Winds of Change & Eye of the Storm

by Lee Rowan

  “I imagine you are sorrier still, after meeting Jean-Claude,” she said in passable English. “You have made this a great day for him. Ever since the treaty was signed, he has been haunting the garden, waiting for the English to invade and murder us all. He is good with the hens and the vegetables, but he does have his notions. And now he has caught an Englishman in the kitchen garden—his fears are vindicated.”

  “I came unarmed, Madame,” Marshall said, spreading his hands. “I mean no harm to you or your household.”

  “Yet you came. Why?” She gestured at the settee opposite her. “Sit, I have told Yvette to bring tea.”

  Beauchene sat down beside him, and Marshall once again explained about the errant Dr. Colbert.

  Madame Beauchene’s reaction was much the same as her son’s had been. “I would be most glad to see him, but we have had no word. Why did he not travel along the shore?”

  “I wish I knew, Madame. Mr. St. John is quite willing to oblige his cousin, but I cannot think it a good idea for us to loiter along the coast. Our mission is a private matter, quite harmless, but our presence might alarm the authorities. Can you think of anything that would have delayed the doctor?” He included them both in his question. “He would have been traveling from Paris, and we know that he left by the last week of November.”

  “Jacques Colbert could be delayed by nearly anything,” she said. “A good conversation, a sick child, a two-headed calf… but I do not think he would delay if he knew that you would be waiting for him. He is not a thoughtless man.”

  “Except for the military, travel is slow,” her son said. “At least, that is what we hear. I hope he has not had trouble leaving the city.”

  Madame Beauchene made a noise that Marshall would, from someone less ladylike, have called a snort. “Politics. We must hope he has not had political trouble. If those fools decide to refuse him permission to leave because his daughter married an Englishman—”

  “Is that likely, do you think?” Marshall asked. Sir Percy said Colbert had left Paris, but would he know if the doctor had been arrested in secret?

  “It is possible,” Beauchene said. “Almost anything is possible. But there have been so many English traveling to France….” He gave what Marshall had to call a Gallic shrug. “If every French family with an English connection were denied permission to travel, no one would go anywhere. We ourselves have relatives in Devonshire.”

  The tea arrived, and Marshall did what courtesy required, though he was becoming restless. If Colbert was not here, he should get back to his ship as quickly as possible.

  As soon as he reasonably could, Marshall said, “I apologize again for disturbing you, and I must ask your advice. What would you suggest I do? We should not stay too nearby if we wish to avoid creating distress, but I would not wish the doctor to be stranded here.”

  The Beauchenes exchanged a peculiar look. “Captain,” Beauchene said, “I am afraid the only thing I can suggest is that you stay here, where you are most welcome, and wait for Dr. Colbert.”

  “Thank you, that is very generous,” Marshall said, “but I must return to—”

  “You cannot leave, Captain.”

  Marshall started up in alarm, the dog in Madame Beauchene’s lap yipped, and Étienne Beauchene hastily raised both hands. “No, no, I do not threaten you, sir. You are no prisoner. You cannot leave because you have no ship.”

  His blood went cold. “What do you mean?”

  “Jean-Claude was watching when you came ashore. He told me that you had barely passed our gates when your ship’s sails fell open, and—” He flicked his hand. “Like the wind, she was gone.”

  THERE WAS one thing to be said for running full-out—it left no time to brood. And the Mermaid could run like a thoroughbred. With all canvas spread and a hull clean as a razor, she cut smoothly through the gray water at a speed that amazed him. Archer had taken the helm under other conditions, but this—this! If only Will had been aboard, he’d have asked for nothing better.

  He called up to the lookout and got the answer he wanted—no sign of the other ship, and no surprise, given their speed.

  Barrow, standing a few feet away, caught Archer’s eye. “Even if they saw us, sir, they’d never catch her.” He touched the wooden rail as he said it—no sense tempting luck—but he was as proud of the schooner as if she were his own.

  Archer nodded, with a smile. The nagging question of whether it had been necessary to run was something to be considered later. What he needed to decide now was his next move. They were sailing west-northwest, heading across the Bay of the Seine and moving toward the point of Bonfleur. They could sail around the Point—assuming they met no other ships—or they could simply turn north and head out into the Channel toward England.

  If the unknown ship was a French vessel cruising along the shore, patrolling for foreign traffic, they’d be out of sight so long as they maintained at least sixteen miles’ distance—that being approximately what Archer calculated as the distance necessary to keep the curve of the earth between the two ships. He knew Will would calculate the figure to the second decimal point, in his head, just for fun—but with no time to work it out on a slate, Archer was willing to use a rough guess.

  He decided to take that chance. His other two choices were to head around Bonfleur and put into harbor, in his merchant guise, or to head out around Bonfleur on an ever-widening arc that would leave them heading toward Weymouth. He didn’t like either option; they would both require too much time to beat back to rendezvous with Will.

  North it was, then. Head out into the Channel, circle around, and be ready to run straight in at night and hope to see Will’s signal, hoping all the while that the mast they had seen had belonged to some English trading vessel, and Will would come aboard with Dr. Colbert and scold him for being too quick to take evasive action.

