‘Charlotte is right. I would dally not if I were you, Monsieur Delpech,’ said Madame de Fontenay. ‘Bring back your family here, if that is your desire. But go and fetch them before it is too late!’
Jacob said: ‘I shall weigh up the pros and cons of leaving so soon, I promise.’
Jacob, however, would not have to deliberate for long.
*
The following Tuesday, Jacob was back at Leisler’s fine townhouse, going over the plotted map and the adjustments made during Sunday’s meeting with the Huguenots.
On the way, he had noted a foretaste of spring: the first white flowers poking through the thin layer of snow on the pretty graveyard near the north gate; the wide sun-splashed thoroughfare in New York, busier than usual; and the animated market near the fort, packed with vendors, animals, and spindled carts. Jacob also noticed the rivers now flowed mostly free of ice.
Only the Huguenots who still resided in New York attended the meeting held in Leisler’s dining room. Marianne, having already spoken with Jacob, had preferred not to attend, given her condition. The party had made good progress: their host was confident that they could get the ball rolling as to the signing of the deed, now that parcels had been drawn and confirmed. All that was required now was for Leisler to make the purchase from John Pell, who had agreed in principle to the sale of the six thousand acres.
The meeting had just come to a close. The attendees were looking through the tall rear window in admiration of Leisler’s long garden, bare and hoary but orderly and attractive in the late-morning sunshine, when the manservant announced Daniel Darlington.
Not being one for endless meetings, Daniel had found a pretext to oversee the lading of his cargo down at the wharf at Coenties Slip. He doffed his hat on entering and said: ‘Gentlemen, please forgive my intrusion, but I have, if not official news, at least important first-hand news from England.’
All present stared in silent expectation.
‘Ah,’ said Leisler. ‘And what might that be?’
‘William of Orange is King of England, Gentlemen!’
There was a short silence before the Huguenots fully took in the announcement, while Leisler stood in stupor, holding his chin.
Monsieur Le Conte, a tall, serious-looking man, taking the initiative, said: ‘Zat is good, yes?’
‘Indeed it is,’ said Jacob. There was a release of tension in the room as the penny dropped.
Leisler, however, remained stern-faced. ‘Who told you?’ he said.
‘A captain just in from Virginia.’
‘Then we must act,’ said Leisler, now poised for action. ‘Gather as many people as you can at the tavern, Daniel.’
Within a few minutes, the Huguenot gentlemen were taking their leave.
Leisler asked Delpech if he could stay behind a minute.
‘You know what this means?’ said the merchant and former soldier as the door closed behind the last gentleman from New Rochelle.
‘Quite possibly war in one form or another, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid you are right, Sir, if it has not already started.’
‘Good grief!’
‘And knowing your circumstances, Mr Delpech, please do not think me curt if I take it upon myself to offer you some advice.’
‘Fear not, Sir, it will be well received.’
‘I am sure your compatriots would appreciate your staying to help administer the township, but if you are to leave, I strongly recommend you do so as soon as possible, Sir. You can take the next ship to Boston. From there, it will take you to London. This is my strong advice, Monsieur Delpech, for I fear the French will not be slow in setting up a maritime blockade.’
SEVEN
Clad in a waxed travel cloak, Jacob watched the clump of land at the tip of Manhattan become gradually enshrouded in swathes of fog.
Would he return to this New World, clement but cruel, so fragile and yet so resolutely defended by its new populations? It presented a chance indeed to start from a clean slate without all the backlog of centuries of warfare, conflict, and political intrigue. There again, could New York be on the verge of becoming embroiled in imported statutes, mentalities, and traditions?
Standing aft on the quarterdeck of the merchantman, he turned his eyes starboard to the misty shores of Staten Island, where many a Huguenot had braved the journey to make a new life. Another interminable voyage lay ahead of him, he thought while scanning the farmsteads nestled in the slopes, but one nonetheless made sweeter in the knowledge that it would take him to his loved ones. And should England not hold its promise, he might well be driven to risk one more voyage to this land of hope, where he had fellowship and connections, despite the inconveniences which were far from minor. The freezing cold winters were barely tolerable for a man from the Midi of France, and then there was the constant threat of French or native invasion.
