Flashman's Escape

by Robert Brightwell

  “But how the devil will we do that if he is shut up in the citadel?”

  “Oh, I am known in there. I often go to hear confession from the prisoners. Perhaps if you go as my guard they will let us see him.”

  The last place I wanted to go was to the cells under the citadel. I did my best to talk him out of it but Curtis was resolute. If Grant had talked, we needed to know. Of course if he had talked then the French would be on heightened alert for a mysterious spymaster based in Salamanca. The Irish priest professor with correspondents around the country would be a prime suspect, as would an unknown French officer in British boots, with no papers, trying to vouch for him.

  Perhaps rightly concluding that I would not come back if we delayed the encounter, Curtis insisted that we went to the citadel straight away. He picked up a satchel containing communion wine and other priestly vestments and led the way out of the university. For an old man he walked at a good pace and the citadel was not far away. It gave me little chance of thinking of another excuse not to go.

  “Don’t worry, many people know me here,” Curtis murmured in Spanish as we walked through the forbidding stone arch into the fortress.

  “That is what is worrying me,” I replied in the same language as Curtis chuckled. But many of the guards did recognise him and a few who were Catholics greeted him kindly, receiving blessings in return.

  With his French lieutenant companion watching sternly on, we were soon conducted not to the cells but up some stairs to another room where the prisoner was being held. We were left waiting in the corridor while the guard went in and announced that a priest was there to hear Grant’s confession.

  “But I am a Presbyterian,” whined Grant and for a moment I thought the idiot would refuse to see us. Then Curtis gently pushed in through the door.

  “I am from the Order of Saint Arthur,” he declared referring to Wellington’s first name in his softly spoken Irish accent. “I am allowed to hear Presbyterian confessions too.” The guard stared between the two men, unable to understand what was being spoken.

  “That will be all right then,” agreed Grant, still appearing confused as to what was happening.

  Curtis turned to the guard and gestured to me standing outside. “Perhaps my companion can stand guard on the meeting?”

  It was then that Grant noticed me still standing in the corridor outside. “Flash…” he gasped before he could stop himself as his eyes bulged in astonishment. Luckily the guard was looking at me at the time and missed the reaction.

  “I will guard them, Corporal,” I said sternly to the guard and stood back to encourage the man to leave. “We will knock on the door when we are ready.”

  The guard seemed happy to have one less job to do and stepped outside the cell. Once I had entered, the door slammed shut and I heard the guard shooting the bolt across.

  “What the devil…” started Grant but Curtis held up his hand to silence him. Then the priest started to recite a prayer loudly in Latin as I put my ear to the cell door to check that the guard’s footsteps were receding.

  “He has gone,” I declared as the noise on the flagstones died away.

  “I demand to know what is happening!” exploded Grant. He was glaring angrily at me as though it was my fault he had been arrested. Sensing the obvious hostility between Grant and me, Curtis replied.

  “Your General Wellington has sent Mr Flashman to visit me to see if we can help you.” He spoke slowly and calmly as though quietening an overexcited child and it seemed to work. “Now why don’t we all sit down and discuss what is happening?”

  There were two chairs in the room, a table and a bed. Curtis and Grant sat opposite each other on the chairs while I sat down on the bed facing the table.

  “That is better,” said Curtis smoothly. “Now why don’t you start by telling us how you got arrested?”

  “We were betrayed,” cried Grant hotly and the wretch even had the nerve to flick a glance in my direction as though I might be responsible. “We tried to get away but we ran right into one of their cavalry patrols.” He paused, seeming sorry for himself, and then added quietly, “They shot Leon. I thought that they were going to arrest both of us, but as they led me away I heard a shot. When I looked he was on the ground covered in blood. He had all of our notes tucked into his waistband.”

  “We will have to recover those,” stated Curtis quietly.

  “I have already done it,” I interrupted. “The notes have been destroyed.”

  “Was Leon…” Grant’s voice was barely a whisper now. He could not bring himself to finish his question.

  “Dead? Yes, he was, but I got the villagers to give him a Christian burial.”

  “Thank you, Flashman,” he muttered dully, staring down at the table top.

  “Have they questioned you yet?” prompted Curtis.

  “Yes, they have.” Grant looked up now, suddenly indignant again. “It was some fat general called Martiniere. But I told him nothing, despite his threats to have me hanged as a common spy when I am still wearing the uniform I was captured in. He was a foul-mouthed bully, but fortunately Marshal Marmont heard about the interrogation and had the decency to invite me to dinner by way of an apology.”

  Curtis and I exchanged a glance at that. We had both seen the letter from Marmont’s office offering Grant for interrogation. Marmont was urbane and polite, but he was ruthless in achieving his goals. I wondered if Martiniere had been used deliberately to shake up Grant before Marmont tried a softer line of questioning.

  “Did you like Marmont?” enquired Curtis.

  “Oh yes, he was a proper gentleman, a man of honour and integrity,” enthused Grant, again giving me a sideways glance. “He gave me his word that there would be no question of me being hanged for a spy as I had been captured in uniform and he gave me an excellent dinner.”

