FOR A MOMENT Delancey felt that his mission—and his life—had come to an end. For a cold instant he could feel the fetters, glimpse daybreak through the bars and hear the tramp of the firing squad. Staring at the stranger, he could not remember having seen him before. Speaking in French, he said that there must be some mistake, he had not had the honour of meeting the citizen on any previous occasion.
“In that case it would be useless to remind you of David Evans, mate of the Dove.”
With an effort Delancey remembered that dark and insignificant figure.
“But is the Dove here?”
Evans shook his head. “She is due here a week hence,” he replied briefly. “There are some arrangements to make in the meanwhile.” So Evans was collecting the cargo, in effect, and the Dove was elsewhere, perhaps at Arcachon. Delancey had an idea but it had to wait. There was first the immediate problem.
“We have to change horses somewhere, Mr Evans. Can you pilot us?”
Without another word, Evans went over to Manning and gave him directions, finally joining him on the coachman’s box. The coach turned, swerved into a street on the right, turned left, turned right again, coming into the main street and drawing up outside the Pomme d’Or. The ostlers ran forward and Evans joined Delancey in the parlour of the inn. Their further conversation was in French.
“Thank you, Mr Evans. Could you add to your kindness by giving Sam a letter from me?”
“Asking him to pick you up?”
“Yes, at some place near Cadiz.”
Evans considered this possibility for a moment before replying. “I’ll give him the letter, sir, but I’m not sure that it can be done. We complete our cargo here. Once we have done that, the men will want to sail for home.”
“My hope must be that Sam can persuade them. Is there a useful small port near Cadiz—one known to you for purposes of trade?”
“Yes, there is Léon, a few miles to the south. We have an agent there called Davila, a man with whom we do occasional business.”
“If Sam were to go there, when would he arrive?”
“In about three weeks time. Say, on September 15th.”
“Very well then. I’ll send the waiter for paper and ink, for a quill and some wine.”
While Evans drank his wine, presently joined by Rigault, Delancey wrote:
23rd August, 1796.
Dear Mr Carter,
Nemesis has been wrecked on the French coast and I am on my way into Spain with five other survivors, the rest being taken prisoner. My hope is to procure some intelligence about the intentions of the French and Spanish fleets now at Cadiz. Having learnt what I can of the enemy’s purposes, perhaps at Cadiz itself, I shall go to the port of Léon, hoping to be there from the 15th to the 21st September and in touch with Señor Davila. Should it be possible for you to call there at that time I should be more than grateful for a passage to Guernsey. In view of the possible value of the intelligence I hope to gain you could very properly ask any British man-of-war to cover our withdrawal. There is no state of war as yet between Britain and Spain but I have no doubt that war will be declared in the near future and of a certainty before the end of October. I am fully cognisant of the dangers inherent in your playing a part in this operation and would not ask it of you except as tending to the king’s service.
I have the honour to remain,
Your former foe but present friend,
Richard Delancey
The finished and signed letter was pocketed by David Evans who finished his glass and walked with Delancey to the coach. “If you could have stayed here,” he said, “until the Dove arrived!”
“How could we?” asked Delancey, and Evans, glancing at his uniform, could guess at the dangers run until the frontier had been passed. After a hurried farewell the coach was on the road again, leaving St Jean-de-Luz by the road to the south. Two hours later the coach was at the frontier and passed without hindrance into Spain.
Traffic increased as they approached the town of San Sebastian but no particular notice was taken of the escorted post-chaise, which must have been a familiar sight. The coach reached the main gate as darkness fell and the sentry did no more than glance at the documents that were shown him. Martin Ramos, chatting with him for a moment, was told that the principal inn, where senior officers lodged, was the Réal. If that were full up the courier might try the Sancta Trinidad. Guessing that Captain Laffray might have been known at the Réal and might be expected there, Delancey chose the lesser inn where he was made welcome. The coachman and spare driver were lodged with the two troopers in the hayloft over the stable, where Ramos had the chance to hear the ostlers’ gossip. Delancey himself was given a room and Rigault had the room next to it. Their supper was sent upstairs at Delancey’s request and then began a difficult negotiation which centred upon the cleaning—and even the repair—of uniforms. The inn servants knew little French but they were finally persuaded to take the soiled uniforms away, leaving Delancey and Rigault in civilian clothes for the evening. The two troopers made similar arrangements for themselves. All, it was hoped, would pass muster by the following afternoon.
