Winds of Change & Eye of the Storm

by Lee Rowan

  Will took a deep breath. “I apologize for taking you by surprise this way, but I feel sure you must have known I would go. Two days ago, you asked me to wait one more day, and I—”

  “You are in command, sir. You need not apologize to anyone for your—”

  “Davy! For the love of God—”

  “—actions.”

  Even furious, Davy was in control of himself enough to keep his voice down. Marshall was having trouble doing that. “For God’s sake, you know perfectly well that we cannot continue to lurk along the shore indefinitely. We’re bound to attract attention. We need information, and there’s no way to get that standing twenty miles out to sea.”

  “Let me go, instead. My French is better. Or let us go together.”

  “No. I’ll not risk anyone but myself.”

  “You are treating me as though I’m the merest grass-comber,” Davy said. “No—worse than that. You’re treating me like a damned mistress. Is that all I am to you now?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think I am weak? Helpless? Some fragile thing that wants protection?” Hurt and anger radiated from him; Marshall had never seen him in such distress—not over something he had done. “For God’s sake, Will, I was shot, not gelded!”

  Marshall was startled into silence. Finally he said, “On my honor, Davy, I mean you no insult.”

  Some of the tension went out of Davy’s posture, and he sighed heavily. “Yes, I know you didn’t mean it so. But, Will, you have been watchful as a hen with one chick. You are treating me like a child—a beloved child, but not a man. And making me stay aboard while you go ashore—do you find me that much of a hindrance?”

  “No, of course not.” A pity he didn’t have Davy’s knack for levity, but the best he could manage was “Christ, Davy, do you think there is anyone else in the world I would trust with my ship?”

  “You could leave Barrow in command. He’s forgotten more than I’ll ever know.”

  “You’re right. I know he could sail her as well as we do, and likely better. But have you forgotten? You and I are the only ones who know our true purpose. I could trust Barrow with the ship—but I could not burden him with that responsibility.”

  “You have an answer to every argument, Captain.” Davy dropped to the bench beneath the stern window. “I concede,” he said, and added ironically, “not that I had anything to say about it in the first place. What are your orders?”

  Marshall sat beside him. He wanted very much to hold Davy before he went ashore, but with his lover in this prickly state, it would be like embracing a hedgehog. “I don’t expect to be gone for more than a few hours. I’ll be sending the boat back purely as a precaution—a waste of time, I’m sure—but I want you to be ready to run if necessary. If you see any sign of the French navy, get as far away as you can, as fast as you can.”

  “And what of you?”

  “I’ll be out on that spit of land at the end of the cove, after it’s full dark. Or, if Beauchene is there and all is well, I’ll use the same signal we’ve been waiting for.”

  Davy nodded. “Very well. And what if you do not?” He looked up, and Marshall saw the fear in his eyes, and thought his own heart would break. “What if I never see you again?”

  “I should only be ashore for a few hours,” he said, knowing how inadequate the words were.

  “Of course,” Davy responded woodenly.

  They both stood.

  “Oh, by the way,” Davy said. “When I collected your things, I saw—truly, I did not mean to spy—but I noticed that the letters I sent from Jamaica had never been opened.”

  Marshall was mortified but oddly relieved. At last he had some idea why there had been such an undercurrent of unhappiness in Davy’s manner. “I’m sorry, truly I am. I could not bring myself—”

  Davy waved his hand, a dismissive motion. “I understand, we’ve been through this. My letters might have persuaded you to come back. And there’s no need now, is there? Here you are. What I meant to say is, there is nothing so stupid or melodramatic as a letter sealed and posted and left to molder. May I have the damned things back, so I might dispose of them?”

  “No!” Marshall was surprised at his own vehemence. He was not about to tell his lover how many nights he had gone to sleep with his cheek resting on that small but precious bundle. “No, you may not.”

