by Regan Walker
She had seen her uncle and M’sieur Bequel fight before as merchants defending their cargo and she knew they had once been pirates, so she was not surprised by their prowess with a blade. From the smiles on their faces as they confronted the stiff republican soldiers, they appeared to be enjoying themselves.
Dressed all in black, her uncle untied his cloak and let it fall to the ground. Like a menacing storm, he advanced on his prey, teasing them with his shimmering blade. Outnumbered, her uncle and M’sieur Bequel fought side by side, slicing their blades across their opponents’ swords, causing them to retreat.
Zoé placed herself in front of Pax, guarding the boy with her knife, but the men were too consumed with their fighting to notice her or the lad.
To her amazement, Freddie handled his sword adeptly, confident in his moves as if he’d fought many times before. He swiftly parried the soldier’s thrusts. Much like her uncle, his movements were precise, his style fluid, almost graceful. Twice he turned so rapidly his blade made a rushing sound as it whipped through the air, astounding his opponent.
Where did he learn to fight like that?
A soldier managed to cut the cuff of her uncle’s sleeve. He paused to glance down at the frayed cloth. “Alas, ’twas one of my favorites.” Turning back to the two soldiers who had stopped to gloat, her uncle said, “Enough of this banter! We have no time to teach you braggarts how to fight.” He pulled a pistol from his waist and shot one soldier dead, then quickly dispatched the other with a thrust of his blade.
“Well, if it’s to be like that,” said Émile Bequel, obviously disappointed.
One of his two opponents lunged toward him. M’sieur Bequel snatched his pistol from his waist and fired into the man’s head at close range. The other soldier stared at his fallen companion while Émile slid a knife from his sleeve and threw it at the soldier’s neck. He sank to the stone floor, a gurgling sound emanating from his throat.
Zoé’s mouth dropped open, amazed at how the fifty-year-old quartermaster had fought like a much younger man. She turned to see Freddie sinking his sword into the flesh of the soldier he fought. The man dropped to his knees.
“Well, that’s done,” he said smiling at her.
The last soldier standing was no match for Gaspar. Surveying the field of dead Blues and realizing he was the only one of Donet’s men still fighting, the former ship’s carpenter forced his opponent to the wall, knocked his sword from his hand and sliced the man’s throat. “I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting,” Gaspar said to her uncle as he quickly wiped clean his sword and sheathed it.
Turning his attention to the jailor huddled against the wall, worrying his red cap in his hands, her uncle said, “Care to engage one of us?” Sweeping his arm in front of his companions, he said, “You can take your pick. We are very accommodating. We will even lend you one of our swords.”
The jailor vigorously shook his head, his eyes huge with fright.
“Then be gone with ye,” said M’sieur Bequel.
The thin man disappeared out the front door.
Freddie offered his hand to Zoé and she took it.
“You did well,” said Pax, gazing up at the Englishman he obviously adored.
Zoé squeezed Freddie’s hand, glad to be assured he lived. No matter he smelled like filth and rats. He was here with her. Not for the first time, she thanked God for this man who had offered his life for hers. “I thought you were wonderful.”
At her uncle’s shout, they raced out the door and piled into the waiting carriage, the men’s chests still heaving with the exertion of their fight.
Her uncle took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I would have preferred a quiet exit, but perhaps the prisoners will take this opportunity to escape.”
“They were already creeping into the entrance hall before we left,” said Zoé.
As the carriage traveled down the street, the horses’ hooves clattered over the cobblestones. Freddie leaned across her to peer out the window, looking back toward the Conciergerie. “A great flood of them is flowing out the door.” He leaned back against the seat and let out a breath. “I am more than pleased at least some of the prisoners made it to freedom. Perhaps they can slip into the crowds, unnoticed.”
Zoé smiled at him and then looked across him to Pax, who clung to Freddie’s side like a limpet securely attached to its favorite rock. With Isabeau, who had remained safely behind on la Reine Noire, there would be two children returning with them to Guernsey. Playmates for Jack, she supposed. Pax was about Jack’s age but Isabeau was older. She smiled thinking that would not deter Jack from ordering Isabeau about.
