Without Refuge
By
Diane Scott Lewis
Eternal Press
A division of Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998
www.eternalpress.biz
Without Refuge
by Diane Scott Lewis
Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-636-3
Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-637-0
Cover art by: Amanda Kelsey
Edited by: Pam Slade
Copyright 2012 Diane Scott Lewis
Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
1st North American, Australian and UK Print Rights
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To Alleyne Dickens who helped make this story shine.
I’d like to thank fellow authors Alleyne Dickens and Ginger Simpson for their invaluable critique of this work.
Chapter One
Bettina swiped aside salty hair tendrils and stared over the ship’s rail at the sea so long empty. A knob of land jutted up through the morning mist gathered over the choppy gray sea they sailed through. A bird squawked overhead and her spirits lifted. Firm earth awaited on the horizon.
Genevre wriggled in her arms. Bettina grinned at her daughter and squeezed her close. “Have we made the right decision, ma petite? Will we like this America? Will we find what we need?” The baby poked her finger onto Bettina’s lips. She kissed her sweet skin.
The June air blew warm and rustled her straw hat. The voyage had taken two endless months—so distant from Cornwall. Storms had tossed their vessel like a discarded leaf.
Sailors shouted from the rigging, their cursing and noise a common background to her now. The man in the green coat glared at her from near the mainmast. He’d also boarded in Plymouth, and Bettina’s flesh prickled each time he came close, his scrutiny unnerving. Had he followed her from England?
Frederick jostled up beside her with Christian in tow.
“That’s Long Island Sound.” Frederick pointed to a land mass as he leaned on the rail. “We’ll be traveling up the East River to the New York Harbor...according to the mate I spoke to.” His blondish-brown curls waved in the wind. Everett’s nephew had grown tall for fourteen and his sun-browned cheeks suited him.
“I’m relieved to know there is land at this end of the world.” Oleba walked up and took Genevre. The maid brushed the one-year-old’s silky blonde hair from her plump cheeks, her voice light and teasing. “For awhile I had serious doubts, but we’ve made it.”
Bettina glanced again at the scowling stranger and then, forced a smile at the Negro woman—as if he didn’t matter. “I could never have managed this journey without you.”
“Maman, Papa’s in America?” Christian stared up with large brown eyes so like her own.
Bettina’s breath hitched. She reached out and clasped her son’s hand. “No, no, I told you, we are here to find your grand-mère.” At almost four, the boy stood tall and lean like her lover. Everett. She clenched her other hand on the rail until her knuckles blanched white.
A turbulence of seagulls swept over them, their calls sharp and mournful. The city of New York and a busy harbor loomed closer.
“All women passengers with children return below until we dock,” an officer barked.
Bettina balanced on the heaving planks and guided her son down the steep ladder to their cabin. The smell of mildew wrinkled her nose. “I am so relieved this voyage is over.” The added danger of the harassing French warships as they sailed away from England made for a jarring trip. The war had snatched so much from her, and it still raged on. The rebels couldn’t have sent Greencoat after her. She’d told them everything she knew.
“No more seasickness, little one.” Oleba tickled Genevre under the arm and raised a smile. The rough crossing and stink of bilge water had sent them all scurrying to vomit their stomach contents into buckets.
“And enough of that salted beef and oatmeal porridge.” Frederick pretended to gag until Christian laughed. “I’d like to eat some good roast beef.”
“Let us hope the Americans will welcome us.” Bettina pulled out a small mirror and checked her hair. Her black tresses were crisp with the salt she’d never washed out since a week away from Plymouth. Adjusting her hat, she tightened the blue ribbon beneath her chin. She straightened her children’s rumpled clothes, noting they too crackled with more salt, and waited.
An hour passed, the wooden hulk settled. When word was given, they gathered their few belongings and left the cabin to go above, shuffling in a line of people to disembark.
The docks swarmed with porters and carts. Numerous ships were being loaded and unloaded amidst a confused jumble of wooden sheds and crowded wharves that projected in every direction. The moist air held the smell of smoke and fish.
“It is warmer here than in England. The air is so heavy.” Sweat dappled her brow as Bettina led her brood down the gangplank. “Stay together everyone.”
A man checked the passengers’ passports. When he hesitated on Bettina’s, she swallowed hard. Her passport was fake, forged in Cornwall for her, a stowaway into their country.
He waved her on and she clutched the document to her chest and sighed.
“Frederick, help me look for our trunks.” She kept a tight hand on Christian while Genevre squirmed and complained in Oleba’s arms. Greencoat seemed to have disappeared into the crowd. Perhaps she’d been mistaken about his interest.
Impatient merchants and travelers jostled them. Sailors yelled orders and bells clanged. Baggage and cargo were dropped in a pile on the quay. The activity reminded Bettina of London, the Thames waterfront near the Camborne shipping office. She stiffened and forced her mind to her mission in America, locating her mother.
“At last on land that doesn’t move,” Oleba said, rocking Genevre.
