Chapter 4
Aboard la Reine Noire in the English Channel, sailing to England, March 1794
“Sail ho!” cried the lookout from the foredeck.
Standing on the quarterdeck where he could judge how well the sails were drawing wind, Freddie turned from Donet, with whom he’d been conversing, and gazed toward the bow.
The sun glistened off the Channel as la Reine Noire cut through the choppy waters, throwing up a fine white bow wave. Until now, he’d been enjoying the crossing but the lookout’s cry sent a ripple of foreboding through him. French warships monitored the Channel as well as the coast.
Donet shouted, “Where away?”
“Two points off the starboard bow!” came the reply on the wind.
Freddie shifted his gaze to starboard. In the distance, he glimpsed the top of a mast and a small white cloud he assumed was a sail. Not far from where he stood, Émile Bequel passed a spyglass to Gabe Chastain. The seaman wore the typical blue jacket and loose breeches, or slops, the sailors wore. “Run aloft, lad,” said the quartermaster, “and take a look.”
Freddie found it amusing that although Gabe was a young man, respected by both captain and crew, Bequel still thought of him as the cabin boy he’d once been. In all the years he’d served Donet, Gabe was still slim enough to climb the rigging faster than an organ grinder’s monkey.
Reaching for the spyglass, Gabe stuffed it into his belt and clambered into the rigging. Freddie watched as he reached the yard high above the deck where he perched and extended the brass cylinder to its full length. Clinging to the mast with one arm, he peered through the lens, the wind blowing his curly brown hair around his ruddy-cheeked face.
A moment later, he shouted down, “’Tis a warship, Capitaine, a two-decker flying no colors!”
La Reine Noire, disguised as the English merchantman Gulliver, likewise flew no flag. ’Twas a stalling tactic considered fair, at least until a ship began firing. But two decks meant many guns, more than the sixteen carried by Donet’s brig-sloop.
With the skill of a circus acrobat, Gabe slid down the backstay and landed on the deck with a thump, returning the spyglass to the quartermaster, who promptly delivered it to Donet. “Best take a look, Capitaine.”
Donet stared into the spyglass.
Freddie asked, “Can you tell if she’s French?”
“Oui, she is most definitely French. I recognize her. She is the Trajan out of Lorient and carries seventy-four guns.”
Bequel gave a grunt. “Merde!”
Donet lowered the spyglass. “My last report had her patrolling Brittany’s coast to prevent the British from aiding the Vendéens. Her captain, Villaret de Joyeuse, is one of the junior officers promoted in the wake of the National Convention’s purge of the French Navy last year. Stupid plan,” he spat, “to kill off your experienced officers while declaring war.”
Extending the spyglass once again, he swept the horizon, then paused, his dark brows drawing together. “Aha! There’s Trajan’s prey—a little schooner. She flies the British colors… an aviso carrying dispatches, peut-être?” He collapsed the glass and handed it to Bequel.
“There is a new packet running mail from Weymouth to Jersey,” Freddie offered.
Donet muttered a curse. “We must intervene. A fine time to be without a master gunner!”
With an arched brow, the quartermaster regarded Donet. “Capitaine, a man must be present for the arrival of his first-born babe, non?”
“Can I be of assistance?” Freddie inquired. “With my arm in a sling, I won’t be able to serve the guns, but I can coordinate your fire while you two concentrate on maneuvers.”
Donet’s deep frown vanished and his white teeth flashed in a grateful smile. “Très bien, that will work.” Raising his voice to a roar that carried across the ship, Donet yelled, “Run out the guns!”
Preparing for the inevitable clash, Freddie left the quarterdeck to give his attention to the gun crews. Once he was assured the guns were loaded, pricked and primed, ready for the coming action, he rejoined Donet. To Gabe, standing nearby, he said, “M’sieur Chastain, please escort the ladies and children to the orlop deck and tell them to expect action.”
The lowest part of the ship, the orlop would be dark, wet and given to ill smells. Zoé would hate it but it was below the water line and the safest place in a battle.
Precisely where he wanted her at the moment.
As Gabe hurried down the aft hatch, Freddie turned to Donet. “Sir, we still have the American colors aboard. Might we raise them as we close on the Trajan and only hoist His Majesty’s flag as we fire our first round?”