“I wonder who came for Dordogne,” said M’sieur Bequel, his dark brows furrowed in contemplation.
“Assuredly, one of his own,” replied Gaspar. “Fearing the capitaine as he does, he would not have left except at the command of one to whom he was accountable.”
Remembering the odd look Dordogne had given her, Zoé said, “Oncle Jean, that man, François de Dordogne, gave me the strangest look when he first glimpsed me. Why?”
Her uncle gazed out the window, scanning the street, as if still worried about pursuers. “I suspect ’tis because you look very much like my daughter, Claire. She was your age at the time Dordogne was contracted to wed her. Though her eyes are blue and yours are gray, you both have the Donet hair and it’s been years. At the time, I was unaware that Dordogne had deceived me, that he hid a secret that would forever keep him from being a proper husband.”
“Aye,” said M’sieur Bequel, his mouth twitching up in an uncharacteristic grin. “Must have brought back some bad memories for him. He might even have thought the capitaine brought ye along to remind him of his perfidy.”
Freddie raised Zoé’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.
His warm lips on her skin reminded Zoé of his kiss in the forest that had caught her by surprise and forever changed the way she looked at him. Returning him a contented smile, she breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, Freddie was safely returned to her and soon they would be sailing to Guernsey. The future opened wide before them. Not that the war was over, but they could face it together, no longer merely friends but more. Did her uncle and the others notice the more intimate nature of their friendship?
Still holding her hand, Freddie leaned toward her uncle sitting across from them with Gaspar on one side and M’sieur Bequel on the other. “I know this may seem sudden, sir, and I am not dressed for the occasion, but I have waited years to approach you on a certain subject. I can wait no longer.”
All eyes on Freddie, his gaze paused on each man before continuing. “Now that it appears I’m to live, if you give your permission and Zoé will have me, I would like to ask her to become my wife.”
Zoé beamed her happiness at hearing Freddie’s intention and squeezed his hand. She could think of no other man she would rather have. Her best friend had become the man of her dreams, the one man she wanted by her side forever.
Her uncle glanced at her with raised brows. “Zoé?” Beside him, M’sieur Bequel nodded his approval.
“Oh, oui, Oncle Jean. I love him!”
Freddie flashed his white teeth in a broad smile aimed at her. “And I you.”
“I daresay your aunt will be pleased,” said her uncle. “She hinted of this to me not long ago. You did not mention a dowry, West. I assume it is of no matter to you?”
“None at all, sir.”
“Well it matters to me!” Zoé spoke up.
Her uncle chuckled. “I thought it might. ’Tis a considerable one, West, large enough to buy you and my niece a nicely appointed house on Guernsey, should you choose to live there. Or, if you prefer, a ship of your own.”
His words pleased Zoé. She would not go to Freddie a pauper. “Thank you, Oncle Jean.”
Freddie smiled. “Very generous of you, sir.”
“So be it,” her uncle said, “you have my permission, West. But I must insist on a Guernsey wedding, else y
our sister will have my head.”
Laughter filled the carriage at her uncle’s macabre humor. It was clear they were all relieved to be quitting Paris.
Pax looked up at Freddie, his dark eyes speaking confusion. “Are we going home now?” he asked in a small but hopeful voice.
“Indeed we are,” said Freddie, pulling the boy to him. “To paradise, I’m thinking.”
Chapter 14
Onboard la Reine Noire off the northwest coast of Brittany, France, 30 May
Freddie peered through the spyglass, seeing only dense fog but sensing ships lay hidden within the heavy mist. “They’re out there, I can feel it.”
He handed the glass to Donet, standing at his side.
Donet frowned, his black eyes speaking his displeasure at the delay caused by the fog. “Admiral Howe would not have sent the message requesting my presence on the Queen Charlotte were he not intending to be here. ’Tis a far distance from Brest but I am certain the French fleet is close by as well.”
