At dawn, the glaring sun rose slowly over the shoulder of the hills, lighting the well-preserved Roman road in Dordogne. The billowing fog thinned by degrees; the temperature began to climb. A blue-uniformed detachment—several dozen strong—from the Champagne Composite Regiment marched in file through a quiet valley, tasked with escorting tax funds worth 7,000,000 livres by wagon to Paris, 150 leagues away.

  Though most of the 7,000,000 livres in silver were in five-livre pieces, their total mass still reached 200,000 ounces—about six tons—packed into ten large iron chests. Thus, in the middle of the marching column rolled a four-wheeled treasury cart drawn by eight heavy draft horses; the weighty rims pressed parallel tracks into the hard roadbed of gravel bound with limestone.

  Dozens of soldiers guarding the treasury fore and aft kept a tolerably tidy column—muskets shouldered, packs on backs—trudging along the dust-grey road. The summer air was stifling and hot, yet spirits held. A few soldiers, acting as impromptu singers, kept up one song after another. The officer in charge, Lieutenant Petiet, did not silence them; he listened with interest, and now and then flipped a livre or two from the saddle to reward a good voice.

  By the time the sun climbed to the zenith of the deep blue sky, its fierce light beat through the heat-shimmer and fell on the parched ground. Near midday, with temperatures approaching 30°C, formation marching was no longer sensible. When they reached a clear brook, an orderly passed the word from front to rear: the lieutenant ordered a halt and rest on the spot.

  “It’s already September, and it’s still damned hot.” Lieutenant Petiet swore inwardly. Unlike Bordeaux’s mild ocean climate, central Dordogne felt more like the blazing Mediterranean. It had been the same for three days on the road. Still, in two more days—Limoges—things would ease.

  Sweat beaded his brow; his tunic was soaked through; yet astride his horse, Lieutenant Petiet kept perfectly still, gravely posted at the roadside, watching his men file by. From time to time he let a smile show and dipped his head to those who saluted.

  When the lead files had cleared, two drivers brought the wagon to a steady stop by the verge. They had no time to wipe their foreheads: they watered the eight Ardennes draft horses that had pulled hard for three hours, and mixed a mash of oats with fresh eggs for strength.

  One soldier, watching, complained to his sergeant that the horses ate better than the men. The burly sergeant cuffed him, sent him to help the drivers, and added, “If you can pull in harness for two hours like a draft horse, the driver will give you three eggs.”

  “Make it five eggs!” an older driver called, to general laughter.

  Lieutenant Petiet could not help a grin. He told the runner beside him to allow each man half a bottle of wine. Only after all the perimeter pickets were posted, the muskets racked, and the ranks scattered for the brook did Petiet swing down from the hot, slick saddle. He went straight for the shade and sat on the ground.

  A young second lieutenant took biscuits from his haversack and offered them; Petiet shook his head—his throat was too dry. The quick-witted runner, reading him well, brought a kettle of water. Petiet thanked him and drained it in one pull.

  As he lowered the kettle, a thought returned. He looked up and told the junior officer before him: “Viaux—after forty minutes’ rest, take one trooper and scout within one league (about eight km) ahead, especially the posting station in the valley we’ll traverse this afternoon. Report back every hour without fail.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.” Second Lieutenant Viaux accepted at once.

  Though this was peacetime movement within France, Petiet dared not relax. Escorting 7,000,000 livres to Paris was the most important duty he had received in ten years’ service. When Captain Moncey, the battalion major, asked how many men he required, Petiet requested his own company entire. But the 3rd Company was badly understrength, and with officers included they had not quite sixty men.

  Unlike the stern-mannered Captain Moncey, the thirty-five-year-old Petiet—though from a declining noble family and once an accountant—had an even temper and a steady care for the ranks; the soldiers loved him. Moncey, for his part, knew this friend and subordinate lacked the nerve for a battlefield; he did not oppose making Second Lieutenant Augereau the fighting lead of 1st Company, and was already considering asking Commander André to transfer Lieutenant Petiet—unwilling to face combat—into the regiment’s quartermaster-transport or engineers.

  After a swallow of red wine, Second Lieutenant Viaux saw the level reach half the bottle and shoved the cork back. Seeing Lieutenant Petiet wakeful against the tree, he strolled over to chat.

  “Sir, why not send the funds by sea to Paris?” he asked. Clearly, sea transport would be easier and faster, swells and winds aside.

  “In 1787–1789, treasure ships northbound from Bordeaux struck ground and sank five times while crossing the Channel—tens of millions in gold and silver lost. No one can say exactly why. Since last August the Constituent Assembly and the Finance Ministry have ordered all tax revenues to go by land,” Petiet recited. Escorting the Treasury was a slog, but the credit was real. The captain had promised him that, after this march, he would support Petiet for a transfer to regimental logistics.

  Petiet checked his watch and said to Second Lieutenant Viaux, “Time you were off. The road ahead has narrows, woods, and blind hills. Take care. Report back every hour.”

  …

  After a summer shower, a few bright clouds floated in the blue. Unkempt, the bandit chief Jacques stood in a low copse on a slope, looking down at the village by the riverside windmill—rows of country roofs, thin smoke, cattle cropping the meadows and fields, speckled hens pecking in the brush: a scene of peace.