  And it might not be the worst idea to tarry for a few hours at one of the rendezvous points on their confidential chart, in hopes that a messenger vessel might happen along. It was not that Archer wished Dr. Colbert any ill—he wished him nothing but good fortune—but if there had been another change in plans or some disaster, he might need to lay plans for a rescue rather than a rendezvous.

  WILL MARSHALL eyed the shelf of mathematical tomes in Étienne Beauchene’s study with ill-concealed envy. “I would not trade places with you, sir… but I might hope to return here, when our countries finally come to terms with one another.”

  “I wish you may,” Beauchene said. “I have here also the Journal and the Correspondence of the École Polytechnique. It is not reading that everyone would enjoy, but I believe it would suit your taste.”

  “It would, indeed.” Marshall could only think of how ill-timed this meeting was. If he had somehow been able to stay here for those months after the treaty had been signed, instead of moping in Portsmouth, what might he have learned in that time?

  He could almost hear Davy’s comment on that: “Seduced away by a book of French geometry. I might have expected something of the sort.” But, of course, he wasn’t seduced by it, just a bit wistful for the chance he’d missed. If he had not been in Portsmouth, he would not have been reunited with his lover, and Davy was worth any amount of theory, mathematical or otherwise. For that matter, if he had not been such a dolt, he would have returned to Jamaica and spent those months in heaven, and that would have been best of all.

  Still… Davy was not here, and the books were. And so was Étienne Beauchene, who had mentioned that he seldom had visitors and was so delighted to have someone to talk to. It would be beyond rude to dive into the library and ignore such a generous host.

  “If it would not be trespassing upon matters pertaining to the military,” he said, “may I ask what line of this great work your own studies have followed?”

  “My friend, what element of the mathematics cannot be applied to war? What part of any science is not dragged into battle? But for my part, I have taken my teacher’s study of the curves of curvatu
re, and continued the investigation. Since M. le Comte was appointed to the Senate, he has not much time for his studies.”

  “You have much to study right outside your door, then,” Marshall said. “The slope of these hills down to the sea—”

  Beauchene laughed. “Yes! Poor Jean-Claude, every time I call, he rushes for the line and level. He climbs where I dare not.”

  Something he had said a moment before set off a flare in Marshall’s mind. Gaspard Monge. Appointed to the Senate? Monge of the Sénat Conservateur, the Comte de Péluse? “You referred to your teacher,” he said. “Did you actually study with M. Monge?”

  “Yes, at the École Polytechnique. That was only for a little while, when my father was alive. When he died, I returned home. The town is quiet now, with many of the people at the cider house out in the orchard, but in the season of harvest, I have no time for my books, except those of the orchard and presses.”

  “Of course!” Marshall looked more closely at the label of the bottle on the sideboard, beside the glasses they had used a little while earlier. “Calvado—I should have realized.”

  “Yes. This district has grown apples since the time of Charlemagne. But come, seat yourself, let me show you my studies of the slope of that hillside.” He waved toward the window that looked out on the land behind the chateau and began taking papers from a shelf.

  “I should be very pleased to see them,” Marshall said, but as he took a chair, only a small part of his attention was interested in geometry. Did Beauchene realize what he had just said—what he had just revealed to an enemy officer? This pleasant, sociable scholar was doing research for a member of Bonaparte’s Senate, the body of men who were nearly as powerful as Napoleon himself. This village might be small and peaceful-looking, but the work going on here could be used to undermine fortresses, improve the ballistics of French cannon, take Bonaparte a step closer to world domination.

  And for reasons known only to God and himself, Davy’s uncle by marriage had chosen this as the ideal spot for a clandestine rendezvous.

  The French have a word for it, Marshall thought. And the word was merde.

  Chapter 7

  “I SEE a light, sir, but I don’t much like it.”

  “Steady on….” Archer brought the glass to bear, but even as he did, he knew it wasn’t the signal they were waiting for. It was too low, too close to the water. “You’re right. That’s not Captain Marshall, unless he’s cut out a French frigate. Good thing the leaves are down, or the trees would hide them completely.”

  Barrow swore. “It’s the same ship, sir. Still there. Squatting like a toad, just inside the point.”

  And not likely to leave, either. Archer wondered whether the Frenchman had already sent men ashore and captured Will, or whether they were just waiting for the ship that had dropped him. Did they know someone had landed? Were they in contact with the village, or simply observing?

  “Stay on course, then, Barrow.” He passed the wheel to the bosun and put his own glass to his eye. They were just barely in view of the Frenchman at this point, cutting across the horizon well out of range of even a long nine. It would be interesting if he decided to give chase. Not that the distraction would benefit Will in any way. Even if he was still at liberty, he’d have no way to get to the Mermaid once the coast was clear.

  After half an hour, it became evident that so long as the schooner did not approach the shore, the French frigate was going to ignore her. Very well, then. Someone must have noticed the English ship showing so much interest in a tiny village on an insignificant strip of shoreline. But perhaps, rather than risk breaking the peace before Bonaparte was good and ready, they were just setting a guard dog at the door. If they had seriously intended to capture the Mermaid, their lights would be out—or they would have waited around the spit of land and let her sail in close, then blocked the mouth of the harbor.