News of brigandage on the road came to San Sebastian next morning and Ramos soon knew all about it. A peasant had found some recently buried bodies by the roadside to the north of St Jean-de-Luz. He had been attracted to the spot by a dog’s howling. Finding a corpse, he had hastened to inform the gendarmes. Their investigations led them to discover five more bodies, all clearly murdered. There were no brigands, it was thought, on the French side of the frontier, and the gendarmes concluded that the criminals were Spanish. They sent word, therefore, to San Sebastian; as also, however, to Bayonne. The authorities there knew of no travellers who had gone south in that number on the previous day—except, of course, for the French courier and his party. Troops of cavalry were sent out and rewards were offered for information. Messengers came and went and rumour had it that the bandits were deserters from the French army. Who their victims were no one could say for neither travellers nor local people were missing. Could the bandits have fought each other? Hearing these rumours, Delancey knew that he would have to ask the military commandant for an escort. It was usual, he knew, and all this talk of brigandage made it seem more essential. To go on without escort would seem, in fact, highly suspicious. He decided, therefore, to call on the commandant, walking to the citadel that afternoon—as soon, in fact, as his uniform was fit to be seen.
Reporting at the guard room and giving his name as Captain Rochambeau, Delancey asked the commandant to spare a few minutes of his time. He expected to have difficulties over language but he was received almost at once by a senior officer whose French was very fluent indeed.
Colonel Diego de Altamirano listened politely to Delancey’s explanation of his presence and his plans. He agreed at once to provide a cavalry escort for the journey to Vittoria. It was only then, when all had been agreed, that he asked an awkward question: “With what escort did you arrive here?”
Delancey did not hesitate to answer truthfully: “I have two dragoons with me.”
“From St Jean-de-Luz?”
“No, from Bayonne.”
“So you will want to return them to their unit. The routine is to collect six or eight of these men and then send them back with the next coach bound for France. We have four already and your two can join them.”
“I had intended, Colonel, to keep these men with me for the present. One acts as my valet and the other as my Spanish interpreter.”
“How unfortunate! Our treaty with France, concluded on August 19th, does not allow French troops to pass through Spain in uniform. Any escort you have must be Spanish. I can assure you, however, that the escort commander will have some knowledge of French and that you will need no other interpreter. Tell your two men to report here tomorrow.”
Delancey had a quick decision to make. He had either to agree easily as one who cared little about it or he must fly into a rage as befitted a French officer when opposed by a mere Spaniard. He decided to give way gracefully.
“I quite understand. You do not wish to see foreign armies on Spanish soil—not even an army of two!”
“Of four, to be exact,” said the Colonel blandly. “We Spaniards are often thought to be obstinate and proud. On which day, Captain, do you plan to resume your journey?”
“Tomorrow, Colonel, if that is convenient.”
“By all means. The escort will be at your inn tomorrow morning— you can settle the exact hour with my adjutant. My hope is that you will have a good journey. There was recently an incident on the road— as you will probably have heard—but that was in the other direction, and on the French side of the frontier. I am somewhat mystified by that affair and am wondering still what lies behind it.” “Is brigandage so unusual then, Colonel?”
“No, sir, not brigandage as such. What is unusual is the brigand who strikes only once and then disappears.” “What else can he do while the hunt is up?”
“He still has to live. However, the brigand is my concern not yours and I don’t expect him to appear on the road to Vittoria.”