  “Was this before or after his army escaped the trap at the Agueda river?” I asked the question casually but Grant was quick to take any offence and saw the inference that he might have talked.

  “I said nothing about the plan, Captain Flashman,” claimed Grant, reminding me that he was my superior. “And the marshal declared he would not have embarrassed us both by asking about it. In fact he told me that his spies keep him very well informed on what the British are doing.”

  “Did he tell you what they had told him?” asked Curtis amiably.

  “Not a lot, but I don’t think they are very good as they overestimated our casualties at Badajoz.”

  “Did you tell him they were wrong?” probed Curtis.

  “Yes, but that does not matter as the battle is over now. We spent much of the time arguing over whether British or French soldiers could march the quickest.” Grant paused as though remembering something and then pressed hurriedly on. “But what are you doing here? Have you not heard? I have given my parole and I am to be exchanged.”

  Curtis briefly caught my eye. It was now clear as day what had happened. Marmont had plied Grant with a mixture of wine and charm. The fool had then confirmed the existence of a plan of attack, the size of army Wellington had left and probably when they could be expected.

  Curtis looked down at his fingers before continuing. “Our information is that you will not be exchanged. Mr Flashman is here to arrange your escape back to the British lines.”

  Grant gave a scornful laugh. “Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you, Flashman? Seeing me dishonoured by breaking my parole; then having me as some kind of trophy to prove that your sordid way of conducting war in an enemy uniform is best. Do you think I have forgotten what you did to me at Ciudad Rodrigo?” he hissed. “You are vile and detestable, Flashman. I would no more place myself in your care than in that of Bonaparte himself.”

  He turned stiffly to Curtis. “I am sorry, Father. You are clearly an honourable and God-fearing man, but I regret that I know your companion well and he is nothing of the sort. I have given my parole to no lesser man than Marshal Marmont of France, whom I also believe to be honoura
ble. He is arranging an exchange for me in Paris and I have given my word that I will not try to escape before I am delivered to that city.”

  Curtis looked a little bewildered at the outburst from Grant and so I leaned forward and dropped the copy of the letter from Marmont to the minister of war on the table. “Then you had better read that,” I told him. “Your honourable marshal has no intention of exchanging you. He has offered you to the minister of war for interrogation. I will leave you to imagine what that will involve.”

  Grant paled a little as he read through the lines, but then he saw that the letter was a copy with no signature at the bottom. “This is not the original letter,” he cried, glaring at me. “It could just be one of your tricks to get me to do what you want.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I exclaimed, now exasperated beyond endurance. “Do you really think I care what happens to you? Would I risk my life by coming all this way into the very heart of Marmont’s army unless Wellington had ordered it? They can torture you until your toes curl as far as I am concerned, but Wellington evidently values you much more highly than I do.”

  “It is true that Wellington wants you back,” stated Curtis quietly. “But Mr Flashman cannot break you out from the citadel. He will have to try to help you escape on the journey to France.”

  “But I have given my word of honour that I would not try to escape before I reach Paris,” whined Grant.

  I took the letter back and we left him then to reflect on his position, with Curtis promising to return. I knocked on the cell door and after a delay the guard came and let us out without showing any interest in his prisoner’s visitors. Grant bid us good day and then sat at the table staring at his hands as he started to take in what we had told him and doubtless review his dinner conversation with Marmont. We were halfway across the courtyard in front of the citadel when Curtis turned to me, his face a picture of curiosity.

  “What on earth did you do to Grant in Ciudad Rodrigo that would make him rather face torture than be rescued by you?”

  “Oh, you heard him,” I exclaimed. “A village idiot has more wits and he is an irritating little toady to boot. Marmont tricked the Agueda plan out of him and he was too stupid to even notice. Why Wellington wants him back is beyond me. It was his guide Leon who did all the thinking and he is dead.”

  “But what did you do to him in Ciudad Rodrigo?” persisted Curtis, smiling at my attempted evasion of his question.

  I sighed. A Catholic priest was hardly likely to approve of such a spiteful act. “I put muscle liniment on his bollock-washing cloth.”

  “You did what?” exclaimed Curtis, stopping in astonishment.

  “Well, he had been given my room and he was damn smug about it. The fastidious little swine was laying out his wash things on my washstand as he threw me out of his new quarters. It seemed appropriate somehow.”

  “And from his reaction I am guessing he washed with it. The liniment must have burned his balls like the fires of hell.”

  I grinned. “Oh, it did. He must have tried to wash it off but that did not work. He ended up sitting in the half-frozen water of a horse trough right outside the officers’ mess.” I chuckled at the memory but Curtis roared with laughter. He was obviously picturing the scene and his thin elderly body shook with mirth. Eventually he had to sit on a low wall to wipe the tears from his eyes.

  “I can understand now why he really hates you, Mr Flashman,” he gasped when he had got his breath back. “I think I misjudged you,” he said, grinning. “You really are a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?”

