‘There could be a hundred reasons why people haven’t stopped,’ she argued. ‘The army doesn’t encourage people to travel and we are in a little village away from the main roads.’
Finch rounded on her. ‘Don’t be so quick to dismiss intuition. Sometimes it’s the only thing that saves you from harm. Right now, I’m thinking Bastien isn’t going anywhere but to a gendarme. He told us a storm is brewing and that smugglers won’t land, but these dark nights are the ones they prefer as nobody’s out in the foul weather to see them. They can row into shore undetected and get their supplies away before the villagers suspect a thing. That alone made me suspicious.’
‘Suspicious of what?’
‘That Bastien lied. I think there is a crew coming in tonight — and if we want to get to England we need to be on that beach.’
They watched the road for another five minutes, to make sure Bastien had really gone, then gathered up their belongings. Adeline put her pistol underneath her cloak and stuck her knife inside her pocket. Finch did the same but they would have to leave the rest of their bundles behind. They’d look too obvious if they were caught carrying them.
‘What about my saddle bag?’ Eugene looked at the abandoned bundles with misgiving.
‘You must take it,’ she said at once. ‘We need your sketchbook and Skylark’s snuffbox.’
Finch nodded in agreement. ‘And if we meet Madame Dubois we should say Eugene wants to watch the storm. I don’t want her knowing that we hope to find a smuggling crew, in case she spoils our chance.’
He left some money on the bed for their lodging and food then carefully opened the door. They all stood listening for a moment. It was impossible to tell if Madame had gone to bed as the wind howled around the inn, battering the window panes. Eugene slid his hand into hers. His fear echoed hers but they must take this risk. It might be their only chance.
‘Ready?’ Finch said softly, his eyes sweeping over them. At their nod, he murmured, ‘Quietly now.’
They crept down the stairs and finding the sitting room empty, Finch eased back the bolt on the door. She breathed a sigh of relief that became strangled in her throat as a light appeared behind them.
‘What are you doing?’ Madame Dubois said sharply. The candle flickered in front of her face, giving her a ghostly outline.
‘Good evening, Madame,’ Adeline said, trying to calm her breathing. ‘Eugene wants to watch the storm over the water and since it’s dark, no-one will see us.’
Madame Dubois approached, clutching a shawl. ‘But there’s a perfectly good view from your room.’
Adeline thought quickly. ‘He wants to see the waves up close and feel the wind in his hair. We’ve hardly been outside for days and I can’t keep him cooped up any longer.’
Madame Dubois gazed at Eugene with a frown. ‘He needs his bag to do that?’
Heavens. What could she say? ‘Er … he has his blanket inside, in case he gets cold.’
To his credit, Eugene pulled at her skirt and said in a whiny voice, ‘Maman, we’ll miss it. We have to go now.’
‘Shh, darling.’ She stroked his hair. His use of the word Maman had thrilled her.
‘Madame Dubois, it’s only a little way,’ she added. ‘We won’t be long.’
‘And if it’s safe for Bastien to go out then it must be safe for us.’ Finch opened the door and the wind swirled in, kicking up dust on the threshold.
Madame Dubois shot him a disgruntled look but she knew when her arguments had failed. ‘Very well,’ she said pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, ‘but be careful. I will have coffee waiting for you when you come back.’
‘That will be lovely,’ Adeline said gratefully, knowing they would never return, even if Finch was wrong.
She chivvied Eugene out the door, unsure if Madame Dubois had guessed their real intention or not. Finch followed and raised the collar on his coat. The wind howled around them, tangling her hair and snatching her breath away. If smugglers were running tonight, they would be tested to their limits.
They hurried across the road to the wood on the other side. Once they were amongst the trees, Finch touched her gently. ‘You were clever back there. I wouldn’t have thought of a good reason why Eugene might need his saddle bag.’
‘It’s nothing for a very good spy to think of these things,’ she said with a smile.
His answering grin lit a flame within her that coiled its way to her heart.
They pushed through the scrub and came out onto the grass-covered dunes. She hoped Finch’s guess proved to be right. Now she was out here, all she wanted was to get on a boat and leave France behind.
