by Seth Hunter
It was a plausible if garrulous explanation. Nathan had heard that there were more than a hundred American ships locked up in La Rochelle by the British blockade and most of their crews with them. But it did not explain how he came to be serving with the Chouans.
“Ah, well, that is a longer story,” he began, when Nathan put this question to him, “but in short, after I had been there a few days I had seen enough of the place, not having the means to make my stay there a little more pleasurable, so I took it into my head to move along the coast a bit, in the hope of maybe stealing a boat and making my way back to the squadron.”
“Your zeal does you credit,” murmured Nathan, who did not believe a word of it.
“Well, a man can do worse than a life at sea, even in a King’s ship,” the reprobate assured him, as if Nathan looked a man of promise and should give it some consideration. “And I was never going to get back to Nantucket on my own, was I? Not in the kind of tub I might pick up in a French fishing port.”
There was that.
“And you did not fear to be taken up by the authorities as an Englishman and a spy?”
“It was a risk, sure, but I spoke enough of the language to get by, I reckoned.” He noted Nathan’s frown, for this was unusual, and grinned. “I had a girl once from Louisiana—Creole—who taught me the lingo.”
Nathan wondered at that, but did not challenge him. “So, you made your way up the coast …”
“I did. But before I had got very far, I fell in with a band of Chouans who had other plans for me and were as persuasive, you might say, as an English press gang.”
“This is the band you are with now?”
“Smaller, no more than a score or so—but we encountered a good few more on our travels. We were more than five thousand strong at one point but we took some hard knocks. Very hard.” A grim look came over him and he fell silent for a moment.
“So you were with them for some while?”
“Almost a year now. With the rank of sergeant.”
“I will bear that in mind, Bennett, when you are restored to the lower deck,” Nathan assured him ironically. “But tell me about them. As soldiers.”
“Well they are not the foot guards, sir. Nor even the marines. I guess you would say they was lacking in discipline. But they know how to fight.”
“And who is their leader, since Jean Chouan was killed?”
He looked surprised at Nathan’s knowledge. “They are several. Sombreuil, Stofflet, Charette …”
“And de Batz?”
Bennett nodded, but reflectively. “Yes. Though he is not as high in their ranks as he should be, in his own estimation.”
Clearly Bennett was not one of the chevalier’s greatest admirers.
“And how is it you came to Morbihan?”
“We had orders to march north, almost a week ago.”
“Then you knew there was to be a landing?”
“There was talk. We were to make for Quiberon so it seemed possible.”
“This is not Quiberon.”
“No, sir, but we had orders to take the battery here, which was in our rear. Fortunately for you, I think.”
“And for you, Mr. Bennett,” Nathan replied evenly, “for you have achieved your ambition to rejoin the service at last, and have no need to steal a boat.”
If Nathan had thought to discomfort him by this, he had misjudged the man. The only response was a wide grin and a slight duck of the head.
“Would that be as able seaman, sir, or master’s mate?”
“We will rate you able seaman, Bennett, for the time being and see how you go on.” But this would not do, this would not do at all. The American was a godsend and could not be so lightly consigned to the lower deck. “However, for the moment I believe you must continue to lead your Chouans, for they seem to heed you well enough.”
The eyes wary now, the grin a little exposed.
“And where am I to lead them, sir? If I might ask.”
Nathan hesitated. But if he was to make use of the man he could not let him remain in ignorance.
“I am commanded to link up with the Chouans in this region,” he confided, “provide them with arms and supplies and lead them against the Republican forces in Auray.”
Bennett looked surprised. “Oh, but we took Auray the day before yesterday.”
“You took Auray ?” Nathan was astonished. “With these few?”
“Oh, we had a good few more than this. Over a thousand, under General Charette. And they surrendered without a shot. Near two hundred of them. They had marched out on the road to Quiberon and engaged with some of the Royalists that was landed and come off the worse for it, so they was in no state for another mauling.”
Nathan considered what this meant for him. With Auray in the hands of the Chouans, half his objective was accomplished already. Now he had only to land the weapons and supplies. The town was some fifteen miles upriver but from his memory of the charts it looked navigable, at least to some of the smaller boats, and it would make life a great deal easier if he could deliver his cargo directly to where it was most needed—and by river.
Bennett was confident it could be done and that with the tide they could reach Auray in three or four hours.
“And, in your opinion, can Charette hold the town, with the forces he has at his command?”
“Well, that depends what is disposed against him, sir. But long enough, I reckon, if his men were better armed and provisioned.”
But Nathan could not take Bennett’s word for this.
“That can be done,” he assured him. “If you are willing to go back there with one of my officers to arrange for their distribution.”
“I’m your man there, sir—most willing.”
It occurred to Nathan that as a pressed man in the King’s Service it did not matter if he were willing or not.
“You are back in the service now,” he reminded him, “and answerable to me and any other officer, not to any Tom, Dick—or de Batz.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The grin again. “So I am to act as quartermaster.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Nathan replied cautiously, “but you will be entered on the ship’s books as able seaman and you are not to forget it and take it into your head to go wandering about the countryside again.”