“An excellent idea,” said Donet. He gave the orders to Freddie and Bequel. “We will come up to windward of the Trajan and rake her port side, then cut around her stern and fire into her as we pass. We may be smaller with fewer guns, but we’re faster. Once we pass the Trajan’s stern, we’ll bear away bound for Chichester.”
“That should allow the packet time to escape,” put in Bequel. “I’ll have Lucien see the colors are ready.” Facing the crew, he yelled, “Hands to the braces! Stand by to tack.”
Freddie strode to his gun crews and, speaking in French, said, “Double-shot the guns. We’ll fire the port side, rolling fire as we pass. Save the last gun, treble-shotted, for the stern as we round up. Then reload on port as fast as you can so we’re ready for whatever comes next.”
With shouts of “Oui!” the crews went to work.
The Trajan bore down on the schooner and la Reine Noire followed, hoisting her American colors. The French ship hesitated. Perhaps Villaret believed his American ally was coming to assist. Or he might just be confused. But whatever his thinking, the ruse gained them time as Freddie had hoped.
As the gunners poised their linstocks to light the fuses, the French warship hesitated no longer. Hoisting the newly adopted tricolor flag of the Republic, she fired a shot, her gun belching smoke.
A ripping sound pierced the air. Freddie looked up as the shot flew through la Reine Noire’s main topsail.
Before the smoke cleared, Donet ordered the British red ensign hoisted and raised his arm meeting Freddie’s expectant gaze from amidships.
At the signal, Freddie shouted, “Fire!”
La Reine Noire’s guns blazed away, raking the port side of the larger ship. To the French crew, it might have appeared like a cat hissing at a mastiff. But the strategy worked. The rolling broadside passed up through the sides and decks sending pieces of wood from the decks and hull shooting into the smoke-filled air.
Freddie smiled, satisfied. At least some of the Trajan’s guns would not be firing again.
Bequel gave the command to bear around the Trajan’s stern and the helmsman responded, turning the wheel. The sails luffed, then billowed, as the crew tacked to bring them into position.
La Reine Noire passed in front of the warship’s stern and the many windows that gave light to Villaret’s cabin. With a shout, Freddie ordered his crews to fire the treble-shotted gun he’d held in reserve.
The shot exploded from the gun, sending glass and pieces of wood flying out in all directions. Doubtless, Villaret was glad he’d been on deck and not in his cabin.
With orders from Donet for a new tack, la Reine Noire left the slower warship licking its wounds. Freddie gazed off the port side beyond the Trajan to see the small mail packet slip away.
The Harrows, near Chichester, West Sussex, England
Zoé pressed her fingers to her temples, still hearing the guns exploding in her head, still smelling the dank putrid stench in the belly of the ship where the women and children had been confined. The carriage that had brought them from Chichester Harbor dipped into a rut and she lurched sideways, her head throbbing.
“Really, Freddie, was it absolutely necessary to consign us to such a wretched part of the ship? After all, la Reine Noire sustained little damage.”
“The Gulliver,” he corrected, “took a ball in the main topsail. Had the Trajan’s hull not been so high or the Gulliver not so close, their guns could have hit our deck. ’Twas not safe.”
“At least I have Franklin, the ship’s cat, to thank for removing any rats. We saw none in the dim light afforded by our one lantern.” Zoé hated rats.
The carriage slowed as they neared Freddie’s family’s estate, the home of his brother, Richard, Earl of Torrington, and then stopped in front of the main house behind the two other conveyances.
“The orlop deck is the safest place for precious cargo, Pigeon,” Freddie teased, his brandy-colored eyes twinkling with mirth as he handed her down to the gravel drive. “You must recall I had to protect not only you, but my sister and your uncle’s heir, along with the princesse d’Hénin and her children.”
Zoé found his failure to mention the pretty maid Éloise oddly comforting. “I suppose you are right but, still, ’twas a bleak place even with Jack’s wild imaginings to entertain us as to what was happening on deck.”
Freddie laughed. “That must have been some tale. Jack hangs on his father’s every word when he recounts his adventures as a privateer. Did the boy provide gruesome details?”
“Many, much to the chagrin of Tante Joanna and Madame de Montconseil.”
