Flashman's Escape

by Robert Brightwell

  Grant’s eyes opened wider in alarm as his previously imagined glory turned into ignominy and condemnation.

  I pressed on. “We have already sent our despatches to Wellington. If the plot succeeds then we will share in the glory, and if we can make it back to Britain or Spain, we can be sure that the messages got through.”

  Grant sat there for nearly a minute, thinking this through, and then he looked up. “You are right, Flashman,” he conceded. “The republic is the most important thing and we must do all we can to protect it.”

  Having convinced Grant not to show himself in public again and to leave as soon as we had heard from Lacodre, I headed back up the garden to the house. Anna gave me a strange look as I passed through the kitchen. I wondered again if she was a spy for Clarke. If she was, she might have been informed that I was also working for Clarke. She might be just as worried about me betraying Lacodre as I was about her revealing our true identities. It was an absurd situation in that neither of us could trust or talk openly to the other without being certain of their treachery. If Anna was just inquisitive or had been asked to watch us by Sophie then it would be fatal to admit that I was being blackmailed by Clarke.

  The mistress of the house, however, seemed to have no such suspicions and happily told me that she had arranged for a length of chain and a lock to be delivered to Malet’s room at the rest home.

  That evening I tried to play cards with Sophie and the boys. My mind was not in the task. I could not help but wonder what would happen to them once Clarke moved against the conspirators. Even if Savary was trying to help her, it would surely be impossible for him to protect her if she was up to her neck in a plot to overthrow the emperor. She seemed certain to face the guillotine, but at least the boys should be saved and given to the custody of their father. While Sophie and her sons laughed with delight at the turn of the cards, I sat there feeling increasingly morose.

  I was more convinced than ever that we had to escape. There was no way I was going to play a part in Sophie’s downfall or implicate other innocent victims for Clarke. I had grown fond of Sophie and the boys over the last couple of weeks, especially little Victor, who seemed to have a powerful imagination. He would often sit beside me and ask me to tell him tales of the war in Spain.

  What is this? I hear you cry: Old Flash getting sentimental and chivalrous? Not a bit of it, although of course I would have been sorry to see poor Sophie lying face down underneath the ‘national razor’ as it was known. In this case, while Sophie did not know it, our interests were completely aligned. If I was forced to plant papers incriminating others in her house then she would be further implicated in the republican scheme. Equally, I knew full well that the minute I had planted those documents, I would be a dead man. Clarke would not take the risk of me being used by one of his political opponents to reveal his involvement in the conspiracy. But it would be no easy task for Grant and I to escape both our friends and our enemies to make it to that barge.

  Even if we did manage to get away, I wondered what would happen to Sophie. Clarke would not give up on his plan of using the conspiracy for his own ends. Perhaps someone else would plant the incriminating documents and our escape would make no difference to Sophie’s fate. I pondered if I should simply tell her that the plot had been betrayed; but she was bound to tell Malet and that was as good as telling Clarke. The minister would then have us all rounded up and executed without delay. My imagination was filled with an awful image of staring down into a basket waiting to collect my head. I shuddered with horror at the thought and then, taking the brandy bottle with me, I slurred my apologies and retired for the evening.

  I awoke the next morning with a thick head and what felt like a furry tongue. For a few blissful moments I lay enjoying the sound of the birds and the early-morning light shining through the half-drawn curtains. Then, like a black cloud, the memories of the previous day filled me with gloom. The walls of the room seemed to close in and I felt more ensnared than ever before. I had been in prisons and cells before and faced some grim prospects, but here there were so many layers of intrigue and confinement that it seemed almost impossible to break free. I got dressed and went outside, but there was no escape there as I remembered I was due to report to Clarke’s men at the start of each day.

  I made my way through the bushes in the garden, avoiding sight of the chapel. I slipped quietly out of the gate and walked down the alley to the street. The man in the brown suit was sitting on the bench across the road, unshaven and slightly dishevelled as though he had been on duty all night, and perhaps he had. I walked across and sat next to him.

  “What news do you have?” he demanded curtly.

  “Not much. I told the minister everything I knew yesterday.” I paused, thinking that there was one piece of information that I could safely give them as they would find out for themselves shortly. “Madame Trebuchet has sent General Malet a chain and padlock for the box under his bed.” Glancing across at him, I added, “I presume you people can pick the lock?”

  The man looked at me with contempt. “Yes. But find out where she bought it in case we need an identical lock.”

  I got up and started to walk away. The lock probably had the maker’s name stamped on it; the man was just trying to exert his power over me. I had walked several paces when he spoke again.

  “Wait,” he called, and I turned to face him. “Who is the second deserter staying at the house?”

  I paused momentarily in shock before I managed to utter, “Second deserter? There is no second deserter.” It was a poor lie and we both knew it. The man smiled at my reaction.

  “We will find out who it is, but it would be better for you if you tell us.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I responded more convincingly, but the damage was done.

