by Nicola Pryce
The cat was sprawling across the bench, her long black limbs stretching across the blue cushion. She was pretending to sleep but was watching me, too indolent and hot to move. I entered the washroom and poured water into the washbasin. The water was tepid and far from refreshing, the temperature in the cabin warmer than on deck. I would be better going back above. Suddenly the cat leapt from the bench. A shadow crossed the skylight and the cabin plunged into darkness. I edged forward, looking up at the hatch. Jacques’ red shirt was writhing against the glass above.
I grabbed my cloak, pulling it round me and ran to the desk. The pistol was much heavier than I expected, the ivory handle smooth and strangely cool. I was surprised by how calm I felt, how steady my hands were, as if waiting for danger was more frightening than having to face it. Nathanial had been biding his time. I should have known that my coming below would give him his chance. I put my foot softly on the bottom step, slowly inching my way up the stairs. The two men were equally matched in size: both stocky and powerfully built, both holding knives. Jacques was on his feet again, Nathaniel wiping blood from his nose. They were facing each other, their chests rising and falling. Nathaniel’s hatred was no longer hidden but blazed across his face. Sweat streaked down their foreheads. Their shoulders were hunched, their arms outstretched, their knives held high in front of them. I took a deep breath, keeping my hands steady, watching the fight from the shadows. Jacques had his back to me, his hunched figure stepping from foot to foot, dodging, ready to spring. Neither had seen me.
Nathaniel’s knife flashed in a silver arc. ‘Take that, you French bastard.’
Jacques dodged sideways, backing towards me. Nathaniel seemed the heavier man, Jacques the quicker. As his heel struck the mast, he leapt sideways, running quickly down the narrowing deck, turning, ready to spring once again.
‘Damn the whole bloody lot of you,’ shouted Nathaniel, swinging to face him. His back was turned to me. Nothing lay between him and my pistol and I knew it was my chance.
‘That’s enough. Throw down your knife or I’ll use this.’ My voice was firm, authoritative, strangely like Mama’s. I stepped onto the deck, pointing the pistol at Nathaniel’s chest.
He swung round, glaring at me. ‘I should’ve bloody known.’
‘Yes, you should’ve bloody known,’ I snapped. ‘Drop your knife – now!’ I had never sworn before but somehow it seemed right, more threatening, as if I was used to doing this all the time. ‘Jacques, get a rope and tie this man up.’ He, too, was staring at me, too surprised to move. ‘Jacques, get a bloody rope.’ It felt good to be swearing. Somehow it relieved my tension, gave me the courage I so desperately needed. ‘Now step away from that knife. This pistol has a habit of going off when I’m angry.’
I sounded like my mother, but was using Father’s words. Between the two of them, I had enough to go on. It seemed to be working. I saw the fear, even respect, in both men’s eyes and it spurred me on. ‘Put him in the hold, Captain Lefèvre will deal with him when he gets back.’
Jacques grabbed a coil of rope. Nathaniel was muttering, swearing under his breath, blood dripping from his broken nose. For a moment, I thought he would call my bluff, start fighting again. He stood, glowering, waiting to spring, spitting blood onto the deck at Jacques’ feet. Jacques was cursing as he uncoiled the rope, but Nathaniel was too quick. He leapt to the deck, throwing himself headlong towards the gunwale, vaulting over the side before Jacques could reach him. I heard the splash and ran to look. He was thrashing in the water, making headway. If he was not exactly swimming, he was not drowning.
Jacques came to my side, his chest heaving. ‘I’m sorry, that thieving bastard took me by surprise – must’ve thought he could steal the boat…he jumped me from behind, damn him.’ His frown softened. ‘It’s good you had that pistol. Shall I take it from you?’ He could see my hands were shaking.
My knuckles were white. Somehow I could not let go. I watched the splashing figure heading towards the shore. ‘I’m glad he’s gone, I knew he was trouble.’
‘I’m not glad he’s gone – he should be punished.’ He touched the swelling on his lower lip. ‘Bastard’s got clean away. Pardon my language.’
