A Flag of Truce

by David Donachie

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The streets were full of the same bustle and the quay resounded with calls as the locals bargained for the first and best of the morning catch. Pearce and his untidy escort made their way by the noise of their boots, which cleared a path by the mere crack of metal studs on cobbles. Though many a glance was thrown at the British naval officer carrying that truce flag, very few of them were hateful, leading Pearce to speculate again on the difference between the mass of Frenchmen and those at the forefront of radical change.

  But it was only an occasional distraction; most of his thoughts were taken up with what he had to do next, which was no easy matter since he had only a very sketchy idea of what he was about to face from the information hurriedly imparted by the men who had come out to HMS Faron in their boat. The National Guard was not numerous, some hundred souls of which a third would be on duty at any one time. Soldiers should not be a problem; they were encamped to the north of the town, facing any threat that might come from the Chouan rebels, which made him wonder – their commander and several of his officers seemed more content to enjoy the ease of a proper bed in La Rochelle than share the discomfort of their military encampment.

  The number of carts and load-bearing peasants in the streets forced the party to use the covered walkways, which, while it scattered those wishing to share the pavements, had the benefit of severely reducing the possibility of the men with him being recognised by their French opposite numbers; after all, these were some of the same fellows who had gone aboard Apollon off Marseilles, and the disguise they had was far from comprehensive. A forced crossing on the main thoroughfare took them to the Place de la Revolution and to a packed square in which traders had already set out their stalls to sell their wares.

  Pearce looked anxiously over their heads to what in his mind had become the oration platform, glad to see that it was empty. No sign of Rafin, who probably would not stir for a time yet. In forcing a passage to the Hotel de Ville, he noticed that most of the assembled crowd were the sailors he had helped to land the day before, and his presence set up a murmur that he could not identify; it was anger, but at whom was it directed? It seemed to him that a great deal of the looks he was getting were supplicant, not irate; they were being aimed – unfairly as it happened – at his supposed file of National Guards. It was a good thing they could not speak the Erse, a tongue in which Michael was roundly cursing those who blocked his path.

  The sketch the unnamed boatman had given him told him the entrance to the prison was inside the main building, a set of steps leading up from the basement cells to the main hall and the long desk at which sat the Revolutionary Tribunal. As a point of entry, it was a choice of last resort; if possible he did not wish to go into the confines of the Hotel de Ville, because inside he would be bound to be outnumbered, and if his lot came face to face with anyone in the same uniform, it would only be a second before the fact they were impostors was announced.

  There was a sunken gate on the southern side of the building in an alleyway only wide enough for one cart, down a set of steep steps. It was the way in which food, wood and water were taken in, and the waste they produced removed, while it was also no doubt the exit by which any cadaver of a prisoner who had expired would be extracted. It would be guarded on the inside and he racked his brain to find a way of getting in.

  ‘Michael, I need to exchange hats and coats. Stand well back at street level while I go to the bottom of the steps and knock. I want that British uniform to be visible.’

  Pearce was not small, but the time it took for Michael to get into his coat was annoying, and there was no way the arms would reach his wrists nor would the lapels come close enough together to look proper, so he was ordered to hand the garments over to Farmiloe, who looked more the part of a British naval officer. His instructions were to stand sideways as Pearce went to the base of the damp steps, which smelt of the corruption caused by human beings and the wind-blown filth that filled the foot of the well. He took out, loaded and cocked his pistol, and balancing on a loose section of the lowest step, which rocked slightly, he banged loudly on the studded oak door.

  The voice that replied took several seconds and was querulous, which probably meant the fellow had been snoozing. Standing well to the side as the grille-covered viewing panel was slid back, so the fellow inside could see Farmiloe surrounded by a file of National Guards, Pearce lowered his voice an octave and growled that he had been ordered to bring in the English officer. The response was a protest, but the mention of Citizen Rafin, and the information it was his personal order, proved enough to get the keys rattling and the door unlocked. As it swung open, Pearce barrelled through and had the pistol under the warder’s chin in a second, grunting in French for him to back away and get down on his knees, an order the lanky fellow obeyed swiftly, with a sob that he be allowed to live.