Jack had regaled them with vivid descriptions of “the sea battle that was raging on the Channel”, as he called it, which had delighted the princesse’s children, Cécile and Étienne.
Zoé remembered well the earl’s home. It was the place where she’d first met Freddie. She looked up at the rectangular brick edifice, rising three stories into the air. Graced with more than twenty windows, including five dormers set into the roof, it was impressive. Nestled against a forest of beech trees, the architecture was decidedly more English than French and, thus, to Zoé’s thinking, more masculine.
The house faced a large round pond, its water a placid green, marking the center of the estate.
Surrounding all was the bucolic countryside of West Sussex. The calm she experienced stood in stark contrast to the war raging across the Channel.
“Come,” urged Freddie, offering his arm, “if you hurry, you’ll have time for a bath before dinner.”
Zoé glanced down at the stained edge of her gown, a souvenir of the orlop deck. She was glad she had not worn one of her new ones for the crossing. The unmistakable odor rising to her nose made her grimace. “I shall try and not be offended by your implication.”
Freddie chuckled. “And I shall try not to notice you smell like bilge water.”
She glared at him beneath her furrowed brows. Only Freddie could accuse her of that and live. After all, he’d been the cause of the awful smell.
They followed the others up the steps to the entrance where Richard greeted them, his coloring a close rendition of his siblings’. Noble titles might have ended in France, but they were very much in use in England. To the world he was “Lord Torrington”, to his colleagues in Parliament, “Torrington”, but to his siblings, he remained “Richard”, the only member of the West family without a nickname, owing to his rather formal demeanor.
Standing at his side, his attractive wife, Anne, welcomed them with a warm smile and gracious words. “We’re so glad you are here. Do come in!”
Owing to her cheerful disposition, everyone called her “Annie”. Well, everyone save Richard, who called her “Anne”. She was, in all ways, the perfect complement to his staid and serious bearing.
When Zoé’s uncle introduced the princesse and her children, Annie’s kind face lit up. “Welcome to The Harrows,” she said. “We are delighted to have you as our guests. How relieved you must be to be here.”
“We are surely that,” said Madame de Montconseil with a sigh. “Not just to be out of France, mind you, but off the Channel and off the ship.”
“’Twas a bit of a rough crossing,” admitted Donet to Richard. “We were forced to deal with one of France’s warships.”
“What Oncle Jean means, dear cousin,” said Zoé, “is that while the guns were firing above decks, the women and children were relegated to the belly of the ship. I daresay ’tis not the place the princesse would have wanted to be.”
Without mentioning their soiled gowns, Annie turned to her husband. “Richard, I expect the ladies will want to change.”
Collecting himself, Richard said, “Yes, well—”
“Nora can show you to your chambers,” Annie said to the princesse. Nora, Tante Joanna’s former lady’s maid had, in the past ten years, become the housekeeper for The Harrows.
His impeccable attire undisturbed, The Harrows’ ever-proper butler, Carter, bowed. “Very well, my lady. I shall call her.” Hearing the respect in his voice, Zoé was reminded that Carter approved of his mistress, happy to have her in exchange for the more rebellious Lady Joanna West who he’d once served. Until she had married Zoé’s uncle, Joanna had acted as Richard’s hostess.
Freddie leaned in to Zoé. “I shall see you at dinner.” Then he traipsed off with her uncle and the earl toward the parlor. She could see no evidence that his shoulder pained him, but his being on deck during the battle had been a source of worry. What was he doing in the middle of guns blazing with one arm in a sling?
“The Prime Minister is coming here?” Freddie sputtered, nearly choking on his brandy.
“Tomorrow,” said Richard. “Fortuitous, no?” With a glance in Donet’s direction, he added, “I suspect he will be very interested to hear of your skirmish with the French warship.”
“I will be happy to oblige him,” said Donet cordially. “We French who fight a revolution run amok are happy to align with an England that provides shelter and aid to our émigrés. I will tell the Prime Minister whatever he wants to know. As for the Trajan, I was surprised myself to see her so far from France’s northwestern coast. Her home port is Lorient.”
Richard rose and poured another round of brandy for the three of them. “You mentioned the ship usually monitors the French coast, particularly the Vendée. It turns out that due to his frustration with the Prussians and Austrians in the war on the Continent, Pitt has a growing interest in that province.”
