My coach was serviceable but could have used some sprucing up; the seats were sprung and the exterior rather shabby. However, it would serve its purpose. I tossed in my single case, for I had packed lightly in anticipation of purchasing an entire wardrobe in Paris.
I had no idea if French would make the run into the city in one go, but I knew that traveling by coach would take a good long while and require numerous changes of horses along the way. I prepared myself for the worst and purchased a few bottles of ale and brandy and a hamper filled with numerous delicacies. If I was going to arrive in Paris with a damaged spine and bruised kidneys, I planned to at least be well fed.
On the following morning, in the wee hours, the driver picked me up at my hotel and we stationed ourselves at the entrance to the dockyard where French and his Russian spy were due to arrive. It was a long wait, I can tell you, with the coachman muttering from time to time in that guttural way that Frenchies do and climbing down to thrust his head in the window (emitting a gust of garlicky breath each time he did so) to ask if mademoiselle was certainement that we were in the right spot. Mademoiselle was not, but it is never wise to give the help any cause for concern, so I replied cheerily that of course we were at the correct location and he need only be patient. For good measure I reminded him that for the fee I was paying, I expected him to wait all day and all night, if necessary. Each time, he mumbled disapprovingly under his breath and climbed back onto the seat.
I will admit that I had begun to doubt my own deductions about French’s arrival when the coachman leaned over and called out to me that a British frigate had just passed the breakwater and was sailing slowly toward the pier. I clambered out and told the driver to wait a moment, reminding him of the coins he’d earn for his patience, and then scuttled off to watch the ship glide neatly to the wharf where our splendid naval chaps secured her by dropping loops of massive rope over the bollards. I huddled in the shelter of a doorway and watched the activity on deck until I espied French accompanied by a small fellow sporting a bowler hat and a grey overcoat. Even from this distance I could see the man’s hands were bound in front of him, secured by a pair of handcuffs.
Two sailors escorted the pair down the gangway and to a waiting brougham. Obviously French did not intend to slum it on the way to Paree. The carriage was painted a glossy black. The glass in the windows had been washed recently and the sunlight glinted on them. The driver was nattily attired in a frock coat and he doffed a top hat to French when he appeared. French helped the little chap aboard and the sailors began to load baggage. I recognized French’s small trunk and his Gladstone bag, but there was much else besides: a veritable mountain of luggage consisting of various sizes of boxes, parcels and trunks. The amount of luggage did not appear commensurate with a brief sojourn in France, until I recollected that Albert Cutliffe’s exit from England was permanent. Obviously he’d been allowed to bring along all his worldly possessions. I’d have given him a boot in the backside and sent him back to the Russians without a penny in his pocket, but I am not consulted on these matters, more’s the pity.
When the sailors had secured the last case and covered the lot with a canvas tarp, the coachman clambered aboard and released the brake. I could see that to exit the dock the brougham would pass right by my vantage point, so I turned tail and scampered back to my own coach. I leapt aboard, shouting at the driver to turn his vehicle and to follow, at a safe distance, the black brougham that would be passing shortly.
I slid down the cushions to avoid being seen as my driver coaxed his nags through a tight circle and then we waited until I heard the grating of the brougham’s wheels on the gravel. I straightened up after the carriage had lumbered by and was pleased that my driver did not immediately hare off in pursuit. He paused until the creaking of the brougham had faded to silence, then clucked to his horses and we were off.
Now that my journey had commenced, I treated myself to a bottle of beer and some bread and cheese. The road from Calais to Paris is a good one, smooth and flat and well surfaced, and for that I was grateful. I was thus able to drink my beer without the loss of my front teeth. I had a pleasant meal and then gazed out the window at the fields disappearing in the distance and the charming villages we passed through. Apart from geese and grass, there was nothing of interest to be seen. For my part, I prefer the bustle of traffic to a quiet country lane. Peace and quiet is an unnatural sensation for a Londoner. Now and then we crested a gentle rise and I felt the horses strain against their collars, but for the most part the ride was as smooth and peaceful as a Sunday excursion. Consequently, I dropped off and spent several hours napping.
