Without Refuge

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “We’re from the garrison. That name is not familiar to me.” He leaned over the back of his chair. “My name is Pierre Vachel, and these fellows are—”

  “We don’t need to exchange names,” the largest man groused, thumping the table. “Where we’re from is no one’s business. Time we got back, anyway.”

  “Oh, what’s your hurry? It’s not like we have a war to contend with.” A freckle-faced soldier sniggered, and they all laughed.

  Bettina gave an insipid giggle and tried to remember how to appear alluring, but her muscles ached and her skin itched. For the first time, she pitied prostitutes. “Have you not been to fight yet? Four such able men as yourselves.”

  “Soon, I’m hoping. I wanted to go with General Bonaparte to Egypt.” Pierre stretched taller in his chair. “When he returns, I’m applying for a transfer out of here.”

  “You won’t get much fighting experience working as a guard in this forgotten fort.” Freckle-face slurped down his wine.

  “Do you know General Bonaparte?” Bettina asked Pierre as she wriggled her sore toes in her shoes. He shook his head. “I used to know Julie Clary who is married to the general’s brother, Joseph.” She hadn’t thought of Julie in years. Her mother had relayed this information in Louisiana.

  “Bonaparte’s conquests in the desert aren’t as grand as some would have us believe.” The large man shifted in his chair. He narrowed his eyes at her. “How would you know such people? Fallen on hard times, have you?”

  “Silvestre, don’t be so callous,” Pierre said.

  “Many have fallen on hard times.” Bettina twisted a strand of her dirty hair. “I haven’t seen Julie since we were quite young, before she married Joseph Bonaparte.” She’d hoped this information would make her sound more intriguing. She finished the bread, dry but filling.

  Silvestre continued to scrutinize her. “Is that so? Not so long ago no one dared boast of knowing anyone of importance who might have favored the Royalists. Wasn’t that the rumor of Bonaparte’s father-in-law?”

  “I know nothing of that.” Bettina prickled under his stare. She lifted her coffee cup. “Shall we toast the republic, Citoyens?” She remained uncomfortable with this form of address popularized since the revolution.

  The men lifted their glasses and nodded.

  “So you guard the English prisoners of war, just like my brother.” She smiled at Silvestre, though his glare never wavered. “That must be very exciting.”

  “Not particularly,” Silvestre replied with a grunt. “I’m not familiar with that name either. Soldiers come and go in their transfers.” He stood and tossed coins on the table. “Let’s return, mes amis.”

  “I guess we should be heading out now.” Pierre stood and put on his cocked hat, which made him look slightly older. “By the way, what is your name?”

  “Oh, it is…Marie.” An alias seemed prudent. Bettina’s smile had a warmer effect on this young man. His appreciative gaze confirmed it. “What if I came down to the fort, might I be able to inquire if my brother is there?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Pierre touched the tricolor cockade on his hat and bowed. “Bonjour to you then, Marie.”

  “I hope to see you again, Pierre.” Bettina winked, but her mind formed an idea.

  “Let’s get on with it, no more of this dallying,” Silvestre grumbled. “We must return to our place of pestilence.” The other two scraped their chairs on the floor and all four strutted out.

  Bettina shivered and rubbed her face. She gulped down her coffee, then asked the waiter for directions to the garrison.

  * * * *

  When the rain dissipated, and giving the soldiers time to reach their destination, Bettina walked toward the bay. She passed under massive brick vaults on stone pillars and exited through a high gate, its cracked stone walls overgrown with ivy. These thick turreted ramparts with gun slits surrounded the old town, once a great fortress in itself.

  Used to long walks after her life in Cornwall, she only worried that her scuffed shoes were so thin in the soles that she winced at every sharp pebble.

  She hurried down a set of decaying steps and strolled along the shore where marshy silt clogged what was left of the harbor. Salt pans dotted the area, salt mixed in with the sand. The marshland stretched out like a bristly yellow carpet on all sides before her.