Delancey said farewell to the commandant but came away with the feeling that the colonel was a great deal more astute than seemed desirable. Back at the Sancta Trinidad he told Rigault about the meeting and about the problem of the two dragoons.
“Very well,” said Rigault, “Bisson and Hodder will put on civilian clothes. The dragoons have deserted, leaving their horses behind.”
It was a reasonable policy, and perhaps the best, but the dangers were obvious, beginning with the gossip which would circulate among the servants at the inn. Perhaps a more elaborate story would better serve the purpose; something perhaps to do with a secret mission.
Delancey’s party was to leave next morning but the troop of militia cavalry failed to appear. Instead of the escort the commandant’s adjutant came to the inn and asked to see Captain Rochambeau. With great politeness and regret he said that there was some unavoidable delay over the troop that had been detailed for the journey. The new time of departure would be midday and the commandant would be grateful if Captain Rochambeau would, in the meanwhile, come to the Citadel, bringing with him the two dragoons who were to join the next carriage for Bayonne. The purpose of the visit would be purely routine and the commandant did not expect to detain the captain for more than a quarter of an hour. There was a hasty conference in Rigault’s room while the adjutant waited on the ground floor. Bisson wanted to make a dash for the town gate but Delancey pointed out that the doors would possibly be shut and that any attempt to leave might end merely in their arrest. No, their only policy was to bluff their way through. It was far from certain that the commandant had detected their imposture and he would be very reluctant to make the sort of mistake which would incur the wrath of the French Republic. The king of Spain was a subservient ally of France and would willingly sacrifice any mere colonel whose head the Directory might demand. To be puzzled was one thing, to risk one’s whole career was another. The time was approaching when Delancey would have to lose his temper and remind the colonel of what was at stake. He would be accompanied by Rigault in his sergeant’s uniform with Bisson and Hodder dressed as civilians and he would have to admit that they had come in disguise. His difficulty would be in explaining why
At the Citadel, Delancey and his party were shown at once into the commandant’s room. The colonel was full of apologies for the delayed escort. He regretted having to waste the captain’s time over a trifle. He hoped that the captain would understand that routine matters, however tedious, had still to be transacted. Would the captain be seated for a moment? Would he remove his cloak? With some reluctance Delancey allowed the adjutant to help him off with his cloak and hang it on a peg.
“The merest trifle, sir. These two dragoons—are they with you?”
“They are and they are not,” Delancey admitted. “Their uniforms were a disguise worn by these two gentlemen. Capitaine de Corvette Bellanger and his secretary, M. Le Cannelier. So far a disguise has been necessary; in Spain it is not.”
“Might I be allowed to know the reason?”
“In strict confidence, Colonel?”
“But of course!”
“I may tell you then, that they have been concerned for the last two years with a certain project. It concerns the blowing up of enemy ships of war by use of a secret device.”
“Just so.”
“The Directory have decided to develop this invention for use against the British. It will transform the whole situation in a day. With me I have the experts who have brought this invention to its present state of readiness. Spies in British pay have tried to penetrate our workshop at Dunkirk. We believe they know the general nature of our project. We believe they know the names of the officers concerned. If they discovered that these two men had been sent to Cadiz, they would suspect the truth—that their fleet off Cadiz is in the greatest danger. They have travelled under false names and in disguise so as to prevent the enemy guessing our intentions.”
“Very ingenious indeed, my dear captain. Who would suspect two men in dragoons uniform? I am interested also in your own part in the affair, if I may say so. If your two dragoons are not soldiers it occurs to me that you might not be a real courier.”
“I think, Colonel, that I have answered enough of your questions; more, perhaps, than my government would approve.”
“But of course, Captain, of course! A thousand apologies! The fact is that one has too little to discuss in such an isolated post as this. Whatever seems unusual becomes at once the subject of gossip. There is, for example, the story of the two dragoons—”
“Enough of that, Colonel. I have warned you already!”