  He had been about to leave the cabin, but he took the time to lift the lid of his sea chest, rummage in the keepsake box, and stow the letters safely in an inner pocket. “I’ll take these with me,” he said. “And I shall read them the first chance I get, and if you touch them, I’ll clap you in irons.”

  The ghost of a smile lifted one corner of Davy’s mouth. “There are no irons on this ship.”

  “I’ll have Barrow buy a set next time we’re in port.”

  “You’ve the makings of a tyrant, Captain.”

  “Not so long as I have you for a gadfly.”

  “Will—” Suddenly Davy was in his arms, their bodies melded together, lips meeting as though it might really be the last time. He held Davy close enough to let the touch of his body impress itself all along his own. Why, why had he not made time, barred the door, taken the chance? What if this was the biggest mistake of his career—and the final mistake?

  But there was no time to worry about that now.

  Reluctantly, he disengaged himself from Davy’s embrace. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I shall be back before you have time to enjoy having the cabin all to yourself.”

  “You had better be,” Davy said. “You’re not the only one who can worry, you know. I tell you, Will—those weeks where you were sailing the Caribbean, wondering whether I’d succumbed to some tropical fever, I was whiling away the hours wondering if each day would be the one a load of chain-shot cut you in two. I’ve never felt such fear as I did when you were too far away for me to reach. It isn’t conscience that makes cowards of us all. It’s love.”

  “I will be back,” Marshall promised, and left before he could change his mind.

  ARCHER WAS vaguely aware of the boat’s return, the clunk and splash as it was hoisted above. He heard the men hauling it into place and tying it down. He didn’t need to watch; Barrow would handle it. His attention was all focused on the shore, where his lover was trudging up the short, sandy beach that led to the village. The boat was loaded in and secured by the time Will turned, raised a hand in farewell, then vanished into the evergreens along the path that led to the chateau.

  Almost immediately, a shout from the masthead took Archer’s attention away from his worry. “What is it?” he called.

  “Something coming our way, sir. I’m guessing she’s French… three even masts. Can’t see any more yet.”

  I knew there was something wrong. I knew it, I knew it…. God damn the French and all their ships to hell. But the Mermaid was a sleek, low vessel—low enough that the approaching ship wouldn’t catch sight of her topmast over the curve of the horizon—at least, not immediately. And he could hope that, this close to home, they were looking out toward England and not in toward their own shore.

  “All sails,” Archer said to Barrow. “With luck, we’ll be around this spit of land before they see us.” After that, they could steer out toward open water, and circle back around eventually.

  “What about Captain Marshall, sir?”

  The breath caught in his throat as though Barrow had struck him with an axe. “Those—those are the Captain’s orders. We run, and come back for him when we can.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  And if we can.

  Chapter 6

  MARSHALL TRUDGED up the path, gravel crunching beneath his feet. He wondered if he had only imagined feeling the stares as he walked past the cottage closest to the beach. What did these people think of a stranger setting foot on their shore? They must have seen the Mermaid from time to time, these past two weeks.

  The village seemed deserted. This close to Bonfleur, one would expect more activity
, fishing boats, something. Had there been some misfortune, an outbreak of disease? There should be children….

  There was no sound but the cry of the gulls.

  The path up the hill was steep, but certainly easier than going straight up the chains. After twenty minutes’ steady climb, he came to a wrought-iron gate set between two stone pillars. The gate was mostly for show at this point, as the stone wall on either side had either been battered or weathered until it was no barrier at all.

  He called a greeting in French. There was no reply, so he opened the gate—it was not locked—and continued along the path to the imposing house. He knocked at the door, but heard not so much as an echo coming from within. Not surprising, of course—the door itself looked as though it was made of planks hewn from an ancient tree trunk, at least three inches thick.

  After waiting for several minutes, he gave up and decided to scout around the back. If there was anyone living here at all, there should be some activity near the kitchen garden. There might be a chicken coop in back, or a dovecote.

  The stone flags that led around the back were worn, but looked as though they still saw regular use. They had been swept clean of dead leaves, at any rate. Marshall followed them and discovered a small stone terrace at the back of the house and a discouraged, dormant herb garden.