  What was happening ashore? Had Dr. Colbert ever appeared? Was Beauchene still at the chateau—and if so, was he friend or foe? Their mission was supposed to be for the collection of information, and all he had thus far was a growing list of questions. And the questions that mattered the most weren’t even part of the mission, not really. Was Will all right? Was he even still alive?

  And how long was it going to be before they had an answer?

  DEAR WILL,

  I hope this finds you well. In fact, I hope this finds you at all, since I do not know if my previous letter has been able to catch up with you, wherever you may be.

  Kit tells me there is a good chance that a treaty will be signed ending hostilities with France, at least temporarily. If this should happen, he has instructed me to tell you that you are always welcome here—and I can wholeheartedly second his invitation. Pleasant as England is, I do not think that sceptered isle can boast a bathing pond as pleasant as the one I showed you that afternoon of your last visit. I would be delighted to return there, in your company—it was the most delightful afternoon I can remember; I think I will never tire of that splendid waterfall.

  I am regaining my strength, but am not yet robust enough to stand the rigors of a trip to England. Please, should you have the chance, find yourself a ship bound for the West Indies. If they will not let you work your passage, I expect you have prize money enough to cover the cost of a ticket (which I believe would be unnecessary—what captain would not trade hammock-space for the services of such an excellent navigator?) Once you are here, I would be more than happy to see to your physical needs.

  Oh, the devil with it—I have funds, my dear friend. If your savings have been stolen by some unscrupulous agent, I will pay for your passage. You need bring only your tooth-brush and a change of clothing. There is work to be done here—simple transport of supplies and the like between islands, but there has been some unrest and your talents would not be wasted.

  Kit is all one could wish for in a host; he is the best of cousins, but I do miss your company.

  Yours, truly,

  D S-J

  Marshall folded the letter, returned it to the parchment-wrapped bundle, and blew out the candle on the bedside table before settling down to sleep in the spacious but chilly bed Beauchene had provided.

  Except that he could not sleep. The ache that had lodged in his chest when he left Davy at Kit’s estate over a year ago returned full-force, amplified by guilt. That waterfall…. It had been an Eden for both of them, that hidden grotto behind the falls where they had made love with a freedom they’d never known before or since. He could feel himself growing hard at the memory of Davy, naked and wet as some wild creature, incomparably beautiful in the sunlight filtering through the falling water. It all felt like so very long ago, and the knowledge that he had deprived Davy of any comfort through his own boneheadedness was hard to bear.

  How could he have been so utterly stupid that he would not even open and answer letters from someone he loved more than life itself? The longing was there in every line, and even the knowledge that Will, raised in modest circumstances, would be fearful of squandering the money he had saved after their respectable prize winnings from cruises aboard Calypso and Valiant. But the truth was, he could have paid his fare a dozen times over, and expense had never been an issue. It was far more complicated than that, and instead of facing the truth, he had fled. Hardly what one could expect of a bold officer of His Majesty’s Navy!

  Strange, how time could change one’s awareness. He could see, now, how thoroughly he had deceived himself. Letting Davy go for his own good? Not really. That action had been entirely selfish, driven by his own fear of loss, with a bit of clever rationalization to make it seem magnanimous. Davy had been shrewd enough to see through that… but why had he not been sensible enough to stay away?

  I don’t deserve him. He said that often, and the proof was plain in his behavior these past few weeks. On the one hand, he had embraced his lost love, but as soon as they were in a situation where he could justify estrangement, he had used every excuse to avoid sharing his feelin
gs or his body.

  How many times had they managed to find some quiet space aboard the Calypso or the Valiant? Even when there was little time or privacy, a few minutes was all they really needed. But aboard the Mermaid, he had refused, time and again, to show Davy that he was worth the risk. And he could see how unhappy Davy was. After all David Archer had done, all he had given—even the Mermaid herself, and the chance to save some of their old shipmates from shore-bound poverty—Marshall still seemed hell-bent on destroying the most precious thing he’d ever had.

  In the chill quiet of the wintry night, William Marshall looked honestly at himself and his deeds. He wondered if he had somehow gone mad from grief the previous summer, without being aware of it. So much of what he’d done since he’d fallen to his knees beside Davy’s grave now seemed like the behavior of a madman. Yes, the grave had been a sham, but the grief had been real. It had been something he’d feared ever since they first became lovers, but that near miss had hammered it home.

  Was he still trying to destroy their love to protect himself from that pain? It certainly seemed so.

  And this situation in which he now found himself…. What had he really accomplished? Trapped here, with some hulking French frigate blocking the harbor—what was he going to do if Dr. Colbert did appear? Why had he not taken Davy’s advice, and simply waited? And why had he insisted on coming ashore—why had he not sent a couple of the men, to ask permission to get water or some other essential?

  At least he knew the answer to that last question: he would not send his men into danger under these circumstances. In wartime, they might be taken prisoner; in this situation, they might be charged as spies and executed. By going himself, openly and unarmed, he stood the best chance of having his story accepted. And only he or Davy could have done that, so he had to be the one.