  I turned and walked away back up the alley. My heart was pounding. The hunt was on and this time we were the foxes. I could almost hear the call of the horns and the baying of the hounds as I went through the garden gate. It would not take them long to find out who Grant was. Someone had talked, and once they had a description of a man in a red uniform, they would soon link it to the missing British officer hunted across the city. There could be no more delay or prevarication: we would have to leave that night, whether Lacodre’s cousin was ready or not.

  Needless to say he was not ready and Anna was damned icy about it when I asked her that afternoon. I have little recollection of that day beyond wandering around the garden in an increasing state of funk as I considered the risks we would have to take over the next few hours and what would befall us if we failed. That afternoon I went to Grant and told him that we had to leave that night. I explained that I had seen men watching the front of the house and with the wanted posters we could not afford to delay any longer. He took this surprisingly well and said he would be ready. If he had harboured any doubts, he had only to go to the front of the house where one of Clarke’s agents could clearly be seen sitting on the stone bench I had used to watch the house. I had still not worked out precisely how we were going to escape without being spotted, and as evening fell I found myself turning once more to the brandy bottle for solace.

  “What are you doing sitting here by yourself?” asked Sophie when she found me in the library.

  I looked at her with a mixture of pity and shame at my complicity in her fate. “Come here and join me for a drink,” I suggested, patting the seat on the sofa beside me. I reached across to the side table and poured a generous measure of spirit into a second glass and passed it across.

  “What has got into you?” she persisted. “For the last couple of days you have been really miserable.”

  “I am homesick,” I admitted and then, with an unplanned burst of honesty, I added, “and I am frightened about what will happen next.”

  “You poor thing.” Sophie laughed and put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me towards her so that my head rested on her shoulder. I found myself staring down at her smooth
breasts and for the first time noticing the flowery scent that she used.

  “You don’t understand,” I cried, sitting up again. “Grant and I have to go soon. Yesterday when I was out I saw a wanted poster for us. The police are searching for us. It is too dangerous for us to stay here. Too dangerous for us, for you and the republic,” I slurred.

  “Ah, so that is what you have been worrying about.” She smiled again and as I took another swig of brandy I realised that she was still a striking woman. “There is no need to get upset; your friendly barge owner should be here any day. Then you will sail peacefully across France to Nantes. It is a beautiful city; I was brought up near there. The coast is rife with smugglers. You are bound to find someone to take you to a friendly port.”

  “It is not that,” I said miserably. “Well, not just that.”

  “What then?” she prompted, before adding, “Pour me some more brandy. It looks like I have some catching up to do.”

  “I am not just frightened for me, I am frightened for you too.”

  “Don’t be frightened for me. I have told you before that I have protection. If the plot fails, the minister of police will not let me be arrested.” She took a gulp of spirit and as her eyes burned brightly she added, “But the plot will not fail. In just a few weeks the second republic will be born and once again the spirit of liberté, égalité and fraternité will be alive through France.”

  “No, it won’t,” I insisted, suddenly feeling a sense of abandonment. “The government knows all about the plot and in a few weeks you will all be arrested and facing execution.” I grabbed Sophie by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “You have to believe me. If you are caught trying to overthrow the emperor, there will be nothing that Savary can do to save you, even if he wants to.” Sophie stared at me in surprise as I added lamely, “I just don’t want you to end up on the guillotine.”

  She leaned across and I felt her brandied lips gently kiss mine. “You really care, don’t you?” she whispered, sitting back. “What makes you say these things?”

  I realised with a start how close I had come to simply blurting out everything and took another swig to hide my dismay. “It’s Malet’s damn box,” I told her. “Why would they release him from prison if they were not going to keep an eye on him? I am certain with every fibre of my being that the authorities have looked inside it.”

  “Why have they not arrested Malet then?” asked Sophie.

  “Because they want to see who else will become involved in the plot; they are using Malet as bait. It is what I would do if I was a Bonapartist.” Christ, I thought, I really could not make it any plainer without introducing Clarke as a character witness. But just to drive the point home further I went on. “And it is not just that. Last night I had a dream, a nightmare really. Ministers were using the plot to round up their enemies as well as the conspirators. You, Malet and dozens of others were waiting by the guillotine. The blade kept rising and falling, rising and falling. It was awful. I have never had such a vivid dream. It seemed like a premonition. I want you to promise me something.”

  “What?” She looked tenderly at me and one hand reached out to stroke my cheek.

  “I want you to promise that before the plot starts you will take the boys to some safe place in the countryside and that you will not return to the city until you have heard that the second republic has been declared.”

  “I promise,” she whispered softly. “I also promise that I will never forget you, Thomas Flashman.” At that moment she looked beautiful in the candlelight and I suddenly realised that I had not wanted a woman this much for quite some time. I reached forward and cupped one of her breasts with my hand. “What are you doing?” she asked quietly.