The weather remained calm and the going slow for the first days of the ocean crossing. It went without incident until the second week out, when one morning brought the sight of a distant ship. By her colours, she was ascertained to be Dutch, a Dutch fluyt, and she was heading straight into their trajectory. After some debate, the merchant captain, a commanding fellow with a bellowing voice, decided not to change course. If the rumours were true about William of Orange taking the English throne, there would be no call for them to fight off a Dutch attack.
‘And if the rumours are not true?’ said Jacob, listening in the captain’s cabin with the crew.
‘If they are not, then she might well blow us out of the water, Sir,’ said the captain with a genial chuckle. ‘But fear not, if enemies they be, they would aim to take the ship and cargo for the merry sum they would make.’
‘What if the flag is a decoy?’ said Jacob, calling to mind his buccaneering days. ‘What if they are privateers, Sir, or worse, pirates?’
‘Ha, then we shall be ready to fly!’ said the captain with a heartier laugh. ‘And you, Monsieur Delpech, shall stand by the swivel gun ready to fire!’
Jacob did not know the man well enough to determine if it was part of a show of bravery to laugh off the danger, or if his apparent bonhomie indicated that he did not take the threat seriously. Either way, incredible as it seemed, on the whim of a monarch a friend could turn foe and aim to blow you to kingdom come. Surely there must be another way to govern countries?
He pondered Darlington’s vision of forming an independent state with no king or aristocracy, where only men of talent were pulled from the rank and file to govern the people for the people. It sounded preposterous, for how could common folk know about international affairs and territorial rights? Yet, would it not be better to lay a country’s future with a body of men rather than with just one man designated to rule by birthright?
The Dutch ship had the advantage of coming from Europe with knowledge of the latest developments and what alliances had been made. There again, things could be worse, thought Jacob; the fluyt could have been flying the black flag, or even worse than that, the French bleu-blanc-rouge!
By mid-morning, the two ships were just half a nautical mile apart. The sea was calm, the wind fair and in favour of the merchantman from New York should flight be the only option.
‘The moment of truth approaches, lads!’ called the captain. ‘Stand ready to run with the wind!’
Jacob stood at the swivel gun and prayed he would not fail in his mission, that if the time came, he neither found himself with a yellow belly nor one filled with lead.
‘The Dutchman still shows no colour for battle, Sir!’ called the first mate, looking through his spyglass. It felt to Jacob like the very ship gave a sigh of relief.
Ten minutes later, both ships had reduced sail and hove to so that a brief verbal exchange could be achieved as they passed.
The captains gave a salute as their vessels arrived broadside starboard. With a speaking trumpet held to his lips, the Dutch commander called out. ‘News from England. William of Orange is your new king! Wi
lliam of Orange is King of England!’
‘Is there war?’ called the English captain, cupping his hands.
‘War with France! Beware of French frigates!’
‘Is there civil war?’
‘There is not,’ called the Dutch captain as the ships finished passing each other and sailed onwards into the vastness of the ocean.
*
They were carried along on a favourable wind which made the going fair though the sea became rougher, and the ride more agitated. Jacob found little to do but introspect and try to plan his first steps in London. But then, an unfortunate incident came to drive all introspection away and filled his mind for the remainder of the voyage.
After a day of slack, the wind had picked up again, and the captain gave the command to sail under topsails with a single reef. The crew were in good spirits, and the captain’s cat purred comfortably on Jacob’s lap while he read his only books, glad to find refuge within his mind. All of a sudden, he heard a cry, a splash, then another voice yelling out: ‘Man overboard!’
Delpech promptly brushed the cat aside and ran up the steps to the main deck. Crewmen were striking sails, others running down the length of the ship on the starboard side, their eyes peeled on the water frothing at the ship’s timbers.
