Land of Hope

by Paul C R Monk

  ‘Sixty-four,’ said Jacob, getting up to step onto the wooden boardwalk. Jacob gave thanks and bid farewell to the fishermen.

  It was not yet nine o’clock, and there was still a crowd of river folk —merchants, fishwives, and market vendors —collecting and inspecting the last delivery of the tide. Jacob, still with the stench of fish and offal in his nose, was attracted by the savoury smell of pork and roast lamb. The sudden desire to eat, the need to confirm the fisherman’s directions, and the proximity of the tavern drove him to push the door into the elegantly named Salutation Tavern. He kept his ears pricked in case he heard French spoken, knowing from the fisherman that many French people had fled across the Channel. But he quickly discerned that most of the patrons quaffing ale at this hour were riverside folk, for what honest gentleman would be out in a tripling house at this hour of the night? Nonetheless, the rush of voices and the warm smells of bodies, ale, and broth filled his senses, made him feel quite heartened by his arrival in London.

  Once he had ordered a platter of sausages and oysters, he said to the alewife: ‘I am looking for the French church on Threadneedle Street.’

  After he repeated his question, partly due to the noise, partly due to his accent, the buxom lady said: ‘You wanna cut across Puddin’ Lane, my love, up past the butcher’s and across into Great Eastcheap.’ After further guidance from patrons who knew the area, he was left with a muddled set of directions different from those of the fisherman, which had already slipped his mind anyway. But as long as he was pointed in the right direction, he could always ask along the way.

  He stepped back out into the dark and dank street, refreshed and relieved, as the night watchman gave ten of the clock and all well down by the riverside. He followed his feet through the tenement streets of Billingsgate, and through a miserable square that smelled of piss where ladies sang out their compliments in gay, flat tones. He hurried along Pudding Lane where butcher’s carts left vile droppings of offal in their wake as they trundled down to the waste barges. The first drops of rain made him pull down his hat and sink his head into his collar as he passed dark alleyways —alleyways where the odd drunkard or vagrant lay crumpled and snoring.

  Minutes later, his face glistened in the drizzle, that same fine rain he recalled from his youth when his father had come here to study medicine. But that was back in the ’60s, just three years before the great fire that had ravaged the city and rendered this part of it unrecognisable. For where there had been wooden houses and winding lanes, now there were buildings of brick and stone, and straight lanes and narrow alleyways, no doubt, thought Jacob, to reduce the risk of a conflagration spreading should one flare up again.

  On turning westward into a narrow side street, he suddenly felt a shadow encroach upon him. As he half turned his upper body, he was violently grabbed from behind. A thick forearm pressed against his larynx, and he was yanked to the entrance of a dark alley.

  ‘Help! Help!’ he cried out, struggling for his life. He was thrust further into the alleyway. The next instant, he felt a blow like a cannonball hurled into his gut that forced all breath, all sound, out of his lungs. He doubled over, his lungs taut and burning from the blow and unable to take in air.

  His legs were kicked from beneath him, sending him crashing down and hugging the ground. Writhing for air on the hard paving, he then felt an immobilising weight in the small of his back while deft fingers flitted around his waist with a knife.

  For the love of Christ, he did not want to draw his last breath here. He spewed out another cry for help with what air he could suck in.

  Still wheezing for breath, he heard a baritone voice from a short distance call out: ‘Oy! You two! Stop there!’

  The weight of a knee was instantly released from his back, and he twisted around, now taking in short, painful gasps, to see the two robbers take flight. Then he heard heavy boots thundering closer.

  ‘You all right, fella?’ said the same baritone voice he had just heard.

  Now getting to his knees in the light of the watchman’s lantern, Jacob instinctively touched the cut over his eye where he had hit the ground. ‘Thank you . . .’ he said to the big watchman between pants. ‘None the worse for wear . . .’ The large-boned man helped him to his feet. ‘God bless you, Sir,’ continued Jacob. ‘You may well have . . . have saved my life!’

