Rebellion
Rebellion is brewing in Napoleonic Paris, in the action-packed novel from the author of the bestselling Ratcatcher.October 1812: Britain and France are still at war. France is engaged on two battle fronts - Spain and Russia - and her civilians are growing weary of the fight. Rebellion is brewing. Since Napoleon Bonaparte appointed himself as First Consul, there have been several attempts to either kill or overthrow him. All have failed, so far…Meanwhile in London, Bow Street Runner Matthew Hawkwood has been seconded to the foreign arm of the Secret Service. There, he meets the urbane Henry Brooke, who tells him he’s to join a colleague in Paris on a special mission.Brooke's agent has come up with a daring plan and he needs Hawkwood's help to put it into action. If the plan is successful it could lead to a negotiated peace treaty between France and the allies. Failure would mean prison, torture and a meeting with the guillotine…
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JAMES McGEE
Rebellion
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Copyright © James McGee 2011
James McGee asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007320240
Ebook Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9780007320257 Version: 2016-02-15
Contents
PART I
Chapter 1
He heard the rattle of musket fire and ducked instinctively. The horse grunted and stumbled and for one heart-faltering second he thought it had been hit; but the animal had only lost its footing on a rock loosened by the previous night’s storm. Ahead of him, he saw Leon fighting to control his own mount as it scrambled for purchase on the treacherous, water-soaked terrain.
It was still raining, but the heavy downpour that had turned mountain stream into raging torrent and earthen track into quagmire had finally abated; transformed into a steady, and persistent drizzle. The easing of the weather, however, had not eliminated the risk of injury from a carelessly placed hoof. All he could do was hang on, trust in his steed, and pray that the ground remained firm beneath them.
Dawn had broken half an hour before but there was neither warmth to the day nor any evidence of sunrise, only a low ceiling of slate-tinted cloud. A gunmetal pall hung across the landscape, drenching the customary ochre-coloured hills in gloomy shades of grey.
Leon yelled a warning, indicating the crest of a ridge a quarter of a mile ahead and a row of figures outlined like stone statues on a balustrade; French infantry. At that range their blue jackets were unmistakable. A foraging party, he guessed. They were shouting and gesticulating wildly, waving their hats in the air. Some were crouched down and he assumed it was from those men that the shots had originated. Their cries carried like excited bird chatter and he realized they were yelling directions to the dragoons emerging at a gallop from the village behind them. He was immediately conscious of his own scarlet jacket and white breeches. Despite their grubbiness and the poor light, in contrast to Leon’s grey coat, clay-coloured trousers and black bandana, they made a tempting target. He hunched down in his saddle, tightened his grip on the reins and drove his boots into the mare’s flanks. Another fusillade sounded. It would have been a miracle if any of the musket balls had found their mark, even allowing for the downward trajectory, but it didn’t stop him spurring his horse on even faster.
There was very little cover. What there was consisted of thorn bush and sharp outcrops of rock with olive trees dotted in between which, with their trunks stunted by the wind, had the look of old men bent and wizened with age.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. The dragoons were crouched low over their horses’ necks; a couple had drawn sabres. They were not that far behind, and gaining ground rapidly. Beyond the knot of green-clad riders, he could see the village clinging like a limpet to the side of the hill. Idanha-aNova; it wasn’t much of a place – a small church with a thin, square tower rising above a spiral of whitewashed houses – but it had provided a welcome respite from the storm. They had been fed and watered by their local contact and he’d slept comfortably, until rudely awakened with the news that a French patrol was searching houses at the other end of the street, which had resulted in their frantic and undignified dash for freedom.
He looked back and hope flared in his chest as his eyes settled on the sweep of wooded slopes that had appeared through the murk. He followed Leon’s lead and turned his horse towards them. The trees would provide a guard against musket fire and grant them a chance to give their pursuers the slip, allowing them time to make their escape to a more permanent hiding place; providing the gods remained on their side.
