‘Ah, the famed Kydd of Tyger,’ the florid, corpulent fortress commandant declared, regarding him with interest. ‘An honour to meet such a one.’
‘Sir, I protest at the scandalous conditions that I and my staff have been subjected to,’ he said hotly. ‘This is neither honourable nor acceptable to my station.’
Moreau spread his hands widely. ‘I’m desolated, please believe, Sir Thomas, but I have my orders for your strict confinement. You see, you are now a prisoner of note with a destiny that cannot be denied.’
‘I do not understand you, sir.’
‘You have not heard? I do apologise. It is the direction of the Emperor that you be put on trial in Paris before the world for crimes unspeakable among civilised nations.’
Kydd reeled in disbelief. ‘Crimes? This is preposterous! What am I accused of, pray?’
‘For complicity in the violation of the sacred soil of neutral Denmark, of course.’
It didn’t register at first. Then he realised what was going on. It was not the first time that a naval officer had been held responsible for an action in general. Sir Sidney Smith himself had been captured and taken to Paris for a show trial as an incendiary, having been active in Admiral Hood’s firing of the French fleet in Toulon four years earlier. He’d escaped with the aid of royalists before the trial could take place.
Now Kydd was being made a public spectacle and focus of confected indignation as Bonaparte trumpeted the guilt of the British nation to the world. He’d be found guilty, naturally, and his execution would be managed theatre.
‘I see. May I ask-’
‘Soon. The authorities have their preparations, you will appreciate.’
Kydd was led back to his cell in a daze of horror.
‘Sir?’ Dillon said, in great concern.
‘I’m to be put on trial in Paris before all the world as a violator of neutrality. This whole has been a plot to seize me for that purpose.’
Dillon gasped in dismay. ‘The duc d’Enghien!’ he blurted.
In a move that had shocked and dismayed all Europe, troops sent by Bonaparte had crossed the border and kidnapped the duke, taking him to Paris where, after a quick trial, he had been summarily executed. There was little that Napoleon would not do to serve his purposes and Kydd’s fate could now be considered certain.
Halgren gave a hoarse cry and battered on the door in hopeless fury. It suddenly opened, a guard thrusting out savagely with the butt of his musket, sending the big Swede groaning to the floor.
‘We have to get out, whatever it takes,’ Dillon said in a low voice, kneeling by the hunched figure.
Chapter 82
They tapped and explored every stone slab and recess with no result. The barred window was no exit: it was four storeys up and the door was massive and impregnable. There were no implements: their soup and porridge were eaten with wooden dippers, and even Dillon’s penknife had been taken.
Kydd looked through the peephole carefully. A single guard directly outside, standing. No other in sight … but on the extreme right he saw something that gave him a stab of hope.
‘They’ve put us as high up as they can. Even if we got out there’s not a prayer we can get past the sentries on every floor. But …’ He paused. ‘The spiral staircase we came up. It goes on a bit further and stops at a small door. It’s my guess that it opens out on the roof. Once we’re up there …’
There was the tiniest chance they could turn it into an escape. But then to scale down the walls and …
It was an agonising wait for the midday meal but when it came they were ready.
The guard opened the door and a grinning kitchen hand entered with a soup kettle and half a loaf. Kydd leaped at the man, knocking him unconscious, and Halgren wrenched the guard inside, chopping down on his neck to let him drop soundlessly.
‘Go!’
They hurtled up – the iron door was not locked – and out. A blast of cold, damp air gloriously embraced them, the meagre brightness of the daylight intoxicating. Squeezing through they saw an anonymous humping of lead-covered roof stretching away. It glistened and danced with water for it was raining in solid sheets but Kydd didn’t care. They were free!
Halgren yanked the door closed behind them and Kydd lunged forward but slid to an immediate stop. They were on a projecting battlement with a splendid view of the city but separating them from the main expanse of roof was a yawning chasm five feet wide, a vertiginous sheer drop to the ground.
As a young topman, Kydd had thought nothing of leaping out into space to snatch a backstay for a quick descent to the deck. He steadied himself and launched – a brief flash of distant ground and he was across.
It was Dillon next. ‘I – I can’t!’ he gasped, freezing.
‘Try!’ Kydd urged.
Halgren moved swiftly. He stood behind Dillon, grasped him by his collar and trousers, then hurled him mightily across. With a strangled cry, Dillon fell on top of Kydd in a tangle of bodies. They quickly moved back so Halgren could join them.
The trio slithered across the grey wetness. Kydd saw through the driving rain that battlements like theirs were at every corner: almost certainly prisoners were kept on the outer, which meant that the centre would be administration, and hopefully a route for them to escape.
They dodged through the humps and slopes to the middle, and a flat, sheltered area with a large skylight. It had a small, raised windowed door, very like a ship’s companionway.
Plunging towards it, Kydd grabbed at the brass handle and swung it open but he stopped in his tracks. A French officer was slowly mounting the steps with a party of guards.
He swung around but soldiers were spilling out on to the roof from several other points.
Kydd looked back – and the officer beckoned him with a cruel smile.
Chapter 83
The manacles were the least of their punishment. Their cell was now shared by two guards whose orders were to prevent any conversation and whose sharp gaze followed every movement.
Halgren sat cross-legged, his head on his hands. Kydd recognised the posture – it was often adopted by those confined to bilboes aboard ship and he allowed a tiny smile as he wondered what in the past the Swede had done to deserve such.
What hurt unbearably was the sight of his knightly star and sash brought to such a dishonourable baseness by his own foolish credulity.
Time hung in a succession of empty moments. Without distraction, his mind retreated into a wandering, self-pitying maze of memories and emotions that sapped the spirit.
The night brought no relief and he woke blearily.
Even before the light had strengthened, there were footsteps outside and Moreau stood in the doorway with a piece of paper in his hands and a polite smile in place. ‘Sir Thomas, I’m happy to tell you that very soon you will be released from your confinement here.’
An insane leap of hope surged – an exchange? A change of heart for Bonaparte?
‘Yes. Your carriage is being prepared. At noon you will leave for Paris.’
Kydd’s heart turned to stone. This was the final chapter: at his ‘eminence’, and after their forlorn attempt at escape, he would now be guarded more closely than the Crown Jewels.
‘Very well. I shall endeavour to be ready,’ he said loftily, clinking his manacles meaningfully.
It was ignored and Moreau left with a bow.
There was not even the solace of words from his comrades and the morning stretched interminably.
At some time mid-morning there were faint sounds from the outside – shouted orders, a body of men: no doubt his guard and escort arriving for the long trip to Bonaparte’s Paris.
But a few minutes later Moreau arrived again, this time somewhat flustered. ‘Come!’ he demanded of Kydd, without explanation. Four guards, it seemed, were necessary to convey him to Moreau’s office but, oddly, they passed it by and entered private apartments.