  The rest of his party were quickly through the door, only to be faced, at the end of a twenty-foot corridor, with another nail studded door, locked on the inside, which served as a doubly secure means of ensuring those taken into prison stayed there. A demand to the warder for the key brought a negative response, plus the information it could only be opened from the inside, and it was obvious the only person those on the other side of the door would respond to was now on his knees, trembling before the waving pistol of John Pearce.

  ‘I hear noises,’ said Martin Dent, who had his ear pressed to one of the points where the ancient oak door failed to meet the jamb, places at which, over the years, it had shrunk. ‘Voices, keys rattling, bit o’ shouting.’

  Pearce edged him aside and listened himself, harbouring a deep feeling of despair as he heard what sounded like the movement of several protesting prisoners. Were they moving them earlier than he had hoped? He needed to get through the door now, but if he did he would be in the narrow confines of a prison, probably against greater odds, and while he accepted that every man with him faced the same risk as he, he felt forced to hesitate, being reluctant to commit them when he had no idea of what they faced.

  ‘Michael, get that bastard on his feet.’ The Irishman literally lifted him bodily, for although a tall fellow, there was no weight to him, and for good measure he slammed him painfully against the rough stonework of the wall, producing a cry. ‘One good blow, Michael, to let him know what he faces if he does not help us.’

  The prominent nose went in an instant, sending forth a fountain of blood and dropping the warder back onto his knees, his hands over his smashed snout. Pearce, leaning over him, had not enjoyed that; much as he hated prison warders and much as, in the past, he had experienced their rapacity and total lack of empathy for anyone who could not bribe them for comforts, it went against his personal grain to indulge in torture. But he suspected that if he did not, the French officers would die; in the balance of things, this fellow’s pain meant little. Harsh words and threats had the man look up at him, and the pistol waving before his bleeding nose.

  ‘You will go to the door, you will knock and use whatever password is agreed to get us through, or you will die, not by this pistol but at the hands of my friend here, who will tear you to shreds, bit by painful bit.’

  Odd that Michael did not speak a word of French, yet he must have sensed what Pearce was about because he grabbed the fellow by the neck of his rough smock, rocked him back and forth against the wall, causing the warder to scream in fear and pain, which was a snuffling affair, coming as it did through the blood he was swallowing. Michael, on command, lifted him again and shoved him towards the door, one hand, when he got there, tightly gripping the fellow’s gonads.

  ‘Tell him, John-boy, that if he messes us around, I will rip off his balls.’

  The knock that followed was clearly a signal, two raps at a time with a gap in between a trio of the same, but there was no response. The small panel in the top did not open, no voice answered and Pearce, with his ear to the gap at the edge, heard no sound where there had been much before. Ordered to knock again, encou
raged by an extra squeeze from Michael, the warder repeated the coded request; still no response.

  Pearce stood back, looking around him for something to force open the door. His eyes alighted on a set of stout fire irons by a grate, at this time of year out of use. Then he looked at the door again, with hinges and locks not visible, being on the inside, and the gap all round which might provide leverage.

  ‘Michael, get the poker and jemmy that door open.’

  Michael went to stick it into the lock side, only to be stopped by Pearce. ‘The hinge side, Michael. That is the weakest point on a door.’

  ‘And how would you know that, John Pearce?’ asked Charlie Taverner.

  Pearce grinned, though he was still anxious. ‘If you get mixed up with the wrong people, Charlie, even if you don’t want to, they tell you things like this.’

  ‘Sounds tae me like you’ve seen the inside o’ a place like this afore, sir,’ added Dysart.

  ‘He’s one of us,’ crowed Martin Dent, with a laugh. ‘A felon by nature, don’t you know that?’