“He means to aid them?” asked Freddie, recalling d’Auvergne’s words but not realizing the interest went so high as the Prime Minister.
“Pitt is desperate to claim some success in France. If sending arms and supplies to the Vendée to equip a ready-made army would give him that, then yes, I expect he does.”
Donet, staring into his brandy, turned the glass in his hand. Was he thinking of Freddie’s new assignment and of Zoé’s part in it? Looking at Richard, Donet said, “The aid, though late in coming, will nevertheless be welcomed. The royalist army in the Vendée, or what is left of it, has sometimes been forced to fight with farming implements for weapons.”
“Yet the royalists in London tell me they are worthy fighters,” put in Richard. “That would appeal to the Prime Minister.”
“What is the occasion for his visit?” asked Donet.
“Now that is a bit peculiar,” said Richard with a thoughtful expression. “He sent word he would be in the area and wanted to call upon me. Something to do with the war, I expect.”
Freddie had met Pitt many years ago when Richard gave a reception in his honor at The Harrows, but he’d not spoken with the Prime Minister since becoming one of the Crown’s spies in France.
Richard gave Freddie’s sling a pointed look. “Since you have said nothing, I must ask. Was it on the Channel you managed to be wounded, little brother?”
At twenty-seven, Freddie took umbrage at the reference to his junior status but, then, one had to make excuses for Richard. “No. I owe that to a republican soldier in Granville who did not like the cut of my coat.”
A deep furrow appeared between Richard’s eyes.
“I jest, Richard. ’Tis not worth the telling.”
“Freddie acted quite the hero,” said Donet. “Kept your sister, Joanna, from widowhood.”
Richard’s gaze darted between Freddie and Donet. Neither spoke a word, their countenances suitably devoid of expression. Richard shrugged. “Very well, be mysterious if you must. But if Pitt asks, you must tell him what happened. He likes good stories.”
Zoé spent the next morning with Tante Joanna and Freddie, visiting their friends in the town of Chichester. Spring in West Sussex, she decided, though not as warm as Guernsey, nevertheless brought with it a bevy of wildflowers dotting the green hillsides, which made for a lovely sight.
In the carriage, they talked of the family they were to call upon, the Barlows. Zack Barlow, a longtime friend of Zoé’s aunt, was the brother of The Harrow’s housekeeper, Nora.
Tante Joanna explained that the Barlows had five children, the three oldest, Danny, Nate and their sister Briney, were Polly’s by her first husband who had died. “After she married Zack, they had twin boys of their own.”
“The twins had just been born when I was last here,” said Freddie. With a smile for his sister, he added, “Zack seems to have settled down from those days when we engaged in free trade.”
Zoé had known Freddie and his sister once led a smuggling ring to help feed the poor in West Sussex, a story she had forced them to divulge when she caught the two of them laughing about some escapade. But it had taken her weeks to wheedle Freddie into telling more about the French tea and brandy they smuggled that had put food in the mouths of English children.
“That’s how your uncle came to meet my sister,” said Freddie. The details of that meeting were never supplied, though Zoé had first met Joanna in Saintonge where her uncle had brought her. The thought of them all being involved in some nefarious plot for the good of the poor gave Zoé a new respect for her aunt by marriage and her friend who called her “Pigeon”, a name she had come to accept but never quite liked.
Just outside of Chichester, they arrived at the Barlows’ whitewashed cottage with its well-kept thatched roof and pretty curtains in the windows. Surrounding the small home, interspersed between the oak trees, was a carpet of bluebells covering the floor of the ancient woodland.
Smoke rose from the chimney announcing the family to be home.
The carriage pulled to a stop and a blonde, blue-eyed woman came out the door. “M’lady! How good to see you. And you, Mr. West. Come in, come in.”
Freddie introduced Zoé as their cousin by marriage from France.
Polly was an accommodating woman, rosy-cheeked with a kind demeanor and, despite their countries being at war, Zoé was made to feel welcome. “I’ve just put the kettle on for tea,” she said as she beckoned them inside.
In the main room of the cottage, Zoé met Zack and four of the couple’s five children.
In his middle years, Zack was a big man with short brown hair and a scar on the left side of his face. He wasn’t handsome, but his wife and children seemed to adore him and his hazel eyes sparkled whenever he glanced toward Polly, who bustled about setting out cups for tea.
