“No helping him now, big ’un,” someone said. “Let ’em fight fair.”
“This man stole my ring,” Alex said. “I just want it back.”
“That is not all I stole. Took his wife too.”
Fury pounded in Alex’s veins. Momentarily distracted, he slackened his grip, and François managed to free one arm and strike him in the eye. Alex punched François on his bony nose. He returned the favor with a blow to the mouth followed by a hard shove. The two men tumbled across the quay and rolled to their feet, a flash of metal in LaRoche’s hand.
“He’s got a knife!” Jago warned.
François slashed. Alex dove. Again he rolled to his feet, just as François advanced, knife at the ready.
“Mr. Lucas, catch.” John Dyer tossed him his own knife. “Let’s keep it fair, lads.”
Alex wished for a sword instead. Then he would have easily bested François. But he was less experienced with a short blade.
They circled one another, François slashing, Alex blocking and evading.
“Just give me the ring. It’s not worth dying over.”
“I have no intention of dying. Certainly not by your hand.”
Someone shoved a crate behind Alex, tripping him. He caught a glimpse of the interloper—Tom Parsons. Alex fell back, and François lunged. John Dyer stuck out his boot, tripping him in turn.
François dropped to his knees with a curse.
“You lot! Break it up.” Two militia officers appeared up the street and turned their steps toward the harbour.
The crowd quickly dispersed, some men to their own boats or back to work on the sloop.
François glanced at the approaching officers, then pulled off the ring. “See how it feels.”
He reeled back and threw it toward open water.
Shock thundered through Alex as a flash of gold flew over his head. “No!”
Suddenly Jago jumped, long arm outstretched, big palm extended, and caught the ring. He landed on the edge of the quay, teetered, then regained his balance.
Jago handed over the treasured possession, then gestured toward the Black Rock ferry, about to depart. “Better get out of here.”
Alex nodded and stood, returning Dyer’s knife.
Tom Parsons helped François up and slung a casual arm around the man’s shoulder, as though the two were old friends. He handed him a rag for his bloody nose and led him toward the nearby inn. “Come on, mate. Let’s celebrate our bargain with an early drink.”
Seeing the crowd disperse and the fight break up, the officers retreated, turning toward the custom house instead. But Alex guessed he had not seen the last of them.
As he stepped aboard the ferry, the ferryman took one look at him and winced, and the few other passengers gave Alex a wide berth. He no doubt looked like a ruffian or the lowest raffalé with his rumpled clothing and bleeding lip.
After the ferry crossed the estuary and landed in Black Rock, Alexander began the walk to Trebetherick, his eye swelling, knuckles bleeding, and whole body sore from the fight. As he trudged along the sandy track, he muttered an unflattering epithet about François. He’d been surprised to see his old nemesis in Padstow with Parsons, and Alex remembered feeling a similar jolt upon finding François in the same prisoner-of-war camp more than a year before.
The British frigate that captured the Victorine had carried Alexander and his crew to northern England. In Norfolk, at the port of King’s Lynn, they disembarked and were transported inland on barges and lighters, escorted by armed militia. Hour by hour, they moved farther from France and freedom—and in Alexander’s case, closer to Cambridge, where he had briefly been a student not so many years before. He did not mention this to his men, knowing it would serve only to alienate him from his crew at a time when morale had already plummeted.
But Daniel stood near him and asked in quiet French, “Are you familiar with this area?”
Alexander nodded, wondering if that familiarity might aid them in a future escape.
From the town of Peterborough, the captives were marched to their final destination. When they filed through the gate of the Norman Cross prison, Alex surveyed what seemed like a bustling city of some forty acres. In the center stood an octagonal block house, mounted with cannons and manned by soldiers.
Guards ordered the prisoners to line up in front of several desks, where clerks registered their names and ranks. When Alex’s turn came, he quietly stated his identity and handed over his papers.
The clerk looked up, quill suspended. “Captain, ey? That qualifies you for lodging in separate officer’s quarters, with the possibility of parole.”
Alexander glanced at Daniel, then demurred in polite English. “I prefer to remain with my men.”
“Suit yourself.” The clerk shrugged and made a notation in his register.
Then Alex and Daniel moved on, gathering their provisions. First there was clothing—coat, pantaloons, shirts, stockings—all in either bright yellow or blue and stamped with the letters T.O. for Transport Office. Each man was also issued a hammock, straw mattress, blanket, tin mug, bowl, platter, and spoon. Arms full of new requisitions, the prisoners found their way to the assigned barracks. Inside, Alex and Daniel found empty hooks and hung up their hammocks. Exhausted from their ordeal, they quickly fell asleep.
At sunrise, the turnkey gave the signal for the prisoners to rise, fold up their bedding, and hang their hammocks against the wall to allow more space for general use during the day. After a breakfast of bread and cheese, they gathered in the graveled exercise yard where, they’d been told, they would spend the greater portion of their waking hours.
There, Alexander was shocked to see François LaRoche among the hundreds of milling men, some fencing with wooden swords, others playing skittles, carving, smoking, or talking.
