The Eagle Trail

by Robert Rigby

  Henri nodded, looking far from convinced.

  Paul tried again and the bike edged forward. The movement was still jerky, but this time he rode unsteadily to the open gates, with Josette, Henri and Léon scuttling after him.

  As they watched, Paul wobbled away down the dimly lit street. They heard a clunk as he changed gear, but the bike kept moving, weaving from side to side before it finally rounded a bend and disappeared.

  Léon turned to Henri. “Are you sure he’s ridden a motorbike before?”

  The first couple of minutes were pretty scary as the bike stuttered along, and Paul feared that at any moment he would end up lying on his backside in the middle of the road with the machine stalled and damaged beyond riding.

  But he was a quick learner, and soon, despite some over-revving and a few more sudden jerks, he had mastered the clutch and gears and was riding more confidently, grateful to have made it away from the house in one piece.

  The road was almost arrow-straight to begin with, and largely protected from the wind by buildings on both sides. But after a kilometre or so, Paul left the town’s boundaries and the valley opened up.

  The fierce wind, which had been building all day, now toyed with him, attacking first from one side and then the other. But Paul clung on, and as the road began to drop downwards, steep banks and trees provided some respite. Soon he was negotiating a series of tight, twisting bends, carefully leaning into each turn. He thought of Father Lagarde, the way he drove the Bugatti as though he were part of it, and tried to become part of the motorbike.

  He reached the village of L’Aiguillion, where he had to make a left turn. So far there had been no traffic in either direction, exactly as he had hoped. Once he turned onto the smaller road the chance of meeting another vehicle was even less. Without having to stop, he completed the turn.

  There were high hills to his left and to his immediate right he glimpsed the river, mirroring the course of the road. Less than a mile later he was turning again, crossing a bridge to head up into the village of Lesparrou.

  The streets were empty; the shutters all closed. There was no sign of life until, passing the last house on the main street, Paul heard dogs barking furiously at the sound of the engine.

  The road dropped downwards, narrowing further, and Paul recalled from his trip with Didier that from now on it would be little more than a track.

  As he moved into the open valley, the wind attacked again, this time from all sides at once. Buffeted and blasted, Paul dropped a gear and accelerated, more confident now.

  The valley was wide at this point, the road rising and falling like a switchback, but Paul kept his eyes and his concentration on the way ahead.

  Now the bike entered thick forest, with tall pines and wind-whipped ferns crowding in from both sides. Waving branches and shifting foliage made fantastic shapes and patterns as they were caught fleetingly in the headlight’s beam.

  Paul forced himself to ignore everything; all that mattered was reaching Rivel. He leaned into every snaking twist and turn as, on either side of him, the wind howled through the trees, dominating even the roar of the bike.

  Suddenly, just ahead in the middle of the road and frozen in the beam, Paul saw a bulky shape, like a crouched man ready to pounce.

  Two narrow, malevolent eyes glared through the darkness.

  Paul jammed on the brakes, too hard, too fast, and the rear wheel slid round to the left, propelling the bike closer and closer to the hunched shape in the road.

  Paul’s right foot instinctively went to the ground as he battled to stay upright. Releasing some of the pressure on the brakes, he wrenched at the handlebars and managed to straighten the bike and bring it to a standstill.

  A huge, shaggy wild boar stood a few metres away, its black eyes gleaming, two stunted, creamy tusks pointed directly at Paul.

  This close, the animal was terrifying. It glared and grunted, lowering its head, the hairs on its back rising and stiffening as it snorted loudly, challenging, threatening.

  Paul was certain the beast was preparing to charge, ready to do battle. He had to respond to the challenge.

  “No!” he shouted. “You’re not stopping me! I’m coming through!”

  The animal snorted again, streams of thick snot oozing from its fleshy snout.

  “Get out of my way!” Paul yelled as he shoved the bike into gear and wound up the throttle, revving the engine wildly.

  The animal charged. The bike hurtled forward.

  It was like a game of chicken, and it was over in seconds. At the very last moment, it was the boar that chickened out, swerving to its right with a furious squeal and crashing through the roadside trees and into the forest.

  “Yes!” Paul screamed into the night. “Yes!”

  He roared on, and he didn’t look back.

  Breaking clear of the woodland, Paul crossed a bridge and was surprised to find himself in Rivel. It was as though the village had ducked out of sight, not wanting to be seen from a distance.

  Paul had got through; he’d done it. He slowed the bike but didn’t stop, passing through the village and continuing along a straight road fringed on both sides by plane trees. He took a right turn and, soon after, pulled into the clearing where he was to meet Henri and Léon.

  There was no sign of the truck. Paul circled the bike so that he was facing the road, came to a halt and switched off the engine and lights.

  He sat back and released a huge sigh of relief. Lifting the goggles, he rubbed his eyes and then checked his watch. It was ten minutes to eleven, the journey had taken no more than fifty minutes, but it felt like hours.

  Paul pulled the bike onto its stand, got off and walked tentatively around the clearing. His body ached; his muscles were tight with tension.