“Would that be dated back, sir, to when I was took?”
Nathan reminded himself that the fellow was from Nantucket and certain allowances must be made.
“I will instruct the purser accordingly. Is that to your satisfaction, Bennett?”
If Bennett noted the sarcasm he did not let it trouble him. “Well, I guess I am in no position to haggle,” he conceded cheerfully.
“No, you are not,” Nathan assured him. “And you will remember that you are subject to the Articles of War—and the penalties for breaking them. Now get back to your men.”
But there were other questions preying on his mind and for once time was not so pressing. The men were hunkered down for the night, the Unicorn as secure as she could be with half her masts down and the rest of his little fleet moored in the sheltered waters of the Gulf of Morbihan.
“Wait,” he called out, as the man turned away, pulling down his hat. “You have served the Chevalier de Batz for long?”
“A few months, I reckon.”
“And what impression did you form of his character?”
“His character?”
“His character, Bennett. As an officer and a gentleman.”
The American turned his head aside and for a moment Nathan thought he was going to spit, but he only smiled grimly and said, “He’s a brutal swine of a man and incompetent with it. Whatever his title.” This was reassuring. What came next was not. “However, he is kin to the Comte de Puisaye who commands the Royalist troops at Quiberon.”
“I see.”
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Just a moment. You heard his order—before I was obliged to … to seize him up?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, sir.” Bennett had stepped a little away from the light and it was impossible to read his expression but his tone was cautious.
“And what did you hear?”
A moment before the answer came. “He ordered us to kill them.”
“Kill them. Kill them all.”
“I believe that was the gist of it.”
“And what did you take him to mean by that?”
“That we was to kill the Blues.”
“The prisoners?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what of the rest of us?”
Bennett frowned. “Well, truly I did not really give that much thought. It was all so quick—and then you had him by the throat.”
“Very well, Bennett.” But there was another question he had to ask. He put his hand up to his breast pocket to check he still had the letter. “There is one more thing.”
“Sir?”
“You saw a great deal of the Vendée, I suppose, on your travels.”
“More than I wished, sir, the state it was in.”
“There is a woman I have been asked to seek out. She was said to have escaped the guillotine almost a year ago in Paris and fled south, to seek refuge among the Chouans.”
He was aware of Bennett’s scrutiny, even in the dark. His own face was in the light and he moved away from it a little before he continued.
“Her name is Sara, Countess of Turenne, but she may be calling herself Seton, or some other name.” It was absurd. Even if she had lived, how could Bennett have met her, or even heard of her? And why the Vendée? She was from Provence, in the deep South, half Irish, half Italian, born into a land of sunshine and wine and song, and she always said she would go back there, if she ever had the chance. He could hear her now, her soft voice in his ear, as they lay together in her apartment in Paris.
“There is a little town called Tourettes, near where we lived in Provence. I used to go there as a child, with my father. A walled town on top of a hill. There is a café in the square where I drank lemonade and ate the little cakes made of oranges and watched the people coming to market. If I leave Paris, that is where I will go, to Tourettes—that is where you will find me, drinking lemonade and eating little cakes made of oranges and waiting for you there.”
“The Countess of Turenne?” There was surprise in the man’s voice, but not the expected ignorance. “Yes, I have heard of her. I have even met her. They call her La Renarde. The Vixen. She is the mistress of François de Charette and fights at his side. She is there now—at Auray.”
CHAPTER FIVE
the Vixen
NATHAN STRUGGLED OUT OF A TROUBLED SLEEP, stiff-limbed, parched, his brain chasing the fleeing remnants of a dream. Sara was in it somewhere and the guillotine … and a dark catacomb lined with skulls. He lay on his back staring up at one. There were sounds, too, of rats …
Then he was awake, properly awake, in the stern cabin of the gun brig Conquest, riding at anchor in the Gulf of Morbihan, and gazing up at the dawn, weakly filtered through a murky skylight. And what he could hear was the sound of the watch changing.
The morning watch. He closed his eyes again with a sigh. He could sleep for at least two hours yet without troubling his conscience. But his restless mind would not let him. How could he be sure the woman Bennett had spoken of was Sara? She would not be the first to pluck a title from the bloody pile left at the foot of the guillotine.
But he had asked Bennett to describe her to him. A beauty he had said, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty, “like the women of Spain or southern Italy.”
And the lover of a Chouan general whose men called her La Renarde.
The Vixen. With its connotations of promiscuity and lust. Was it the bestial screaming they made whilst coupling? He had heard that whores in London used to wear a fox’s tail stitched to the rear of their skirts to denote their profession …
Did he think her a whore?
That would be absurd. Unjustified. He had no claim on her. Yet the thought of her with another man disturbed him more than he could ever say.