Nate was the oldest son still at home, sixteen years and a handsome lad. Both he and his sister, Briney, had their mother’s fair coloring, but the two twin boys who appeared to Zoé to be five or six, had their father’s brown hair.
They all took places around the long wooden table and Polly poured tea.
“What have ye done to yerself, Frederick?” asked Zack.
“Oh this?” said Freddie with a glance at his sling. “’Tis nothing but a scratch. I’m fine.”
“If ye say so,” said Zack. Then, turning to Zoé’s aunt, he said, “Since yer last visit, Jo, yer brother, his lordship, added a few rooms to the cottage to allow fer the twins’ coming. The extra space has been a boon.”
Zoé’s aunt took the gingerbread biscuits from the basket they had brought from The Harrows. “I’m glad he is good to his tenants, especially you and Polly,” she said. Still warm from the oven, the gingerbread, formed into the shape of plump little men, sent an aroma of ginger wafting through the air.
Freddie handed a gingerbread man to each of the dark-haired twins. Briney, who had taken one for herself, ushered the two boys out the front door to play.
“How old are the twins now?” asked Zoé’s aunt.
Polly grinned. “Six. Briney is a great help with them.”
“We named the boys George and Richard,” explained Zack, “fer the king and fer the earl who has done so much fer us.”
Through the open door, Zoé watched the two boys playing among the bluebells under the watchful eye of their half-sister. She wondered if she would ever have a child of her own. At twenty, it was not too soon for her to marry but the war had delayed much. She couldn’t imagine thinking of such things with the present situation in France. Beyond the peace of England, the world lay in turmoil. And there was the memory of Henri and her vow that drove her on.
“Thanks to the earl,” said Zack, “our oldest, Danny, has risen in the Royal Navy and is now a young lieutenant on the HMS Orion.”
Zoé glanced at Freddie and, not for the first time, wondered why he had not chosen that path. Perhaps he had no love for the military life.
“Young Nate here,” Zack said, nodding to his stepson, “helps me with the bit of farming we do.”
Nate smiled sheepishly. “I prefer to stay on land.”
Freddie said, “I’d wager you have become your father’s right hand.”
“Aye, he is,” said Zack giving his adopted son an approving look.
“I tend the home and still do a bit of sewing,” said Polly. “That much ain’t changed.” Zoé had noted the cottage’s windows framed with muslin curtains neatly sewn and embroidered with yellow flowers. They were very pretty.
“I brought you some cloth you might be able to use,” said Zoé’s aunt. “It comes from France via Jersey. It will make you and Briney lovely dresses.”
Polly’s countenance brightened, a smile forming on her round face. “How generous of you, m’lady. I will surely use it!”
“I thought of you and your skill with a needle and thread the minute I saw it at the dressmaker’s.”
Freddie said to Zack, “Jo and I have often thought of you and Polly and the children. I’m glad to see you and your family happy and well.”
“Aye, we are,” said Zack with a fond look at his wife. “The Good Lord has blessed us and we are content, save that we pray Danny will come home from this miserable war. And ye? How do ye like living on Guernsey?”
“It suits me,” said Freddie, “though much of the time I’m on one of Donet’s ships.”
Polly poured them more tea and then came to stand behind her husband, placing her hand on his shoulder. “We live a simple life here but our needs are met and, unlike the people in France, we do not live in fear. ’Tis a comfort to know you are no longer living there.”
Zoé exchanged a knowing look with Freddie but neither mentioned they were often in France.
A short while later, Tante Joanna thanked their hosts and rose to leave. “It’s been too short a visit but we must go. I will keep your growing family in my prayers.”
Freddie got to his feet and extended his hand to Zack. “I will inquire about Danny and the ship on which he serves.”
“We’d be much obliged,” said Zack. “Only remember when you do, Danny is a Barlow now.”
“Indeed, I will,” said Freddie. “If you need anything, send a message to The Harrows. You are part of our family, as is Nora.”
Zoé eyed him curiously as she stood and bid goodbye to the Barlow family. Something about Freddie had changed. The winsome lad of her youth, who had proudly showed her around his family’s estate, had become a man, taking on a man’s responsibilities and caring for The Harrows’ tenants.