  He drew a long breath, shook off his fondness for the sight, touched the scar on his left cheek, and said a silent prayer. In a moment he would break that peace with his own hands.

  A confederate, dressed as a wayfarer, jogged up from the gate 300 meters away and went straight for the thicket. “Boss, the place has fewer than eighty souls—only a dozen or so able-bodied.”

  “Good. Start.” Jacques had a signalman flash the sign. He led out a horse, swung up, and walked his mount down the slope toward the gate. At once, 200 armed men rose from the woods, vineyards, and fields around the hamlet—dark coats, sabers, pistols, muskets with bayonets—closing step by step around the target.

  Two hounds at the gate barked themselves hoarse at the intruders, warning the village at the top of their lungs. Some twenty villagers spilled from their houses—brandishing sabers, picks, staves, and seven or eight old matchlocks—rushing for the entrance, shouting back at wives and children to get inside and bar the doors.

  An old man with a drink-blotched nose, thin as a rail, pushed forward under the villagers’ protection, waving his arms to bar the way.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” he demanded, fear under the edge in his voice. Seeing the scarred horseman in front, he knew they faced bandits.

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  Jacques had no patience for words. “Drop your tools and go home within sixty seconds. Anyone outside after that will be killed. Count starts now.”

  Before a bandit reached “ten,” the villagers had dropped their makeshifts and run for their houses, doors slamming. Even the brazen hounds tucked their tails and followed the old man, whining.

  Of the 200 men ringed around the hill village, fifty stayed inside the lanes to cow the restless; the other 150 dismounted. On Jacques’s order, a hundred men felled trees near the gate and piled them across the highway.

  Two hours later, hoofbeats rang on the road. Rifles and pistols came up in a thicket of muzzles—then, from the slope, the lookout flashed “safe,” and the alarm eased.

  It was the scout, Second Lieutenant Viaux. The two troopers with him had been sent back half an hour earlier to report “all clear” to Lieutenant Petiet; Viaux had ridden on.

  He rode up swaggering to the barricade, swung down, caught the bottle Jacques tossed him, pulled the cork, and drank deep. Flinging the empty aside, he frowned at the bandit chief: “Why change the plan again? We set for the posting-station five leagues up the road. If you want to alter it, speak now.”

  As a serving officer, Viaux detested lowering himself to deal with low bravos. But he had gambling debts; the Comte de Ducasse of Chateau Cheval-Blanc had him by the throat; hence this monstrous conspiracy.

  Jacques understood and took no offense. He smiled an apology. “We hit that posting station five months back. Too many folks know us there; too many idlers; roads everywhere—word travels. Here, if I block this choke, those bluecoats must either run or throw their hands up. The treasury wagon won’t have room to turn. You’re sure there are only fifty-one in the whole party?”

  Viaux nodded. “Certain. New recruits to the Champagne Regiment have gone to Second Lieutenant Augereau’s 1st Company and Lieutenant Hoche’s cavalry. The rest won’t be filled before October. Counting the two drivers, it’s fifty-one—fewer than your horsemen. As for fighting—heh—they haven’t fired a live round yet. Since enlistment, it’s been drill, drill, drill.”

  “And the treasure?” Jacques pressed.

  At the word, Viaux’s greed broke out; he whipped off his cocked hat and waved it. “All in ten iron chests on the wagon. Every lid and the coach door sealed with Finance Ministry seals. Can’t see inside, but the wheel-ruts say all you need. 7,000,000 livres. My 500,000 and I retire early.”

  “It had better be,” Jacques said, pleased—his own take would be the same. With that, he could buy a little estate and live easy, no more licking blood from a knife’s edge.

  In the last two months, the Dordogne, Haute-Vienne, and Corrèze self-defense forces had run them hard; they had lost half their men. To lift spirits and soothe the wounded, Jacques had let himself be tempted by the tax farmers into this high-stakes robbery of the state. He knew that, if they pulled it off, they would have to vanish, or flee forever. Once it had been provincial militias at their heels; next it would be the whole power of the nation.

  When the two had settled details, Viaux, before leaving, reminded Jacques again and again to “clean the village” and leave no loose ends.

  “Orders, boss?” a keen fellow asked, pointing his blade toward the eighty-odd villagers.

  “Keep them under watch. We’ll see.” Jacques felt a sudden wrench but shook his head.

  …

  Forty minutes later, as Second Lieutenant Viaux rejoined his escort, he knew at once something was wrong. The party—barely fifty before—now had nearly one hundred mounted men with it, and at their head rode Lieutenant Hoche, Commander André’s shadow.

  “Ruined,” was Viaux’s first thought. Before he could wheel to bolt—or snatch his pistol—the ever-amiable Lieutenant Petiet drove a boot into him and kicked the traitor from the saddle.

  After summary justice on the mole, Lieutenant Petiet, as arranged, handed command to Lieutenant Hoche and, pointing at the map, briefed him: “From shadowing and from Viaux’s statement, we count 202 bandits ahead, about sixty mounted. The chief is ‘Jacques,’ near forty. They have one lookout post on the ridge—three men. We must kill that post first, or the cavalry cannot get close without warning.”

