Rebellion. James McGee

nestling among the Pyrenean foothills. It was their last day on the road.

      The captain was right, he thought. The coffee was atrocious. It tasted as if it had been made from acorns. There was some bread, too; a slice of cold bacon and a wedge of gritty cheese. The captain had apologized for the quality of the food, but now that they were over the border and back in their own country, he’d been assured it would be easier to pick up supplies.

      He finished the coffee and tipped the grounds on to the ashes of the fire. The troops were breaking camp around him. He rolled up his bedroll, buckled on his sword and picked up his saddle. They would be in Bayonne by nightfall.

      They were two miles north of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, with the mounted troops leading the two infantry companies, when the chasseur captain broke away from the head of the column and fell in beside him. Leaning over from his saddle, the captain lowered his voice, “We have to talk, Major.”

      He waited for the captain to continue. It had turned into a glorious day. They were high up and the views were stunning. To his left, looking out over the green-clad hills, he could see the reflection of sun on water: the Bay of Biscay. There were ships, he saw. They were some way off the coast and it was hard to make out their flags at that distance. The French didn’t have that much of a navy left. From her lines, he thought one of them might have been American.

      “You look like a man with a weight on his mind, Captain,” he prompted, speaking in French.

      The chasseur bit his lip. “I think it would be better if we conversed in English, my friend.”

      An odd response, as was the use of the word “friend”. He stared at the captain, trying to read the expression on the young officer’s face. “As you wish.”

      The chasseur captain cleared his throat awkwardly. “I regret to say, Major, we’ve not been entirely truthful with you.”

      “How so?” He frowned.

      “My orders, as you know, were to escort you to Bayonne.”

      “Indeed, and you’ve been splendid company. I’ll miss our conversations around the fire.”

      “As will I, Major. Fate has declared us to be on different sides and yet I feel there is a strong bond between us and it is for that reason that I must warn you that you have been severely misled.”

      “By whom?”

      “That whore’s son, de la Martinière!” The captain spat and then recovered as he collected his thoughts, before adding just as vehemently, “And, it grieves me to say it, by Marshal Marmont also.”

      It was plain to see why the captain had requested they spoke in English. He hadn’t wanted anyone else in the column to hear his outburst against his superiors.

      “I’m not with you, Captain. In what way?”

      “Upon your arrival at Bayonne, you are expecting to be met by another escort who will take you to Verdun, yes?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Not so. The marshal sent a dispatch shortly after your arrival in Salamanca. It was to Paris, for the attention of the Duke of Feltre. It was in the marshal’s name, but it was composed and signed by de la Martinière. The general told me that himself.”

      He felt a stirring in his gut. The Duke of Feltre, he knew, was Bonaparte’s Minister of War. Before he could comment, the captain’s mouth twisted with disdain. “The dispatch gave details of your capture and the papers that were taken from you.”

      “Papers?”

      “The notes you made on the composition and strength of our army, our ordnance and our troop movements.”

      There had been no papers. He knew better than to carry such incriminating evidence on his person. Whatever intelligence he accrued during his missions as an exploring officer was always kept in his head.

      “What else?”

      “Notification that you were captured in uniform and that you gave your parole but that you were not to be trusted and that you should be watched at all times . . .”

      The captain’s voice tapered off. He looked uncomfortable.

      “And?” The unpleasant feeling that had started in his belly began to spread through him.

      “And that upon our arrival in Bayonne, my orders are to take your sword and deliver you into the hands of the Bureau Secret – Savary’s men. You’re to be placed in restraints and taken to Paris for interrogation.”

      The secret police. His stomach knotted.

      “Why are you telling me this?”

      “I’m a soldier, Major, not a police lackey. I heard that the Emperor once said if he told Savary to murder his own wife and children, he knew the order would be obeyed without a moment’s hesitation. I’ve no desire to hand you over to his people.” The captain hesitated, then said, “And neither have my officers. We’ve been three weeks on the road together. Even before we swapped stories around the fire, your exploits were well known to us. We knew you to be a brave and honourable man. You’re no spy, Major, despite what General de la Martinière would have us believe. Spies skulk in the shadows. You wear your scarlet uniform with pride. You’ve never made an attempt to disguise yourself. You make no secret of the fact that you are gathering information. It’s been our misfortune, until now, that you’ve always had the better of us.” The young officer allowed his face to lighten and he said sheepishly, “I gave chase after you once, you know. I never told you that. It was about four months back, on the road to Huerta. You led us a merry dance.”

      “I had a good horse.”

      Fosse eyed the mare speculatively. “You still have, Major.” There was a catch in the chasseur’s voice.

      A movement in the sky overhead caught his eye. A flock of buzzards was circling the summit of a nearby hill. Something had died or was dying on the slopes, he guessed. The birds were circling for the kill. Perhaps like Savary’s thugs.

      “You’re suggesting I break my parole and make a run for it?”

      The Frenchman ran a hand over his horse’s neck. His face remained neutral. “I’m merely suggesting you may wish to consider your options in the light of our conversation. Besides, I doubt an officer of your experience would be foolish enough to attempt an escape in broad daylight, in the open, flanked by two companies of armed infantry and a detachment of chasseurs. I would have little option but to order my men to hunt you down. I doubt you’d get very far. You’d be seen for miles.”

      The captain stood in his saddle and looked out towards the bay. “The view is quite splendid, is it not? Though not the sort of countryside I’d like to traverse at night, I venture. Which reminds me, we must press on. The likelihood is that we will not arrive in Bayonne until after sunset.” The captain turned and looked at him. “You’ll forgive me, Major. I must rejoin my men. Enjoy the rest of your journey.”

      With a brief salute, he was gone.

      As he watched the captain ride off towards the head of the column, he pondered on the chasseur’s words. He recalled how, back in Salamanca, in contravention of their general’s orders, his guards had busied themselves with other duties whenever visitors were in the offing. Was it his imagination or had Captain Fosse just intimated that he and his men would avert their gaze at an opportune moment also? He had, he suspected, until Bayonne to decide.

      It was dusk when the column finally reached the outskirts of the town. To the west, the last rays of sunset had finally given way to a dark aubergine sky. Although the coast was still three miles distant, the smell of the sea, carried inland along the river from the estuary, hung in the air like a sharp bouquet.

      They entered one of the town’s squares, and halted.

      “My men and I will try and find somewhere for us to bed down for the night,” Fosse told him as they dismounted. “I suggest you remain