  “I am upholding revolutionary principles,” I told her. “In England this would be known as taking a liberté. I am rather hoping that you will be offering me some fraternité.”

  Chapter 30

  There was plenty of fraternité that night; in fact we fraternised ourselves to exhaustion. There was even some égalité as we both took turns on top. I guessed it was some time since Sophie had been with a man and for me it was a splendid way to release the tension that had been building up over the last few days. We were interrupted once, when we could no longer ignore Anna’s less than discreet hammering on the library door to remind Sophie that the boys were going to bed. She went up to kiss them good night while I fortified myself with more brandy and took the bottle with me to Sophie’s bedchamber. There we renewed our very personal tribute to revolutionary principles. I well remember Sophie sitting astride me with her splendid breasts bouncing in front of my face, urging me with republican zeal to use my senatorial staff to bring her to liberty. There is a reason that the French statues of the revolution are often bare-breasted women: with bouncers like those ripe for the grabbing, you are not going to waste time thinking of the principles relating to constitutional monarchies.

  I awoke in the middle of the night with another sore head and a bladder bursting for attention. Sophie was snoring quietly beside me with her arm draped across my chest. I gently slid out of her nocturnal embrace and staggered across to the corner of the room where I had seen the chamber pot earlier. I had half-filled it when I was hit with the sudden recollection of what I was supposed to be doing that night. Instead of bedding the lady of the house, I should have been making my escape with Grant. I muttered curses to myself as I pulled back one of the window drapes and looked out. It was still dark with no hint of light in the eastern sky. From the light of the quarter moon I could just make out the bushes in the garden below. There was still time to make our move.

  I turned back to the bed and saw Sophie’s naked body illuminated in the moonlight. For a fleeting moment I wondered if I could postpone our escape until the following night, but then I remembered the smug face of the man in the brown suit. With wanted posters, Grant flaunting himself watching the nearby parades and somebody talking about the second man in the garden, it was astonishing that they had not arrested us already.

  I got down on my hands and knees and started to collect my clothes. I was soon dressed apart from my coat, which was still in the library, and my sword, which I had kept in the chapel. I went across and kissed Sophie lightly on the cheek. As I turned away I saw the brandy bottle on the bedside table. My head was throbbing, but I was also thirsty and I thought a little ‘hair of the dog’ would not hurt. I took a deep swig and then I slipped from the room.

  In the library I found my coat where it had been discarded in our fumbling embraces, but before I left I remembered that Sophie kept her pistol in the desk drawer. It was the one that she had used when we first met. I went across the room and, fumbling in the darkness, I found it with a powder flask and a bag of balls. I pocketed them in my coat and followed a passageway that led out into the garden.

  Would Clarke really have people watching the front and back of the house night and day? I wondered. The only way to find out was to look, but if they were there then they would be alerted to our escape. Night was the obvious time to make a run for it and Clarke must have thought that I would consider it. I decided that they probably were watching the house and so we would have to find some other way to escape.

  As I walked down the garden, I knew that it was surrounded by a stone wall one and half times the height of a man. To my right the wall ran along the main street; a man could stand on the corner and watch both the street and the alley. To my left, the wall separated Sophie’s garden from the ones of neighbouring properties. That seemed the way to go, if we could get over the wall.

  I reached the chapel, found my sword and whispered up to Grant. There was no reply but he had to be in the bell tower because he had pulled the ladder up with him. He did that every night, even though Anna had promised that Clothilde would not come back.

  “Are you there?” I whispered hoarsely again, a little louder this time. I did not want to use his name in case a spy was in the alley near the chapel. Still no response, but l
istening carefully I could hear his deep, regular breathing. A more drastic approach was clearly required.

  I walked to the ruined end of the chapel and found a rock the size of an apple. Then I walked into the base of the tower again and hurled the stone to the underside of the platform Grant was sleeping on. There was a yell from Grant that must have been heard by anyone in the alley. This was immediately followed by a muted yelp from me as the rock fell back and cracked me on the shoulder.

  I heard the creak as the trap door opened. “Who is there?” he whispered down.

  “Who do you think?” I rasped back. “And for God’s sake keep the noise down.”

  “I did not think you were coming. Anna told me that you were playing games with Sophie and it looked like you would be at it all night.”

  “Well, I am here now, so let’s get going.”

  There was a scraping sound as Grant started to lower the ladder through the hatch and that gave me an idea as to how we would negotiate the garden walls. In a couple of minutes Grant was dressed in his immaculate and highly conspicuous British uniform. He had a few possessions including some borrowed books in an old sack and to this I contributed the now nearly empty bottle of brandy. It was, I thought, not the best planned escape. With the wanted posters of us around the city, Grant in his distinctive clothes had to be out of sight in daylight. That might mean lying low somewhere, but I had not thought to bring any food from the kitchen. There was no time now: we had to get moving.