Bettina felt she still swayed as she looked around the area where rough wooden houses fronted a road littered with garbage. A few stone and brick buildings and church spires were visible beyond that.
Frederick jumped aside as a hogshead almost smashed his toes. “Maddie wouldn’t care for anyone’s manners around here.”
A man in an apron rolled a hogshead smelling of molasses past them. More hogsheads were stacked on the pier, their surfaces marked for “molasses” or “rum.”
Bettina shook off the sadness, recalling the two women who became like family. Maddie and her sister Kerra, dear friends they’d left behind in Cornwall. She must put the past behind her. Standing on this foreign shore, she prayed she hadn’t made a huge mistake in leaving England.
Frantic moments were spent locating their belongings. Then Bettina, after a few rude brush-offs, was directed to the harbormaster. She bustled up to him, shoulders squared to hide her anxiety. She swore she’d glimpsed a flash of green off to her left. “Monsieur, how do we travel to New Orleans in Louisiana, please?”
“Have to catch another ship, Ma’am, and hope the Spanish don’t close the port like they been threatening to do lately.” The ruddy-faced man rais
ed a brow at her and spit on the planks.
Bettina lifted her skirt and side-stepped the splatter of tobacco juice. She raised an annoyed gaze to him. “Is it not possible to take a coach? Is it far from here?” She asked, dreading another hectic sea voyage.
“Pretty far, yes, Ma’am. The roads between here and the south aren’t good. Don’t even know if there is a road all the way through. Where’s your husband? Women oughtn’t to be traveling such distances alone, it’s dangerous.”
“She’s not alone, I’m with her.” Frederick stepped up, head held high. He’d insisted on joining her on this journey and she was glad to have him, though he was still a child.
Bettina fingered her unblessed ring. “Will you find us another ship, please, monsieur?”
“I’ll check on it for you.” The man glared over at Oleba. “I hope you aren’t harboring a runaway slave.”
“I’m a freed slave, sir. I have my papers.” Oleba’s mellow voice belied her defiantly raised chin. Her slender form stood as straight as a willow switch.
Bettina put a hand on her arm. She hadn’t imagined this particular problem bringing Oleba back home to America. “She was born of slaves, but she traveled to England with her owner and he has freed her. She works as nanny to my children now.”
The man tipped his hat and walked off.
“Mon Dieu. We women manage on our own, do we not?” Bettina bristled. She’d heard similar warnings about lone women on the voyage from Plymouth and had suffered enough. Though men such as Greencoat made her wish for an adult male in their entourage. No decent woman travels alone, she recalled from her first few weeks in England, fleeing the revolution in France, before she’d ridden to Cornwall, before she’d met Everett Camborne.
* * * *
Bettina stared around the cramped, canvas-draped, makeshift cabin, the only accommodation left on the two-masted brigantine. Not even a porthole to spy out after they boarded to see if anyone followed. On this second day out, she regretted forcing her children to endure such hardships. Cornwall, however, held too many sorrows for her.
Genevre whined on the crude pallet where Oleba cuddled her and started to tell a story.
Bettina pushed out the door flap, anxious for fresh air. Frederick and Christian stood in the far corner on the gloomy orlop deck, watching a sailor whittle a ship.
“I will be on the topside,” she told the boys before she climbed the ladder. She stepped out on deck. The wind soothed her cheeks and swept away the stink of body odor. Yet she worried over leaving her family unprotected below. She’d only stay a short while.
At the heaving rail, Bettina studied the land as they skirted the coastline going south. America was a drier looking country with widely separated wooden towns. Not like the cool, lush greenness of England, with her quaint stone cottages and ancient cathedrals. This was a primeval land—wilder and bolder. She leaned over the rail, watching the choppy waves slap the ship’s hull. Overhead, the flapping sails rippled against the wind. She took a deep breath, the air refreshing in her lungs.
A barefoot sailor jumped down from the rigging, doffed his hat to her and muttered something she didn’t catch. Her pulse trembled. She had to stop behaving so skittish. Though almost being murdered would make anyone tense.
A short, stocky woman joined her at the rail.
“Ignore him.” The woman gave the sailor a dismissive wave. “They don’t need much encouragement, but wouldn’t dare harass a paying passenger.” She turned to Bettina. “Are you sailing to New Orleans or Charleston?” She had an odd twang to her speech, with an underlying trace of French.
“I’m travelling to New Orleans.”
“That’s where I’m bound to...finally. My name is Charlotte Beaumont.”
Bettina’s new acquaintance didn’t look much older than her twenty-four years. “I am Bettina Camborne.” She had to perpetuate the lie, using Everett’s last name, though they hadn’t married due to his “missing” wife.
“Do you live in New Orleans?” Charlotte pushed back her auburn hair that framed a wide face, her pug nose sprinkled with freckles. She turned and propped her back against the rail. “No, you look recently off the boat from Europe.”