  Costello responded in a shocked voice. ‘How has you missed the grating, boy, talking to an officer in that manner!’

  ‘Too fly, Costello, that’s why, ain’t I, Mr Farmiloe?’

  The young mid just blushed as Pearce gave an impatient signal for silence. ‘Jam it in as far as you can, Michael, a foot from the top and the bottom. That is where the hinges will be, and if they are rusted, they will give.’ Doing that, it was clear, even with his great weight and strength, when he bent to the task of heaving, it was not enough. ‘Martin, Dysart, Costello, on one side and pull; Charlie, Rufus, push with Michael. Mr Farmiloe,’ he added, pointing to the warder, now crouching against the wall, again holding his face, ‘put your bayonet by that bastard’s throat.’

  Heave as they might, it was to little effect, and Pearce realised they needed something with which to hammer the metal point further in. ‘Part of the bottom step leading to the street is loose, someone fetch it. Use the other fire irons to dislodge it. The rest, get your bayonets into the gap and see if you can enlarge it.’

  ‘Noise, John-boy.’

  ‘What choice, Michael?’

  The Irishman shrugged; there was none. Odd then that on the fourth blow with the granite of the bottom step the sound of a key came through the wood, and in a second the door swung open. A ruddy-faced fellow came through, and, seeing a group of National Guards in various stages of dress and undress, demanded what in the name of creation was going on. So much for security, as the one in the sergeant’s uniform coat put his pistol to the man’s chest, and O’Hagan, in nothing more than his shirt, swung a blow that knocked the bugger right off his feet.

  ‘You weren’t hoping to talk to him, John-boy, were you?’

  ‘If I was, there’s no point now. Get the keys.’

  Through the door they entered another corridor with cells off to one side. The interior of those stone-lined chambers showed evidence of recent occupation: unconsumed food and the open ditty bags and sea chests containing the possessions the French officers had brought ashore. Keys in hand, Pearce made his way to the end, ordering that the two warders should be gagged and shoved in a cell. There was yet another door, and when he put his ear to the join, Pearce could feel a slight, cold draught on his cheek. Slowly, he inserted each of a dozen keys, easing each one round till it stopped, until he found the right one, which went through the well-oiled levers. Indicating that his men should be quiet, he eased open the door to be faced with another set of stone steps leading up to a beamed ceiling.

  From where he stood he could see the back of the top half of a National Guard and he could hear voices, or to be more precise one voice, that of Rafin, vilifying his prisoners, heaping every insult in the revolutionary vocabulary on their heads. He tried to imagine those being harangued, hoping most of them were looking at their accuser with defiance. Another voice protested, which Pearce recognised as that of Jacquelin, pleading he was no traitor, but a true son of the Revolution. At least Rafin stopped to listen to him, as the captain of the Orion cried out the tale of resistance in Toulon; how he had led his men to refuse to serve, of his reluctance to surrender to the British at any time, and of how only those cowards who could not face the ultimate sacrifice demanded by the Revolution had stopped him from running his ship into Marseilles, regardless of the consequences.

  That was his undoing. Pearce had removed his hat and crawled silently up the steps to a point where, through the guard’s legs, he could just see the long table at which Rafin sat. The representative on mission was sitting when Pearce first saw him, playing with his moustaches again, a look of contempt on his face as he listened to Jacquelin. ‘Ultimate sacrifice’ had him leaping to his feet, screaming and damning the man for the coward he had to be if he was not prepared to lead by example, the implication being that if Jacquelin had laid down his own life, others would have been inspired by his example. Not being able to see the accused was frustrating; a man who no doubt felt he had reasonable grounds to be freed. He did not know the beast with which he had been brought to grapple. Pearce could imagine him though – the crushing truth getting through: everything he had believed in was false; there was no Libertié, Equalitié, Fraternité, and certainly no justice.

