Chapter 11
Freddie did not question Zoé when she asked if she and Isabeau could take dinner in their chamber, saying she wanted to retire early. Perhaps she was tired from her excursion into the woods with Captain Victor and little sleep the night before. He was just glad she had returned unscathed, the patrol without incident. The journey tomorrow would be long and she would need her rest. Besides, the evening allowed him time to transcribe his notes into code.
The next morning brought a steady rain as they readied for their departure. Despite the weather, Freddie was anxious to leave. Now that he had the information he had come to collect, there was no reason to linger. Boisguy’s repeated urgings for Zoé to stay had, to Freddie’s great pleasure, fallen on deaf ears.
At the castle’s entrance, Jean Chouan and Boisguy waited to see them off. The Chouans had made sure the departing visitors carried food for the journey, the kind of portable rations Boisguy’s men took with them on long excursions: dried meat, berries, hazelnuts and the white wine of Brittany. They were also provided with a map, Jean Chouan suggesting they return to Lorient by another route, skirting Rennes to the west.
“You’re in charge of the map,” Freddie said to Erwan, handing him the drawing. “Keep us on the right path.”
Erwan nodded, his finger tracing the route Boisguy had marked out before stuffing the map into a watertight pouch.
As before, Isabeau would be the only one of them to ride. Freddie helped her to mount. She sat atop the black mare she had named Sabre on a thick saddle blanket, crouched beneath her wide felt hat and huddled under her coat.
Handing the reins to Gabe, Freddie said, “I’ll leave you to watch over Zoé and Isabeau and lead the mare.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Ready everyone?” Freddie inquired. Their nods caused rain to cascade down from the brims of their hats.
Turning to the two Chouan leaders, he thanked them for their hospitality, vowing to see the needs of the Chouan army would be met. To complete the mission, he had only to get Zoé and the others safely to the shores of Brittany’s western coast.
Their first day on the road was long and monotonous, which encouraged Freddie to think they need only suffer four more days of the same to reach the coast and Donet’s ship. The rain ceased at noon and the sun showed itself, drying their soaked clothing.
They had stopped twice for brief periods to eat and rest but, otherwise, kept up a good pace.
Freddie planned to avoid Rennes by following Boisguy’s advice to go around the city to the west. Even so, about dinner-time, with the city just to the east of them, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Casting his gaze about the forest, he felt as if a thousand eyes were focused on them.
He gave the signal to stop and waited for a long moment. Nothing moved amid the wall of green trees and he heard nothing save the birds in the canopy above them.
However, the foreboding did not leave him.
Twice he’d ordered his charges into the trees to avoid Blues on patrol. When the last company marched by them, he whispered to Zoé, “I don’t like it. The woods are crawling with Rossignol’s men.” Turning to Erwan, he said, “Scout ahead and see if the path is clear for us. We’ve hours of daylight remaining but I’d prefer to stop sooner for the night if we can find a safe place. Until you return, we’ll continue but more slowly.”
Erwan nodded. “I’ll find you.” He disappeared into the trees, his Breton clothing and long brown hair blending with the underbrush that closed around him.
Freddie looked at those who remained, assessing their strength to go on. Zoé leaned against a tree, obviously tired but uncomplaining. He suspected she wanted to remove her boots and give her feet some air, yet she had not done so. Perhaps she, too, felt uneasy at being so near Rennes. Gabe gave no sign of exhaustion but he watched his mistress closely. Atop the black mare, Isabeau gripped the reins yet her eyes bespoke her weariness. They all needed rest but Freddie could not risk stopping here. “Come, we will go on until Erwan rejoins us.”
They had not gone far when a shouted order in a gruff voice echoed through the woods. Though it came from some distance away, he thought he heard the command, “Fouillez partout! Search everywhere!”
Gesturing his companions off the path with a sweep of his hand, Freddie drew his pistol and crept toward the direction of the voice. Not far on, he spotted a large number of republican soldiers fanning out to search the bushes, parting the undergrowth with the butts of their muskets. Looking for some poor Chouan, no doubt.
