Hello! The name for this story is not set in stone. As the story develops please feel free to suggest names you like more. Also, please be aware from the outset: my publishing strategy is to post a story slowly at first, then more rapidly until it is posted in its entirety. Then, just before I publish it commercially, I remove most of it from this site. (Sorry, Amazon's rules, not mind.) To avoid piracy I cannot tell you ahead of time when the full story will be posted or how long it will stay up, so proceed at your own risk.
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And now, on to our story . . .
Autumn, 1792
Paris, The start of the Great Terror
Henri Germond, captain of the guard at the gate at the west entrance to Paris, felt that he did not get enough credit for the job he did.
It was difficult enough to regulate the flow of traffic in and out of the gate under his command on an ordinary day, when he had to urge slow carts in on their way to market and townspeople out on their way to work in the country. The trampling of the horses! The crowds pressing in all around him, moving against each other like waves in the sea! The stench of the unwashed bodies! He cursed profusely whenever some old nag did not move quickly enough and backed up the festering, restless crowd in every direction.
But now that the trials had started in the prisons- and sometimes in the very streets- he also had to be on the lookout for escaping prisoners! It was his job to keep anyone who might be suspected of anti-revolutionary sentiments from leaving the city. Anyone with ties or sympathies to the old regime was in danger of being cut down wherever they were found. There had been a few hundred killings just the night before, from what he heard. Blood was running freely in some Parisian streets.
Those fleeing the wrath of the Parisian mob might be found almost anywhere these days. Their number included aristocrats, priests, royalist sympathizers, ordinary townspeople who objected to the violence- all were designated enemies of France. They disguised themselves in every possible manner in their mad desire to save their lives. Their success was rare.
Some tried to conceal themselves in the wooden casks that were used to transport wine into the city. A sympathetic friend would load an empty cask onto a cart and try to drive it out one of the gates. But Germond was too clever to be fooled by such a simpleton's scheme. A quick stab of a bayonet into the side of the cask would cause either wine or blood flow in response. He had discovered two concealed aristocrats, a husband and wife, in such a manner just the week before.
There was neither time nor need for a proper trial. The watching crowd was judge, jury and executioner.
The current style was for some previously privileged aristo to don the whole cloth and cheap sabot of a common worker and try to leave the city on foot, melting in with the crowds that pressed all around. But their delicate white hands gave them away, revealing their former life of pleasure and indolence, and the crowd then took their revenge, often cutting the horrified former patricians to pieces where they stood.
Unmasking these degenerate souls had been entertaining at first. The anxious looks, the vehement denials uttered in cultured tones that merely betrayed their lofty origins even more, and then, finally, the desperate cries for mercy as they realized their inevitable fate! Germond had entertained crowds of onlookers in this way many times, leading them in jeers and harsh laughter as the last defenses of the former mighty rulers of France were overcome.
But now his work had become routine and tedious and he longed to be done with it. Germond hoped that his diligence would soon be rewarded with a promotion and an assignment away from this ghastly duty. When one of the last carts of the day came before him for inspection, he was thinking only of dusk, when the gates would be locked for the night, and of the comfort a glass of a wine and a woman could provide.
He recognized the cart as it pulled short in front of him. Its occupants were known to him. The driver was a French peasant, a hunchback with deep set eyes and thick grey hair that spilled out in all directions under his bright red revolutionary hat. He made a modest income by hauling refuse out of the city and into the country and was one of the few people in Paris who seemed to take little notice of the escalating disturbances on every side. He never objected to the searches imposed by the revolutionary guards. Sometimes he even smiled at them, a wide mouthed grin that revealed gaps where teeth had rotted away years before.
At the driver's side sat his feeble minded nephew, perhaps twenty years old, who stared vacantly at those around him, slack mouthed, and never spoke a word. The nephew helped his uncle in the repulsive but necessary task of cleaning the streets of Paris. It appeared that he was capable of nothing more complicated than menial tasks.
Today's cart load was worse than usual. Straw tainted with blood, excrement and other unknown vile elements was piled high on the bed of the cart, the remnants of last night's massacres mixed with the usual flotsam and jetsam of the crowded city, made worse by the heat. Flies buzzed noisily about, and the stench was rancid and overwhelming.
