Winds of Change & Eye of the Storm

by Lee Rowan

  “You can see I did not require it.”

  “That is problematic, m’sieu, but your mother’s social connection with Colbert will be taken into consideration. Still, you must not be perceived to be above the law. You will be allowed to denounce these two and be exonerated, but until then—”

  “Denounce them!” The crack of anger in Étienne’s voice was like a pistol shot; Marshall had not expected such vehemence. “Before God, I will not! You cannot expect me to perjure myself for your perceptions—these men have done nothing!”

  “As you like. If you wish to make friends of spies and Englishmen, it is your neck. Come, there is nothing to be gained by delay.”

  The door was swung open again, and Marshall automatically offered Étienne his arm as they were herded down the walkway to the beach. It was as dark as he had hoped it would be, with only the dim starlight reflecting on the white stones that marked the edges of the path. Had these agents of Bonaparte been watching the house all afternoon? Did they know where the skiff lay concealed in the wooded inlet on the other side of the point?

  He had to hope they did not, and that he and Colbert could overpower five armed men long enough for them to get Étienne away. Once they were aboard the French ship, all hope would be gone.

  “Arrêtez! Nous avons des pistolets!”

  Everyone froze, including Marshall, who would know that voice anywhere but could not believe his ears until Davy said, “Will, get their weapons, would you?”

  Dr. Colbert had Étienne’s other arm; Marshall released him with a gentle push toward the doctor, just as Dupont whirled and fired at the sound of Davy’s voice.

  White-hot rage flamed through Marshall. He threw himself on the Frenchman without thinking, wanting nothing more than to pound him through the gravel path and into the earth. Dupont struggled—it seemed as if he was trying to get to some other weapon, possibly a knife, but Will’s knee pinned the Frenchman’s hand. He grabbed the man’s shoulders and banged his head against the ground until Dupont stopped moving. He stopped himself then—not because he wanted to, but because he knew that killing the bastard could be the spark that reignited the war.

  From the furor around him, it sounded as though everyone had leapt into the brawl, and then it was quiet. Marshall closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Mr. St. John?”

  “At your service, sir.” Davy came up behind him, close enough that when Marshall leaned back on his heels, his shoulder touched Davy’s leg. “I hope you didn’t kill him.”

  “No, he’s still breathing.” Marshall stayed where he was, enjoying that casual contact. It was dark enough that no one could see. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, certainly, it’s only a scratch.”

  His heart stuttered. “You’re hurt? The doctor can—”

  “No, Captain.” A quick squeeze on his shoulder belied the formal address. “Literally a scratch. He missed me completely, but they’ve some damned fierce bramble bushes here. How many did you see? I counted six.”

  Will climbed to his feet, made out the dim shapes of Étienne and Dr. Colbert, who both seemed unharmed. “We only saw five.”

  “They left a guard outside. He’s trussed up in the shrubbery.” Davy turned to one of his men. “Owen?”

  “We’ve got ’em all, sir. Alive, like you said.”

  “Good. Awake?”

  “Two are.”

  “Tie ’em up and bring them along.” In an undertone, he said, “We’ll have to find someplace to put them, something they can’t get out of in a hurry. Will?”

  “I don’t know. Just a moment—Monsieur Étienne Beauchene, this is David St. John, my employer and friend.”

  “I had guessed that,” Étienne said wryly, offering his hand. “It is good to meet you at last, sir. We have a wine cellar that can be locked from without, and should serve. What are your plans?”

  “Escape, of course. From the sound of things, you may want to join us.” He embraced Dr. Colbert, raising his voice a bit to be sure their prisoners could hear. “Uncle Jacques, are you all right? How could you have caused us such confusion? We would have met you in Le Havre!”

  Under Colbert’s loudly expressed apologies and explanations, Davy turned to Marshall. “A diversion will shortly commence. Would you care to take command?”

  “Not in the least, sir. It’s your expedition. How did you get here?”

