it. Garnerin had risked his life for me, but knocking him out was the best favour I could have for done him. It would surely convince whoever found him that I was a desperate English spy who had kidnapped him and the niece of a police official.
The audience for our spectacular landing had consisted of a couple of goats, who were now chewing on the remains of the balloon, and I thought we’d better be on our way before the local farmers and their families began to gather. I could hear them coming already, the first billhooks visible over the hedges. I doubted that the French peasantry would appreciate their rural idyll being disturbed by anything as unlikely as a balloon so I grabbed Dominique’s hand and ducked through the remains of the poplar into the field beyond.
We ran through shoulder-high green wheat until we reached the shelter of another row of trees, behind which, mercifully, was the main Paris-Amiens road. It was barely wide enough for two carts to pass and badly rutted but fortunately it was empty when we stumbled on to it. I turned and gestured left and right along the road to Dominique. She shrugged and began to walk towards the river, glancing over her shoulder to see if I was following. I was, the pain in my knee was abating slowly and I was only limping a bit. The sounds of the mob around the balloon soon faded behind us.
The day was warm despite the wind that rustled the trees either side of the road. The verges were full of foxgloves; bees dipping in and out of them. It felt good to be free. I took off my cloak and carried Dominique’s for her as well. Her green dress was only slightly torn and between us we managed to pat ourselves down and straighten our clothes so that we had, perhaps, the look of a courting couple returning from an intimate country stroll rather than two fugitives fleeing the scene of a balloon crash. Carts ambled past us, the drivers nodding to us as they dozed off at the reins, and on one occasion we were left choking in the dust of a mail coach but otherwise the road was quiet. It was an hour or more before we spoke more than a few words to each other. I don’t know what she was thinking about but I kept picturing what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted beneath the balloon.
Well now, if everything else went as planned you might suppose that the rest of my tale would me a mite dull. After all, if I hadn’t got the girl quite yet she was unquestionably coming round. I was out of Paris and well on the way back to England, the plans for Bonaparte’s invasion were safe in my pocket, I was out of immediate danger and well ahead of any pursuit. However, given that you are barely a quarter of an inch through this volume you would be correct in assuming that events soon take an unexpected turn.
The trouble began after we had persuaded a carter to let us ride with him, Dominique wasn’t in favour of it but after so many days of inactivity I was getting weary. We sat on the stained and sticky wood on the back of the dray in between the large barrels of wine he was carrying. The sour smell of cheap burgundy pervaded the air and wasps swarmed around the oozing casks, but it was better than walking. We trundled past an inn and looked away when we saw two soldiers sitting outside in the sun, though judging from the empty bottle between them they would have been too insensible to notice us. The road began to get even worse with deep ruts worn into the baked mud and it was all we could do to hang on as the cart pitched up and down. We passed in and out of thick woodland, the kind of old oak forest that had long since been felled in England, feeding the voracious appetite of the navy for good timber.
Through the trees I glimpsed a wide and slow brown river and at about the same time I heard voices ahead. The cart slowed to a stop, the driver cursing the delay in a thick accent. I turned and stood in the back of the cart, looked over the barrel and past the balding head
The audience for our spectacular landing had consisted of a couple of goats, who were now chewing on the remains of the balloon, and I thought we’d better be on our way before the local farmers and their families began to gather. I could hear them coming already, the first billhooks visible over the hedges. I doubted that the French peasantry would appreciate their rural idyll being disturbed by anything as unlikely as a balloon so I grabbed Dominique’s hand and ducked through the remains of the poplar into the field beyond.
We ran through shoulder-high green wheat until we reached the shelter of another row of trees, behind which, mercifully, was the main Paris-Amiens road. It was barely wide enough for two carts to pass and badly rutted but fortunately it was empty when we stumbled on to it. I turned and gestured left and right along the road to Dominique. She shrugged and began to walk towards the river, glancing over her shoulder to see if I was following. I was, the pain in my knee was abating slowly and I was only limping a bit. The sounds of the mob around the balloon soon faded behind us.
The day was warm despite the wind that rustled the trees either side of the road. The verges were full of foxgloves; bees dipping in and out of them. It felt good to be free. I took off my cloak and carried Dominique’s for her as well. Her green dress was only slightly torn and between us we managed to pat ourselves down and straighten our clothes so that we had, perhaps, the look of a courting couple returning from an intimate country stroll rather than two fugitives fleeing the scene of a balloon crash. Carts ambled past us, the drivers nodding to us as they dozed off at the reins, and on one occasion we were left choking in the dust of a mail coach but otherwise the road was quiet. It was an hour or more before we spoke more than a few words to each other. I don’t know what she was thinking about but I kept picturing what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted beneath the balloon.
Well now, if everything else went as planned you might suppose that the rest of my tale would me a mite dull. After all, if I hadn’t got the girl quite yet she was unquestionably coming round. I was out of Paris and well on the way back to England, the plans for Bonaparte’s invasion were safe in my pocket, I was out of immediate danger and well ahead of any pursuit. However, given that you are barely a quarter of an inch through this volume you would be correct in assuming that events soon take an unexpected turn.
The trouble began after we had persuaded a carter to let us ride with him, Dominique wasn’t in favour of it but after so many days of inactivity I was getting weary. We sat on the stained and sticky wood on the back of the dray in between the large barrels of wine he was carrying. The sour smell of cheap burgundy pervaded the air and wasps swarmed around the oozing casks, but it was better than walking. We trundled past an inn and looked away when we saw two soldiers sitting outside in the sun, though judging from the empty bottle between them they would have been too insensible to notice us. The road began to get even worse with deep ruts worn into the baked mud and it was all we could do to hang on as the cart pitched up and down. We passed in and out of thick woodland, the kind of old oak forest that had long since been felled in England, feeding the voracious appetite of the navy for good timber.
Through the trees I glimpsed a wide and slow brown river and at about the same time I heard voices ahead. The cart slowed to a stop, the driver cursing the delay in a thick accent. I turned and stood in the back of the cart, looked over the barrel and past the balding head
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