James McGee - Rebellion

It was a guaranteed certainty that when they discovered him missing, they’d assume he’d try to head south towards the mountains. They’d know he had allies within the guerrilleros who would be only too happy to escort him through the high passes and back into Spain. The French would search the town and then they would scour the countryside in the direction of the frontier.

But they would be looking in the wrong place, because he wasn’t going south; he was heading north.

The plan had been gestating in his mind long before the chasseur captain voiced his unhappiness at his general’s duplicity. The seed had been planted the day he and his escort left Salamanca.

Rumours that the Emperor was planning to invade Russia had been circulating for months. The troop movements he and Leon had observed on their sorties confirmed that the French were transferring an increasing number of men northwards, in particular contingents of the Imperial Guard. They were either being used to plug the gaps in the Empire’s home defences or else they were part of an impending invasion force. But were they really destined for Russia, or somewhere else? There had even been talk that Bonaparte had resurrected his plan to invade England. Which was it? It was his duty to find out, he had decided, and to accomplish that he’d have to travel into the heart of the Empire; to the last place they would think of looking for him.

He glanced around. The streets were quite busy and there were a lot of military personnel in evidence; not that unusual, given Bayonne’s proximity to the border, which made it one of the main staging posts for troop movements between France and Spain. In the poorly lit streets, however, one uniform looked much like any other. Nevertheless, he kept his cloak about him as he made his way towards the town centre.

As he drew closer to the main concourse, he spotted the entrance to a narrow alleyway and stepped into the shadows. He used the knife concealed in his boot to unpick the stitches on the inside of his jacket. It took but a few seconds to withdraw the bank notes and the two dozen guineas sewn into the lining. Then, stowing the knife and slipping the money into his pocket, he retraced his steps to the street. He kept his head bowed. All he needed was to run into Fosse and his men coming towards him from the opposite direction.

He struck lucky at his third port of call. The hotel concierge, taken in by his military cloak, weather-stained headgear and sword, was only too happy to help an officer he thought was part of the Grand Army .

In answer to his query, the concierge advised him that a public diligence was due to depart from the square outside the hotel very shortly and that one of the guests, General Souham, was booked on it. In fact, he was the only passenger.

He thanked the concierge and took a seat in the darkest corner of the lobby. General Souham! It wasn’t often you were about to introduce yourself to the Divisional Commander of the Army of Portugal. He bowed his head and pretended to doze. Just another battle-weary officer seeking rest and recuperation from the war.

It was twenty minutes before the general entered the lobby, accompanied by his baggage and a weary looking aide-de-camp. Even if he hadn’t been wearing his uniform, the general would have been an easy man to identify for he was very tall, well over six feet in height. Greying hair showed beneath the rim of his hat. In addition to his distinctive height, two other features marked him out: the livid scar, half visible on his temple, and the black patch that covered his left eye socket. He was also smoking a thin cheroot.

He waited until the aide had disappeared outside to supervise the loading of the general’s luggage before he made his move.

The general took a draw on his cheroot, savouring the taste. He looked like a man who was relaxed and at ease with himself. But then he could afford to be. He was a general and every other soldier within sight and earshot was his subordinate.

“Forgive me, sir, General Souham?” He spoke in French, as he had with the concierge.

The general’s head turned and he found himself perused through a spiral of cigar fumes. The general’s right eye searched for recognition and an indication of rank. “And who might you be?”

Some senior staff might have shown irritation at being approached unexpectedly by a lower ranked officer. On this occasion there was only curiosity.

“A fellow traveller, General, if you’ll permit.”

A frown creased the scarred brow.

It’s now or never, he thought.

“I understand from the concierge that you’re about to board the diligence and I wondered if you’d allow me to share your coach. I’ve been on attachment to Marshal Marmont’s staff and recently arrived from Salamanca, en route to Orleans. I’d be more than happy to share any expenses.”

The general’s right eyebrow lifted as he picked a shred of tobacco from his lip, not so much surprised by the request as intrigued.

“Your name again? I didn’t catch it.”

“My apologies, General. Major Hawkwood, 11th Regiment of Infantry.”

The general’s frown deepened. His eye moved to the patch of red jacket showing through the gap in the cloak. “Really? That’s an interesting name. You’d better explain, Major.”

“I’m an American, sir, as is my regiment. Assigned to the Imperial Forces by President Madison with the permission of Emperor Bonaparte. I’ve been serving at Marshal Marmont’s headquarters in a liaison capacity. The president is most interested in the Spanish campaign.”

“Ah,” the general said drily, as if everything suddenly made sense. “Is he now? That’s comforting. I’m sure we’ll all sleep easier in our beds. And when you make your report to your President Madison, what will you tell him?”

“That the Emperor probably needs all the help he can get.”

The general stared at him. “Well, your French is excellent, Major. If you hadn’t told me, I’d have taken you for a native. But I’ll say this: it’s a damned good thing you’re a soldier and not an ambassador. Diplomacy isn’t your strong point.”

“No, General. It’s probably why I’m still a major.”

The corner of the general’s mouth lifted. “And how is the Marshal?”

“He’s well, sir. Still complaining about the quality of the wine.”

“Sounds familiar. He always did appreciate his home comforts.”

The general’s aide appeared at the entrance. “Your baggage is loaded, sir.” The officer’s glance slid sideways.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll be there shortly.” The general paused, then said, “You can inform the driver there’ll be two of us. Major Hawkwood will be joining me. He’s an American, you know; come to offer us his support.”

“Very good, sir.” The lieutenant nodded. “You have luggage, Major?” There was no hint of suspicion or even surprise on the aide’s face, which suggested the lieutenant was well used to dealing with his general’s last-minute whims and would probably have been equally unabashed had the general introduced the newcomer as the Sultan of Rangoon.

“I regret I was separated from my valise. I’ve made arrangements for it to be sent on. I’m carrying all I need.” He indicated the knapsack.

If he asks for my papers, it’s all over.

“A pity the same couldn’t be said for our Marshal Marmont,” Souham said as his lieutenant disappeared once more. “Do his cooks still travel with him?”

He nodded. “All twelve of them, General.”

“A hell of a way to go to war.” The general parked the cheroot in the corner of his mouth and shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

The aide was back again, his message delivered. “The coach is ready, sir.”