  She trudged a quarter mile to the north, staring at the gray Atlantic waters that separated her from England. This republican France was no longer her home, but an alien land fraught with danger. Here, she risked arrest and might never return to her precious children.

  Watching the turbulent sea, she thought again of her Aunt Melisande. Her father’s sister had married far beneath her, so she might still reside in the fishing village south of Brest. If all this failed, she would have to seek her out.

  Bettina paused, her footsteps leaving prints in the packed sand. The briny wind whipped at her hair and gown. Gulls called above. Their screeches dug deep inside her.

  Her shoulders slumped and a sharp misery engulfed her. Fresh grief over losing Everett, not something that had happened five years ago. With her eyes closed, she imagined she was in Cornwall—before he went away. The manor loomed behind her and he waited there. The sand seemed to shift beneath her and she stumbled.

  The slave woman’s words in Congo Square drifted back to her. “Your man, he waits for you. On familiar soil.” She clenched her fingers and shouldn’t let herself believe in prophesies.

  Facing the fort’s walls, she sniffed into her sleeve then dried her tears. The watch had come from here. She had to risk this possible heartache.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Behind an embankment, up from the beach, Bettina surveyed a stone wall. This barrier, tucked back near the limestone cliffs’ jagged terrain, towered over her. She swallowed hard, patted down her dress and strode toward the gate.

  A young sentry stood stiff with authority as she approached. “State your business at once,” he recited, as if he was important yet bored by this duty.

  “I would like to speak with one of your soldiers, a young man named Pierre…Vachel. He’s my brother.” She cringed, almost forgetting his last name. She needed to use her new acquaintance as her “brother” to at least gain access. “It’s a very urgent family matter.” Bettina smoothed her hair and flashed a smile. The sentry refused to drop his chin, acting immune to her charms, and she hardly blamed him. “Please, it’s imperative I see him, sur l’heure.”

  “I’ll bring the Major, wait here.” The guard backed up and shut the thick, weather-beaten door in her face.

  Bettina took several slow breaths. She racked her brain for how to explain.

  The gate creaked open many minutes later. An older man stepped out with the guard and glared at her, eyes pouched. His uniform was wrinkled, the epaulets a dull gold with silver fringe. His bicorne hat sporting a wilted cockade sat lopsided on his head.

  “What can we do for you, Citoyenne?” he asked, his tone weary.

  Bettina quivered and squared her shoulders. “You have a soldier here, Pierre Vachel. He’s my brother and it is vital I speak with him on urgent family business.”

  “Vachel, Vachel, one of the newer men?” the Major grumbled and turned to the guard.

  “Private Pierre Vachel. I know him, sir,” the guard said, much to her relief. “He just came back from—”

  “Then find him, soldier. I have other problems to deal with today with this ague. We’re short-handed, and I don’t feel well myself.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped it across his forehead. “No, don’t fetch him yourself, get another... Sergeant Beauclare, roust out a Private Pierre Vachel and be quick about it!” After the Major’s order through the open gate, Bettina heard footsteps rushing off.

  She waited, her muscles tense along her neck and shoulders.

/>   Pierre was brought out. His pale-lashed eyes opened wide.

  Bettina hurried and embraced him. She whispered in his ear, “Please don’t give me away. I’ve told them you’re my brother. I need your help. I must come inside.”

  Pierre kissed her cheek, his gaze darting. “Sister...dear sister, come inside the compound. If it’s permissible, Major?” With the officer’s distracted approval, Pierre led her through the gate.

  Out of earshot from the others, he stared at her, puzzled. “Why this farce…Marie, was it? Didn’t you say you had a brother who might be here? You’re fortunate I do have a sister, so didn’t act completely confused. Why did you ask for me? Are you that anxious to see me?”

  “I am so thankful for your kindness.” Bettina pressed his hand. She stared around the compound. A few soldiers milled about, watching her. Men hauled water in buckets. An inner wall thrust up on the east side where several men guarded a massive iron gate. “I need access to a list of your prisoners.”

  “Why would you…it’s out of the question.” He rearranged his hat on his blond head.