I woke a few hours later when the coach slewed right and came to a stop. I peered out the window, expecting to see an inn or public house where we would change horses, but we had stopped in a grove of trees. Immediately I was on my guard and fetched my Webley Bulldog revolver from my purse. I’d brought the pistol along for two reasons. As I have said, the chaps who frequent the wharves of Calais are a rough lot, and I wouldn’t put it past my driver to have decided that he might as well take my money by force and perhaps enjoy a bit of skirt on the side. Not, of course, that he would be able to do either of those things with a .442 slug in his chest. The second reason was that there were any number of ruffians out on the road who might be tempted by my beauty. The journey from Calais to Paris has always been a bit dicey, attracting brigands and highwaymen who preyed on the travelers and mail coaches. The Webley was my insurance that I’d make the trip safely.
I stuck my head out the window. “Why have you stopped?”
“I wait,” came the reply. “Ze coach ahead eez shangin’ horses. When she leave, we do ze same.”
I’d chosen my ruffian well. He was an astute fellow. We lingered in the copse for a few minutes and I took the opportunity to have a stiff drink. There would be time to stretch my legs and inspect the lavvy while we switched out the nags. After a quarter of an hour I heard the driver speak softly and the coach jolted forward. Apparently, French was intent on making speed toward Paris and had not lingered at this first stop. Our weary horses clopped slowly into the yard of a coaching inn and I stepped out of the carriage. The innkeeper hurried forward and gestured to the doorway of his establishment, miming washing his hands and face and shoveling food into his mouth. I declined the latter, but repeated his gestures of ablutions. He smiled and indicated I should follow him inside. I instructed the driver to hire the horses (at a reasonable rate, mind you, although I’d no idea what that might be). I reckoned this trip would cost me a pretty penny, but I don’t like being told to wait behind like a good little woman, and I wasn’t about to miss a chance to exchange lingering glances with French over a glass of champagne.
I performed my toilette and purchased some boiled eggs and hard rolls. When I ventured outside, a new set of ponies was being pushed into the traces and the driver was returning from the lavvy, buttoning his trousers as he walked. Well, I hadn’t hired him for his manners. He downed a brimming glass of wine, stuffed a loaf into his pocket and gestured me aboard.
I was staring out the smudged window of the coach when the clatter of hoofbeats on the cobbles drew my attention. A band of travelers cantered into the inn’s yard. There were four of them and they were a rum-looking lot, travel-stained and bearded, with eyes like watchful raptors. They were well-mounted, their finely-muscled steeds still stepping high as they were reined to a halt, though they were sweating freely and covered with dust. The men were well-armed. Each wore a brace of pistols at his belt, and I saw the hilt of a dagger peeping from one’s boot. One bloke even sported a Mauser carbine, tucked into a rifle scabbard on his saddle. My driver muttered under his breath as one of the troop cast an appraising eye over our coach. He turned to his fellows and made a comment I didn’t hear. His companions turned their gazes in our direction. I shrank back from the window and thanked heaven I had already climbed inside before the men appeared. They did not look
like the kind of gentlemen who lifted their hats politely to a lady. They looked more like a gang of pirates who would have been happy to fling me over a saddle and ride off into the sunset.
My shabby conveyance and absence of luggage elicited little interest. The four men turned away with expressions of disinterest and dismounted, summoning the stableboy with impatient shouts. They strode into the tavern, weapons clanking and spurs jingling. My driver wasted no time in clambering aboard and whipping our team into action. I kept a wary eye out the window as we drove off, but the four brigands remained inside, no doubt terrorizing the landlord, but I could hardly afford to worry about that. That gentleman would have to fend for himself. I made sure my Webley revolver was near at hand and settled back for the rest of the drive.