  Chapter 18

  It took ten days for Marmont to organise a suitably sized escort for Grant. He was required to send a draft of three hundred men back to France to support the reinforcements for the invasion of Russia. To help protect this group against partisan attack, the column was provided with six cannon. There would also be the usual covered supply wagons and in one of these there would be a large ringbolt nailed to the floor. This was to transport Grant, who would be chained to the ring on the floor to stop him escaping or being carried off. The French had learned of Wellington’s offer to the partisans. They hoped by keeping Grant hidden in one of many wagons they could reduce the chances of losing their man.

  Grant, however, was still adamant that he would not escape until he reached Paris, as he had given his word. He doggedly hung to the desperate hope that the letter I had shown him was a forgery. He was also convinced that his initial impression of Marmont as a man of honour stood true. I knew all this because Curtis had visited Grant twice more on his own after our joint meeting. Curtis thought he might make more progress with Grant alone. But Grant was a stubborn mule who insisted that his word of honour could not be broken. I have no doubt he would have changed his mind when they chained him to the rack, but he did not seem to have the imagination to work that out for himself. Marmont must have been getting reports on his prisoner for he heard about Curtis’s visits. When the priest tried to see Grant for the third time he was arrested and questioned.

  I had been waiting outside the citadel for him, and as first one hour passed and then two, I realised that something was wrong. I quietly made my way to a tavern opposite the entrance to the university and there I watched a group of soldiers enter and head towards the priest’s rooms. They emerged a while later carrying books and a box of papers back to the citadel. It says something about the calm competence of the old priest that I never once considered that he would betray me. Curtis, a doctor of astronomy as well as a priest, was highly respected at the university. I was sure that the search of his room would have been reported to the academic authorities and that the chancellor would be sending representations to Marmont seeking the release of their professor.

  Certainly if the French had their suspicions about an accomplice, then the city gates would be thoroughly guarded. The attempted escape of a junior French officer with no papers would only make things worse. It seemed to make sense to stay amongst the crowds within the city walls.

  That afternoon and evening I moved between three taverns with views of the university, waiting to see if he would be released. I was playing chess and getting roundly beaten by a young student who looked like he had not yet started shaving, when I saw Curtis walking down the street. With him were two soldiers carrying his papers. The priest looked shaken and tired but he walked erect with his chin held high. He glanced around the square, but if he saw me he showed no sign of recognition. That was just as well as I was not the only one watching him closely. A swarthy little man, who had not been in the bar long, was also studying Curtis. The fellow was following the priest’s gaze, trying to see who he was staring at. But when the man looked over his shoulder at me I was busy studying the bottom of my tankard, appearing as disinterested as possible.

  A few minutes after the old man had disappeared into a courtyard of the university, the stranger got up and followed him through the arch. I was sure he would be watching Curtis’s rooms to note down any visitors. But Curtis was a wily old fox who had been in the spying business for much longer than his pursuers. I knew that there was a secret back entrance to his chambers.

  A while later the young sprog across the table shouted “Checkmate!” for the third time in an hour and picked up his board and pieces to look for more worthwhile opposition. I was sitting at the table wondering what to do next when I felt a tug at my sleeve. I looked around and there was a very serious nine-or ten-year-old boy holding out a tankard to me. As soon as I took it he turned and walked quickly away. I could tell from the weight that it was empty, but in case anyone was watching I pretended to take a drink. Everyone in the tavern seemed to be concentrating on their own business and so slowly I took the pot below the level of the table to shield it and put my hand inside. There was a slip of paper; on it was an address and it was signed ‘Saint Arthur’.

  The address was an old house in a backstreet near the university. Without a word the old woman who answered my knock gestured to a room at the back. Ther
e I found my belongings, which someone must have taken from the room Curtis had arranged for me in his college. I met the old man there early the next morning.

  “Ah, Flashman,” he called, taking off the cloak and wide-brimmed hat that had hidden his priest’s robes. “It is just as well that Grant cannot abide you or you would have been taken yesterday. I only just convinced them of my innocence and I have lived in the city for years.”

  “Did they not find anything in your rooms?”

  “Of course not. I am not stupid enough to leave anything there. But they are very nervous over Grant and his escort leaves tomorrow. I have arranged for you to join it to try to help Grant escape, if he changes his mind.”

  “I couldn’t possibly get him away from an escort that size, even if he was willing,” I protested. “We will just have to tell Wellington that his bird has flown.” I paused and then added hesitantly, “Unless you are willing to consider another way of stopping him talking?”

  “You mean killing him? I am a priest, Flashman. I could not countenance such a sin, even if I thought it was better than the torture that must await him. No, we must do all we can to help Grant see the error of his ways. I am passing the word to partisan groups that Grant is leaving and reminding them of Wellington’s reward. In the meantime I have papers authorising you to leave the city and more ordering you to join the force with Grant. It would be best if you join the escort after it has left the city; I suspect that Marmont will be watching it closely while it is here.” He passed me some papers and I saw that both orders were signed by General Martiniere.

  “Isn’t he the officer that threatened Grant with execution?” I asked, pointing at the signature.