  ‘That may be, Sir,’ said the watchman, ‘but I would rather wager they scarpered because they had found what they were after!’

  Jacob checked to make sure his travel pouch was still safe in his undercoat pocket. It was. But then he felt for the weighty lump he always carried around his waist. ‘Dear God, my purse, they have stolen my purse!’

  *

  The following morning, in the bleak light of the breaking day, he was greeted by the pastor at the main door of the church.

  He had spent the night waiting in the intermittent drizzle, wrapped in his waxed travel cloak which had kept his suit of clothes mostly dry.

  After listening to Jacob’s account of his origins and his recent encounter, the pastor, a man of advancing years with an academic stoop, took him to the sacristy. He introduced him to a French Londoner, a mild-mannered but forthright gentleman in his late fifties by the name of Samuel Clement. A former merchant, having fled to London when the crackdown on Protestants in France first began, he often acted as warden in these times of abounding refugees, and as a filter to sort the wheat from the chaff. He gave Jacob some water so he could wash the dried blood from his grazed face and hands.

  ‘Had you taken a hackney,’ said Mr Clement, handing Jacob some bread and soup, ‘London would have reserved you a warmer welcome, Monsieur. It would have set you back one and six, but at least you would have kept your purse!’

  ‘Monsieur, had I known where to get one, I may well have done the very same,’ replied Jacob with an affable bow as he took the bowl.

  A few hours earlier, he would have been annoyed at the remark that perhaps carried with it a note of scepticism as to the existence of such a large purse. But Jacob had already stamped out his raw anger during the night while waiting for the church to open.

  He could have kicked himself for his lack of vigilance, for not taking a bed at an inn, and for having blunted his awareness with one pint of ale too many. That said, the aggressors must surely have known he was carrying Caribbean money, he had surmised, and had passed through his mind all the people with whom he had interacted: the fishermen, the alewife, the patrons of the tavern who might have heard his accent and seen him paying with New World coin; the stevedores who had directed him to the fishing boat in the first place. Or could it have been just a fortuitous encounter? There was little chance he would ever know.

  Sitting in the sanctuary of the church as attendants entered to prepare for the Sunday service, he was able to feel at peace and to relativise. At least he no longer carried ill-gotten coin. The lump had literally been cut away from around his belly, like a malignant tumour. And apart from minor cuts and bruises, he had escaped unscathed. Was it not then a blessing in disguise? Not really, he thought to himself, for it left him back in the grips of poverty and starvation.

  However, he had escaped with his life, and any sum of money lost would be worth the sight of Jeanne and his children now. He still had his travel pouch, and he would find work; his English had improved no end, thanks to his forced piratic dealings and his time in Jamaica and New York. Moreover, on a more positive note, at least he was rid of the shadow of an accusation of piracy that had loomed over him due to the unjustifiable provenance of his fortune.

  ‘I propose we consult the register after the service,’ said the pastor before the service began, ‘unless, of course, you find your wife among us this morning.’

  The congregation entered. Jacob stood inside the porch with Mr Clement. While the church official perfunctorily checked co-religionists’ méreau —a token that people showed to prove they belonged to the Protestant faith —Jacob, standing two paces behind him, eag
erly watched the faces pass in the hope of seeing his wife.

  The church had stood on Threadneedle Street in one shape or another since the first wave of Huguenot immigration to London in the previous century. It had since become a port of call for French Protestants to enable them to establish links for a quicker and more intelligent integration in the capital of Albion, all the more complicated now that England was at war with Louis XIV’s France.

  The district where it stood had become a traditional place for Huguenot craftsmen such as watchmakers, silversmiths, and cabinet makers to settle. The immigrant population, who enjoyed a reputation for excellent craftsmanship, had brought with them their habits and customs as well as whatever they had salvaged of their wealth. The sumptuous new buildings in the vicinity of the church—buildings that Jacob had seen in the grey light of morning—attested to their prosperity. Jacob observed a generally well-heeled congregation which made him conscious of how shabby he must look.

