by Regan Walker
“Émile Bequel is a seasoned captain, West, more than capable of getting la Reine Noire free of the battle lines. Worry not for my niece and my ship. We are more in danger than they.” But despite his words Donet’s black eyes stared intently toward la Reine Noire.
Satisfied Donet’s ship and Zoé were out of danger, Freddie turned his attention to the battle to come. Standing on the quarterdeck, he was awed by the twenty-five British ships moving in a line toward the French line of twenty-six. Pride welled in his chest as he realized that, in some small way, he’d served his country well in helping England fight a war she would surely win.
An hour later, the French opened fire, their mighty guns sounding loud in Freddie’s ears. But the shot was high. In turn, Howe ordered signal flags to be flown that called for his ships to turn into the French and engage in close action.
“An unusual move,” said Freddie.
“Aye,” said Donet. “The admiral has guts.”
The British fire raked the French ships through the stern, Howe’s fleet engaging them on the leeward side before the French guns could be brought to bear. The ocean exploded with the sound of guns firing, the white smoke shooting out from the gun ports. Soon the sky darkened with smoke from ships burning, the smell bitter in Freddie’s nostrils.
The Queen Charlotte was not immune to the French guns. Shot fell on the quarterdeck near where Freddie and Donet were standing. Twice Freddie had to dodge a falling timber and torn pieces of shrouds. Flayed loose rigging fell to the deck, winding around men, causing injuries. Officers and sailors were picked off by French marksmen, making Freddie glad he and Donet did not wear the distinctive uniforms that would have made them prime targets.
As Howe headed for the ladder to join his senior officers on the poop deck, he urged his guests to go below.
Freddie declined. “Damn my eyes, sir, but I’d not miss this for anything.”
At his side, Donet agreed, thanking the admiral. When the admiral had moved above them, Donet said, “We’ll not be providing the details of what we experience to your sister, agreed?”
Freddie nodded. He’d not be providing the details to Zoé either.
Walking with his senior officers on the poop deck, Admiral Howe seemed unfazed by his crew falling around him and the spars and rigging rattling down on all sides.
Amazed at Howe’s composure, Freddie heard Howe order no shot was to be fired. Instead, he ordered the pilot to lay the Queen Charlotte alongside the Montagne.
After pleas from his officers to allow them to return fire, Howe agreed to fire from the main and quarter decks but insisted they hold back the rest of his guns.
“Now that’s courage,” muttered Donet. “He’s reserving his broadside for the stern of the Montagne, a strategy I approve.”
A minute later, Freddie witnessed the power of those guns trained on Villaret’s flagship as the Queen Charlotte slowly passed through the French line between the huge three-decker Montagne and an eighty-gun French ship. So close did the ships pass that the tricolor flag, waving at Montagne’s flagstaff, brushed the Queen Charlotte’s mizzen rigging.
“Good God,” Freddie gasped when the blast from the broadside tore into Villaret’s ship, catching her unprepared.
“They didn’t expect an assault from leeward,” said Donet. “Inexperience and lack of foresight.”
Surely Howe will take her now, Freddie thought. But just then, the fore-topmast of the Queen Charlotte came clattering down with a loud crash. In the confusion, the badly damaged Montagne sheered off, leaving Admiral Howe to engage with the two French ships astern of her.
A terrible battle ensued, in which the Queen Charlotte lost her main topmast. With one topmast gone and rigging and yards badly damaged, Howe’s flagship had become practically unmanageable. One of his captains sent a lieutenant to ask if Howe wanted to transfer his flag.
The admiral vehemently refused.
At the end of the battle, the French Vengeur, having fought valiantly, began to sink. She displayed the British flag in submission and called for help. Three British ships sent boats into the water to pick up survivors. They were in time to save hundreds, though hundreds more went down with the ship.
The remaining French ships veered off in all directions. The British ships did not pursue but closed around the Queen Charlotte with their prizes. Except for four ships that had been disabled in the fighting, the British fleet was ready to renew battle.