  “I’m sorry to be such a bother, but please hear me out.” She leaned close, gripped his sleeve and explained about the watch. “My husband may be a prisoner here. Don’t I have a right to know where he is? You must maintain a roster.”

  “That’s official army business.” He stepped back, brows raised. “Why would your husband be among these cutthroats and spies?”

  “He’s an innocent man from a British merchant ship.” She stroked trembling fingers along the soldier’s tunic. “Please, Pierre, you must help me.”

  “Don’t you realize how dangerous this is?” Pierre’s gaze sharpened. “You could be arrested yourself, married to an Englishman.”

  “I’m counting on your discretion, brother. I realize he may no longer be…” Her throat thickened and she squeezed Pierre’s wrist. “I’m desperately begging for your assistance.”

  “I don’t really know you.” The young man looked around as if someone might rescue him from her clutches. “Do you want me to get in trouble with my superiors?”

  “There must be someone in authority I can speak to. Perhaps the major?” She struggled to keep her voice even. “Please. I won’t leave until I’ve received this information.”

  Pierre’s shoulders drooped along with his mouth. “The best I can do is take you to Major Fontaine’s quarters. His son, Lieutenant Fontaine, manages the roster and other transactions.”

  Bettina almost sagged with relief. Yet if Everett’s name wasn’t there…she dashed that thought aside. “Merci, I appreciate your efforts. Please introduce me to Lieutenant Fontaine.” She clasped his arm, and they started walking.

  “Then I must get back to my post. We’re very short-handed. The major grumbled at allowing us out to celebrate.” Pierre shook his head and sighed. “Lieutenant Fontaine has been ill, confined to quarters, but maybe he’s up today. I could be put on report for this.”

  “I am sorry, but I have to know.” Bettina tightened her grip on Pierre’s arm as if he might run away. If this failed, she’d beg pen and paper and write to Julie Bonaparte for advice, then travel to her aunt’s. Perhaps one of them could help her send a letter to Louisiana, to her family.

  * * * *

  Pierre showed her to the officers’ quarters, a square, nondescript building in the left corner of the compound. Down a dim passage, the woman who answered their knock looked them up and down.

  “Yes?” Tall, though stoop-backed, her hesitant smile displayed protruding teeth over a weak chin. “To what do I owe this visit, young woman? Soldier?”

  “Citoyenne Fontaine, this...cousin of mine, Marie, is seeking...the roster of incarcerated men that the Lieutenant controls.” Pierre cleared his throat, twice. “If he is able to see anyone?”

  Bettina quivered with impatience at his meek tone and he’d demoted her to cousin.

  “He’s not receiving anyone as yet. Still very ill. Won’t you come in?” The woman ushered them into her cramped parlor that smelled of linseed oil. A cat jumped off a threadbare sofa and meowed. “Why would you need this information?”

  “My reasons are very personal, Madame. May I talk with your son?” Bettina strode farther in, now anxious to shed her reluctant escort.

  “That’s not possible. You may talk with his clerk, if you will tell me your intentions, Marie.” The woman adjusted the lace on her sleeve, then looked at Pierre. “Young man, you should return to your duties. With this illness going around, we need every man we have.”

  “As you wish, Citoyenne.” Pierre bowed his head, glanced at Bettina then withdrew.

  “Thank you,” Bettina called after him, then she shut the door. “You see, Madame, it’s possible that my husband may be falsely imprisoned here.” She told the woman about Everett and her discovering his pocket watch on the transferring soldier. Tears gathered in her eyes.

  “Oh, my dear, it seems a slight possibility he’s still here. We can’t just give out this information to anyone who comes in off the street.” The woman ran her long front teeth over her bottom lip and held up one bony finger. “I have been an army officer’s wife for many years, and we must follow the regulations.”

  “I understand, but my husband is not part of the war. If…if he is here, he should be released.” Bettina sniffed and stepped closer to the woman, encouraged by her gentle demeanor. “Please, Madame, you may look up his name, I won’t even touch the list.”