Chapter Nineteen
A dark green and indigo light cast eerie shadows across the sand. Huge gray clouds were buffeted by a storm wind. It blew coldly off the sea, slid inside her coat and set her teeth chattering. The beach looked deserted and her heart sank. Maybe they’d never get back to England. Maybe they’d remain trapped in France until they were found and executed.
‘I don’t see anything,’ she said. Finch crouched next to her, half-hidden by a sand dune and the coastal grasses. Eugene played with the sand, piling it up on his hand only to drop it again.
‘I thought I saw a ship.’ Finch stared intently down the beach. ‘It was only for a brief moment when the clouds parted, so I can’t be sure.’
She squinted towards the blurred horizon. If a ship were out there it was hidden by the swelling waves.
A noise came faintly to her left — a rhythmic slap she knew well. A rowboat! Heading into shore.
Her heartbeat picked up and she looked at Finch whose mouth curved into a wide smile.
‘I should have more faith in your observations,’ she said wryly.
His eyes never left the beach. ‘Wise, very wise.’
A six-oared galley came into view about twenty yards down the beach. The men wore slops, jackets and tarpaulin hats. A big man, obviously the leader, stood in the stern. He balanced his weight with supreme skill and confidence as he directed the crew. The galley beached and the crew jumped out and hauled it up the wet sand. The leader waved at the trees to her left then started unloading barrels.
A horse neighed and with a start she realized a gang of local men had been waiting in the wood for this delivery. It was a good thing they hadn’t run into them.
Voices called out softly and four or five men slipped out of hiding and began to exchange the barrels for sacks of goods.
‘They’re French privateers,’ Finch said under his breath. ‘Probably going to do another run back to England.’
‘What’s a privateer?’ whispered Eugene.
‘They patrol the English coast hoping to pick up isolated ships and capture them for goods. Then they bring the goods back here and sell them.’
Her gaze remained riveted on the leader. He was broad in the chest and wore a squashed bicorn hat he’d obviously pinched from an officer. He had a large beard that covered his neck and meaty hands that gripped the barrels as if they were toys.
‘How are we going to get him to take us?’ she asked.
Finch stroked his beard. ‘I’ll think we’ll have to plead.’
‘Plead? That won’t work.’ The sailors she knew at Fencarrow would only do something if it benefited them and she had no reason to suppose these men were different.
‘We could say Finch is a priest,’ Eugene said, his small voice nearly whipped away by the wind. ‘And we could be his sister and nephew.’
She frowned at him. ‘I don’t think Finch being a priest is going to make any difference. Besides, he doesn’t look the part. His long hair isn’t at all priest-like.’
‘Thanks very much,’ Finch said gruffly, tucking his long hair down inside his collar.
Eugene grew insistent. ‘But the clergy are fleeing to England because Bonaparte is pers … perse —’
‘Persecuting them?’ Finch asked.
‘That’s it,’ Eugene said nodding. ‘Our pastor went five weeks ago. Smuggled out by a r
elative.’
She glanced again at the smugglers on the shore. They’d been very efficient unloading the barrels and there weren’t many left in the boat. If they wanted to speak to the leader they’d have to come to a decision now. ‘Do you think it will work?’ she asked Finch.
His eyes scanned the beach with determination. ‘It has to. Now that Bastien suspects we are spies we cannot delay.’
They edged out from behind the dune and approached the leader side-on. The man didn’t notice them at first but when he did he pulled his pistol and trained it on them.
‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘Go back to the village.’
Finch held up his hands. ‘We need passage to England.’
The man laughed, his voice an echo of the thunder that rolled across the sky.
‘You’re the Captain?’ Finch persisted.
‘Captain Lambert — and I don’t take passengers.’
‘We can pay.’ Finch pulled out his money and jiggled it.
Lambert’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Can you now?’ He looked them over, taking in their worn clothes. ‘Why do want to go to England?’
‘I’m Father Bernard and this is my sister and nephew.’ Finch half-turned and waved at them, although his eyes never left Lambert’s pistol. ‘Bonaparte has persecuted members of my church and there are men after us.’