My body was tingling. Fear, excitement, I could hardly tell. I felt exhilarated, proud, flushed with triumph. I had prevented a thief from seizing the boat. It was thrilling, scary, my heart was racing. I should be drinking tea with a packet captain’s wife, waiting for my parents to collect me. I should be arranging my trousseau, trying on my wedding dress. I should be staring out of the window, watching the sun light up the folly, but I was holding a pistol. I was in France and I was on board a smuggling vessel. Even if I pinched myself, I could hardly believe it.
‘Can one man sail this boat, Jacques?’
He shook his head. ‘Two at the very least.’
‘Then that settles it. We’re not going anywhere until Captain Lefèvre comes back.’ I was flushed, my breathing rapid. I was far too hot. I threw back my head, shaking out my hair, flinging the hideous black cloak right off me. I was free at last and wanted to feel the sun on my cheeks. I did not care if Jacques saw me, or the whole world for that matter. ‘How much longer have we got?’
He seemed shocked, his eyes wide with surprise. ‘I’m sorry…how much longer? No more than half an hour.’ He seemed to recover. ‘In three hours, all this water will be gone – there’ll be just a tiny channel winding through the sand to the river mouth.’ He pointed to a path leading down from a gate. I could just make out a small jetty jutting through the reeds. ‘The rest will be sand, scattered with rocks. When the tide comes in, it’s faster than any man can swim. Even Arnaud never risks it.’
The splashing figure had almost reached the land. ‘He thought you were French.’
‘He’s an ignorant pig. I’m from Jersey…he should know the difference.’
We sat in silence, our eyes scanning the reed beds. He was looking further up the bay to where the red flag had been waving; I was staring more to the left. There was no-one there, only the sheep grazing above the abbey and a solitary monk walking among the beehives in the orchard.
Suddenly Jacques stood up. ‘We’re drifting too much – those rocks have sharp teeth beneath the water. We’re getting too close.’
I looked at the rocks, a wave of fear twisting my stomach. ‘Can we move back?’
‘No, we’ll have to anchor. I’ll get it ready. I may need your help.’
A movement caught my eye and I swung round. A red flag was waving – two waves, followed by a rest, followed by another four. ‘It’s Arnaud,’ I shouted. ‘Get the boat. He needs your help.’
Jacques frowned, looking towards the rocks, turning back to the waving flag. ‘We’re leaving it too late. I have to anchor. The tide’s going out…we’re being sucked towards those rocks. Can you row?’
‘No…a little – not very well.’
‘You’ll have to.’ He was untying the rowing boat, pulling it across the deck. ‘Get the oars. They’re stashed under the thwart – the seat at the back.’ He bent over the side, heaving the rowing boat into the water. ‘I’ll tie this – then I’ll lower the ladder.’ He was working fast, collecting what he needed, dashing from one side of the boat to the other.
I was still holding the pistol. ‘I’ll take this. I might need it – Nathaniel’s still out there.’
‘Don’t mind him, he’ll be long gone. Just keep the boat pointing to the end of that wall…see there? With this current it’s better to go upstream. Those reeds are very thick so drift in front of them, don’t get stuck in them. Arnaud will wade out to you. It won’t take long. I’m going to hand you down the oars – then I’ll anchor. Are you alright?’
‘Yes.’ I climbed down the rope ladder as if I had done it all my life, keeping the rowing boat steady beneath me. I reached up for the oars, locking them in place. Lining the boat up with the end of the walled garden, I pulled with all my strength. My heart was pounding. I was one of them now – a
smuggler. No longer watching, but rowing. I would have to face Sir James, knowing I had helped his captain smuggle contraband back to England.
The oars were heavy, the handles smooth. Along the shore, newly exposed sand glistened in the sunshine, beneath me, rocks darkened the blue water. I pulled with all my might. The current was weaker than I expected and I looked up, anxious of my direction. The end of the wall seemed too far to the left. Time was against me and I had to hurry. I changed direction, pointing to the outcrop of rocks.
The reed bed was taller than it seemed from L’Aigrette, the dense, impenetrable stems standing rigid in the water. I skirted its edge, pulling with all my might, the exertion making me sweat. I had studied the land from L’Aigrette, but from the surface of the water I could see nothing but reeds. I looked back. From the position of the sun and the boat, I must be nearly there. I heard a shout. Not twenty yards from me Arnaud was chest-deep in water, pushing his way through the reeds.