French pressed on and we followed. The handsome black brougham stopped once more at a stable off the main road for another change of horses and my driver repeated his previous action of hauling our coach off the thoroughfare and out of sight behind a barn while we waited. I watched the action from the shelter of the ancient building, but to my surprise French and his passenger remained in the coach. An elegant cuff appeared from the open window of the brougham and the driver strolled over to collect a few coins. He disappeared into the inn and returned a few moments later with a coarse linen sack in one hand and bottle of wine in the other. He handed these provisions inside, mounted the driver’s seat and slapped the reins against the flanks of his fresh horses. The brougham rolled away, a faint shadow of dust trailing after it. French clearly intended to drive straight through to Paris, which meant I must as well. I had been told the road from Calais to Paris was safe enough if one traveled by day, but it was now growing dark. I cast an anxious glance behind us, but the four horsemen I’d seen at the first inn were nowhere in sight. I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling their appearance had prompted, however. There were no choirboys among that lot.
When French’s driver had vacated the premises, we followed him into the stable and made a fast change ourselves. I availed myself of the rather primitive facilities, purchased a bottle that the landlord assured me was the finest claret, and reclined on my seat as we pulled back onto the road. It was going to be a long night and I began to have a few doubts as to whether this was truly the best way to see Paris. Perhaps I’d been a bit impulsive. I can be, you know, especially when I feel that French or the prime minister have discounted my usefulness. Or perhaps it was just the effect of traveling a monotonous road in a stuffy coach with a cold supper. Well, there was nothing to do now but bear with the consequences of my actions, so I resolved to have a kip.
I was awakened from a rather pleasant dream involving French and a fencing mask by the precipitous halting of the coach, which catapulted me from the seat to the floor. I looked out, expecting to see the lights of an inn or public house, but there was no sign of civilization. It was full dark now, with a gibbous moon gleaming faintly over the landscape. The air was damp and smelled of freshly turned earth.
I lowered the glass and put my head out the window to enquire (not very politely) what the devil the driver was doing halting in the middle of the road when I heard the thrumming of hooves sweeping up the road behind us. The muted sound turned to thunder as riders charged past us on either side of the coach. I caught only a glimpse of the horses at full gallop, their riders bent low, and felt the disturbance of the air as they swept by. I yanked my head back inside the coach and hoped that none of the four ruffians I’d seen earlier (for it must be them) had noticed the delectable treasure (yours truly) traveling in the seedy coach. There was no doubt they were after French. The gleaming brougham with the cargo piled high was a prize worth seizing.
I stuck my head out the window again. My driver was hauling on the reins of our coach and the horses were stamping and whinnying with fear.
“Drive on!” I bawled at him.
The driver sawed frantically at the reins, trying to turn the coach back toward Calais.
“Stop that at once,” I cried.
He paused long enough to point into the distance with his whip. “Thieves!” he shouted. “We must go back.”
“I know they’re bloody thieves! After them!”
The driver unleashed a torrent of Frog, none of which I understood but the gist of which, I am sure, was that he had no intention of following the hooligans. I heard a faint pop from up the road and surmised that the miscreants had overtaken French. The single shot was followed by a succession of sharp reports, muted by distance and the thick, moist air.
By now my driver had nearly turned the coach. I snatched up my revolver and swung open the door. “Stop at once!”
The driver glanced over his shoulder and uttered an oath. “Non, non. We must fly!”
“Drive on,” I screamed. “We must help them.”
In the pale light I saw my coachman raise his arm, the whip in his hand a thin black line against the moon. When he brought it down, it would be with the purpose of laying into the horses. I had no intention of returning to the safety of the nearest lighted inn, not if French was fighting for his life.