  He had nearly reached the back door when he heard a click behind him—a sound he recognized as the cocking of a pistol. And “Mains vers le haut!” followed, hesitantly, by “Put up your hands, you English dog!” in heavily accented English.

  Knowing that Davy would never let him hear the end of this—and hoping he would have the chance to hear his lover say “I told you so!”—Marshall slowly raised his hands.

  DEAR WILL:

  I hope this finds you well. I must say, it is far too quiet here since you went back to sea, but no doubt His Majesty has more need of your services than we have of your company. My cousin is well, though he misses his wife very much, and I must admit I feel the lack of agreeable companionship pretty severely myself.

  The weather has been unremittingly glorious, and if it were not for the knowledge that hurricane season will begin in another few months—and the loneliness, and the tedium—I could call this Paradise. It was that, for a little while, but the ability to appreciate the tropics seems to have left me very suddenly, just this past week, and I would be delighted if I could ever get it back. I hope you will be sent back to these waters soon. Please write, when your duties permit.

  Your most humble servant,

  D S-J

  “My apologies, Monsieur.”

  It was a friendly voice, at least, not the harsh croak of the elderly fellow who’d crept up on him with the pistol. Marshall barely had time to tuck his letter safely away when the door to the cellar creaked open.

  “Thank you,” he called up in French. “I did not mean to alarm your household.”

  “Jean-Claude is easily alarmed, and suspicious of strangers. But he tells me you are a friend of Jacques Colbert?”

  “Indeed, sir. My name is William Marshall, and I am Captain of the yacht Mermaid. The gentleman who owns her is a nephew of Dr. Colbert, a cousin of his son-in-law.”

  He hoped his French was adequate to this task. That mouthful felt exactly like a grammar lesson from the tutor aboard the Titan, although the situation was embarrassingly opposite what Captain Cooper had intended to cultivate. His captain had wanted his young gentlemen taught the language in order to converse politely with captured French officers, not to make themselves understood when the French had the upper hand.

  “Yes, it is understood that my friend’s daughter married an English milord. I am Étienne Beauchene. The doctor and I have many common interests of a scientific nature.”

  Marshall breathed a sigh of relief. “I am delighted to meet you, Monsieur. We had been told that a friend of Dr. Colbert’s lived here at the chateau, and that he wished us to meet him here.”

  “Ah, we had wondered at your interest in our little village. Please, sir, come upstairs. Our countries are at peace, at least for now. There is no reason we cannot converse like civilized men.”

  “Merci, Monsieur.” Marshall wasted no time in ascending the stairs he’d been unceremoniously shoved down half an hour before. He shook hands with Beauchene, who was much younger than he had expected a colleague of Colbert’s to be. Beauchene appeared to be no more than thirty, though he wore spectacles that Marshall would expect to see on a much more elderly man. He was slender, of middle height, with pleasant features, friendly eyes behind the thick lenses, and smooth brown hair pulled back in a short pigtail much like Marshall’s own.

  “Come,” the man said. “You may leave your coat here on this rack, if you wish.” Another coat, probably Beauchene’s own, hung on a carved stand in the foyer, beside the front door. “And then I will introduce you to my mother.”

  “I would be honored.” Marshall left his greatcoat, but felt its absence in a strong draft that ran across the floor when they passed a stone stairway that led downward, probably to the cellar. As they proceeded down a chilly but elegant gallery, Marshall asked, “Have you heard from Dr. Colbert recently?”

  “I have had letters from him since the treaty was signed, and I believe he has written to my mother; she has a wide correspondence. But no, I have not heard from him lately—not this past month or more. And I have not seen him. Yet he told you he would be here?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Marshall said. “Dr. Colbert wished to return to France to attend to personal business in Paris. From there, he wrote to his son-in-law, Baron Guilford, asking him to send transportation. The Baron wrote to my employer and friend, Mr. St. John, who is traveling in the area partly for business and partly for pleasure.”