“Shouldn’t he take the French ships now?” Freddie asked Donet. “They are easy prey, shattered, dismasted and riddled with shot.”
“Oui, I would have. But Howe seems content with his six prizes. And his victory. The republicans have lost thousands of sailors and the British, I would venture, have lost hundreds.”
The firing stopped shortly after one in the afternoon. As the smoke began to clear, Freddie gazed about the deck of the great warship strewn with pieces of mast, torn rigging and shrouds and bodies of men who had served their last post. In the ocean beyond, debris from wounded ships bobbed in the waters. All around the Queen Charlotte, damaged ships like so many broken toys cast aside by a destructive giant child managed to stay afloat.
Freddie recalled Pitt’s grave warning of an attack on England’s southern coast. The Prime Minister would be pleased to learn of Howe’s victory, accepting the price in men’s lives as necessary. To the British people who had feared an invasion, the defeat of the French fleet would mean an end to that threat. Freddie had to wonder if he’d not accepted Nepean’s challenge to become England’s spy, would he have been here today serving on one of the ships in the Channel Fleet?
The admiral carefully took the ladder down to the quarterdeck and walked toward them. To Freddie, Howe looked as if he was near collapse, but his spirit remained undaunted. “Got more of a show than you expected, eh?”
“Indeed, sir,” said Freddie. “Congratulations are in order. You successfully rendered half of the French fleet the passive spectator of the destruction of the other half.”
“Your intelligence was spot on,” said Howe, “and I took full advantage.”
“We were happy to help,” said Donet with a smile, offering his hand to Howe. “’Twas a job well done, Admiral.”
Howe shook Donet’s hand. “If you’ve a mind to depart, we can signal your ship and I’ll have a boat row you out.”
Donet thanked him.
As they looked toward the boat being lowered, Freddie paused and turned back to the admiral. “What news of the grain convoy?”
“None,” said Howe with a frown.
It was then Freddie remembered Danny Barlow. “Sir, might I inquire how the HMS Orion came through the battle? A good friend’s son, Lieutenant Barlow, serves aboard that ship.”
An officer handed a list to the admiral, pointing to one entry.
“The HMS Orion sustained only minor damage to the masts and rigging,” read Howe. “So, we can hope your young Lieutenant Barlow is well and happy to have been a part of so great a victory.”
“Thank you, sir. I do hope that is the case.”
As the admiral moved away to confer with one of his officers, Donet said, “Let’s go home. Zoé will be anxious to know if you’ve managed to cheat death once more, and I, for one, miss my wife and the flowers of Guernsey.”
Chapter 15
Zoé gripped the rail, her attention fixed on the longboat in the distance making steady progress cutting through the choppy waters toward la Reine Noire. A wave of relief washed over her at the first sight of Freddie’s auburn hair blowing in the wind. All the men were sitting up. “Well, at least they’re alive,” she said to M’sieur Bequel, standing next to her.
“Aye, safest place would be the admiral’s flagship.”
As the boat drew closer, she said a small prayer of thanks when she saw no blood on either Freddie or her uncle. But that didn’t stop her from being miffed at their being in the midst of what had sounded like a tremendous battle. And Freddie had the nerve to scol
d her for taking risks!
His smiling face emerged above the gunwale as he climbed aboard the ship.
She stood resolute with arms crossed under her bosom, refusing to welcome him with a smile, though she was fighting back tears she was so happy to see him.
He came to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Except for the soot streaked across his face, no doubt from all those guns firing, he appeared well. More than well, he was excited. “Here I am, Pigeon, returned to you hale and hearty.”
“So you are.”
Her determination to stay angry withered away when he took her in his arms and held her. “I couldn’t wait to get back to you, mon amour.”
“Was it terrible?” she asked.
He held her away from him, meeting her inquiring gaze. “For the wounded and the dead, it was. Yet it left me wanting to live.”
He bent his head and kissed her, right there in front of her uncle, M’sieur Bequel and the whole crew. Not a light welcome-me-home kiss, but a passionate taking of her mouth, a kiss like he’d given her in the garden only days before. His tongue invaded her mouth and his arms crushed her to his chest. Swept away with his masculine yet tender assault, she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss.
