Read Chapter 33: Desmoulins' Return

The farmhouse door burst open, and the wounded adjutant’s hand flew to his pistol. Moreau, slumped against the wall, could not even lift his arm. Through the blood-fogged haze, he saw a thin silhouette against the rain-grey sky—not Prussian grey, but the stained coat of a civilian.

“Captain Moreau,” the man said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Bastien’s pistol leveled. “Don’t move.”

The man raised his hands with theatrical calm. He was younger than Moreau expected, perhaps thirty, with ink-stained fingers and the face of a man who spent his days bent over a candlelit desk. He recognized the type before the name surfaced.

“Desmoulins,” Moreau said. The word came out as a rasp.

“The same.” Desmoulins nodded, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. “I saw your adjutant stumble in less than an hour ago. I followed the blood trail. You leave a generous wake, Captain.”

“Why are you here?” Bastien’s pistol did not waver.

Desmoulins glanced at the weapon, then at Moreau. “Because you’re going to die without me.”

Moreau coughed, and the taste of copper filled his mouth. “Flattering.”

“I knew the major would come for me eventually. He paid me to forge the transfer orders, the paymaster’s signature, the dispatch that put you at Le Caillou that night. I did what I was paid to do—I’m a tradesman, nothing more.” Desmoulins produced a folded paper from inside his coat. “But I have every other version of that work. The drafts. The errors. The date stamps that prove when I was commissioned, and who commissioned me.”

Bastien snatched the paper without lowering his pistol. He handed it to Moreau with his free hand.

Moreau’s vision swam. He squinted at the writing—a receipt, dated the week before the fire, signed by the major himself. Payment for “legal documentation services.” The hand was the major’s; he had seen enough of it in the quartermaster ledgers.

“You took payment from both sides,” Moreau said.

“I took payment from the man who forced me into the work. The major kidnapped my brother-in-law in Brussels. Held him against my cooperation. A good forger is not a brave man, Captain. We let others be brave for us.” Desmoulins’ voice cracked on the last word. “He said if I refused, my sister would be a widow. I believed him.”

Moreau studied the man. Desperate, fearful, but not lying. The trembling hands were not from cold.

“Papers can be made to say anything,” Moreau said. “You could be here to finish the major’s work.”

“The major is out there.” Desmoulins gestured vaguely toward the battlefield. “His men are dead or bleeding. I was in the farmhouse when the Prussians passed an hour ago. The major’s not among the prisoners—but he is no longer with his regiment either. He saw you escape. He will come for you again.”

Bastien grabbed Desmoulins by the collar and shoved him against the wall. “You led them here.”

“I led no one!” Desmoulins’ eyes went wide. “I’ve been hiding in the cellar of this very farm for two days. I watched the major’s men sweep the road and I stayed quiet. I only came out when I saw you two stumble in alone, because I need what you can give me.”

Moreau held up a hand, and Bastien reluctantly released the man. “Go on.”

Desmoulins straightened his coat. “Passage out of Belgium. Papers that will get me through the Prussian lines and into Holland, where my wife’s family can hide me until this is finished. You’re a quartermaster, Captain. You know the people who can make a man disappear. You know the routes.” He looked at Moreau’s wound. “And you’re dying. I’m offering you the only thing that clears your name before you do.”

“My name is already clear.” Moreau shifted, and the wound in his side flared white-hot. “The men know the truth.”

“The men know what they saw. But Napoleon will hear a different story. The major saw to it that messages were sent before the battle—copies of those forged orders, delivered to the Emperor’s staff. Even now, your dispatches are being read in the wrong light.” Desmoulins stepped closer. “If you die here, you die a traitor in the archives. The matter may never be revisited. Your family’s name will carry stains for generations.”

Moreau’s jaw tightened. He had thought of nothing beyond the gold, beyond the mutiny, beyond the battle raging outside. But the forger was right. Even if the gold were returned, there was no guarantee Napoleon would learn the truth before judgment was passed.

“You want protection,” Moreau said. “And in exchange, you give me statements that implicate the major in the theft and the forgery.”

“And the assassination attempt,” Desmoulins added quietly.

The room went still.

Bastien’s hand dropped to his side. “Say that again.”

“I was at the tent the night you were ambushed,” Desmoulins said. “The night the major’s men tried to kill you. I was there to deliver the final set of forgeries—the ones that would be found on your body. When the attack failed, the major was furious. I heard him speak of other plans. He mentioned the Emperor’s route to the battlefield. The crossroads at Plancenoit. A regiment of disloyal gunners.”

“He was feeding information to the Prussians,” Moreau breathed.

“I don’t know all of it. I’m a forger, not a spy. But I know he kept a map. Hand-drawn. Showing troop positions and the roads Napoleon would take.” Desmoulins hesitated. “It’s hidden in the church at Plancenoit, under the altar stone that’s cracked on the left side.”

Moreau’s chest constricted. Plancenoit. The mill. The gold he had ordered hidden there was now in enemy hands or lying exposed while Prussian columns pushed through the village. If the major’s map was in the same place—

“You’re telling me the traitor’s evidence is sitting near the gold,” Moreau said.

“Gold?” Desmoulins frowned. “I only know he had a hiding place there. The church is old. No one searches altars in the middle of a battle.”

Moreau turned to Bastien. “The mill. If the Prussians overrun Plancenoit, they’ll find the cart we left. They’ll find the gold. And all of this will have been for nothing.”

“We can’t go back,” Bastien said. “You can’t even stand.”

Moreau looked at the forger. “You want passage out of this war.”

Desmoulins nodded.

“Then you’re going to earn it,” Moreau said. “Plancenoit is half a mile west. The church and the mill are separated by a dry stream. You will go there, retrieve the major’s map from beneath the altar, and bring it to me. I’ll have your papers drawn within the hour.”

Desmoulins’ face paled. “I am not a soldier.”

“You’re a forger,” Moreau said. “Which means you know how to lie, how to hide, and how to make yourself look like someone you’re not. Walk through the village as a Prussian courier. The uniforms are in the barn across the road. Take one.”

Desmoulins stared at him. “And if I don’t come back?”

“Then the papers you want die with me,” Moreau said. He let his head fall back against the wall. “And you spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder for the major’s blade, long after Napoleon is gone.”

The forger licked his lips. He looked at Bastien, at Moreau’s wound, at the door beyond which the cannonade had not ceased.

“Plancenoit,” he finally said. “Cracked altar stone, left side.”

Moreau closed his eyes and heard the door open, then close. When he opened them, he was alone with Bastien.

“You trust him?” Bastien asked.

“No,” Moreau said. “But he’s the only proof I have left. And I’m the only thing keeping the gold from the Prussians.” He touched the wound at his side. It came away wet. “Help me up. If that guard finds me lying here, they’ll move me further back. I need to be close enough to hear the main road.”

Bastien slid an arm under him and pulled him upright. Through the broken window, Moreau could see the flash of cannon fire on the ridge. The Emperor’s guns were still speaking. But not for much longer, unless someone stopped the rot from within.

Beyond the farmhouse, in the direction of Plancenoit, a single figure hurried through the mud, swallowed by the cannon smoke.