Freddie’s heart pounded as he realized the tide of Blues was sweeping toward them. There were too many to engage in battle and fleeing in haste would only draw their attention. Soon the company of soldiers would be upon them.
Retreating as fast as he silently could, he joined Gabe guarding Zoé and Isabeau, already knowing what he must do. “There’s a company of Blues coming toward us. Take Zoé and Isabeau ahead,” he ordered Gabe. “I will try to divert the soldiers away from you.”
“Non!” Zoé protested. “They will shoot you the minute you are seen.”
He took her by the shoulders. “There is no time, Pigeon. I cannot let you and Isabeau fall into Rossignol’s hands.” Hoping to convey with his eyes what he could only hint at with words, he said, “You know what it would mean for you and the girl. I cannot let that happen.”
Her eyes welled with tears as she grabbed onto his coat. “But, Freddie—”
Taking the coded information from his satchel, he stuffed the papers into her hands. “There is no time to argue. You must get this to d’Auvergne on Jersey.”
She took the papers, tears streaming down her cheeks as she frowned her dismay. “They will kill you; I cannot bear it.”
His eyes bored into hers. “And I cannot live in a world where you are not.” This was the last time he would see her, his only moment to show her how he cared. He pulled her to his chest and kissed her full on the mouth, putting all his love into the only kiss he would ever give her.
She made a slight gasp as he forced himself to end the kiss. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she stared at him wide-eyed, on her face a look of wonder.
“I will try and convince them that I am too valuable to Rossignol to die here without ceremony. Perhaps I will live for a time.” And with that, he said to Gabe, “Take them away; don’t let her follow.”
Gabe nodded, in his eyes a solemn promise to do as Freddie bid him.
“Freddie, don’t do this,” pleaded Zoé. “Don’t go.”
With a last look at the woman he loved, Freddie turned and strode toward the oncoming company of Blues.
Gabe tugged at her coat sleeve but Zoé resisted. She had to know Freddie’s fate.
Stupid heroic Englishman.
Her lips still stung from his kiss. It had not been the gesture of a parting friend, one who was saying goodbye as he sacrificed his life for hers. Non, in his eyes she had glimpsed a depth of affection she had not seen before. Feelings for her he’d kept hidden until now. She remembered the first time he’d kissed her, the night of the Fête de la Fédération when fireworks exploded in the sky above them. That had been the innocent kiss of a friend, but this…
“I must know what happens,” she whispered to Gabe.
“One moment only, mademoiselle.”
Zoé strained her ears to hear what was taking place some thirty feet away.
“Halte-là!” came a shout. “Identify yourself!”
Speaking the terrible French of an Englishman acting in a comedy on stage, Freddie said, “Why, I am Frederick West, lately of England. Perhaps you might be of assistance. You see I seem to have become lost in these damn fine woods you Frenchies have.”
“Insolent cur!”
She heard the smack of a blow and flinched, touching her hand to her cheek where she could almost feel the pain of the impact.
“No need to be rough, good sir,” Freddie intoned. “I am but a humble public servant like yourself, a professor of botany to be precise.”
“Kill the English pig!” shouted a coarse voice.
“Now, do not be hasty,” advised Freddie. His voice sounded calm but, for all his brave front, Zoé believed his bluster masked fear.
Oh, Freddie.
“And why not kill you?” came a drawl.
“Well, for one thing,” Freddie replied, “I would very much like to meet your General Rossignol about whom I have heard so much. What’s a trip to Brittany without a visit to Rennes, n’est-ce pas? After days wandering about with only plants for company, to see the city I’ve heard so much about would be a treat.”
“He’s a spy!” exclaimed one of the men.
“Whether he is a spy or not,” said another, “he is most certainly English. Perhaps we should deliver him to the general and let him decide what to do with this lying English dog. Take his weapons.”
With that, she heard some muffled sounds and then boots moving off through the trees.
The woods fell silent. Even the birds held their songs.
Freddie was gone.