No man under Germond's command would have dreamed of wearing the filthy mess the driver and his nephew bore so impassively. Just being near them made his skin crawl. This would be a quick, efficient inspection.
Germond nodded at the driver, whose hat was pulled down over his forehead in its customary way. The driver nodded back as the feeble minded brother stared at them both, his mouth hanging slightly open. "Let's see your papers," Germond demanded.
"Right 'ere, citizen." The driver handed them over. "You'll be needin' to search the cart, will ya?"
"As always," Germond responded shortly. He motioned with his head for two of his underlings to perform the task while he gave the paper in his hand, a pass out of the city, a cursory look.
His two soldiers, nearly gagging as they performed their duty, clambered up into the cart and trampled through the bloody straw. They found nothing. Their feet encountered no resistance as they kicked the straw aside. There were no unexpected forms under the dampened mass, no muddied arms or legs that suddenly showed themselves in the light and betrayed their terrified owners. The soldiers jumped down quickly, relieved to have the worst part over.
At another motion from Germond's head they stabbed their bayonets through the straw, feeling for anything as dense as a human body, and pulled them away in disgust. Their instruments would receive a thorough cleaning after this but the stench would still remain. Lastly they bent over and inspected the underside of the cart, looking for stowaways who might have somehow managed to esconce themselves in the frame of the cart itself. Nothing.
Germond returned the papers to their owner, noting that their bloody stains had tainted his own hands. He resisted the impulse to wipe them on his breeches, knowing how his wife would react to the travesty. "You'll need to hurry if you want to get back to the city before dark."
"I'll be back before then," the driver agreed, nodding his head. "But you 'aven't finished searching t' cart, citizen! There's someplace you forgot t'look!"
"Where?"
"Under t'horse's tail, citizen!" He laughed coarsely at his own joke, cackling wildly. Some of Germond's men nearby joined in, enjoying the laugh at their leader's expense.
Germond's temper flared. "Get on with you!" He slapped the horse's backside and stepped back quickly. "Open the gates!" he called loudly ahead of him, and the gates ground slowly apart. The cart with its two occupants proceeded forward at a snail's pace until they passed through and the tall gates closed painfully, slowly once again.
The cart proceeded slowly down the hard packed dirt road that led away from the west gate. There was no sense in moving hastily. Nobody was waiting for this offload of refuse, and there would be plenty of time to toss it out of the cart after they reached their destination. The only sign that anything had changed was in an occasional furtive glance of the driver at the road behind him. A careful observer might also have noticed that the feeble minded nephew had closed his mouth, and that his eyes had a new animation and focus.
Eventually the cart rounded a curve and fell out of direct sight of the gate it had passed through. At the same time a line of trees came between the road and the city. The cart moved into a shadowy grove, which seemed to be a signal of some kind. The driver sat taller and, for the first time, urged his horse to go faster. The nephew began scanning around them in every direction, as if searching for an enemy. The signs of a mental impediment disappeared as quickly as the speed of the cart increased. The vehicle turned off the road, pushed through heavy shrubbery, and disappeared into a thick gathering of trees. It was now invisible to anyone passing by on the road.
Inside the grove many things happened in rapid succession. A trio of horsemen materialized seemingly out of nowhere, their riders dressed in the polished silks, tailored coats and fine leather boots of the wealthy upper class. But the style of their clothing was English, not French, and they led a fourth horse that was saddled but had no rider. They dismounted swiftly and approached the driver, who was speaking to his companion in a serious tone.
"My apologies, monsieur, that you were compelled to behave below your dignity, but your thespian skills did you credit." The driver's voice was no longer rough and raspy, but cultured and well modulated. "Nobody suspected that you were anyone but my poor, childlike nephew." As the driver spoke he straightened his hunched back and jumped down easily from the seat of the cart, revealing a tall and athletic frame with no hint of age or infirmity.
"How can I ever thank you enough, monsieur? You have saved my life!" the younger man answered, looking at his savior in disbelief. "I should have left the city weeks ago but I thought the mob would not touch the son of a marquis. If you had not come along when you did-"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but please step down from the cart," the first horseman, a handsome blond Englishman, commanded in courteous tones. He spoke in the educated accent of a member of the gentry and appeared fairly young, perhaps about five and twenty. "We must hurry. What we are doing is very dangerous." Wordlessly the young aristocrat obeyed. The driver also stepped aside and watched as the three horsemen began to attack the cart itself.
