by Iain Gale
They left the Duplessis house at intervals of a few minutes, heading through the narrow streets in the direction of the inn which was the terminus for the Paris diligence, and Keane prayed that there would be sufficient seats inside the coach for all of them. Heading out from the maze of alleyways into a wider street, Keane stopped for a minute, momentarily frozen by the presence of a group of blue-coated French infantry in conversation on the corner. One of them noticed him and indicated to the others. It was a moment of truth, but it seemed that the disguise had worked, for all three of them stood to attention in the presence of an officer of the famed Légion Irlandaise.
Buoyed up by the reaction, Keane decided to push his luck and, walking directly past them, returned the salute. He carried on, waiting again for the shout of ‘halt’ and the click of hammer on lock, but neither came and he reached the end of the street. He could see Archer now, coming towards him from the opposite end of a small alleyway, and greeted him with a smile.
‘Any problems?’
‘No, sir, it seems to work.’
‘Yes, I just got a salute from three Frenchies. Have you seen Silver?’
The private was Keane’s biggest worry, and they found him making his way towards the inn, looking a little unsettled.
‘Still don’t feel right, sir. Green coat? Feels queer to me.’
‘Well, you look every inch the part, Silver. Just try and act like an Irishman.’
‘Would that mean acting like you, sir?’
‘You know what I mean. Think yourself into the part.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir. I just try to follow you, do I?’
‘As you will, Silver. But remember, you’re still a private.’
‘Just like Mr Archer here, then, sir.’
Archer scowled at him.
*
Keane led the way to the inn where the coach was waiting and called to the driver, who was standing talking to the landlord. ‘Any seats left? To Paris?’
The man turned, and on seeing Keane’s uniform his scowl changed. ‘There might be, sir. The general’s commandeered the whole coach, but for you . . .’
Keane nodded to him. ‘The general?’
‘General Souham. He’s inside, sir.’
Keane turned to Archer and spoke quietly. ‘Here we go. Wish me luck.’
He would rather have delayed until the following day, but Keane knew that there could be no backing down now. He walked towards the door of the coach, which stood open, and peered inside.
There were four other passengers and two empty seats. One occupant wore civilian clothes; the others though were French officers. One of them, his shoulder encrusted with gold bullion and the cross of the Légion d’Honneur on his chest, was clearly General Souham, divisional commander in Marmont’s army of Portugal.
Keane coughed. ‘Excuse me, general. Captain James Williams, Légion Irlandaise. Would it be possible for myself and my lieutenant here to take the remaining two seats?’
The general looked at him. ‘Yes, captain, that should be fine. You are going to Paris?’
‘Yes, sir. Regimental business. That is extremely kind. My servant can travel up beside the driver.’
*
With their travelling bags stowed on top of the coach behind Silver, Keane climbed into the compartment, followed by Archer.
Once settled, Keane smiled at the general, who was sitting directly opposite him and who returned his smile and spoke. ‘Good morning, captain. You’re most welcome to share my coach. May I enquire as to the nature of your business in Paris? I had thought that all of your regiment had been moved to Holland two months ago.’
‘We were left behind, general. Tying up regimental affairs in Spain. You know the sort of thing.’
The driver goaded the horses to start, and the coach rocked into motion.
The general nodded. ‘Yes. We too have been away from the army. On the Esla, while Marshal Marmont raided into Beira.’
‘Oh yes, things are getting quite hot here. It would have been better for the regiment to have remained in Spain, I think. I don’t think we’ll see much action where we’re going. Still it will be good to see Colonel Lawless again after so long.’
‘Yes, I wonder how he is. Do send him my compliments, won’t you? And I wouldn’t be too sure about the lack of action, captain. The emperor’s big offensive can’t be far away. I’m sure that you will have a part to play. Your regiment is well known for its bravery.’
There was a disturbance outside the coach, which came to a halt. Souham looked vexed. ‘What now? We’ve hardly started.’
One of the staff officers spoke. ‘It’s the sentries. They’re checking papers. I think it’s to do with that business with the escaped prisoner.’
‘Oh yes, the redcoat officer. Someone said something about a spy.’
As he said the word, a face appeared at the carriage window followed by a hand thrust inside. The sentry spoke: ‘Papers.’ Then, seeing General Souham, the guard withdrew his hand. ‘General, my apologies. I didn’t realize it was you. Please, carry on.’
The general smiled and waved the man away and the coach rolled on, through the town gates, northwards towards Paris. Keane realized that his unplanned choice of travelling companion could not have been better, providing of course that his cover was not broken.
*
They moved up the road at an average speed of around ten miles an hour through Bordeaux to Angoulême and then from Poitiers to Tours, where they crossed the Loire over the old bridge. And all the time the passengers exchanged pleasantries and polite conversation. And every time they reached a toll bridge or a police checkpoint on the larger of the highways, on seeing the general the guards did not ask for any of their papers.
From time to time each of them slept in turn, and Keane and Archer managed in this way to avoid long and involved conversations with the French officers and in particular with the general.