‘What happened?’ He stared at the pistol on my lap, grabbing the boat with both hands.
‘Nathaniel tried to steal the boat. I threatened him and he jumped overboard. I’ve got the pistol in case he’s here.’ There were flies everywhere, landing on my face, my mouth, and I shook my head, spitting them out. Arnaud pulled the boat backwards through the towering reeds. The sleeves had been ripped from his shirt. There was blood on his collar and across his shoulders. ‘Arnaud, you’re getting scratched – you’re injured.’
‘It’s not my blood. Where’s Jacques? Why hasn’t he come?’
‘He’s anchoring – the boat’s drifting too near the rocks.’ He scowled at my words, turning to face the shore, dragging the boat behind him. The boat scraped the sand and I prepared to jump out. ‘Why are your sleeves torn?’
‘Because I needed bandages. Quick, we’ve got to hurry.’ He pulled the boat further onto a small beach, hidden from sight. On one side was the reed bed, on the other, a swathe of long grass, as tall as any man. A group of rocks stood to our right, at their base a small cave. I saw a set of footprints leading across the sand, the imprints too deep for one man alone.
In the shade of the overhanging rock a monk was lying on his side, his cassock badly stained with blood. He was deathly pale. Congealed blood matted his bushy eyebrows, discolouring his long grey beard. Stooping to pick him up, Arnaud eased him onto his shoulder. For such an old man, he was well built and heavy. ‘I’ll carry him – you bring the bag.’ I looked around, grabbing the bulky bag, pulling the strap over my head, slinging it quickly across my shoulder. There was nothing else there.
‘Has everything been stolen?’
Arnaud looked quickly up, his eyes narrowing, ‘You mean the brandy? All gone – they must have left him for dead.’ He walked quickly across the beach, easing the man gently into the bow. The monk made no sound, his face seemingly lifeless and I stared in horror, helping Arnaud push the boat back into the sea. ‘Get in, Cécile. Don’t get any wetter.’
I climbed next to the monk, squeezing by his side, putting his head in my lap, my hand against his nose. ‘He’s hardly breathing.’
‘He’s got a nasty head wound and I think a bullet’s passed right through his shoulder. He’s lost a lot of blood. I found him in the orchard.’ He began heaving against the stern, pushing the boat through the water, the dense reeds reluctantly parting to let us through.
‘Will he live?’
‘I hope so.’
Stalks were decaying beneath the water. It smelt dank, earthy, dragonflies darting across the boat. I waved off the flies that landed on the monk’s beard and watched his blue lips closely, desperate for him to take the next shallow breath. ‘He’s bleeding through your bandages – they’re not staunching the blood.’
‘I know. We need to hurry.’ He steadied the boat, the muscles in his arms clenching as he heaved himself over the stern. We began skimming the surface of the clear blue water, racing across the bay. He was breathing hard, pushing himself to the limit, the distance to the boat getting shorter and shorter.
Jacques was watching the land through the telescope. He pointed to the left and I looked round in fright. Along the shore a group of men were running to the rock we had just left. ‘Arnaud, look!’
‘I know. I’ve seen them.’ He quickened his pace, ‘And I’ve seen them, too.’ He was looking over my shoulder to the entrance of the bay. I turned round – two boats were rounding the headland, their sails bright in the midday sun.
‘Are they after us?’ I gasped.
‘I rather think they might be.’
We were nearly at the boat. Jacques was leaning over her side, pointing across the bay. ‘Two luggers – north-west.’
Arnaud flung the oars to the sides and grabbed the rope ladder, holding it firmly with both hands. He looked up. ‘I’ve seen them – we’ll have to cut and run…prepare the sails.’ He looked back at me. ‘You go first.’
‘No, it’s alright. You go – I’ll follow you up.’
He seemed surprised, pleased. Bending down, he lifted the monk carefully onto his shoulder, gently shifting his position so he could take hold of the ladder. ‘Let this boat go, Cécile – let it drift.’
I reached back for the pistol. ‘Will they catch us?’
He was halfway up the ladder but turned at my words. ‘Catch the fastest cutter in the Channel?’ He smiled. ‘Not a chance.’