  Something snapped nearby and Paul stopped dead, tensing. He peered into the enveloping darkness, wondering if hostile eyes were watching him; another wild boar, perhaps, or worse, human eyes. But apart from the swaying branches, nothing moved.

  Paul relaxed.

  Soon after eleven he heard the truck approaching. He watched, relieved, as it swung into the clearing, stopping beneath the canopy of a tall tree, well hidden from the road.

  The headlights went out and Henri and Léon jumped down from the cab.

  “Well done, Paul, you made it,” Henri said, grasping his hand and pumping it energetically. “Any problems?”

  Paul paused briefly and then shook his head. “Problems? No, not really.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Two dismal floodlights did almost nothing to illuminate the camp. Large areas were in deep shadow or total darkness, the outline of the four low blocks, where two hundred and fifty or more prisoners were housed, just visible in the gloom.

  A dim light burned from the central guardhouse, but there had been no sign of movement in the twenty minutes Henri and Léon had spent watching, crouched outside the wire fence on the south side of the camp, well away from the road.

  The wind had dropped swiftly to next to nothing, as it often did this close to the mountains. An occasional feeble gust ruffled the treetops, a half-hearted reminder of the earlier ferocious force that swept through the valley.

  Now the night was still and virtually silent. Every so often Henri and Léon caught the sound of a hacking cough or muffled groan from the closest hut, but that was all. There had been no sign of patrolling guards.

  Henri checked his watch, the luminous hands and numerals glowing brightly in the darkness. It was twenty minutes to twelve.

  “We should cut the wire now,” he whispered.

  Léon nodded and watched as Henri took the wire-cutters and snipped through the first strand.

  The snap of the metal sounded deafening. Both men froze, expecting to hear shouts and see armed guards running towards them. But nothing happened.

  When he was certain the noise had not given them away, Henri turned to Léon. “I don’t have a gun with me,” he whispered. “Do you?”

  “No,” L
éon answered. “And I wouldn’t know how to use one anyway.”

  Henri laughed softly. “Fine freedom fighters we are.”

  Léon took off his scarf and handed it to Henri. “Hold this over the wire when you cut, it might help muffle the noise. And try not to slice through it; it was a present from my wife.”

  Cautiously, Henri made the next cut. The scarf did help deaden the sound.

  “I’ve never been much of a fighter,” Léon said quietly as he watched Henri work. “I just take people from one place to another.”

  “It all counts, my friend.”

  “I hope so. Seeing this place close up makes you wonder though.”

  Henry cut through another strand. “Wonder what?”

  “Why no one has tried to escape before. Slack guards, little security; it wouldn’t be difficult.”

  Henri stopped cutting and looked at him. “Léon, the men in there are not criminals. They’re not in there for anything they’ve done, it’s just because of who they are. Most of them are probably still thinking this is all a big mistake and that soon they’ll be set free and allowed to return to their families.”

  He went back to work and within a couple of minutes had cut a gap big enough for a man to slip through.

  They sat and waited. Time passed painfully slowly. Henri repeatedly checked his watch.

  Twelve o’clock came. And went.

  Both men were afraid even to consider the possibility that Jean-Pierre was not coming.

  The minutes dragged on. Three minutes past the hour, six minutes past. Henri silently decided that if Jean-Pierre had not arrived at the fence by a quarter past they would have to return to Lavelanet without him.

  Then there was a slight, almost inaudible sound from the closest hut. A door creaked and seconds later two shadowy figures appeared through the gloom.

  They watched as one figure helped the other, moving along the side of the hut and into open ground. Soon they reached the fence.

  Henri had never met the guard, but knew he was Gaston Rouzard’s contact, Raymond Martel. He nodded an acknowledgement and then almost gasped at the sight of Jean-Pierre. He looked ill. Frail and gaunt.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Henri asked Martel.

  Martel shrugged. “Dysentery, for one thing. It’s his own fault. What can he expect if he keeps getting thrown into the cell?”

  “Can he walk?”

  “Of course I can walk, Henri,” Jean-Pierre said, his voice as weak as his body. “And I can hear and speak too.”

  “I’m sorry, Jean-Pierre,” Henri said quickly. “Forgive me.”

  Jean-Pierre managed a smile. “I’ll forgive you anything if you get me away from this place.”

  “What about the other prisoners?” Léon said to Martel. “Did any of them see you bring him out?”

  Martel gave another shrug, apparently unconcerned. “They know better than to say anything.”

  “The other guards then?”

  “Asleep.”

  With Henri’s help, Jean-Pierre crawled through the gap in the wire, wheezing and stifling a cough.

  Henri turned back to Martel. “I suppose Gaston told you that you’ll receive the rest of your money when our operation is completed.”

  Martel grinned. “Yes, he told me, just before he passed out.”

  “Passed out?”

  “He had a few too many glasses of red wine while we were reminiscing, missed the last train back and is sleeping it off at my place. He was snoring like a pig when I left to come on duty.”

  Henri nodded. The mystery of Gaston’s failure to return to Lavelanet was explained.

  Jean-Pierre coughed again, louder this time, and Martel took a quick glance at the guardhouse. “I’d better go back.” He nodded towards Jean-Pierre. “Get him away now. He should be all right in a few days.”