Using small metal tools they carried with them they rapidly extracted the nails in the corners of the board on which the two men had sat, then tugged on the boards themselves. After a few seconds of struggle the entire seat came apart and a man's anxious, drawn face appeared, sweating profusely from his confined quarters. His long black cassock and the tonsure cut of his hair revealed his profession. Refusing any help the priest fairly rolled out of the compartment into which he had been secreted and fell to the grass below. He remained where he was, gasping, before pushing himself to a kneeling position.
"Mon dieu!" the younger escapee exclaimed, even more astonished now. "You had a stowaway and I did not even know it! What if he had been discovered?"
"What if any of us had been discovered?" the driver replied laconically. He gave a slight shrug, as if the fate of refugees from the Paris mob did not greatly concern him. "As long as you and I did our part there was no reason for alarm. Germond and I are old friends." He gave a toothy grin, again revealing the teeth that had been darkened so as to give the impression of being gone entirely. "Now, my young friend, you and my companion here," he clapped the blond horseman's shoulder, "are going to switch clothes. He will give you his silks and fineries for your rags, you see. Then you and this gentleman," he nodded at the priest, "will ride to the coast, where you will catch a boat to England."
"God bless you, monsieur," the priest answered earnestly, still gasping. "I will beg for blessings from the Heavenly Father on you every day for the rest of my life. What name shall I use in my prayers?"
"If the Almighty does not know my name by now there is no point in telling Him," the driver responded, with an amused smile. "Ask Him, rather, to stop this madness in France and restore all of us to better days." He finished with a little bow.
"Come with me, monsieur." The leader of the little band of horsemen spoke to the young aristocrat again. "We must trade outfits. I will need yours in order to take your place when I return to the city with your rescuer."
"You are going back into Paris?" the young man exclaimed. "After the massacres that have taken place the last two days? Nothing would induce me to return to that cursed city! I will never set foot in Paris again! Oh, that someone could tell me if my father is alive!" He burst into tears, clearly overwhelmed by the experiences he had just gone through.
"Steady on, mon ami." All trace of carelessness disappeared from the cart driver's expression, replaced by the deepest sympathy. He stepped forward to place a reassuring hand on the young aristocrat's shoulder. "It was your father who sent me to rescue you. Take courage! These dark days will pass and one day you will come back to claim what is yours. But in the meantime you must away to England. Go with my friend and do your part."
The younger man was so overwhelmed to hear of his father's escape that he took his rescuer's hand in his and wept grateful tears on it, until he was urged again to recall the necessity for haste. Then he bravely wiped his tears away and went a little ways away with the blond horseman. In a moment they returned to the others, the exchange complete. It was the Englishman's turn to wear bloody rags and the young Frenchman's turn to look more like the aristocrat he was, the only son of the marquis de Tournier. The aristocrat and the blond equestrian bore a striking resemblance in hair color and overall complexion, and it was easy to see how one might be mistaken for the other by those who did not know either one well.
The young nobleman and the short, dark priest were helped onto their horses. A few final words of thanks, a last urging to take care, and the band of horseman disappeared into the depths of the woods to start their journey to safety. The driver and his new companion began the task of reassembling the seat of the cart, gathering the planks and nails and hammering them into place. The driver questioned his companion closely as they worked together.
"Will the Stockton be waiting when they reach the coast?"
"Waiting, yes, but the tide will be out. Our friends will have wait until midnight before they can be rowed out, but the clear weather seems to be holding. They should have no problem making the crossing."
"And the captain knows to tell nobody of his cargo?"
"As always, gold will keep him silent."
"What about when they reach England? Did you make the arrangements to have them taken to town?"
"Do you need to ask?" The younger man paused in his work to flash a quick smile at the other man. "You worry too much, my friend. Getting out of Paris is the hard part. Everything after that is child's play." He paused to drive a nail into its proper place. "Was there any difficulty getting through the gate?"
"None at all. I knew this one would be simple once I saw the boy's face and thought of exchanging you for him. One simpleton for another, you know. Not even Germond would think to question him."
The other man straightened in mock indignation. "Now look here, my friend, there is no call for insulting the person who helps you run your little scheme and keeps the-" he stopped at the open amusement on the older man's face. He gave a short laugh. "There! You have baited me again! You look so serious that I take you at face value, only realize too late that you speak in jest."