They travelled thus for twelve hours a day, stopping twice at inns at Bordeaux and Poitiers. It was curious to be driving, or indeed driven, through a country that had not seen the ravages of war. France looked, from the window of their carriage, as perfectly at peace with itself as he imagined England and his native Ireland must have looked these past three years that he had been away with the colours in Portugal and Spain. Late spring had touched the land with a riot of colour and the trees were all in blossom. Sheep with lambs and cows with their calves filled the fields, where in Spain such sights were now rare, such were the spoliations of the invading and occupying armies. It was strange too, even for Keane as an English officer, to have the sensation of feeling unthreatened on the road. Every road in Spain was watched, either by French scouts and cavalry patrols or by guerrillas, and at any moment a shout or a shot could signal an attack. And if he felt such a sense of relief, he could only imagine what it must be like for his fellow travellers to be back on their home soil.
At length, on the evening of the third day, the coach rolled into Orléans. They drove along the left bank of the Loire and turned into the Place du Marché, and it was with some relief that Keane bade farewell to General Souham outside the half-timbered inn which was to be the general’s billet for the night. He and Archer retrieved their bags and with Silver behind them walked away from the coach towards the west of the town.
Archer spoke. ‘By God, sir, I don’t think I could have managed another day of that, do you?’
‘No, not for one moment. For one awful instant I thought we had been discovered.’
‘Yes, a little too close for comfort at times.’
*
Father Curtis had told them that one of his agents would be awaiting their arrival with three good horses, which would carry them to Paris. The map showed the rendezvous to be a short walk away and the trio moved fast and silently through the streets, focused on their destination.
‘Another Irishman,’ said Silver, and Keane had to admit that he was right.
Archer shook his head. ‘How many of these Irishmen does Curtis run, do you suppose, sir?’
‘Heaven only knows, but we should be damn thankful for them, don’t you think?’
*
The agent offered them no name. He greeted them stiffly and with few words led them to the stables.
There were several horses in the stalls but their contact had tethered the three he had chosen for them together at one end. He offered Keane a tall bay, while Archer took a black stallion and Silver a slightly smaller roan with a vaguely Arabian look to her.
‘We really can’t thank you enough.’
At last the man smiled and spoke. ‘Any friend of Patrick Curtis is a friend of mine, captain. Plus the fact you’re an Irishman yourself. Now, the road you want to take is the one north to Artenay. Don’t use the main roads as there will be police checkpoints. The smaller, country roads are safer, and any gendarmes posted on those will have slipped off home to their beds by the time you reach them. Take the road to Angerville and Étampes and from there the road towards Orsay and Sèvres. It will take you a good four hours, maybe more, and don’t push the horses. Come into the city from the north-west. The guards are less watchful there.’
*
They set off immediately. It was good to be on horseback out in the open after so many days penned up inside a carriage, although Silver did not seem to agree and let them know about it as they trotted through the city.
‘Have you ever travelled up on top of a coach, sir? Can’t say it’s something I’d like to do again. Freezing cold and bloody dangerous, if you ask me.’
‘At least you didn’t have the general’s conversation to deal with. If I hear one more time about Marshal Massena’s exquisite taste and Marshal Marmont’s wine cellar my brain will burst. I’ve sampled his wine cellar myself, for God’s sake. How I’d love to have told him that.’
Archer added, ‘And what about his snoring, sir? Every time I began to get to sleep, there it was again. Like thunder, every time.’
Keane laughed. ‘Or his aide de camp’s curious lack of hygiene. You’d have thought a bit of soap, or a pomander at least.’
Silver laughed. ‘You should have been sitting next to the driver, sir.’
*
Three horsemen riding through the night make better time by moonlight, and the weather favoured Keane and his men. With their cloaks blowing out behind them they pushed on to Angerville. The little town was silent and, just as the agent had told them, the sentry box at the side of the road was empty of its guard. Étampes and Orsay followed quickly, and after three hours’ hard riding Keane pulled up beside a brook which ran along the side of the road.
‘A rest, I think. She’s a bit heated.’
He jumped down and led his horse to the stream. Archer and Silver followed.
‘We should be there soon. An hour and a half perhaps. Don’t want to arrive too early. We should rest here too. Take a couple of hours. That would get us in nicely. Just after dawn.’
They tethered the horses away from the road, just as they would have in Spain, and with Archer taking first watch Keane and Silver lay down on the bank, wrapped in their cloaks, their heads resting on their packs. After an hour Silver took the watch and then they were away on the road to Sèvres.
*
They entered the environs of Paris just as the dawn was coming up. As usual in a public street, Keane and Archer rode ahead, with Silver tucked in behind them. Moving up through the village of Saint-Cloud they at last saw a few people, farmhands and a vagrant in a faded French uniform. But most of the shutters remained closed.
The suburb was unimpressive. He had thought that the entrance gates to Bonaparte’s great Imperial city would be astonishing. But all he saw now were squalid streets of the like he was more used to walking in the Peninsula.