  His suit of clothes, purchased in New York, was stained; his stockings were mud-splashed, one torn. And his shoes lacked lustre, with one of them missing a buckle that must have come off during the mugging. However, it was plain to most that this man standing by the attendant must be a refugee from France—as many of them had been themselves—and he met not with frowns of disapproval but with sympathetic smiles, and often a handshake of welcome.

  But Jeanne was not among them. No one had even heard of her, which was hardly encouraging, given her gregarious nature.

  After the service, Jacob followed Pastor Daniel into the sacristy, where the service items were carefully stowed and ledgers diligently filed away on shelves and in simple, dark-wood cabinets.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said the pastor, shaking his head dolefully after looking through the register again. ‘The name does ring a bell. However, no lady or child by the name of Delpech de Castanet has declared their presence in London, which does not necessarily mean she is not here.’

  ‘Thank you, Pastor,’ said Jacob, ‘but I am afraid it does. For I specifically asked my wife to find her way here.’

  Pastor Daniel gave a consoling nod. He moved to a different drawer and began running his fingers over a stack of letters, pulling one out every so often for a closer look, then inserting it back into the pile.

  Jacob continued: ‘However, that is to some extent a relief. I do not know how she would have sustained herself, as I had given her unsound advice, not thinking I would be held up in New York, and not taking into consideration winter snowfalls in her host country —’

  The pastor meanwhile had pulled out another sealed letter. He adjusted his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose. ‘Ah,’ he said, interrupting Jacob’s discourse. ‘I knew I had seen the name somewhere.’ The pastor then handed Jacob a letter addressed to Jacob Delpech de Castanet, in care of the French church on Threadneedle Street, London.

  With sudden fear in his stomach, Jacob recognised Jeanne’s handwriting. He now dreaded the news the letter contained.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a seat while studying the vermilion seal which showed the stamp of Jeanne’s signet ring. Was she still in Geneva? Had their children joined her? Had the money he had left been sufficient? And what about Robert, his brother-in-law, who had abjured and remained in Montauban? Had he been able to salvage any of Jacob’s wealth? Added to the anxiety, a feeling of guilt now weighed in Jacob’s heart. Guilt for not having been able to provide for them, for being caught up in the affairs of New York, for stupidly losing his money to the planter in Jamaica, and now the money he had been given by Lieutenant Ducamp.

  He broke the seal, unfolded the letter.

  ‘My dear husband,

  ‘Your letter has given me great hope. However, I am unable to leave Schaffhausen where I have taken refuge, for the snows have fallen in abundance. I am advised to wait for the thaw, indeed until the month of April when it becomes warm enough to travel across country. But do not worry on our account as we are in good company, having found refuge thanks to the friendships we made in Geneva.

  ‘So much has happened that I cannot even begin to tell you, but I am sure your journey has been fraught with incidents, as has ours. I say ours, but I must tell you, it gives me great sorrow to inform you that as yet I have been unable to recover our dear daughters. Only our beloved son has been able to join me, and only thanks to his brave heart and resolute nature, something I am sure will not fail to fill you with pride. Our dear daughter Elizabeth has refused to remove herself from Montauban, preferring to remain with our dear youngest baby.

  ‘Your mother is in prison, Jacob, in Moissac, and your sister also in prison but in Auvillar.

  ‘But bear up, my dear husband, for with the grace of God, we will be together as a family again. So please do not let this news bring you down. But rather look forward to a future date that will bring us at last peace and happiness in each other’s company and in our faith in the Lord.

  ‘Your loving wife,

  ‘Jeanne.’

  EIGHT

  Jeanne held her breath an instant to steel her nerves as the post carriage bore down the towpath.

  One side offered the deep greens of hillside pastures, tinged with the tender lime of bourgeoning deciduous trees, the other the spectacular force of the Rhine Falls. An apt image, she thought, of her present situation as she watched the flow of water sliding inexorably nearer to the ledge.