She loosed a breath. At least that last part was true.
Lambert slowly lowered his gun. Perhaps he figured a man of God wouldn’t be a threat. ‘Father, the Sagiterre heads to Polperro. I don’t know if that helps you but I’ll take you. I’ve seen too many clergymen murdered, my brother amongst them.’
‘I will pray for him,’ Finch said. ‘Too many good men have died.’ A bitter note sounded in his voice and she knew he was thinking of Skylark and Swan. Finch counted out half the coins and handed them over. ‘The other half will be paid when we reach England.’
Lambert put the coins inside his jacket. ‘Fair enough. Now, you’d best get your sister and nephew aboard and sit them at the stern. We don’t stay long.’
‘Thank you,’ Finch said. ‘And if I can help you in any way, you only have to ask.’
‘Captain!’ One of Lambert’s men hurried over.
‘What is it, Masson?’
‘The wind’s changing and I’ve had a signal from the Sagiterre. There’s a ship rounding the bluff.’
‘French?’
‘They can’t tell.’
Lambert stood still for a moment, a man intent on the sea, the sky and the wind. Then he grunted and faced Finch. ‘Father, help Masson get those last few barrels ashore.’ He turned to her. ‘Madam, take your son to the boat. I’ll see that you’re helped aboard.’
She’d only taken a few steps when a shout came from behind her. Turning, her eyes widened in fear. Bastien was riding down the hard-packed beach — and Laroche and his men were following him.
Her thoughts floundered. How had Bastien known — of course, the letter! Laroche must have sent it to all his spies along the coast. Probably asking to be on the look-out for a man with a wife and child. Bastien, the swine, had betrayed them as fast as he could.
Finch yelled at her to get moving and on a gasp she picked up her skirts and ran to the rowboat, Eugene right beside her. A shot rang out and smashed into the boat’s planking. Timber shards spattered in the air and landed in the water. One of Lambert’s men cursed roundly and without a word picked her up and tossed her like a keg into the boat. Eugene followed, his saddle bag nearly landing on top of her.
‘Get down,’ she cried frantically. She pushed Eugene’s head below the rim. ‘And whatever you do, don’t look up.’
She ignored her own advice and stared desperately at Finch and Masson who were heaving the last of the barrels up the wet sand. Her heartbeat spiraled upwards and lodged somewhere in her throat. They’d never make it back to the boat in time.
Lambert, who’d taken in the situation at a glance, raised his pistol and fired at Bastien. The innkeeper’s horse fell from under him and Bastien hit the sand with a thud. But Laroche and his men came on, their horses hardly breaking stride.
‘Push off,’ Lambert roared to his men.
The smugglers worked desperately and pushed the boat out deeper into the waves. Masson and Finch abandoned their barrels for the locals to find and sprinted back to join Lambert as they all scrambled aboard. Tessier sprang from his saddle and fired. The bullet hissed into the water. One of Lambert’s men grabbed a loaded musket from under a seat and fired back. Tessier’s horse reared with a loud neigh and dashed off to the trees where the local men had melted away, too concerned about being recognized to grab the forsaken barrels.
‘You bastards,’ Laroche screamed, his horse skidding to a halt as the smugglers pulled frantically on the oars. ‘I’ll kill you before you can tell.’
Laroche threw himself off his horse and steadied his gun. A second later, Finch cried out and grabbed his arm. Blood coursed down his wrist and dripped onto his knees.
At the sight of the blood a furious roar sprang into her veins and without a moments thought she pulled out her pistol, aimed it at Laroche and pulled the trigger. To her surprise, he collapsed on the sand. Tessier and the other men returned fire and she ducked. Gunshots thumped into the boat and powder swirled in the air, choking her. The smugglers swore and rowed like the devil.
Laroche’s men kept loading and firing but the rowboat moved quickly out of range. Tessier shook his gun at them and the smugglers jeered. Laroche stayed slumped on the sand. He was probably dead but she couldn’t find a single feeling of remorse. The brute had deserved it.
She dropped the pistol and leaned forward to check on Finch.