  Henri had told Paul they expected to have Jean-Pierre back at the clearing in just over an hour. They had moved off soon after eleven and as Paul checked his watch again he saw that half past midnight had come and gone.

  Unable to rest, never mind doze as Henri had suggested, he had paced the clearing, wide awake, buzzing, focused on the task ahead: getting Jean-Pierre back to Lavelanet.

  Although midnight had come and gone, they were only in phase one of the operation. It was going to be a long night.

  Paul checked the bike, making sure everything was still in order. Then he circled the truck, giving it the once over, even though he didn’t really know what he was looking for.

  He glanced at his watch again and walked to the front of the clearing, close to the road. Immediately he spotted a pinprick of light.

  A torch; they were coming.

  “This is our friend, Paul,” Henri said to Jean-Pierre as they entered the clearing. “He’s going to take you back to Lavelanet.”

  Jean-Pierre nodded, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper as he spoke. “Thank you, Paul, I’m very grateful.”

  Paul stared, lost for words. At last, he was face to face with the man he had heard about ever since his arrival. He’d expected some sort of heroic figure – big, strong, bursting with pride and energy – but the young man standing here looked broken and defeated. Even in those few seconds Paul couldn’t help thinking there was no way Jean-Pierre would be capable of walking over the mountains.

  Henri must have read his thoughts. “I’ve explained to Jean-Pierre that you both have a long journey ahead,” he said quickly. “He’s suffering from dysentery, but we’ll get him cleaned up and give him plenty of water to drink and he’ll be fine.”

  Paul nodded, but said nothing.

  “Time to go,” Henri continued. “And remember, Paul, not to the safe house we spoke about at the meeting last night. Go to the other place.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Josette could not disguise her relief and joy as she heard the motorbike pull up outside her grandmother’s house. She leapt from her chair, rushed to the front door and yanked it open.

  Paul was helping Jean-Pierre off the bike. Josette stared, hardly believing how much the young man had changed.

  Somehow, though, he managed a smile. “Ah, the young lady from the café,” he muttered.

  “I’m Henri’s daughter,” Josette said as brightly as she could, standing aside so that Paul could help him into the house.

  Jean-Pierre laughed. “I might have known. You should have told me…”

  Whatever he was about to add was lost as the coughing began, a raking, painful cough rooted deep in his chest.

  Josette followed them inside. Odile stood waiting by the door to the kitchen.

  “Gra-mere, this is Jean-Pierre…”

  “I know who he is,” Odile said, taking his hand. “You need water, plenty of water, and a bath and change of clothes. And then there’s a meal of cassoulet for you both.”

  Jean-Pierre forced another smile. “My favourite. How did you know?”

  Before Odile could answer he spoke again. “But I’m afraid that before anything, I must go … I must use…”

  “Yes,” Odile said to save his embarrassment. “Come with me. And drink some water first. It will help.”

  As Jean-Pierre walked unsteadily towards the kitchen, Odile looked over at Paul. “We’re very proud of you, for what you did tonight,” she said simply before following Jean-Pierre out of the room.

  As soon as the door closed, Josette turned to Paul. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Your father said it’s dysentery. I don’t know much about it, but it affects the stomach. That’s why he—”

  “Yes, I see,” Josette said, interrupting.

  “But the cough is something else.”

  “Will he get better?”

  “He says he will. He says he’s ready for the long walk across the mountains.”

  “But he looks awful.” Josette was studying Paul’s face. “And you look tired. How was it?”

  Paul decided not to mention his encounter with the wild boar. “Getting there was
… interesting. The wind made handling the bike difficult, but it dropped by the time we started back so it was a lot easier. My biggest worry was that Jean-Pierre would let go of my waist and fall off.” He shrugged. “But we made it. Is there any news about Didier?”

  “I telephoned the hospital again. He’s still sleeping.”

  “I wish I could see him before … before I leave.”

  Josette nodded and then suddenly looked shy. “We are, you know.”

  “You are?” Paul said, confused. “Are what?”

  “What Gra-mere told you – proud of what you did tonight.”

  Paul was as unused to receiving compliments from Josette as she was to giving them. They stood in an awkward silence.

  “When will Papa be back?” Josette asked eventually.

  “Soon, I guess. Their route takes a little longer, and I was much quicker on the way back. They have to take the truck to the yard and bring their cars here, so it might be … it could be … I don’t know really.”

  He was floundering, saying too much, but nothing of what he wanted to say. He knew that once Henri and Léon arrived at the cottage, he would be on the road again, after saying goodbye to Josette for the final time.

  “I wish I hadn’t been so horrible to you when you first got here,” Josette said. “It was such a waste of time.”

  Paul smiled. “You weren’t that horrible.”

  “I was. And … and the thing is … well…” Josette was floundering too. “I do like you. You’re very nice.”

  “You’re … you’re very nice too.”

  They fell silent again. The silence felt loud in the small sitting room.

  “I wish you were staying,” Josette said at last.

  Paul didn’t respond, even when Josette raised her eyebrows and nodded at him, indicating that it was his turn to speak.

  She sighed. “And now you’re supposed to say that you wish you were staying too.”