  “Around the blind side of the point after nightfall in the boat, then up through the woods. Barrow will bring the Mermaid in to pick us up as soon as the frigate’s chased Sir Percy over the horizon.” Davy grinned. “Percy’s holding a revel on his yacht, the fireworks are meant as entertainment, and he’s got some French dignitary or other aboard, so when the frigate catches him, they’ll have to let him go. He does that bird-witted aristo act so very well. Is that your dinghy below?”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid we’ll need it. It isn’t just me and the doctor, now. We’ve got to take Beauchene with us—he was arrested for associating with the doctor—and Dr. Colbert’s fiancée.”

  “His… his what?”

  “And her dog, as well. I don’t think she’d leave the little fellow behind, and it would take a braver man than I am to ask it of her.” Marshall congratulated himself. For the first time in longer than he could remember, David Archer was rendered speechless.

  Then the explosions started, somewhere on the other side of the chateau.

  “That’s our diversion,” Davy said. “We’d better hurry.”

  THE NEXT half-hour took on the mad, organized chaos of a ship’s deck during a battle. Madame Beauchene met them at the door with an antique pistol and Jean-Claude brandishing a musket that probably dated back a hundred years, but she happily put the artillery aside when her fiancé explained that the gunfire was caused by an English ship sending off signal rockets to lure the French frigate out to sea. Will went off with Beauchene to help him get his papers together, and Archer supervised the incarceration of their prisoners.

  He shook their leader awake once his men were safely locked in the wine cellar. “Sir, I understand you meant to arrest my uncle.”

  “Your uncle,” said Dupont, “is a spy, and should be executed.”

  “Those are harsh words, sir, and I think you are mistaken. Still, I will take him out of your country and he will not trouble you again. Madame Beauchene has asked to accompany my uncle, so I will take her as well. Her son said he ought to stay here at the chateau. He claims to have a friend in the government who can clear up this misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding! It is a crime! Your government will hear of this—sending its agents to attack the official police!”

  Time to lay the false trail. “Sir, I am sorry we meet under such difficult circumstances, but Mr. Bonaparte will have to shout himself hoarse to be heard all the way to Canada. I never came here to attack the official police, but my cousin would take it very ill if I allowed anyone to chop off her father’s head. I don’t plan to linger on this side of the Atlantic—Europe is too exciting for a peaceful man like myself.”

  He had no idea if the furious Frenchman would believe him, but he knew that David St. John would soon cease to exist in any event. “By the by, I’ve decided to take Mr. Beauchene along despite what he says. We’ll set him ashore wherever he wants to go, but you might tell the captain of that frigate that we have the Senator’s friend aboard, and he should think twice before firing on us.”

  The look of uncertainty on Dupont’s unpleasant face was a lovely thing. Was Beauchene an escaping criminal, or a hostage? Archer had a fair notion that it would take someone well up Dupont’s chain of command to make that decision. Confusion to the enemy!

  “We’ve tied up Mr. Beauchene’s servant,” he added. “He should be able to work himself free eventually, and he’ll come down and release you. In the meantime… well, it is a wine cellar, you may as well drown your sorrows.” He nodded to Spencer, who hoisted the trussed-up officer to his feet and pushed him in with hi
s men.

  Archer locked the cellar door and met Will at the top of the stairs. “Are you ready?”

  Will looked flustered. “I’m sorry—I need a few men to carry some papers.”

  “What?”

  “Mathematics, Davy. Wonderful stuff. Beauchene’s research. He cannot just leave it behind.”

  Archer only rolled his eyes and called for Korthals and Spencer to go assist Captain Marshall. “Some papers” turned out to be two stout chests full of books and other material that Beauchene apparently could not live without. His mother, in contrast, was already standing by the front door with a small case, her maid, and a covered basket that emitted the occasional muffled yip.

  “Madame, I am impressed with your efficiency,” Archer said.

  She regarded him from under the hood of her cloak, with an expression that was almost a smile. “Young man, I have reached an age where I know what is truly important.”