Freddie had read the message waiting for Donet when they’d arrived on Guernsey in which Howe said Prime Minister Pitt thought Donet could provide useful intelligence on the French Navy. Dispatched from the port of Brest under the command of Admiral Villaret, with whom la Reine Noire had tangled on the Channel months before, the French fleet was to protect an American convoy carrying corn to famine-threatened France. Howe’s orders were to block the grain shipment from reaching its destination.
Freddie looked toward the aft hatch. The woman who would soon be his bride slept belowdecks. He had wanted Zoé to stay on Guernsey but all his persuading was to no avail. “Pigeon, my sister is eager to help plan the wedding. Why not stay and oblige her?”
“How can you ask me to stay behind when I have only just got you back? Non,” she said, pouting her perfect lips. “There will be no sailing away without me. I am going with you.”
When he told Donet that Zoé intended to sail with them, her uncle shrugged. “As French merchantmen flying the flag of the Republic, we will not be subject to an attack by Villaret and we are expected by Howe. Our business can soon be concluded and we will return to Guernsey.”
Freddie’s time on the island with Zoé, though brief, had been sweet. Whenever they could, they escaped into the gardens to be alone. She had welcomed his kisses, whetting his appetite for the honeymoon he had long dreamed of. Now that he was assured of her love, he wanted her safe, away from the war.
But the French temptress could be stubborn when it came to dismissing risk.
Once on board la Reine Noire, she had advised him if fighting began she would not again be sent to the orlop deck. “Absolument pas!” The fury in her gray eyes only made her more beautiful rendering his objection a faint protest he soon abandoned.
He could hardly refuse Donet’s request to join him after the daring rescue he had undertaken on Freddie’s behalf, snatching him from the jaws of Paris’ guillotine. At least Freddie had managed to leave Pax and Isabeau in his sister’s care on Guernsey, which delighted Jack, who assumed the new arrivals were for him to supervise.
And so, here he was, sailing into what might be the largest naval battle of the war, worrying about Zoé every minute.
When Donet heeded Admiral Howe’s call, Freddie had asked about the ships in the British Channel Fleet and learned that the HMS Orion, on which Zack Barlow’s son, Danny, served was among them. Freddie remembered telling Zack he would bring him a report on his son but he never expected to be an eyewitness to a battle in which Danny might play a role.
“Do you think those French ships that passed us yesterday were a part of the grain convoy?” he asked Donet. Since la Reine Noire flew the Republic’s flag, the French ships of the line had sailed right past them, heading for Brest, their home port.
“Non. The grain convoy, I suspect, has yet to arrive. More likely, Villaret was sending the ships we saw to Brest for repairs. At least one had received serious damage from what I could see.”
Freddie stared into the fog trying to imagine a ship lurking in the gray mist. “Then the battle has already begun.”
“Most assuredly. At least a skirmish or two.”
The next day, to Freddie’s relief, the fog lifted and the day after, the first of June, early in the morning they found the Channel Fleet and Admiral Howe’s flagship, the Queen Charlotte.
“Can’t I go with you?” Zoé asked Freddie, hating the answer she knew was coming.
“No, mon amour.” He tapped her playfully on the nose. “For one thing, you are French and we will be boarding the flagship of the British commander of the Channel Fleet.” Her gaze shifted to her uncle who was just descending the manrope to the skiff. If he could go, why can’t—
As if reading her mind, Freddie said, “The only reason your uncle is invited to the Queen Charlotte is because Pitt requested he be consulted.”
She pursed her lips. “And you?”
“It seems as I am a spy for England, Pitt allowed that I, too, might be of help.”
She had always known he was working for England, but only after they’d returned from Paris did he tell her the accusations the republican soldiers hurled at him in the woods near Rennes were true. The coded message he had passed to her that was now in Philippe d’Auvergne’s hands would help England to meet the needs of the Chouans.
He was more gallant, more courageous than she had realized. And he was to be hers! The thought brought tears to her eyes and a tightness to her throat.