When he noticed him, François’s lip instantly curled. He said in French, “Eh bien. If it isn’t the spoiled rich boy, come to wallow with the peasants.”
Beside him, Daniel stiffened, retorting, “This is a capitaine in our emperor’s navy, deserving of your respect.”
“Capitaine, is it?” François smirked. “Not a very good one, obviously, or he wouldn’t be here.”
Alexander lifted his chin. “And what about you? I am surprised to see you, François. Though there are other civilians here, I gather.”
“Not exactly an ordinary cit, now, am I? I was en route from Jersey when our ship was commandeered.” He shrugged. “I could leave this place any time I want, yet I have my reasons to stay. How much more so, now that you are here. What amusement we will have. I shall enjoy showing you the ropes and watching you trip over them.”
Alexander’s hand fisted, but Daniel held him back, murmuring under his breath, “Remember rule number five.”
Right. Fighting, quarreling, or exciting the least disorder is strictly forbidden. He forced himself to remain calm and walk away, joining his men.
After that initial encounter, the next few weeks passed quickly and uneventfully. Conditions in the prison were fair overall, and Alex’s men were well treated and in reasonably good spirits, though François seemed to delight in tormenting Daniel whenever he could.
The authorities encouraged prisoners to use their skills and time wisely, and provided them with animal bone, wood, and straw to work with. On market days, local people flocked to Norman Cross to peruse the prisoners’ crafts offered for sale—items that displayed French dexterity, ingenuity, and taste: toys, domino sets, model ships, spinning jennys, and more.
Visitors remained on one side of a wooden fence while the prisoners stood behind, the slats spaced far enough apart to allow items, payment, and conversation to pass back and forth. Guards kept a watchful eye on the proceedings to make sure no clandestine correspondence or prohibited items like spirituous liquors changed hands.
Despite these restrictions, market days took on a fair-like quality. In addition to wares offered for sale, some industrious inmates put on Mr. Punch puppet shows
, while others played French tunes on homemade flutes in hopes of earning a few spare coins.
Not all of the inmates were allowed into the market. Representatives of each barracks manned the stalls. Daniel was one of those. He worked one store, while François manned the next. LaRoche’s English was far better than most others’, and he did much of the negotiating for the nearby stores. Alexander wondered if he took advantage of Daniel and other craftsmen like him.
As he watched the goings-on through the grill of the prison gate, Alexander came to realize that some visitors viewed the inmates as little better than caged animals, while others looked upon them with decency or even sympathy.
One day two pretty young women stopped near François’s table. One of them smiled at him. “What a very handsome straw box. Did you make it?”
“Ma chère mademoiselle, you flatter me.” He humbly dipped his head, fingers to his heart.
Alexander knew full well he had not made the box but was simply selling it for another man, but that did not stop him from taking credit. François was a good salesman, Alex had to give him that.
Napoleon had reportedly paraphrased Adam Smith when he said of England, “L’Angleterre est une nation de boutiquiers.” But François LaRoche could outsell a whole nation of shopkeepers, charming devil that he was.
Daniel’s skills in carving and carpentry, which had served him well in his role as ship’s carpenter, also well prepared him for industry while in prison. The talented man began building model ships and Noah’s arks along with matched sets of animals.
One day, another pretty young woman in the company of her stately mamma stopped to admire Daniel’s creations.
“What a darling Noah’s ark,” the older woman said. “Such detailed animals.”
François spoke up. “Merci, madame.”
“Oh and look, Noah’s wife in her pretty yellow dress and hat!” The young woman looked up coyly into LaRoche’s face. “Did you model her after your own wife, monsieur?”
He smiled down at her. “Alas, I am not blessed with a wife. But had I one as beautiful as you, mademoiselle, I could die a happy man.”
The women tittered between themselves and bought the Noah’s ark set for a nephew. François pocketed the coins while Daniel sat there helplessly.
Daniel’s work was popular and sold quickly, yet he never seemed to have any money, while François got richer though he created little of value and far more trouble.
As the autumn passed and winter weather descended, illness—always a problem in crowded conditions—became more rampant in the camp. Alexander remained hale, but Daniel, with his weaker constitution, developed a rattling cough. In the new year, many died of respiratory complaints in the prison hospital, and Alex began to fear his good friend would follow suit.
On one blustery market day, Alex saw Daniel outside without coat or hat. Concerned, he chided his friend, “Daniel, where is your coat? You’ll freeze.”
“I’ve got to get to the market.”
“You’ve got to put on your coat. If you are caught without, they’ll accuse you of selling your provisions for gaming.”
Some prisoners did sell their clothing and rations to obtain money for gambling or tobacco. Now that the weather had turned bitterly cold, it was becoming a real problem.
Daniel frowned. “I did not!”
“Well then?”
His friend sliced a look at François across the yard but said only, “It’s . . . gone. I lost it.”
“Lost it? Where? In the laundry? Or did someone take it?”
Daniel refused to say.
Soon Alexander pieced together the truth from observation and overheard whispers. François had set himself up as a “provisions buyer,” making money by preying on the weaker men among them. He even took prison-supplied hammocks from new arrivals and rented them back to the men for a halfpenny per night, contributing to the suffering of many who went without adequate clothing and bedding on frigid nights.