“Yes, it is my first time.” Bettina smoothed down her traveling dress, pondering what in her aspect betrayed her as a foreigner. Yet the woman’s tone wasn’t spiteful. “My mother, she lives there.” At least she hoped Madame Jonquiere still resided in New Orleans. Her cousin had told her in Portsmouth, her mother had escaped from France and traveled with other émigrés to Louisiana.
“I live across the river from New Orleans. In Mahieu. It’s much smaller but nicer. My great-grandfather founded it back when Louisiana belonged to France.” Charlotte uttered the last with a wistful air. “By the accent, you’re French, aren’t you? We are still predominantly French in Louisiana. The Spanish keep a few solders there, a few officials...but they’re extremely resented.”
Bettina widened her eyes. She’d read some of the history of this strange colony she traveled to. “Do these officials treat the French kindly?”
“They have no choice since we outnumber them.”
A cabin boy ran by chasing a goat. He yelled for the creature to stop.
“Louis XV gave the territory to Spain, over thirty years ago, did he not?” Bettina steadied herself on the moving deck. A fishing boat bobbed past on the undulating water.
“The lazy king abandoned his people, because France could no longer afford us, or protect us from England, whom they were at war with.” Charlotte poked her elbows behind her on the rail, her mouth in a grimace. “And are again, if you can believe it.”
“If there is still so much hostility, I may not want to settle there.” Bettina lamented once more her insistence on undertaking this voyage.
“No, we need to stay strong and resist the Spanish. My grandparents told me all the stories. One of my ancestors fought the transfer to Spain in the name of the French colonists, and was executed for it. My family has been in Louisiana for over seventy-five years.” Her smile broadened her cheeks. “How long has your mother lived there?”
“A very brief time. I have been in England these last few years.” Bettina noticed two sailors whispered near the mainmast, casting looks in their direction. Her skin prickled.
“Spain is tired of our little colony,” Charlotte continued. “They even offered us back to France last year, but the directors in Paris said the price was too high.”
“The directors are too busy with anarchy in their own country…my country.” Bettina sighed. She had no country. An exile from France, she wasn’t an English citizen either.
Charlotte turned to face seaward and gave a slight nod toward the men. “Our friends there are contemplating why two luscious belles such as you and I are traveling with no male escorts.”
Bettina stifled a grin. She watched other passengers mill about, but not one with the menacing countenance of Greencoat. She tried to relax her hunched shoulders. “Are you traveling all alone?”
“I didn’t start out that way.” Charlotte studied her. “You’ve lived in England you said. Do you side with the British or French in this current conflict?”
“I do not side with anyone. I loathe wars.” Bettina flushed hot inside. She’d grown up nurtured on French soil, a countess in a land where titles were now outlawed. Her loyalties remained torn. France had attacked and sunk her lover’s merchant ship—Everett was presumed drowned—she should side with England. She stiffened her stomach muscles. “Why are you unaccompanied?”
“My aunt fell ill on our New York visit, so my cousin stayed to take care of her. I was anxious to get home to my husband and children. I see you have three children with you, but the older boy couldn’t be yours? Where is your husband?” Charlotte’s manner was so easy, her inquisitiveness didn’t seem threatening. Still, a
woman could be a revolutionary the same as a man.
“I am a widow.” Bettina hated to use the word. It fostered a bitter taste, tinged with the lie. Though masquerading as a widow kept her more respectable on her journey. “The older boy, he is my husband’s nephew, he lives with me now.”
“You’re so young to be a widow, my sympathies.” Her eyes were kind.
Bettina turned away for a moment. She clung to the hope that Everett wasn’t really gone. After a slow breath, she fixed a smile on her face. “You say you have a husband and children, Madame Beaumont?”
“Charlotte, please. Yes, three children, two girls and a boy. My husband works for the Commissary of Police, or as the Spanish have to call it, the Alcalde de Barrio, and I own a pastry shop.”
“A policeman husband? And a pastry shop, oui? I too plan to run a business. In New Orleans, perhaps, after I find my mother.” Bettina surveyed more people around them. No one acted interested in her. “I have not seen her for a few years.” Six years to be exact.
“Oh, as long as that, a pity. What’s your mother’s name?”
“Her name…is Madame Laurant.” Bettina used the alias she herself hid behind in England. Charlotte had approached her and asked a lot of questions. Bettina must remain circumspect, though using the Camborne name could direct someone undesirable toward her.
“Unfamiliar, but I don’t keep up with many people in New Orleans. If I can ever do anything for you while you’re there, please come to visit.” Charlotte then chatted about her family and the area. “Of course, the Spanish are causing problems again, according to my husband’s last letter. There is a treaty giving the Americans the right to use the port, yet I hope we can get into the harbor.”
“I do not know if you are worse off controlled by Spain. The French rebels are evil people, destroying the old regime and now each other.” Bettina’s words snapped out, but Charlotte’s expression showed only compassion.
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