  Would she land on the bubbling white foam below, or would she splash onto the rocks? Such was the indecision she felt now, even though there could be no turning back. She had no other choice but to once more exchange the comfort and security of dwelling with friends for the company of strangers and the hazards of the elements, in spite of her apprehension of water travel.

  But no matter how strong the temptation of warmth and friendship, she always managed to shoo it away on recalling her prayer to God last December, when her son lay bleeding from his terrible sleigh accident.

  As he had lain livid and unconscious in the soft, freezing snow, she realized at that instant that no mortal comfort could rival the desire for the well-being of her children.

  She vividly recollected how she had prayed and promised to God that she would relinquish her own comfort for the well-being of her children and the life of her son. Ordinarily, she dismissed such demands on the Almighty —perhaps through a fear of disappointment —but what would her life be without her children? At times like these, she almost regretted not recanting her faith. But there again, she knew that without it, she would be no better than a tree without its heartwood, a hollowed trunk without spiritual fibre, and that would be worse than death, for it would be death without hope.

  She turned her eyes from the sliding river waters and levelled them upon her son, wedged between Jeannot and Ginette Fleuret. Though saddened by the departure, he was nonetheless eager to reunite with his father, who had sent a letter confirming his arrival in London. She noted that his hair now covered the patch on his scalp that had been cropped to access the gash to the side of his head, which he had suffered upon his jump from the sleigh. It was Jean Fleuret who had carried the boy —so he would keep warm against his large body —back to the house, where the doctor was able to properly tend to him.

  The morning sunshine was dazzling and the cold blue sky uplifting. ‘It is as good a day as any to embark on a long journey, I suppose,’ said Claire, sitting between her husband, Etienne, and Jeanne. She had finally succumbed to Jeanne’s decision to leave with the spring instead of waiting for the more clement season of early summer, when most of the other Huguenots were planning to depart.

  ‘My very thoughts,’ said Jeanne, who, with a reassuring smile, removed her hand from her muff and grasped her friend’s arm tightly. In times like these, Jeanne knew the younger woman missed her mother. Claire, always the emotive one, fought hard to keep her eyes from filling.

  The wagon rolled on down the sloping track, taking them closer to the embarkation point, a stone’s throw from the foot o
f the falls. Etienne Lambrois leaned over to address Jeanne and said: ‘I only pray Louis’s soldiers do not resume their forays into the Palatinate. Note, if they do, I shall enlist against them . . .’

  ‘And that is another reason why we must depart now if we don’t want our road to Amsterdam to be cut off from us,’ returned Jeanne, as much to herself as to her friends. They had insisted on travelling the short distance to the river landing stage to wave her and Paul off.

  An hour later, Jean Fleuret was carrying Jeanne’s waxed linen knapsack onto the flat-bottomed boat. It was an unnecessary action, for it was not that heavy. But Jeanne sensed the rough-cut carpenter needed to vent his tacit emotions this way, to show his care in action rather than in words. He placed the bag carefully under the best seat in the middle of the rough-hewn cabin at the aft of the vessel.

  He then joined the others on the wharf, where, behind the clusters of people giving farewells to the half dozen other passengers, stood barrels and packets of merchandise awaiting the next departure. The single-mast boat on which Jeanne and Paul were to embark was already loaded with barrels and parcels tightly bound and secured. The sixty-foot-long vessel was robustly made without finery. Once it had reached its destination, it would be sold for firewood.

  ‘All aboard!’ called the master boatman, an affable man of few words by the name of Fandrich.

  Jeanne’s heart suddenly throbbed with a profound regret at leaving her friends, perhaps never to see them again in this life.

  The boom of the falls thirty yards upriver forbade any hushed talk. It was just as well because, at that moment, if a last offer to remain until June was dropped from her friends’ lips, she might not have had the heart to refuse. However, neither Claire nor Ginette gave her that opportunity. Instead, they tacitly bolstered her resolve to depart, and let her go despite their longing to keep their merry troop together forever. So, sensing their friend flinch, they emboldened her with brazen words of love and encouragement as they embraced for the last time.