  Madame Fontaine sighed and tugged at her white cap. “You do seem in earnest. We’ll go into the office. I don’t really know what we can do about the situation. There must be proof, a trial perhaps.”

  The woman escorted Bettina back outside and through a door at the end of the corridor. A large oak desk occupied a tiny room disarrayed with documents and boxes. She opened a drawer and shuffled through papers. “What is the name?”

  Bettina trembled, her mouth dry. She strained to stir up saliva. “Everett Camborne.”

  Madame Fontaine’s gaze traveled down the long paper she now held. “Let’s see…no, wrong end of the alphabet.”

  Bettina held her breath, leaning forward. Her breakfast churned in her stomach.

  The woman picked up another sheet. “This could be…the A’s to the F’s.” She squinted. “It’s hard to read the clerk’s writing. Where is that boy anyway?”

  Bettina gripped her hands behind her back to keep from snatching the roster.

  “Ah…this looks like an E. Camborne.” Madame Fontaine’s stare met hers with a flicker of sympathy.

  “Mon Dieu.” Bettina’s knees wobbled. She grabbed the desk edge. “Yes? May I-I see this man?” Her voice came out a squeak.

  “For that, I’m afraid you will have to obtain the Major’s permission.” Madame Fontaine wriggled her lips over her bucked teeth.

  “Can you speak to him, please, Madame?” Bettina’s fingers dug into the desk surface. Could she dare hope that Everett waited so close?

  Madame Fontaine lowered the paper to the desk.“He’s a very busy man. I can’t possibly disturb him now.”

  “Please, I beg of you.” Bettina sank into the nearest chair before her knees buckled.

  “You look pale as death.” The woman shoved the paper back in the drawer, her gaze concerned. “I will go and find the clerk to see what can be done.”

  Madame Fontaine bustled out. Bettina stared at the wall where a line of keys hung. A clock ticked by endless minutes. She rose and inspected the keys. They were labeled with letters. She turned, pulled open the drawer and snatched up the paper. Trailing down, her finger shook. Yes, an E. Camborne, and a letter A scribbled beside the name.

  Everett, imprisoned here, alive. She unhooked the key labeled A, cool against her skin, and slipped it in her pocket. She could hardly breathe, unsure of what she intended to
do, but she couldn’t risk a trial.

  Madame Fontaine returned with a pock-faced young man. “Marcel will show you to the cell. A, I believe. You may see if it is your husband.” She raised her finger again. “Do not linger in there. Return here and we’ll wait for the Major.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Madame.” Bettina clasped the older woman’s hand.

  Her pulse thudded in her ears as she followed Marcel out to the courtyard and to the massive door. The sun had started to set, throwing great shadows over the compound. The clerk spoke to one of the guards. The man opened the door with a mighty creak.

  Bettina stepped into a damp stone corridor. The stink of urine and sweaty men assailed her nostrils. The guard and Marcel followed.

  Bars loomed up on the right side. Several men inside the cell grumbled. “Hey, these Froggies have brought us a woman,” one prisoner said in English. Two others lunged up to the bars.

  Bettina cringed, staring at the scruffy, emaciated men in filthy rags, with haunted or angry eyes. Could Everett be among these animals?

  “Aye? Give us a smoochie, sweetie.” One man poked his fat lips and yellow teeth between the bars. More voices muttered in English.

  “Parbleu, get back!” The guard banged on the metal with a long stick. The clang echoed through Bettina’s head. “Marcel, who are we looking for?”

  “Everett Camborne,” she said before the clerk responded. She searched the gaunt faces.

  “Ahvereet Cahmborne, step forward,” the guard demanded.

  The stench made her queasy but she pressed to the bars. “Is Everett Camborne here?” she asked in her best English.

  The prisoners laughed and winked at her. One made an obscene gesture. The guard banged the bars again. “Hurry up, or we’re leaving.”

  Bettina wanted to scream. She gripped the cold metal. He had to be here. “Everett Camborne?”

  A tall man leaning against the back wall stirred, then ambled forward a few steps. “Who is it?” he croaked.