“Please! Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean your dragoons. I refer now to certain men killed on the highway between Bayonne and St Jean-de-Luz—killed, it would seem, by bandits. We talked about the incident yesterday, did we not? Two of them are thought to have been cavalrymen and have even been recognized. Both their uniforms were taken with both horses and arms, headgear and boots. For all we know there are two brigands on the road disguised as troopers.”
“That is quite possible.”
“And you came with two of your companions in the same disguise! A strange coincidence, you must admit.”
“Strange indeed. Well, Colonel, if our business is concluded, I shall beg to take leave of you and resume my journey to Vittoria and so to Madrid.”
“You are naturally eager to deliver the despatches with which you have been entrusted and I, for one, would hate to be the cause of delay. Tell me one thing, though, before you go. Why do you have an Englishman as one of your staff?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“But I think you do. Your coachman has been heard to speak English and is all but totally ignorant of French.”
“He is actually American.”
“How stupid of me! And I suppose the smaller of your ex-dragoons is another American?”
“He is French but has lived in the United States.”
“But of course. What could be more natural? But another possibility occurs to me. Suppose the British were to plan an interception of couriers moving between Paris and Madrid, where would they choose to do it? My belief is that their agents would land from the sea between Bayonne and San Sebastian. The discovery of these bodies gave me the idea that such a landing might have taken place. When I first heard of the incident I asked myself, ‘Could the British have a plan for capturing the French despatches sent from Paris to Cadiz? Could they not be interested in what the Minister of Marine might say to Admiral Richery?’ I think they could be interested, I think they are. Do you agree—Captain?”
“The British might attempt something of the sort but interception of messages to Richery seems to me a far-fetched idea, not characteristic of British methods. I must be on my way, sir, and you will detain me further at your peril!”
“I detain you, my dear Captain? That would be unthinkable. I know my duty better than that. If I dared do so, however, it would not be on account of that remote possibility, nor yet on account of the two dragoons. Were I to detain you—if I dared (and I repeat, if)—it would be on account of a chestnut horse, a gelding with a white mark on the forehead. Your outrider’s horse has been recognized, my dear sir, as the one ridden by one of the dragoons who died so mysteriously. . . . No, don’t draw your pistol. You are surrounded, sir, but not, please understand, with the object of detaining you. I should never dare to do that. Instead, I am putting you and your friends under arrest.”
Delancey, looking round, saw that he and the others were covered by pistols and that a guard had collected outside the door. There was no chance of escape or resistance. They had walked into a trap and the colonel, sitting still but watchful at the table, was taking no chances. The adjutant disarmed each of them in turn, feeling for concealed weapons, and then locked their swords away in a cupboard.
“Wait till the Directory hears of this!” Delancey thundered. “Wait until they hear that a French officer has been placed under arrest on the Spanish frontier! What will the Minister for War say to King Ferdinand? What will the king say to you? You’ll be lucky if you are merely cashiered and reduced to the ranks!”
“I daresay,” replied the colonel. “I would hope to be a dragoon. Very fashionable just now, it seems, and a uniform to be had for nothing.” He went on after a pause, looking idly at the ceiling. “It might be a little bloodstained in the lining but what of that? War is war and bandits are not always bandits. I hope you will be comfortable here, Captain, until we hear from your superiors. Our hospitality must be of the simplest, you will understand, with no pretence of luxury. Let us know, however, if there is anything you want.”
At a sign, the prisoners were marched out of the room, down the staircase and across the courtyard, into another building and along the central corridor which divided two rows of cells. Rigault was led into the first cell on the left, the door being shut and locked before Delancey was pushed into the second cell on the right. To judge from the sound, Ramos was put in the third cell on the right, and Bisson in the cell opposite. A sentry, marching up and down the corridor, prevented them speaking to each other but each door had a small grid-covered peephole through which they could see. Delancey was thus able to view, briefly, the arrival under escort of Manning and Hodder. He had been in an enemy fortress before but under different circumstances. He had then been a prisoner of war. He was now a spy, caught in the act and due to face a firing squad.