  He felt as though he had stumbled into a fairy tale, where the magical old woman was about to impart some precious secret. “And that is?”

  “The only things of any value are those whom you love, who love you in return. All else can be replaced.”

  He caught his breath at the strange coincidence, then bowed to kiss her hand. “Thank you, Madame. I have found that to be true.”

  “Then you have learned it younger than most. Some never do. Shall we go, monsieur?”

  The scramble down to the cove was not something Archer would have wanted to try again, not with civilians in his care. Dr. Colbert attended Madame Beauchene with the greatest attention, Will kept her nearsighted son from breaking his neck on the steep slope, and the maid, Yvette, was handed over to the tender care of the Owen twins. The rest of the Mermaids were stuck hauling those damned trunks.

  The Owens sloshed knee-deep into the icy water, bringing the skiff close enough for Madame Beauchene, Dr. Colbert, and her maid to step into from a rocky outcrop. Klingler volunteered to pilot that boat; he said he’d run a skiff as a boy that was its spitting image. Four passengers—and one small dog—was about the limit of its capacity.

  The rest of them squeezed into the Mermaid’s boat. Beauchene was not a bulky man, so the boat’s trim was not affected much; he was agreeable to being squeezed in between Will and Archer. But his dunnage… Archer was not entirely happy about those trunks. Besides being heavy and awkward, their contents might cause French Intelligence to be extremely upset when they learned Monsieur Beauchene had taken so much of his work with him. That known theft might transform this little escapade from a family rescue to an international incident.

  On the other hand, if it was significant information, Sir Percy would be pleased. And if they could somehow arrange a safe return for their “hostage,” research and all, that would be even better. Beauchene’s status and his trunks were a problem for another day, and a matter for the diplomats. For now he had Will back, that was the important thing.

  Except… he wouldn’t have him back, would he? Not for a day or two, at least. They would have to give their cabin to Madame Beauchene and her maid… and where the devil were they going to put two more passengers? For that matter, where were they going to put themselves?

  That, obviously, was a matter for the Mermaid’s captain to decide.

  “I SEE how it is that you love him.”

  Marshall glanced up from his log entry to see that Étienne had come into the Captain’s cabin without a sound. Davy was on the deck of Sir Percy’s yacht, and most of the Mermaid’s crew was busy transferring Étienne’s dunnage and the other passengers.

  They were alone for the first time since Marshall had returned to the schooner; it had been as crowded as Noah’s Ark, and they’d wound up sleeping in hammocks slung above their provisions, in company with all the off-duty crewmen.

  “I’m glad you do,” Marshall said, warmed by his generosity. “I do not believe I could live without him.”

  “He could be another Bonaparte. That rescue… formidable. He has such courage—he would walk through fire for you. If I did not love you so much, I would be jealous. But how do you keep away the fear?”

  Marshall winced. “Thank God he hasn’t the ambition to be a Bonaparte. He’s far too reasonable. As to the danger….” He sighed. “I wish I knew how to keep it away. I wish I could. Every day….”

  Étienne closed the distance between them. “If you ever find you must live without him—and he is a beautiful man, I wish him long life—please think of me.” He stooped to place a quick, gentle kiss on Will’s lips—the sort one might give a brother, or a friend. “I shall go now. Please, stay here, or I should find it too difficult to go.”

  Marshall took his hand. “Étienne…. If a sailor’s blessing has any power… I hope you find your heart’s desire.” Overcoming his shyness, he dropped a kiss upon the Frenchman’s hand.

  “I, too.” Étienne smiled. “But not at the cost of another’s life. Adieu, mon cher.”

  The door closed quietly behind him.

  Chapter 11

  FOR THE first time in longer than he could remember, William Marshall looked forward to Christmas with high anticipation. He had his own ship, the salary of a Commander in His Majesty’s Navy, and he had even, out of the Mermaid’s operating budget, been able to allocate a few pounds for a Christmas treat for his crew. It wouldn’t be much, but roast goose, plum pudding, and fresh vegetables were rare enough aboard ship, even in this season.