"Call it part of my disguise."
"Your disguise will get you into trouble one day, mon ami. Someday somebody is bound to see through it. How many poor fleeing refugees have you rescued now?"
"Four this week, including these two." The dark haired man shook his head soberly. "But it is not enough. The violence is worse every day."
"Not enough! You are doing more than anyone else! Any Englishman would be proud to join your league. Perhaps we should recruit more members. With more help we could carry out larger rescues. We might even be able to end the bloodshed entirely!"
"It is too dangerous." The driver shook his head emphatically. "I heard yesterday that the revolutionary council is setting up a tribunal, and anyone who is found guilty will be sent to the new device they have, the guillotine. You know what that is?"
The blond rider's eyes widened and he sobered at once, flattening his lips together. He turned all his attention to his work, driving nails into the seat of the cart while the driver swiftly pitched the bloody hay over the side. Soon nothing was left but the stains and a faint odor of decay. When all was finished the two gentlemen took their seats on the cart. Then the driver, taking up the reins, spoke once more. "When we get to town I will introduce you to the friend who has been helping me carry out some of these rescues. I've a feeling we will have more contact with him in the weeks to come."
"Very good. I can hardly wait to rescue more of these poor souls from the wrath of the mob!"
"Have patience, my friend. You will have your wish soon enough."
His companion smiled, his cheerful mood already restored. His temperament was such as to concentrate on pleasant thoughts, unlike the more serious mastermind of the whole operation. "I only wish there were ladies to whom we could relate our exploits! I could be as daring as you if I thought a pretty girl might smile at me as a reward. Do many people in Paris know about our rescues? Are we gaining a reputation?"
"Many have heard strange tales. The stories have been enlarged upon and exaggerated to the point that they test all credulity. I fear that innocent people may be arrested for deeds that we have committed."
"That would never do." The younger man scratched his head. "How can we tell the authorities what we are responsible for and yet still protect our identities?"
"I have taken to leaving a calling card, if you will, a way for the French authorities to know which exploits are ours and should not be laid on some other soul's innocent doorstep."
"A calling card? How curious! What is it that you leave behind to tell people who we are?"
At this precise moment in Paris, outside the LeForge prison, a confused gendarme stared at the paper in his hand listing the names of prisoners approved for immediate transfer. According to these instructions he, citizen Ferrand, was to release these souls to the custody of the man who stood before him, Sergeant Binot, by bringing them out of the prison and loading them into tumbrels. Binot would then transport them to the tribunal for their immediate trials. Ferrand scanned the list quickly until he reached the last two names. Then his eyebrows furrowed together.
"There has been a mistake, sergeant. The marquis' son and Father Philippe already went to the tribunal! They left this prison at noon today!"
"On whose authority, citizen?" Sergeant Binot, charged with transport of all criminals, narrowed his eyes as he glared at his underling.
"Why, on yours, of course! I received your message saying to have them sent at once!"
"I sent no such message!"
"What? Begging your pardon, citizen- your note was very clear! I did exactly as you ordered-"
"Let me see the note!"
Ferrand fished a paper out of his pocket and handed it over with shaking hands. He was beginning to realize the depth of his danger. Binot unfolded the paper and examined it closely. All was in order; the wording was correct, the authority for the transfer carefully noted. Worst of all, the signature was in his own handwriting. How could this be? He had not authorized the release of any prisoners. "Who brought this to you?" he demanded.
"Why, an old man, a hunchback with missing teeth. He gave me your message. I read it and brought out the prisoners and loaded them into his cart. Did I do wrong, citizen?"
"You fool! This is a forgery!" Binot balled the paper into his fist.
"A forgery! Who would dare such a thing?" Ferrand cringed as he looked up at the taller man, fearing he was about to receive a blow.
But the sergeant did not strike the other man. Instead he threw the forged orders at Ferrand's feet and turned around. He began pacing back and forth, calling out curses to whoever might be listening. Binot knelt down and picked up the crumpled page, unfolding it carefully to see what he might discover about the writer's identity. He turned it over and over again, scrutinizing every inch. The only clue to the document's true origin lay in one small, almost unnoticeable decoration. In the lower left corner of the page, unlikely to be noticed at first glance, was a miniature golden fleur de lys.
