
‘What’s happening?’ she asks.
‘The Bastille has fallen,’ I say. ‘The people are storming the prison.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ says Grace. ‘This is an impenetrable fortress.’
‘Times have changed,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER 102
GRACE AND I REACH THE CORRIDOR ABOVE THE COURTYARD. We look through the window to see it is still teaming with people, more than I’ve ever seen in one place.
They’ve come from the streets, from the slums, the churches and the markets. They’re lit up, charged with the chance to right the wrongs of their country. There are men and woman both, faces determined.
‘It’s like when a kettle boils over,’ says Grace. ‘There’s no stopping them now.’
She sounds awestruck and a little envious. Grace has been relegated to the administration of social campaigning when she’d like to be on the frontlines.
People are rolling out barrel after barrel of munitions. Lines form and rebels queue to be given a portion of gunpowder and a handful of shot.
‘Can we get through?’ she asks me.
‘There’s too many,’ I admit. The crush is dangerous. My eyes work around the courtyard. ‘Perhaps if we stay to the edges,’ I say. But I know it’s not a good plan. We could lose one another or be trampled.
‘Might I have your pistol, Attica?’ asks Grace politely.
‘It’s no good, Grace,’ I say. ‘My gunpowder is long gone and even if it wasn’t I wouldn’t fire into a crowd of innocent people.’
‘Nor would I,’ says Grace, taking the gun from my purse and lifting out the necklace. Jewels flash and twinkle, so glitteringly ludicrously ostentatious it’s difficult to imagine they’re real.
In a deft movement, Grace drops them, turns the pistol and hammers the butt hard on to the gems. The silver casing breaks, sending diamonds spilling forth. She does it again, freeing more, then stands and stamps the heel of her foot into the broken metalwork.
‘There,’ she says, bending and scooping a handful of precious stones. ‘Enough to cause a distraction, do you think?’
‘I suppose we should find out,’ I say, admiringly.
She smiles broadly and launches three diamonds into the crowd, making a wide arc. One hits a man in the face and he looks up, suspecting attack from above. Grace holds up another diamond and throws it straight at him. His hand rises and snatches it from the air on reflex. He stares at the jewel in wonderment.
A woman next to him sees the prize.
‘Treasure!’ she shouts. ‘Bastille treasure!’
Grace tosses more, distributing them widely to cause the most chaos. There are so many, over a hundred tiny diamonds and a few larger ones. Grace hurls the remains of the silver metal.
By the time she’s finished, the surging mob is on its knees, frantically searching for gems.
‘Ready?’ she asks me.
I nod.
We run through the courtyard and enter a small gatehouse. I’m sighing in relief to see the crowd are entering from the main drawbridge. We should be able to walk the circumference and get out on the north side, where the moat is shallower.
It’s then I make the mistake that will haunt me for years to come.
I look back at the Bastille, taking in the great structure now fallen to the people. At the top, on the highest ramparts, I see a familiar man.
Robespierre.
He’s a distance away, but something about the stiff way he stands is instantly recognizable. Robespierre is looking out on to the destruction, the glittering diamonds being passed around and dispersed.
I’m too far away to see for certain, but I think his fists are balled up so tightly the knuckles are white.
I scan the area for a spare musket. From this distance, I have a fair chance, I think. Even if I’m not near enough to kill him instantly, I might cause him to tumble from the ramparts.
As I’m deciding how to get a weapon, Robespierre sees me. He lifts a single hand in greeting.
For some reason, Jemmy’s words come back to me: You know countries are just fences put up by greedy men. It’s true, I think. Once we had forts like the Bastille, castles, knights. Now we have men of letters ordering horrors from their drawing rooms. Robespierre and Lord Pole. Perhaps even Atherton.
And me? I’m nothing but a finger on a trigger. A tool for calculating men.
A few days earlier I would have killed Robespierre without much thought. Today I’m of another mind.
There’s more good to be done here, change is afoot. Maybe Robespierre will be integral to it, maybe he won’t. But it isn’t my place to decide. Besides, I have the strangest feeling that killing Robespierre would be killing part of myself.