  “For pleasure—in winter?”

  “Yes. He is an adventuresome man, and having bought the ship only recently, he wished to make himself acquainted with it. He has lived in Canada, so to him our weather is quite mild. And, because he is an amiable man and fond of his cousin—he is godfather to one of their children—he agreed to sail past your village and see if we could rendezvous with Dr. Colbert.”

  “That might cause some small awkwardness with the authorities,” Beauchene said tactfully.

  “It would cause a great deal of awkwardness, sir,” Marshall agreed. “Believe me, I realize that, but there was nothing to be done by the time word reached us. Had there been any opportunity to contact the doctor before he left Paris, we would have urged him to choose another rendezvous. We can only imagine that he wished to visit you, perhaps to discuss some mutual scientific interest.”

  Beauchene shook his head. “I would be pleased to see him, of course, and so would my mother. We do not see our friends as often as we might wish. But we have corresponded little, this past year or more—the war, of course, but also our interests have diverged. His greatest attention is given to natural science, while I have found myself more and more entertained by descriptive geometry, to the neglect of all other studies. Do you know of Gaspard Monge?”

  “Descriptive geometry?” Marshall asked with genuine interest. “I have not studied it. My profession turns my attention to celestial navigation. I am familiar with the work of the great LaGrange.”

  “You should read the works of Monge. He was Minister of the Marine for some time, and his work on the cannon—” Beauchene broke off and slapped his own forehead. “Je suis fou! No, sir, as an Englishman you should not read Monge. Not at all!” He smiled disarmingly. “I am not a man of war, Captain. I am a scholar, and when I meet a man who knows LaGrange, I cannot call him my enemy. It is seldom that I have the chance to share this passion, except in letters. We have few visitors, and I cannot travel without assistance, nor serve in the military. My eyes, you see,” he added, touching the frame of his very thick-lensed spectacles. “In my home, there is no trouble. Outdoors, I fall down. In battle, I would be more dangerous to France than to England.”

  Marshall was touched by th
e self-deprecating humor. “Then there is more than one good result of your misfortune, sir. I shall never fear the chance to return your hospitality aboard ship.”

  “You are in the Navy?”

  The question reminded Marshall that this charming mathematical gentleman was, after all, a Frenchman. “Not at present, sir. Like most of my fellows, I was set ashore when the treaty was signed. It was the greatest good fortune that my friend, Mr. St. John, had decided to stop dealing in furs in Canada and began dealing with gems in Europe, and needed a man with experience to take charge of his ship.”

  “With such a cargo, would it not be safer for him to take himself aboard a larger ship?”

  “No doubt, but I believe that North America breeds men with a taste for independence. His business is small, and he does not have the large, precious stones. I have advised him that we should travel in convoy if we venture outside the Channel.”

  Beauchene nodded as they approached the end of the corridor. “That would be wise in any case. The war has gone on for so long that too many men have forgotten how to behave as men, not brigands. Come, let me introduce you to the mistress of the house.”

  They entered a large, bright room, with windows looking out onto a garden that in summer would no doubt be beautiful. The room was clean, but it had obviously seen better days; both the wallpaper and the furniture looked a trifle faded. Marshall noted all that in passing, his attention on the lady who sat in a tapestry chair beside a small fire. A tiny white dog with a brown face and huge brown ears peered up attentively from her lap. Its tail wagged tentatively as he approached.

  “Maman, this is Captain William Marshall of the merchant ship Mermaid. Captain, my mother, Madame Beauchene.”

  “Enchanté, Madame,” Marshall said, making a leg. He decided that he would not attempt the Continental kiss on her hand; this trim, sharp-eyed lady must have married and become a mother at quite an early age. Even though there were signs of silver in her dark hair, she appeared to be on the sunny side of fifty, and she did not look susceptible to flattery… and he did not want to run afoul of the little dog, who was watching him closely. “I apologize for intruding upon your home.”