I jumped from the coach just as the whip cracked over the nags and the coach lurched forward. The driver gave a shout and the horses took to their heels. I hit the ground hard enough to jar my teeth and bruise my shoulder. I felt a flash of irritation at the feckless driver and wondered how and when I would reclaim my lost luggage. I’d half a mind to turn my Bulldog on the fellow and shoot him. I didn’t intend to kill him, of course, just wing him. Blood loss would surely weaken him and I’d have the opportunity to track him down just as soon as I had dispatched the desperados who were besieging French. But any thoughts of rescuing my bags disappeared at the sound of the fusillade up ahead. The road stretched away from me, a pallid ribbon in the moonlight. I gathered my skirts in one hand and, brandishing my pistol in the other, I sprinted toward the sound of battle.
And it had become a battle. The brougham had come to a stop in the road and was now encircled by a gang of men. I could hear the metallic clang of iron shoes striking the graveled road as the horses reared and plunged. They were snorting and neighing frantically, and the brougham rattled and creaked. Then a volley of shots rang out and I recognized the roar of French’s own weapon, his beloved Webley Boxer. The pistol uses a .577 caliber bullet, which is roughly the size of a small cigar. If you’re unlucky enough to be hit by the bloody thing, it’ll blow a hole in you big enough for a cat to climb through. The sound of French’s gun was reassuring, but his attackers responded with a barrage of shots that peppered the coach like a spatter of hail. I was close enough now to see the orange muzzle flashes from the guns and to smell the smoke that hugged the ground like a London fog. I wished I hadn’t seen the blaze of the guns for the light dazzled me and it was damned difficult to find a target.
But I reckoned I’d soon figure out which chap needed potting so I plunged forward, waving my Bulldog and screaming a high-pitched war cry. I felt rather than saw a pause in the action as my caterwauling registered with the participants in the fray. No doubt the highwaymen were having a brief think, wondering what the devil a demented female was doing bursting out of the night into their midst.
Then the action resumed. I could see the bulk of the brougham, pitching about as the terrified animals lunged in the traces, surrounded by four men on horseback. As I watched, one wheeled his steed and leveled a revolver at the brougham. He fired at point-blank range and wood splintered with a sharp crack that echoed through the misty air. I skidded to a stop and raised the Bulldog. I didn’t have much hope of hitting the fellow, for his horse was capering wildly, but I fired off a round anyway. I missed the bloody thug by a mile, but the report from my weapon had one singular effect: it drew the attention of the highwaymen from French’s brougham. Unfortunately, all four now turned their focus upon me. Damnation. I hadn’t really had time to formulate a plan of attack beyond rushing to the carriage with my revolve
r in hand. Further action on my part was clearly required, as these fellows showed no signs of leaving the scene.
Well, it is not wise to linger very long in one place during a gunfight, so I darted to my left and raised the Bulldog again, this time drawing a bead (at least, I hoped I was—it was too dark to tell, really) on the chap who’d fired into the brougham. I pulled the trigger and the revolver leapt in my hand. I heard a stifled cry and one of the thieves went flying off his mount, arms flailing. I stood for a moment in some consternation, as the victim was not the man at whom I’d been aiming, but then I shrugged. Obviously, the sights on my Bulldog needed an adjustment. I’d have French see to that, just as soon as I’d rescued him.
As for French, he now recognized that salvation was at hand and I heard his Boxer bark. I took a third shot at one of the mounted figures, and then fired off another. French was strafing the bandits from the interior of the brougham. One of his shots scored a horse’s flank and the animal screamed. The sound shattered the nerve of the attackers and I heard a guttural shout. Then three of the horsemen spurred their charges and pounded away down the road. The fourth fellow, the one I’d shot, was on his feet and looking for his mount, but when his compatriots bolted, he gave up the search and took to his heels across the fields. It was bloody lucky that they had run, for I had only one shot left in the Bulldog and my spare ammunition was in my purse, which was halfway to Calais by now.
India Black in the City of Light (Novella) (A Madam of Espionage Novella) Page 2