Chapter Eleven
He laid the monk on the bed. ‘We’ll have to leave him – we need all hands on deck.’
I followed him out of the cabin, watching him grab a knife from the galley. At the top of the stairs he held it towards me, pointing to the bow. ‘Use this to slice the anchor rope…then come back and hold the tiller. Point it towards that church spire and hold your course…it’s into wind. I’ll set the sails.’
I nodded and grabbed the knife, running as quickly as I could along the deck to the bow. My hands were shaking. The anchor rope was on the other side of the bowsprit and I had to lean over and stretch. The rope was taut in the water, the weight of the boat pulling against it. It was a large rope, the tension considerable. I began slicing through it, sawing backwards and forwards, my mouth clenching with the effort. Though the rope was thick, the knife was razor sharp and it began splitting, fraying. I kept slicing, the last strands now stretching thinly in front of me. One last cut and it fell away. I heard the splash as it landed in the water and ran back to the stern, dodging under the ropes that hung from the sails. I grabbed the tiller and held it firmly, my eyes scanning the bay, searching for the church. From the corner of my eye I saw the luggers. Their sails were wide and full. They seemed to be gaining on us.
With my eye firmly on the church spire, I clutched the tiller in both my hands. Arnaud and Jacques were hoisting up the main sail. Ropes were creaking, the sail flapping. They pulled it taut and it started to swell, curving above us in a graceful arc. The sail glowed in the sunlight and I felt the boat shift. ‘Keep us to the church,’ shouted Arnaud, his voice breathless with exertion. ‘Keep us to wind.’
Four of the five sails were up and I could feel the boat moving through the water. I grasped the tiller tightly, pulling it towards me, swinging the boat back on course. We were facing the steeple again, the sails of the two luggers swelling before us.
‘Keep her like that. We’re almost done.’ Arnaud was tying down a rope, Jacques hoisting the final sail – five glowing sails and the huge French flag; the same flag as the ones flying across the bay. Arnaud was watching them, his voice urgent. ‘Point away…point north-east by east. Be ready to hold her – she’ll heel to the right. As soon as we’ve set these sails, I’ll take over.’
I looked at the compass. North-east by east would take us straight between the rocks and out to open sea. I held tight, feeling the soft caress of air against my face. L’Aigrette was moving, the waves rippling across her bow. We were sailing, skimming through the sea, leaving a wake in the clear blue water. Arnaud came to my side. There was admiration in h
is eyes and I could feel myself blushing. He put his hands over mine, his shoulders strong behind me. His hands were warm, firm, holding mine against the tiller. ‘That’s right, Cécile. Hold her just like this. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?’
‘I’ve watched others,’ I said.
His hand tightened over mine. ‘L’Aigrette can sail on breath alone…just watch us leave those creaking tubs behind.’ He smiled down at me, his eyes laughing. ‘We can sail closer to wind than any other boat – no ship can point as close.’
‘Will they fire at us?’
‘They’ll try – but by the time they turn broadside, we’ll be out of range. They don’t stand a chance.’ His bare arms stretched against mine, his chest so close behind me. For a moment, I wanted to lean back, feel his strength, let his arms slide round me but I stared ahead, holding my course. He reached down, his face almost touching mine. I could feel his breath on my cheek. ‘Thank you, Cécile. You’ve just saved my life.’
I drew my hand quickly away. ‘And you’ve just put my life in danger.’
I stared at the grey beard coming away in my hands. I dabbed at it again, whole handfuls of hair clumping together. I rubbed harder with the soft cloth, dipping it again into the warm, soapy water. The skin was red where the beard had been glued. His chin and head were freshly shaven. He was young, not old, the grey eyebrows every bit as false as the beard. I pulled them away, the wisps of hair floating on top of the bucket. Under his cassock he wore strong working men’s clothes, stout shoes and a belt with a knife in it.
He must be only middle thirties. He was strong, well nourished, his bone structure fine, his hands elegant. His chest was rising, his breaths shallow. I wiped the blood from over his eye and felt his eyelids flutter. Blood was already seeping through the bandages so I grabbed his knife, pulling it from its sheaf, ripping his jacket to expose his wound. Arnaud came to my side, holding the jacket rigid so I could cut through the coarse cloth.