The prison surgeons reported that increasing numbers of men were becoming ill from exposure to the cold without proper clothing or from going without rations. More than one death certificate recorded the cause of death as “debility due to selling his provisions.”
When newcomers complained of deprivation, the militia guarding the barracks tried to ferret out those responsible. But no one would name names. Alexander wished he had evidence against the man, but he had none, as François had wisely left him alone.
“Why will no one say anything?” Alexander asked in frustration.
“They are afraid of LaRoche,” another prisoner answered. “He wields power here.”
Alexander couldn’t speak for the others, but he could guess why Daniel remained silent. He was afraid Alex would fight François and both would be sent to the Black Hole or, worse, to one of the hellish hulks instead of this relatively comfortable inland prison.
To get to the bottom of it, the prison officials eventually closed down the market. Their source of funds cut off, two of François’s victims finally stepped forward and named LaRoche as the provisions dealer. Guards immediately put him in the Black Hole, a windowless block of cells where prisoners were kept shackled on half rations as punishment for gross offenses.
Alexander’s relief at this justice was short-lived. The superintendent learned of it and had François released by morning, supposedly believing his claims that the men had sold their own provisions to fund their lust for gaming and blamed him as a scapegoat.
Witnessing François’s power in the prison, and concerned over Daniel’s growing fear and worsening health, Alexander changed his mind about parole. He signed a parole certificate, requested Daniel accompany him as his servant, and left Norman Cross for parole in Peterborough.
He’d hoped they’d seen the last of François LaRoche.
He’d been wrong.
Laura was on her way out the door to find out where Alexander had disappeared to when Eseld stopped her. “Miss Roskilly has invited us to go shopping with her in Padstow this afternoon. Will you join us?”
It was rare for Miss Roskilly to include her. Laura realized she should have been gratified but was instead distracted by more important matters. “I don’t think so, Eseld. But thank her for me.”
Eseld shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Laura was just stepping through the garden gate when Alexander returned, head hung low.
He glanced up, and she got a better look at his face. Seeing his swollen eye and cracked lip, alarm shot through her.
“What happened?”
“I went to Padstow to find a ship. Instead I found François and Tom Parsons.”
“Oh no. Are you all right?”
“I will be.”
“No luck finding passage?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. The sailors I spoke to seemed suspicious of me for some reason.”
“Perhaps because of this.” She handed him the newspaper and waited while he read it.
He looked up at her dully and handed the paper back without a word.
“I think it is time you told me the truth, Alexander. If that is your real name.”
He looked around and lowered his voice. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. As I mentioned, I have learned not to trust others.”
She huffed. “I have given you every reason to trust me, and I can prove it.”
“How?”
She led him away from the house so they would not be overheard by Wenna or Newlyn. “I have had ample opportunity to report what I suspected to the agent or customs officer, but I have said nothing to contradict you.”
His eyes hardened. “And what is it you might have reported were you less trustworthy?”
“I might have told them that I saw the initials T.O. in the collar of your friend’s shirt and smallclothes. I am well read and know what those initials mean and where those clothes came from.”
His jaw tightened. “Do you indeed?”
She nodded. “The Transport O
ffice. This newspaper was not my first indication that you and your friend might be prisoners of war. I am also fairly certain that your name is not Lucas. Am I right, Captain Carnell?”
Breton vessels were [once] a regular feature of Cornish ports, as were the Breton residents in many port towns. A common language and their status as semi-autonomous states linked Brittany and Cornwall.
—HELEN DOE, THE MARITIME HISTORY OF CORNWALL: AN INTRODUCTION
Chapter 14
A tense moment followed Laura’s challenge. Alexander grimaced and looked around. “Where can we talk privately?”
Without a word, she led him to Miss Chegwin’s cottage, knowing the older woman would not mind and that she and Jago had gone to take a meal to the Penberthy family. Laura supposed she should not risk being alone with the man now that she knew he was a French prisoner of war, but logical or not, she was not afraid of him.
They sat together in the quiet sitting room, early-afternoon sunlight and a chilly draft coming in through the small windows. Brea Cottage was damp and cold, but at least they were out of the biting wind.
Looking grim yet resolute, he began, “You are right. My name is Capitaine Alexander Lucas Carnell.”
Laura had guessed as much but still flinched to hear him say the words, the name, with a decidedly French pronunciation . . . She drew a shaky breath and asked, “A captain of . . . ?”
“The French navy.”
Just as LaRoche had intimated. A lump of betrayal lodged in her throat. “But you told us you were from Jersey and had been educated in Cambridge. Were those lies too?”
He shook his head. “I concealed my nationality to avoid recapture, but most of what I told you is true. I spent many happy summers with my grandparents who lived on Jersey. And yes, I was educated in England as well as in France. My mother was a British diplomat’s daughter. That is how she met my father, who is from Cornouaille.”
He pronounced it Corn-uh-way, which sounded a bit like Cornwall.
“In the Breton language, we say Kernev,” he explained. “It is a region of Bretagne, in France. You call it Brittany.”
A Castaway in Cornwall Page 17