They could have belonged to any of the towns he had passed through in the past ten years, with narrow streets hung with washing and filthy central gutters where the sewage ran raw.
At length they entered a great wood. Keane turned to Archer. ‘It’s the old hunting forest of the kings of France. The Bois de Boulogne.’ A hundred yards ahead two roe deer crossed their path and he turned to Archer again. ‘It’s a pity that Martin’s not here. He’d have brought them both down.’
He wished he hadn’t made the comment. All the way through Spain and France, under escort and later with the general, he had deliberately stopped himself from thinking about the rest of the troop, back in Spain. It was curious, he thought, how one thing, the sight of two deer in a forest, could trigger something in the mind. He did not want to admit the fact, but there was no denying that he missed the men. He wondered how they were getting on without him and the others. Sergeant Ross was a fine NCO and would have them working at something, he was sure, and Grant would probably have set them some task by now. He’d have them out observing, reconnoitring, making themselves useful. His main concern was that during his absence the unit might be broken up and the men attached to others battalions.
He chided himself for such a thought. Grant would never allow that to happen, nor Wellington. But if they were otherwise occupied, he worried, perhaps those elements at HQ and St James’s who wanted to discredit the commander in chief might take the opportunity to issue an order . . .
Keane brought himself to his senses.
*
They were emerging from the wood now and he pointed ahead in genuine astonishment. ‘Look, over there.’ For quite suddenly they had found themselves in a very different world from that they had seen before the trees had closed them in and one utterly changed from the Paris that Keane remembered.
Ahead of them stretched a wide, tree-lined road leading to a huge open square, also encircled with short fruit trees, in the centre of which dozens of workmen appeared to be toiling to raise some sort of structure. Whatever it was, it looked as if it might be built from marble. It was topped with a statue of a goddess in a chariot pulled by three horses.
Archer exclaimed, ‘Good God, sir. It’s just like ancient Rome. Like those engravings we used to have at the university. It’s extraordinary.’
Silver gasped. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed. That’s something I ain’t never seen. That is something, I’ll say.’
Keane said nothing.
And as they approached it became clear that this was not just any building but an arch. A triumphal archway, thought Keane, such as the Caesars had in ancient Rome. Archer had caught the parallel perfectly.
‘It’s fantastic, sir. It’ll be colossal when it’s finished.’
‘That it will. And that is exactly what the emperor intends. He is building monuments to his own greatness. Creating his own myth. And will you try occasionally not to call me sir? Look out – there’s the gate.’
On two opposite sides of the round place that contained the rising arch, a huge white marble neo-classical building commanded the road. These were the toll houses which after the Revolution had been constructed along the new city wall, the farmers’ wall that encircled Paris. Between each of the buildings and the arch stood two sentries clad in the uniform of the City Guard, watching the traffic as it passed in and out.
It was now coming up to 5 a.m. but already the wagons were moving into the city. They would be farmers mostly, Keane supposed, taking produce to the markets.
The three of them rode towards the entrance gate on the right side of the arch, with Silver once again dutifully behind, taking his part as their servant. As they approached one of the guards stepped out, his musket brought to a challenge, and indicated that they should show their papers. They reined up and Keane reached into his pocket and handed the man the passes that they had been given by Madame Duplessis, praying that they would do the job. The guard looked at them all carefully, then
up at Keane, taking in the uniform and peering beneath the cloak at the green tunic. He looked back down and then up at Archer, giving him the same treatment before moving round to Silver. He returned to Keane and muttered at him in a guttural patois, ‘You’re a long way from your regiment, captain.’
‘Yes, sergeant, that’s why we’re here. We’re on our way to Holland.’
‘Where have you come from?’
‘Orléans, but before that we were in Spain. On campaign with Marshal Marmont.’
‘It’s a long route to take, isn’t it? Through Paris.’
‘Yes, but I have business here on the way.’
‘Very well. I hope you find your regiment.’
He waved them on through the gate and once they were out of earshot Archer spoke to Keane. ‘He seemed suspicious, sir. Do we need to worry?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Just doing his job. He’ll have been told to keep an eye open for deserters. I think he wanted to make sure we were officers.’
‘Lucky he spoke to you, sir.’
‘Don’t underestimate yourself. You would have carried it off.’
He was not concerned. The man had been doing his duty and there was nothing out of the ordinary in the three Irish soldiers making their way into the city from Orléans. Curtis and Grant had both told Keane that Paris was teeming with unusual, even bizarre characters and that the three of them would attract little attention in such a varied population.
As they passed the arch, Keane noticed that while one side was indeed made from marble with carved relief sculptures, the other was merely constructed from painted canvas hung on a wooden frame. There to impress but with no reality. He wondered how much more of the great empire’s façade might be similar.
It had struck him that the sergeant of the guard had taken a curiously familiar tone with him. A British sentry would have peppered his conversation with ‘sir’s. It made him think.