Zoé turned to face her friends, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Freddie had wanted her to go on and she would. But she would not give up. Surely there was a way to free him. Leading Isabeau’s horse, she followed Gabe down the path, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Will Monsieur West be all right?” Isabeau inquired in a shaky voice.
“We must pray that he will live, Isabeau. Pray very hard.”
Zoé knew royalists, particularly English ones, did not live long in Rossignol’s headquarters or Robespierre’s Paris for that matter, but she had to hold on to the hope that Freddie might survive. He was clever and smart. Her brave Englishman would live.
She touched her fingers to her lips still tingling from his kiss. Freddie loved her. She had seen it in his eyes and felt it in his kiss. And though the knowledge had only just come to her, she loved him, too. Perhaps she always had.
She could not lose him now.
Some distance down the path, Erwan joined them. “The path ahead is clear of any soldiers,” he informed them. “Where is M’sieur West?”
“The Blues have taken him,” said Gabe.
A look of shock crossed Erwan’s face. “Taken?”
“He gave himself up to save us from discovery,” said Zoé. “Erwan, take some food and go to Rennes. See if you can find out what they intend to do with him. If Cadoudal is still in the area, he might be able to help you. We must go on, but will wait for you at Lorient. Bring us word he lives, I pray you.”
Erwan shared a look with Gabe before nodding. “I will do as you wish.”
Rennes, Brittany
Freddie wiped the blood from his chin. The cut lip and bruises were mere trifles given what he might yet suffer at Rossignol’s hands.
The Blues had summarily dumped him in a cell in the bowels of the Palais de Justice with only a rickety bench for a bed. A lantern, hanging from a rafter a short distance away, cast flickering shadows onto the stone floor around him.
Surprisingly, though musty, the cell did not reek of human waste nor was it as soot-ridden as he expected. Perhaps the swept clean appearance was due to the short time General Rossignol’s prisoners were typically held. The guard had taken special pleasure in telling Freddie his stay would be brief, that he would either meet the guillotine awaiting him just outside or join his fellow spies in a worse place.
Freddie would have to tell Zoé he’d encountered no rats. That is, if he ever saw her again. He did not regret sending her away and using Isabeau’s presence to ensure she went. As long as Zoé was safe, he could face death without regret. The kiss had been an afterthought, one he could not deny himself—or her.
He wanted her to know what was in his heart.
“Bring up the Englishman!” yelled a guard. “The general wants to see him.”
His hands locked behind him in irons, Freddie was hauled from his cell, forced up two flights of stairs and shoved into an opulent room with a red flowered carpet and a carved mahogany desk. The walls were graced with paintings and a gilded mirror over the fireplace. Apparently the revolutionaries kept some luxuries from the prior régime for themselves.
Rossignol stood with his back to Freddie looking out a window to the square below, but Freddie was certain the general knew his prisoner had arrived. What better way to snub the brother of an English earl than to ignore him?
Keeping up his guise as a witless Englishman who had lost his way in the woods, Freddie said, “Good day to you, General Rossignol. I was hoping to make your acquaintance. Wandering in the forest for days can be dreadfully dull. Might you be able to assist me in finding my way home?”
Rossignol whipped around, his dark eyes narrowed on Freddie, his lips curled into a sneer. Trained to notice the smallest detail, Freddie’s gaze took in the lapels of the general’s dark blue uniform, embellished with gold embroidery, and the artful arrangement of his brown hair with curls around his face.
So, the general favored by Robespierre is as vain as he is debauched.
“Are all Englishmen so stupid as to wander into revolutionary France, Mr. West? Or, are you the spy my men believe you to be?” Not giving Freddie an opportunity to reply, he said, “Oui, I think you are un espion anglais, an English spy.”
“Oh, non, bon général,” Freddie protested, “unless you consider Arthur Young’s venture into France to observe agriculture a few years ago to be spying. He did keep a journal in which he wrote of his travels, which you might like to read. I found his musings quite fascinating. My own interest is botany and the plants that grow without human assistance.” Freddie had become familiar with botany for his code work and could have expounded for hours on Brittany’s vegetation.