‘There, man!’ called a sailor from the rigging. The mate at the aft cast a line over the balustrade so that it landed in the sea, in the trajectory of the young rigger who had slipped from his perch. The drowning sailor threw out an arm in a desperate effort to grasp the cord that would save his life. But agonizingly, he under reached. The captain gave no order to turn back, and it was not expected of him either, for everyone knew that the lad could not swim. He went under once more in the wake of the ship and was seen no more.
The death silenced the crew’s merry banter and left Jacob reflecting on the fragility of life, and the sailor’s one chance to live or to die.
The sombre spirits were swept aside, however, a few days later, when death also threatened the lives of the bereaved. When the crew were getting to sleep in their hammocks and Jacob had just blown out his candle, there came a great crashing din as the ship became weighed down at the stern and raised at the prow. Seconds later, a deluge came gushing into the lower decks washing the men from their slumber.
It was swiftly determined that they had been hit by a huge wave that had rolled over the stern of the ship, sending great volumes of seawater into the hold. Jacob promptly found himself in a line under lamplight, rapidly passing buckets full of water to the next man while other crew members frantically worked the bilge pumps. All night long, they pumped and baled, fearful of the next great wave that Jacob knew from past experience would certainly sink the vessel. But the gigantic wave must have been a freak of nature, for although the weather was blowy, the sea was not as big as in a storm.
The following morning found the crew fatigued but in cheerier spirits. The drowned sailor was no longer in their forethoughts, thankful as they were not to be joining him in his watery grave.
The voyage continued with fair weather and Godspeed, these two incidents being the only mishaps along the way, but which nonetheless awakened Jacob to the risks of a possible return to the New World.
At the crack of dawn, after eight weeks of ocean travel, they were heartened by the sight of the English coast near Plymouth. But the wind dropped off, and with the current being contrary to travel, they were obliged to lie at anchor near the dunes. They weighed anchor again at nightfall only to have to drop it a day later. It was another ten-day wait before current and wind came favourably together to enable the ship to set sail eastward along the English coast again. She put into port in early April, some seven miles from London, where part of the cargo was due to be unloaded.
By now Jacob’s nerves were frayed to the extreme, so close was he to the place that promised to reunite him with his loved ones. He dared not think who of his family he might find in the English capital, and who he might not.
Two days later, unable to wait any longer, he managed to gain passage aboard a small, single-masted fishing boat headed for Billingsgate harbour, which Jacob knew to be a stone’s throw away from London Bridge.
*
Should have used small change, thought Jacob as the single-masted fishing boat made its way up the Thames by the light of a half-moon. He had reached into his travel purse and pulled out a silver dollar to pay for his passage to Billingsgate.
The fisherman, mid-forties with a weather-worn face, had peered with alert eyes at the man with a foreign accent. ‘From France, Sir?’ he had said in a chirpy, matter-of-fact way.
‘I am French, indeed, although France is no longer my home.’
‘Ah, thought as much,’ the fisherman had returned with a satisfied glance to his young mate. ‘An ’Uguenot, eh?’
Jacob had answered in the affirmative while the fisherman pocketed the silver dollar and brought out a farthing. Accepting the coin, Jacob had then taken a pew amid the baskets of fish near a heap of netting at the stern. The fisherman had then pushed away with the help of his young mate into the flood tide.
Now Delpech instinctively felt under his cloak for the bulge beneath his waistcoat where he kept his belt purse, of a good deal more consequence than his travel pouch. Turning his collar to the light easterly wind, he set to pondering that these men would be his foes had the King of France not made an enemy of Protestants. How preposterous was that? And he realised the fisherman’s fleeting look of suspicion on hearing Jacob’s accent was no less justified given that France was now at war with England.
The square sail was rigged close to the prow, and the gentle north-easterly breeze kept it taut while the boatmen steered or heaved with their oars. The star-speckled sky and the glow of the moon were light enough to allow navigation past the looming shadows of moored vessels. The elder fisherman at the helm kept up a running commentary designating the various warships, frigates, and prison ships anchored along the Kentish riverbanks. He also reassured his French passenger, telling him of a great many Huguenots having taken the same river trip to London Town.