A cheer went up from the crew, reminding her they stood on the open deck. Red-faced, she broke off the kiss, dropped her arms and looked around her to see the crew’s smiling faces.
“Aw, Pigeon, they’re just showing how happy they are about our coming marriage.”
M’sieur Bequel barked the order to prepare to set sail and the crew scurried to comply.
From amidships, her uncle grinned. “Back to work, Mr. West!”
The Isle of Guernsey
“They are calling it ‘the Battle of the First of June’,” Freddie said, reading the Gazette over a late breakfast of sausage and eggs accompanied by sweet oranges and coffee. “I must send a message to Zack Barlow on the next mail packet to let him know the Orion came through the battle with only minor damage.”
“He and Polly will be much relieved,” said Zoé, biting into an orange, the pleasing aroma filling the sunny room. She licked the juice from her bottom lip. Freddie tried to concentrate on what he had been reading but it was not easy. Returning his attention to the thin newspaper, he decided to tease her with news of England’s victory.
“Just think, Pigeon, Howe’s a celebrated hero in England. King George has presented him with a sword set with diamonds and a gold chain for a medal he’s to receive.”
“I suppose it helps to declare victory before the war is won,” Zoé muttered, picking up her coffee, “but Oncle Jean told me France, too, claims victory because the grain convoy slipped into Brest while the battle raged. That was Admiral Villaret’s objective was it not?”
“Yes, dictated by Robespierre himself.”
“I wouldn’t want people to starve, Freddie, even if it meant depriving England and her allies of an advantage. If they’d stopped the American corn, would it really have made a difference to ending the war?”
He set down the paper. “Of course, it would. A starving army cannot fight.”
Soft morning sunlight from the window fell across her skin making her appear a golden goddess even with the look of frustration on her lovely face. Soon, very soon, she would be his in all ways. Venus in my bed. The very thought brought a bulge to his breeches he could do nothing about. Patience.
Forcing his eyes back to the newspaper, he took a drink of his coffee and read on. “It says here the prisons in France are full, so the Convention has decreed witnesses are no longer required at trials and there are to be no acquittals. Thousands have been sentenced to death.”
“The situation grows worse,” she said, lifting the cup of coffee to her lips. “I wonder how long it can go on.”
He had the strongest desire to lead her into the garden for a morning kiss, to help them both forget about the situation in France and the war. Thinking about her work with the refugees, his protective instincts rose to the fore. Leaning across the table, he said, “Pigeon, since the flow of émigrés has slowed, I want you to leave the rescues to Erwan and his friends.”
“But Freddie—”
“You can help the émigrés once they arrive on the coast, but I cannot let you enter the towns to meet them. ’Tis too dangerous. Besides, our mission is changing. I have spoken to your uncle and he is agreeable to helping us get the needed weapons and supplies to the Chouans. Now that we have Cadoudal’s confidence, we can deliver supplies to him on the coast at the same time Erwan brings us any refugees he finds.”
“This is hardly the conversation of two who are about to be wed!” He looked up to see his redheaded sister standing in the doorway, attired as if she were setting out for Oxford Street in London.
“You must admit these are unusual times, Jo.” He couldn’t help feeling a bit embarrassed she’d caught them discussing plans to return to France, albeit on the coast. She wouldn’t be pleased they would take up even that limited role.
“That may be so, Freddie, but we’ve a wedding to plan and your excursion into the Atlantic has postponed that effort. I need to borrow Zoé for the day and Isabeau will be coming with us. The modiste is to do the final fitting for Zoé’s gown and Isabeau’s dress. Then there’s the menu for the wedding breakfast to plan.”
“I approve,” he said with a smile. It would get Zoé’s mind off her desire to venture into the streets of Granville and keep her busy till dinner. “What about the boys?” Since they’d returned to Guernsey, Jack and Pax had become inseparable.
“Jack has agreed to organize games for Pax and him, though I worry about the mischief those two will get into. He has promised there will be no lessons in how to use a knife. Hopefully, their governess will be able to keep an eye on them.”