Rigault’s first reaction was to demand paper, ink and a quill. He would write to the captain of the dockyard at Bayonne and ask for that officer’s assistance. The writing materials were given him and he began to write his complaints in a proper mixture of formality and outrage. They would not secure his release—that at least was obvious—but they might obtain better treatment for the whole party while any doubt remained as to their identity. Ramos had a different reaction—he tried to engage the sentry in conversation with a view to seeing whether he could be bribed. He had little success even in making himself understood. The soldier was a Catalan, speaking some dialect of the Pyrenees, and he thought of Castilian as almost a foreign language. He merely shook his head and resumed his sentry beat up and down the stone-flagged corridor. Bisson, like Rigault, demanded writing materials and began to forge an order for his own release. There was no immediate use for it but it was good to practise one’s art. One never knew what might come in useful. Manning’s reaction was to go to the barred window of his cell and make a minute examination of the ironwork, which seemed depressingly sound, and of the stonework, which appeared to be almost new. As for Hodder, he began to study the lock on his cell door. With some pieces of wire, which he happened to have in his inner pocket, he felt his way gently through the intricacies which lay behind the keyhole. He could picture the key he needed but had no means of making it.
Delancey barely glanced out of his cell window before he sat down on his bed and began to think. He was very conscious of being the leader whose scheme had led them all to face imprisonment and probable execution. He had run a deliberate risk, gambling with his own life as well as theirs. Their safety, at this stage, had depended on the stupidity, which he had assumed, of the Spanish commandant. It had seemed unlikely that the Spanish would appoint a military genius to command the small garrison at San Sebastian. While Spain was France’s subservient ally this frontier had no strategic importance. The routine duties of the garrison commander might well have been entrusted to some elderly nobleman, some officer passed over for promotion, some courtier banished from the royal presence for duelling or cheating at cards. He had been confronted instead by Colonel Diego de Altamirano who was neither disreputable, stupid nor old. He had been sufficiently astute to see the possible connection between different incidents. He had guessed what was happening and yet had resisted the temptation to act hastily. He had allowed his opponents to feel secure while he collected information and then, at the last moment, he had closed the trap. The colonel was no fool, so much was obvious. It was Delancey’s first task to guess what the colonel would do next. What would he himself do had their parts been reversed? He would write to Bayonne and ask for the help of some French naval officer, preferably one with experience of intelligence work. The chances were that he would have long since made contact with the French at Bayonne and St Jean-de-Luz and would know whom to approach and how. With such an officer present at his interrogation, Rigault would break down at once, lacking sufficient knowledge of the French army With the same officer (or any other Frenchman) present, he would himself break down as promptly and would be seen to be a foreigner. Neither Manning nor Hodder could pass as American and neither of them knew, for that matter, that this was expected of them. That they were a group of British spies must be suspected already and little more evidence would be needed to secure conviction before a military court. By tomorrow or the next day, the colonel’s case would be complete.
Was it likely, however, that the colonel would be content to execute the spies? His first aim would rather be to discover what they were trying to do. He had seen that the French lines of communication were vulnerable at this point. He had guessed that the spies had come by sea. What he had not guessed was that their landing was accidental—the result of a shipwreck. The trouble was that each one of his party, interrogated separately, would tell a different tale. One weakness in the preparation for their march into Spain—as Delancey could now realize—was that there had been no agreed story to tell if they were captured. A more professional team would have been provided with such a story, not that it would save their lives but merely to conceal the nature of their mission. There could be no agreed story now. The best plan would be for he himself to act as spokesman and for the others to say nothing. Could he transmit that message to the rest? And would they obey him after pressure had been brought to bear? Would torture be used? It seemed all too likely. . . . People who take infants to see bloodshed in the bull-fighting arena are likely to be cruel in other ways. Delancey shuddered at the thought and found himself sweating. It lay with him to think of a plan to escape. Having led his men into a trap it was for him now to lead them out of it. The question was—how?