  Rafin calmed himself and began to speak in a mocking tone, detailing the misdeeds of these men who had once served King Louis. How could any decent citizen be sure of their motives? Had they not come from Toulon as agents of those traitors in that port to undermine the Revolution in another, and used the desire of the true people of France, the men they led, as an excuse to betray? He then went into a flowery peroration, detailing with little modesty his own credentials as a man who had suffered under the monarchy, though in truth it did not sound, to Pearce, like much in the way of discomfort. The audience – there must be one or no speech was necessary – listened in silence to a catalogue of self-aggrandisement.

  Finally, Rafin delivered the damning words, his voice rising as he spoke. ‘As a true son of the Revolution, I demand that these traitors pay the penalty of any man who holds up his hand to stop the progress of the people. I demand they face the guillotine.’

  Those watching, who had not dared to utter more than a murmur during the proceedings, broke into loud cheering; they had come for blood and they were going to get it. There was then a farce while Rafin ‘consulted’ the other tribunal members, half a dozen army officers, General Westermann first, his inferiors in order of rank, all of whom merely said ‘guilty’, a verdict that had only one sentence.

  ‘Take them to the place of execution,’ Rafin shouted. ‘Now!’

  The sentry in front of Pearce moved, and so did he, sliding back down the stairs to join his waiting men. He and Farmiloe exchanged coats again, and Dysart, who had never left hold of the truce flag he had brought from the ship, raised it to indicate he still had it, and Pearce took it from him.

  ‘I will go up first. If I signal with my thumb behind my back, follow me up, if I show you one pointed finger, shut and lock this door and run.’

  The incongruity of having a flag of truce in one hand, a sword in the other and his pistol in his belt was not lost on Pearce, as he ascended the steps, this time going on until he could see the chamber was now empty, though he could hear the cheering from the square in front. Quickly, he indicated that his companions should join him and as soon as they did he moved past the tribunal table to a point where he could see out of the open double doors, which led to the elevated plinth. Rafin was there, facing the square, in his black coat, big hat and tricolour sash, no doubt flanked by his fellow judges, and he had his hands raised calling for silence, an instruction the crowd were unwilling to obey.

  ‘Right, we go out through those double doors, and arrest Rafin and his companions.’

  ‘And then?’ demanded Charlie, who obviously had reservations about what would happen next.

  ‘We collect the prisoners, march them and that bastard in the black coat down to
the harbour, take a boat, and row back out to HMS Faron. And before you tell me it’s madness, Charlie, let me say I agree with you, but I can think of no other way to save men who do not deserve to die.’

  Charlie grinned, which lit up his face, and showed that look which must have been his main asset as he fleeced the unwary visitors to his part of London. It was a grin to get all your coins out of your purse. ‘As long as you know it’s madness, that’s all right.’

  ‘Form up, lads,’ Pearce hissed, ‘let’s do this in regulation fashion.’

  Rufus Dommet was shaking, and Pearce put a hand on his shoulder, addressing Charlie. ‘Look after him, won’t you?’

  Charlie aimed a soft punch at the other’s shoulder. ‘Never fear, John. No Pelican will go down if I have a say in it.’

  ‘I’ll be sound, Pearce, I promise,’ said Rufus.

  ‘I know you will, Rufus.’

  As soon as Rafin started shouting out his message to the mob, they silently approached the open doors. Not that noise mattered; the roaring voice covered their footsteps, and only those at the very far side of the square would be able to see them. Since they were in the local uniform it created no alarm, at least until Pearce raised the flag of truce, which got folk pointing. When they levelled their muskets at the backs of those lined up slightly behind Rafin, the men to either side of him turned to look, and froze.

  Pearce took Michael’s musket and aimed over the shoulder of the representative on mission, who was still shouting out his slogans, though the pointing fingers and loud gestures from below should have told him there was something amiss. The crack of the musket ball whizzing by his ear did that in no uncertain terms, his body jerking in shock. That passing ball affected the crowd as well, as, aimed over their heads, it crossed the square to smack into the wall of a house, making everyone duck.