‘Good shot,’ he murmured in a daze. ‘See, the training was worth it.’
‘How can you joke at a time like this?’ she snapped. ‘You’ve been hurt for goodness sake.’
‘I’ll survive.’
The sleeve at his elbow turned red. With a cry she pulled out her knife and hacked off a bit of her petticoat. Gently she tied the strip of cloth around his arm.
‘Fine job,’ he said groggily.
Her stomach swirled with nerves but she needed to know. ‘What did Laroche mean, about us telling?’
Finch winced as he fought to stay out of the way of the rower’s oars. ‘I expect he thinks … we’ll give the authorities … information we’ve collected.’
‘But we don’t have anything.’
‘No.’
The defeat in his voice pained her. After that he was silent and she had nothing to do except watch the coast of France disappear. No Skylark, no valuable information, and Finch shot in the arm. A complete disaster that was all her fault.
‘It’s not every day I see a priest’s sister use a gun so well,’ Lambert called out.
She gave him a weak smile. ‘My brother thought it best I learn.’
‘Good idea and, Father — God must be watching over you. They were the militia. Notorious along this coast. If they’d caught us, we would have hung.’
Finch blinked, his face pale and grim. ‘I don’t doubt you. The innkeeper must have ridden … like a storm wind … to notify them of our whereabouts.’
Lambert grimaced. ‘Devil, take it. It’s getting so a man can’t do a little trading.’
A smile stole fleetingly over Finch’s face. ‘Thank the Lord you do ….’ His voice slurred on the last word and then his head dropped forward.
Lambert flicked him an anxious glance then looked towards the Sagiterre. ‘Faster men. We’ve got a man of the cloth here I don’t want to lose.’
A skeleton crew, left aboard the brig, had seen the action and were ready to get underway as soon as the smugglers were safely aboard. The crew pulled anchor and the Sagiterre’s sails caught the wind and headed away from Oye-Plage, lurching with the swell.
Her stomach dived each time the ship did but she couldn’t give in to the nausea. They were in Masson’s cabin and Finch, cut out of his jacket and dosed w
ith a hefty slug of brandy, lay dead to the world on a single bunk attached to one wall. On the opposite side were two bunks, one above the other and in the corner a small cupboard, table and chair. A lamp hung from the rafters and dipped with each sway of the ship, throwing intermittent shadows over Finch — and the crewman holding a knife.
‘Have to get the bullet out, Madame.’
Her stomach bubbled at the size of the blade. It would hack into Finch’s skin without thought for sinew and muscle beneath. What was needed in this bullet-removing business was a fine hand. A woman’s touch.
‘I think this smaller knife might do a better job,’ she said, pulling out her own from inside her pocket. The man leaned forward to take it but she whipped it out of his reach. ‘I’ll do it. I’m used to taking bullets out.’
The lie didn’t sit well with her but she wasn’t about to see this man fillet Finch’s arm like a fish.
‘Please yerself,’ he sneered, ‘but ye’ll ruin it, sure as eggs.’
‘I’m not going to ruin it,’ she muttered.
She prayed that was true and willed her hand to stop shaking. ‘Eugene, will you get a wet cloth and wipe Charles’s arm please?’
Eugene dipped another hacked piece of her petticoat into a jug of water and carefully wiped the blood away, his little face pinched with worry. ‘Will he die?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ She glanced at the wobble of his mouth. ‘Do you doubt me?’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You love him.’
Her heart slammed into the side of her chest. Even Eugene had seen the truth of it but Finch didn’t know and she couldn’t let him know. Not when she might need to leave him. ‘I do,’ she said with a nod. ‘Just like I love you.’
A smile lit his face fleetingly.
She reined in the ache in her throat and gazed down at the wound. The ragged edges were pink and underneath the skin the bullet bulged like a slug. It wasn’t deep, and moving to sit more comfortably, she shook out her hands, cleaned the knife with a measure of rum and began. Probing and cutting, she made a neat little slit. Then she slid the knife point in, little by little. It hit metal and using quick nicks, she cut the bullet out, being careful to do as little damage as possible.
An Unwilling Spy Page 21