  The feast would be a complete surprise to everyone but Barrow; his bosun had arranged to pick up the food when they passed Lands’ End on their way back across the Channel. Davy had even chipped in for a bag of rare, imported oranges, one for each man. The December chill was working in their favor, as far as provisions were concerned—cold enough to keep the food from spoiling but warm enough that the oranges wouldn’t freeze.

  Davy…. His presence on the Mermaid was both a joy and a continual source of anxiety for its captain. Marshall didn’t know what would become of Davy when the Peace was broken. He didn’t want to lose him from the crew, but—

  “A moment, Captain?” The object of his musings appeared at his elbow.

  “What is it, Mr. St. John?” He would be glad when they could dispense with this nonsense. The crew members who knew his real identity were trustworthy, and Sir Percy had said the St. John identity would be retired at the end of the year. That was fine with Marshall; he’d thought it a silly complication from the start.

  “If you could come below, sir?” Davy asked blandly.

  Marshall frowned. “Can it wait until the change of watch?”

  His lover raised an eyebrow. “Captain Marshall, do you intend to rest at the end of this watch?”

  He sighed. “Um….”

  “My point precisely. Will, you can’t avoid me indefinitely, this vessel’s not big enough. I don’t understand what it is that’s bothering you. Was it something I said?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What have I done, then?”

  “Nothing!”

  “All right.” Davy’s blue eyes were inscrutable as the sea. “There’s nothing wrong, I’ve given no offense, but you haven’t been coming into the cabin until long after I’m asleep, and you’re up and gone before I wake. What am I to think?”

  Marshall glanced around anxiously.

  “There’s no one in earshot, Will, you can trust me for that!”

  He didn’t know what to say. “I’ve had things on my mind….” Which was an understatement. All his resolution had deserted him after their escape; every time he had meant to approach Davy with a view to making love, he had been distracted by one thing or another, or one of the crew required his attention. Was he losing his nerve?

  “Come below. Please?”

  He sighed again. “Very well.” He called to Barrow, gave him the helm, and followed Davy below to their shared cabin.

  He was half-expecting to be pounced upon, was actually hoping for it; instead, Davy slipped the door-latch shut
and faced him, his eyes troubled. “Will, what is wrong?”

  “There’s nothing wrong.”

  “I see.” He ran a hand through his short, thick cap of hair. “No, I don’t see. It’s been over a month since you’ve shown any interest in what used to be a favorite activity. I thought there must be a reason. If I’ve done nothing, and nothing else is wrong—” He bit his lip, an old nervous habit that told Marshall the airy tone was a sham, and went on, “—shall I assume you’ve just lost interest? Should I—” He turned away, tugging at the line that held his cot suspended on his side of the tiny cabin they shared. “Would you prefer that I leave the Mermaid when we return to Portsmouth?”

  The question struck Marshall like a blow. “What? No! Of course not!”

  “Then, for God’s sake, Will, talk to me!” His voice was low, but all the more intense for that. “I received news in the last mail packet, when we turned the French delegation over to Sir Percy. Good news, I thought, but until I know your mind on this, I’m no longer certain.”

  “What news?”

  Davy shook his head. “Not until you tell me this: is it your wish that I stay with you when you return to regular duty in the Navy?”

  He opened his mouth to say “Of course,” and a hammer-blow of memory stopped him, the horror of seeing Davy carried belowdecks with a spreading red stain on his white waistcoat, the week of dread as they sailed back to Kingston, and the double loss—first when he thought Davy had died, and then again after he’d healed, but duty took Marshall back to sea alone.

  “How do you keep away the fear?”

  Will had always been aware of his own mortality, but the constant expectation of his own death had allowed him to appear fearless. This, though—the razor-sharp knowledge that Davy might die—somehow that was even more frightening. Dying, especially a quick death, held little terror compared to the pain of going on alone.

  Davy’s question had no simple answer. And even though Marshall was Captain of the Mermaid, that was one decision he had no right to make unilaterally. He hated the thought of having to choose.