While she understood his refusal to take her aboard the Queen Charlotte, that did not diminish her disappointment. She had so wanted to see the ship her uncle had told her was the largest of the warships in the British Navy. “Oh very well,” she said on a sigh, “I shall just have to watch her hundred guns from here.”
“You’ll not be as close as that, Pigeon. Bequel has orders to keep la Reine Noire far from any battle.”
Aboard the Queen Charlotte in the North Atlantic west of Brittany
Freddie and Donet climbed aboard the admiral’s flagship where Howe and his officers met them. His full head of silver hair rendered him very distinguished in his dark blue frock coat with large gold buttons, white waistcoat and breeches. Freddie was surprised at the age of the admiral; he had to be near seventy. For a man of the sea, his face bore few lines, but beneath his bicorne hat, his cheeks were red.
The admiral, made 1st Earl Howe by a grateful King George, carried himself with rigid British formality as he shook their hands, his accent crisp. “Pitt trusts you, Donet. So, it seems, must I. And you, West. I’m told you have already supplied the government with useful intelligence. Perhaps you can provide me with more.” Gesturing them toward his great cabin, he said, “What can you tell me of Villaret’s officers, his crews?”
They entered the well-appointed stateroom containing so many books it could have been a shop on Oxford Street. Howe removed his hat and bid them sit in the chairs set around the large mahogany table that matched his smaller desk. The admiral’s forehead that had been protected by his bicorne hat remained the pale skin of an Englishman, unlike the rest of his sun-reddened face.
The steward, who’d been standing inside the door, poured coffee.
Taking a sip, Donet said, “Villaret’s officers, like himself, have little training and little experience. As you probably know, sir, the French ships are built to a high standard but the French Navy is in a state of confusion. So many senior officers were executed in the purge of last year that junior officers had to be raised before they were ready. Even merchant captains, some I know, were among those made officers.”
“Worse than I had imagined,” said Howe with a chuckle and a small smile aimed at Donet. Freddie had heard the admiral was a man of dry humor.
“Indeed, sir,” said Donet, “but I can assure you, given my loyalty to England in this war, I was not approached. Villaret himself was only a captain earlier this year when Mr. West and I engaged him in the Channel. Then, he commanded the Trajan.”
> “To your point about the high quality of the French ships,” offered Howe in a more serious tone, “Villaret’s flag now flies above the Montagne with her one hundred and twenty guns. Though I am reluctant to admit it, she is possibly the finest ship in the world.”
“He may have a fine ship,” offered Freddie, “but the supply crisis in France has contributed to the discontent that is rife among the French crews. From my observations of the French fleet off Brest for the past year, too often the crews are without pay and, at times, without food.”
“I see,” said the admiral staring out the stern windows.
“We were aware some battles have already occurred,” Donet said, “and observed a few of Villaret’s ships limping into Brest. How stands your fleet?”
“Twenty-five ships, though some have sustained damage. The only good news is that Villaret’s fleet has lost six ships. However, as of yesterday, I had a report four more have joined them, making our numbers nearly equal. Finish your coffee and we shall consult the master for the latest report.”
The admiral rose, accepted his hat from his steward and strode from his cabin to emerge onto the quarterdeck.
“Sir,” the master said, “the enemy fleet has been spotted six miles off the starboard bow steering in line of battle on the port tack.”
Freddie had heard the rumor that “Black Dick” Howe, as his sailors had dubbed him, never smiled except when a battle drew near. He was smiling now.
“Signal the fleet to form in line abreast,” ordered Howe. Then, addressing Freddie and Donet, “Too late for you to leave. It seems you are to have the privilege of witnessing our victory.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Donet, “I must send a message to my ship.”
“Why, of course. My signalmen are at your disposal to wave off your ship.”
Which is exactly what happened. Freddie looked not at the British fleet forming into a line to converge upon the French fleet, but to the brig-sloop veering off from the battle to come. “Thank God,” he said under his breath.