I turn to Grace, who’s looking at me curiously.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘this way to the docks.’
If I had known then what Robespierre would become, would I have fired that musket?
Probably.
CHAPTER 103
GRACE AND I GET TO THE HÔTEL DE VILLE TO FIND EVEN more people have filled the streets.
‘Who knew there were this many Frenchmen and women?’ breathes Grace.
The whole area is clogged with confiscated carts and wagons and the city has come to a standstill.
‘What can they be gathering here for?’ I say, confused. ‘The Bastille is the place to be.’
‘I think I hear a reason,’ says Grace, listening. ‘That’s Governor de Launay’s voice.’
A reedy kind of plea is issuing from the very centre of the crowd.
‘On my honour,’ the governor is protesting, ‘I never shot at the people. Gentlemen, you must believe me, I never shot at them.’
‘How dare you say so,’ returns a gravelly voice, ‘when your lips are black with gunpowder from biting your cartridges? Come. You will face the justice of the people.’
‘This way, Grace,’ I say, pulling her firmly in the opposite direction. I couldn’t spare her the underground ordeal, but I can spare her this. I’ve a bad feeling the Bastille governor’s end will be brutal.
‘It’s no good,’ says Grace, ‘we’ll never get to the river. Better we wait until the trouble dies down.’
‘I think we’ll be waiting a long time,’ I say, eyeing the surging crowd. ‘And our ship to England leaves at sunset.’
Grace looks up at the sun low on the horizon and her face falls.
A few dead people lie on the ground. One corpse still clutches a burning torch and I wrench it from the tight fingers.
‘I’ve an idea to clear a path,’ I say, taking the reins of the nearest horse, still tethered to a hay wagon. ‘Be ready to run,’ I add, leading the animal carefully through the abandoned vehicles.
I hurl the flame into the cart. The contents smoke, then flares. I slap the horse hard on the rear and it goes galloping off, flames rising high behind it.
We watch as the
fiery wagon heads towards the crowd, parting them as people jump to avoid the fire.
I pull Grace by the arm and we run on, into the path as it’s made.
We reach the river and there, waiting as planned, is a ship. But as we near, my relief sickens and dies. It isn’t the Esmerelda.
The vessel that has sailed to greet us is a French prison boat.
I take a step back, pulling Grace with me. But it’s too late. Soldiers aboard have seen us. They raise pistols and order us to halt.
I look about to see if Jemmy and his crew are stationed upriver, perhaps escaping the ambush. But in my heart I know the truth. Jemmy has been captured and killed.
The troops march down the gangplank, weapons raised. I grip Grace’s hand tightly, trying to imagine a way to escape. But none comes.
All I can think is that Jemmy is dead and most likely so are we.
CHAPTER 104
THE ARMED MEN MAKE OUR ARREST, SEIZING HOLD OF US both and marching us aboard the ship. I grab at Grace, speaking in rapid English.
‘Don’t speak French,’ I say. ‘If they’re obeying the law they’ll have to consider an interpreter and that will confuse them. I’m going to create a diversion. When I do, jump overboard and swim to shore. Don’t look back. Find Georges Danton. He might help you.’
I’m confident I can hold them off for long enough for Grace to get to safety. My own escape is unlikely.
Grace is frowning, her forehead crinkled.
‘Why would I do that?’ she asks. ‘It’s Lord Pole, isn’t it? Come to rescue us.’
‘Grace, there’s a lot you don’t know about Lord Pole,’ I say, mentally sweeping the deck for guards I haven’t accounted for, ‘he’s a politician who doesn’t waste resources on expendables like us. This is a prison ship. A French one.’
The gangplank is drawn up behind us and we hear orders shouted to raise anchor.
‘No it isn’t,’ says Grace patiently. ‘This is an English vessel. I grew up by a port,’ she added. ‘I’ve always been interested in nautical things. This boat was made in Deptford,’ she concludes knowledgeably. ‘It has a lower stern because of the excellent deep dry-dock they have there.’