‘Come in the merchantman, did ya, Sir?’ said the fisherman, hand on the rudder.
‘Yes, Sir, I did. From New York,’ replied Jacob, half turning on the plank seat to face his interlocutor. Why did he have to go as far as to mention the ship’s provenance? He wished he had bitten his tongue. But the chirpy fisherman was infectiously sociable and probably knew where it had come from anyway. He was probably only making conversation, thought Jacob; it was the way of city folk.
‘There’s money in New York, ain’t there, Sir?’ said the fisherman’s mate between two strokes of the oar. Jacob took the young man who was standing at the prow to be the older man’s son.
‘I believe there is,’ said Jacob, then adding, as though to put the record straight: ‘That is, if you are in fur or tobacco, and alas, I am in neither. And there is no lack of hardship, not to mention the risk of invasion.’
‘And pirates,’ said the fisherman’s mate with cheeky malice in his voice.
‘Speaking of which . . .’ said the elder fisherman. Then he pointed in the dark to the north bank foreshore, at the silhouette of a rotting corpse in a cage attached to a post. ‘Ole Jim Bailley. Got caught as you can see; then he got tried, tarred, and strung up. Weren’t a bad show, though, was it, Wil? We was there, and now there he is. Still sailin’ in the wind, ha!’ The fisherman doffed his hat. The gruesome cage returned a squeak as it swayed in the wind while the boat slipped by in the smelly black river.
Jacob felt a shudder down the spine as it suddenly occurred to him that the coin he carried could be misconstrued as proof of piracy. For he had no justification as to how he had come by it. Who would believe him if he said that it was reimbursement from the very soldier who had ransacked his home and sold his possessions in France? So he decided it was wiser to simply say, if asked, that the money came from his estate in France. It was just unfortunate, he thought, that the pou
ch that Lieutenant Ducamp had given him contained more silver dollars and pieces of eight than French ecus.
The nauseating smell of fish was attenuated now by the river sludge, now by the rich bouquet of the spring vegetation—vegetation increasingly interspersed with square silhouettes of buildings as they neared the city.
Barely an hour later, they were passing the Tower of London. It gleamed in the moonlight and stood as proud and square as he remembered it from the time when he spent a season in London with his father. Immediately before him loomed London Bridge, with its frothing waters streaming between the cutwaters below. He looked up at the assortment of towers, turrets, and tall houses, huddled shoulder to shoulder with windows all aglow. He wondered if they still displayed heads of executed criminals on spikes on top of the south bank gatehouse, a sight that had given him nightmares as a young lad, coming as he did from his provincial French town of Montauban.
But at last, here he was, sitting in the main artery of the great sprawling city. Now, he wondered, could he remember the way from the bridge to the French church he attended with his father all those years ago? That church had since burnt to the ground, the district north of the bridge no doubt modified. But he only had to find his way to Threadneedle Street, where, following the great fire of ’66, he knew from his father it had been rebuilt on the same spot. The fisherman had not heard of the church, it not being in his parish, but could direct him to the street in question.
They rounded a dung boat from which emanated the nauseating stench of offal and the filth of beasts that grossly overpowered the smell of the fisherman’s catch. Fifteen yards further on, the little boat arrived at Billingsgate wharf, where the fisherman’s mate cast a line around an oak mooring post. Turning to his wealthy Huguenot traveller, the fisherman said: ‘Now, up the stairs and keep going till you come to Thames Street at the top, go left and carry on over the main thoroughfare leading from the bridge. That’s still Thames Street. Keep going till you get to the Cock and Bull sign in Dowgate, then go right all the way up, and you’ll come to a square where you’ll find Threadneedle Street if that’s where your church is . . . Place will have changed a lot though since you came ’ere last, Sir, when was it?’
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