  Hoche nodded without expression. He beckoned three men—Penduvas, Finic, and Villed—and sent them ahead, with orders to eliminate the ridge picket silently. Deadline: by 4:50 p.m.

  Then Hoche called for two men to replace the drivers. He went to the coach himself, broke the seals, opened the iron lock, and had the “ten iron chests” shifted out and dumped by the road. A few curious soldiers moved to peek, and Lieutenant Petiet waved them off with a smile: “Only lead. When we’re done, you can each haul off a chest.”

  Five large crates packed with black powder were quickly loaded in. Hoche handed the “document-tube-sized” device to the disguised driver, warning him again and again: “Handle the long cylinder with care. No inverting. No jolting. Once you throw it into the coach, you have fifteen seconds to jump clear. No hesitation.”

  He signaled Lieutenant Petiet to move the column on; he himself set the cavalry to shadow them at an easy pace.

  …

  A little after 4 p.m., the ridge picket flashed its signal: the long-awaited convoy was “on time,” all normal. Jacques relaxed and shouted, “Eyes open! In a minute, 7,000,000 livres will throw themselves into your arms. Hold tight to your 30,000 like you would to a pretty girl!”

  Laughter. Knuckles clenched on hilts and stocks along the barricade. The 30,000 livres per man were Jacques’s personal promise.

  Ten minutes later, the four-wheeled wagon—eight heavy horses—rounded the last bend and came into view at 200 meters.

  Seeing the bandits outnumber them, the bluecoats—so it seemed—broke and ran, no heroic dash. The two coachmen, in panic, tried to turn the team—but the Roman road was too narrow, no room to maneuver. A wrong touch, and the wagon lurched out of control, careening straight for the barricade. When the drivers felt it was hopeless, they jumped and ran.

  The bandits whooped; weapons dropped; they swarmed to clear the timber or grab the reins, ready to welcome each man’s 30,000.

  Then Jacques felt doubt twist. At under twenty meters, he spotted a long trail of bluecoats spurring hard around the bend—cavalry, and many.

  “Scatter! Scatter! Now—” He got no further. Hemmed by the barrier, the team reared and screamed; the wagon slammed to a stop. As the bandits surged to break the “treasury” doors, there came, from within the coach, a deafening blast. Fire and smoke swallowed everything nearby.

  When Lieutenant Hoche and his troop reached the spot, it was a shambles—bodies everywhere, blood and flesh. The shock wave and fragments from the explosion had torn apart nearly everything within thirty meters. Those who died at once were lucky; those left alive lay limbless and howling—begging help or begging a quick end.

  The bandits in the village stood stupefied, rooted to the ground. When the cavalry swarmed them, only then did they wake—some kneeling to throw down arms and yield; others turning to run and being cut down one by one by sabers.

  “A pity for those eight fine horses,” said Penduvas from the rise—son of a herdsman, wincing yet helpless. Finic and Villed cared less; they were already weighing whether the half-dead at their feet would count for bounties.

  Despite victory, there was little cheering. Half the recruits slid from the saddle and retched, sick at the memory of what a hundred men looked like, blasted to pieces. Hoche knew this was 2,000 pounds of black powder at work. What he did not understand was how the long cylinder had timed the detonation.

  Later, Commander André explained: it was a new explosive—a mixture of “glycerin” and potassium permanganate—although Hoche does not understand a word but it is five to eight times more powerful than ordinary grain powder. Its flaw was control: too sensitive; easy to maim the wrong men.

  …

  Two afternoons later, in the managing director’s office of the Bordeaux tax-farming company, Savigny and his ally, the Comte de Ducasse, waited uneasily for news out of Dordogne.

  By plan, Jacques was to strike the escort on September 2, and word should have reached Bordeaux this morning. Nothing had.

  When the clock reached 2 p.m., the suspicious Savigny concluded the attempt had failed—and that he himself had been betrayed. He decided to gather his valuables and run, urging the Comte de Ducasse to flee with him to Spain.

  Too late. As they came down to the lobby, troops were waiting—dozens of muzzles leveled at the two conspirators.

  The prosecutor, André, stepped in with a smile. His first act—before the tax farmers—was to greet the Comte de Ducasse warmly: “My dear Comte, come—quickly. I shall report to Paris the service you and Second Lieutenant Viaux have rendered. As promised, if you bring it off, Chateau Cheval-Blanc rises to premier grand cru.”

  At that, Savigny snapped. He had not imagined that the “upright ally” at his side had sold him out. He drew his pistol and fired at the stunned Comte de Ducasse. With a crack, the bullet struck the chest; the poor man crumpled.

  At once, on Second Lieutenant Augereau’s order, the murderer was torn to shreds by a volley.

  After his former life’s revenge, André no longer kept the taste for watching enemies die. He waved for Augereau to have the bodies carried out so the accountants could come in, seal the ledgers, and take the rooms.

  From that moment, the Bordeaux tax farm ceased to exist. In a few days, the offices would house the Bordeaux United Industries Company.