He should not be thinking of this. There were more important things to think of than this. Clambering out of the narrow cot, he dressed clumsily, forced into an ungainly crouch by the meagre proportions of the cabin, more suited to a child of ten than a man over two yards tall. Though they were into the first week of July, the air felt unusually chill and a violent flurry of rain on the skylight persuaded him to reach for his heavy boat cloak before climbing the short companionway to the deck.
A huddle of officers in tarps and tricorn hats, like wet owls, grudging the dawn. Balfour, the brig’s commander, an elderly lieutenant, past forty with the face of a Scots pastor, nursing the moral certainty of everyone’s damnation but his own; the master, Rigsby, who had the morning watch, older still, damned already; a couple of midshipmen, Foley and Stamp, mere boys, faces tearful with rain or rebuke. Lamb, the young gentleman from the Unicorn Nathan had brought as his courier, trying by his expression and a certain stance of his still childlike body to distance himself from the rest. There appeared to be some kind of conference in progress, hastily adjourned at Nathan’s emergence. He sniffed the air and found it resentful, but he gave them a brisk “Good morning,” and surveyed the now drearily familiar surroundings of the Little Sea.
They were moored in the mouth of the Auray, in the lee of Point Kerpenhir, with the smaller boats of the squadron curving away in a long line astern. Beyond, at a distance of about half a mile, was the fort they had taken, with the Union flag now hanging limply from its battlements in the rain. Little had changed since their fortuitous victory over three days before, apart from the weather which had taken a turn for the worse. The wind had shifted to the north-west and the black clouds rolling in from the Bay of Biscay promised more rain to come and possibly storms.
“No news, I suppose?” He cocked his head at the lieutenant, but without expectation.
“None, sir.” Balfour would probably have sent to wake him if there was, though you could not count on it for he was a man of few words and less imagination. Any news, even bad, would have been welcome to Nathan. He sniffed again—and smelled coffee. His coffee. The Angel Gabriel working miracles in the galley. So, that was something at least. In an hour or so he would have breakfast to look forward to. Then a long gap until dinner.
“I tell you what,” he remarked, to no-one in particular, “if this goes on much longer I shall begin to feel the war is ended and no-one has bothered to inform us.”
The ghost of a smile from Balfour. Nathan felt guilty for taking the man’s cabin from him but he could not be stationed aboard the Unicorn, forced by its draught to moor well out in the bay, nor did he care to be on land—and he did not feel so guilty as to seek accommodation aboard one of the smaller vessels. It was bad enough coping with the cramped accommodation aboard the Conquest.
She was an odd hybrid of a vessel, the only one of her class, though Nathan had heard there were others being built to the same draught, their lordships being desirous of something with a bit more clout than your average gunboat and able to travel an appreciable distance to deliver it. Clout she certainly had, with a broadside of ten 18-pounders and two 32-pounder carronades firing fore and aft. It was the delivery that was questionable, for though she was rigged as a brig she was a notoriously poor sailor. She rolled alarmingly with any kind of a sea running, and even in the sheltered waters of Morbihan she shied at the merest gust of wind and tended to drift with the slightest current so that her forward progress more often resembled that of a crab on a beach than a respectable man-o’-war. She was equipped with eighteen sweeps so that she might operate as a galley in calm waters, without the assistance of slaves—though slaves could hardly have been worse accommodated than the crew of the Conquest. Or flogged as often, for from what he had heard, Mr. Balfour believed that the damned need not wait for Death or the Devil to receive just recompense for a life of sin: not when he was conveniently to hand.
Gilbert Ga
briel came aft with Nathan’s coffee. He took it gratefully and carried it over to the rail. It was almost low tide and the waters had retreated from the shores of the gulf to expose a large quantity of mud, among which a number of wading birds picked their delicate feet and grubbed for sustenance. He turned his face into the rain, squinting up the length of the river, a long finger pointing north. He had sent Howard and Whiteley up there three days ago in one of the cutters, with a quantity of marines and Bennett as their guide and translator, to make contact with the Chouans at Auray and report on the situation there. Since then, not a word. He anguished now that he had placed too much reliance on the American’s version of events in the town and that it might still be in Republican hands. But it was hard to know what else he could have done. He could hardly have gone charging up there with the whole squadron, not knowing what he might find at the end of it.
He missed Tully, who made a perfect sounding board for his anxieties, though on this occasion there were certain of them he might wish to keep to himself for all Tully’s discretion. Certainly, in his own mind, Nathan knew he was shy of meeting with the Chouan leader, Charette, and thereby confirming without a shadow of doubt that the woman who fought by his side was Sara—his Sara. La Renarde.
A sudden flash from out of the darkening sky, followed after a few moments by a clap of thunder. And now the rain came down in earnest, dancing upon the deck and churning the waters of the Gulf into a violent froth. Nathan turned from the rail.
“I am going below to write up my journal,” he informed Lieutenant Balfour, for want of a better excuse, though neither excuse nor explanation were needed. “I am going below to cut my throat,” he might have said, and Balfour would have responded with the same indifferent nod, touching his hat.
Yet even in the depths of his misery he could not help but wonder what was for breakfast and whether it would be long in coming. He raised his voice.