“Ça suffit!” Rossignol glared at him with suspicious eyes. “Lies and subterfuge!”
Freddie tried to summon an indignant look. “Non, non, je vous assure.” Retaining a placid expression and mimicking the bloody bands of sans culottes he had observed arguing in favor of the revolution, he placed his palm over his heart, “Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité is my motto. I expect one day soon, England will come to see the revolution for what it truly stands for.” To Freddie’s mind that would be a thirst for blood and a disdain for everything true Frenchmen valued.
“Your ruse is entertaining, I give you that, l’Anglais. But already I grow tired of you. Normally, that would mean the guillotine here in Rennes, but it so happens I owe Robespierre a favor of some import. An English spy served up on a silver platter might be just the offering I need to demonstrate my gratitude. Oui, I think you shall go to Paris to answer to him. Should Robespierre decide it best, you can meet Madame Guillotine there before the English-hating citoyens who enjoy a good show.”
On board la Reine Noire off the coast of Lorient, Brittany
“Well?” Zoé anxiously inquired. “What have you learned?”
Erwan had just climbed up the manrope from the ship’s skiff, looking bedraggled from his days of hurried travel. “The morning I arrived,” he began, pausing to take a breath, “a contingent of republican soldiers was leaving the Palais de Justice with M’sieur West. I asked one of the crowd gathered to watch where they were going and was told ‘Paris’.” Erwan dropped his gaze, avoiding Zoé’s eyes. “I overheard one of the soldiers taunting Mr. West with the name la Conciergerie.”
Zoé closed her eyes, her heart sinking along with her hope. The Conciergerie, a medieval royal palace, now a prison, was one step from death. Its rat-infested dungeons were the oldest in France. The tales told of dirt, disorder and disease had given Zoé nightmares.
The turnkeys, often drunk, ruled over the prisoners with a pack of savage dogs, granting favors for food and a bed if the prisoners could pay the going rate. She had read one account of a survivor who dubbed the prison “the vast antechamber of the guillotine.”
Her mind still reeling, Zoé heard her uncle give the orders to set sail and the deck moved beneath her feet. “Come,” she said to Erwan, “we must ask mon oncle what can be done.” She would not give up what hope remained while Freddie yet lived.
In the capitaine’s cabin, her uncle, Erwan and Émile Bequel gathered to discuss Freddie’s situation.
“It is possible to bribe one’s way in,” said her uncle, “but not so easy to bribe one’s way out, particularly if one has a prisoner in tow. And you say, West is being held for Robespierre?”
“From what I was able to learn in Rennes,” offered Erwan, “Rossignol was sending M’sieur West to Robespierre as a kind of gift.”
“More like a sacrificial lamb to be slaughtered,” put in M’sieur Bequel.
Zoé cringed and he patted her hand. “Do not despair, little one. There is some good in what Rossignol has done. At least he has provided us time to intervene.”
“Time, yes,” her uncle said, “but not much. We must get to West before he is called before the Revolutionary Tribunal. The sentence would almost certainly be death to be swiftly carried out.”
“Are we sailing to Le Havre, Capitaine?” asked M’sieur Bequel.
“Oui, I have set a course for that port. It will take Rossignol’s men a week to get to Paris. We can make it there nearly in the same time if the wind is with us and we have a fast carriage from Le Havre.”
For the first time since Freddie had been taken, Zoé began to believe a rescue might be possible.
Her uncle pursed his lips, deep in thought, muttering to himself, “Oui, he might be of use…”
“Who, mon oncle?”
He looked up, his countenance brightening. “François de Dordogne, a lawyer in Paris who owes me his life. That is to say, I refrained from killing him when his betrayal gave me good cause.”
M’sieur Bequel nodded. “Oui, c’est parfait. He owes ye much, Capitaine.”
“Indeed. I still protect his secret. Most convenient for our purposes,” her uncle added, “I believe he is now working for the Committee of Public Safety.”