“What will you do, Freddie?” asked Zoé.
“Your uncle has released me from ship duties to take a look at some properties that might suffice for our new home. If there are any I think you might like, Pigeon, we can view them tomorrow.”
Zoé’s eyes lit up at the mention of their new home. They’d discussed where they might live and concluded Guernsey suited them well. An English Crown dependency where French was spoken in the streets and the food was as good as any capital in Europe. The brioches from the pâtisserie on High Street were a particular favorite of his. And, living on Guernsey, he could remain a part of her uncle’s merchant shipping business.
“Are there many properties to see?” she asked excitedly.
“A few,” he said in a droll manner. “One ramshackle farmhouse the agent told me about seems particularly interesting.”
She threw her napkin at him and got to her feet.
He couldn’t resist the laughter that bubbled up in his chest.
“You see what I’m up against, Tante Joanna.”
“Indeed I do. Remember, I helped to raise him. Come, let us be off. Isabeau is waiting at the front door.”
Zoé came around the table and kissed Freddie on the cheek, the fragrance of roses whetting his appetite for more. Before he could reach for her, she glided out of the room with his sister, leaving him with his coffee and a smile on his face.
He smiled a lot these days.
Shopping in St Peter Port with her aunt required decisions Zoé had not often made in the last several years. Choosing fabric, style, trim, stockings and shoes consumed hours and that was only the beginning. There were still underclothes to select, a chemise, stays and petticoats, not to mention a hat or a bonnet.
Having become used to the clothing of a peasant woman and lately that of a Chouan man, she had braced herself for her return to Society, which her earlier trip to West Sussex had required, and now she must do so again for her wedding.
The carriage moved along the town’s cobbled streets toward the modiste’s shop on High Street. “I’m determined to see you properly attired for this very important day in your life,” said her aunt looking out the window. “We a
re nearly there.”
Zoé’s participation in the previous shopping jaunt on Jersey with her aunt and Madame de Montconseil had given her a new respect for her aunt’s knowledge of a lady’s frippery. Not that the princesse needed any instruction but Zoé surely had.
“Do you think our fittings will take very long?” Zoé wanted to visit the jeweler to buy Freddie’s wedding ring, perhaps one easily seen from a distance.
“The fittings, no, but we have other stops to make.” Tante Joanna looked across the carriage seat to where Isabeau sat next to Zoé. “What do you think of a straw hat with a wide blue ribbon, my dear?” she asked the girl.
Isabeau nodded. “’Tis not what Breton women wear, but I like ribbons.”
“Very well, you shall have one to match your gown.”
Isabeau had become fond of Zoé’s aunt but, at times, the girl would stare off toward France. They’d not had word from Giles and Zoé worried for him.
The carriage stopped in front of the modiste’s shop and her aunt accepted the footman’s hand, stepping down to the street. Isabeau followed and Zoé trailed after her, sighing deeply.
“To my way of thinking,” said her aunt, who hadn’t failed to notice the sigh, “while it is important to understand the politics and issues of the day, a lady must also know how to dress to enhance her natural beauty. For your wedding, Zoé, you must look your very best.”
The bell above the door jingled, alerting Mrs. Dobree they had arrived. The antechamber where she greeted her customers had a long counter on one side. Behind it, rising to the ceiling, were shelves filled with bolts of satins and silks and flowered, striped and sprigged muslin. On their first visit, her aunt had selected a beautiful Bremen blue for her gown of silk and a paler shade of the same blue for Isabeau’s dress.
Zoé had chosen lavender silk. The color was her favorite but one she’d not worn since before the revolution began.
Mrs. Dobree came from behind the counter to meet them. “Je pense you will be pleased with the gowns,” said the dark-haired woman, who had a pencil stored over her ear and a measuring tape around her neck. “The seamstress is my best. She just finished them yesterday. As you ordered, Madame Donet, the waists are higher, the style simpler. And for you, Mademoiselle Donet, only one petticoat will be required.”
