Jeanne said, ‘Just goes to show what a pleasant environment and good people can do to boost your willingness to fit in, doesn’t it?’
‘Bit of a struggle sometimes, though, ain’t it,’ said Ginette. ‘I don’t know if I’m ever going to make ’em laugh in German one day.’
In spite of the cold, Jeanne and Paul had also settled into the ways of a Swiss country town. They marvelled at the annual sleigh races, with horses magnificently harnessed and attired for the occasion, and Paul enjoyed activities in the snow with new friends. Jeanne helped with Claire’s baby, who was named Jeanne Lambrois, and also at church despite the language barrier. In this way, with much relief, she looked forward to some kind of stability during the harsh, cold months in the company of people she loved.
But one clear and icy-blue day, she received the letter she had been praying for. The men were at work, Ginette was at her new dwelling, and Claire was lying down after the baby’s feed. Jeanne sat alone to open it in the kitchen, where chestnuts were roasting in the hearth for the children who would soon be back from the schoolhouse. The tall case clock counted time as she set her eyes on the letter and read:
My Dearest Wife,
I have encountered as many difficulties as atrocities, but by God’s grace, having escaped my gaolers, I do believe my fortune has turned. I will not elaborate on the course of events that have enabled me to write this letter, but I am free, my dear Jeanne. I can imagine the torment you yourself have had to endure, and I long for the day when we shall be united again. So I will ask you, my dear wife, to join me in London, where I will meet you. I am told there is a Huguenot church there. That is where you will find news of my whereabouts, and you can be sure I will run to meet you as soon as I am given word of your arrival.
My heart beats for the day that will bring us together.
Your husband who loves you dearly, Jacob
Jeanne kissed the paper that her husband’s hand had brushed, and then pressed the letter to her heart. She gazed through the kitchen window at the winter wonderland of snow and ice that muffled the ambient noises and gave off a blue hue, now that evening was encroaching. Of course, she was elated; of course, she must leave at once. But apart from the local pathways which town valets had sprinkled with sand, they were snowed in.
Thanks so much for reading Voyage of Malice, book 2 of The Huguenot Chronicles trilogy, I hope you enjoyed it.
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Paul C.R. Monk
LAND OF HOPE
book 3 of The Huguenot Connection trilogy is out now at amazon.com and amazon.co.uk
LAND OF HOPE
Book Three of
THE HUGUENOT CONNECTION
Trilogy
Excerpt
ONE
‘After a number of setbacks, at last I find myself travelling aboard a merchant ship a free man. My only regret, my dear wife, is that I asked you to join me in London, since I am still on the other side of the world.
‘As I sail along the North American coast to New York, where I plan to secure my passage to London, I have heard it said many a time that there is great unrest in England.
‘I pray that this unrest between the Catholic king and his subjects does not turn to civil war, should William of Orange, as I have heard it suggested, claim the throne of England for himself and his English wife. Should war there be, I pray to God that you, my dear wife, and our children will find refuge, and that it pleaseth God to soon bring us together in this world gone mad.’
In cadence with the gentle pitch of the ship, Jacob Delpech lifted his quill off the paper, which he had placed atop a barrel of odorous ginger loaves.
He knew very well that the letter in all probability would not reach Jeanne before he arrived in the English capital. Nevertheless, setting down on paper his gravest thoughts gave him a vent for his regretted demand. He let the plume tickle the stubble beneath his nose as his cold fingers took refuge inside the sleeve of his fur coat, purchased off Chesapeake Bay, Virginia, from a gentleman travelling south.
The captain’s roar above deck interrupted Jacob’s train of thought. ‘Lay low the mainsails, lads! Keep her easy, keep her well east o’ them Oyster Islands!’
The base of the mainmast gave a groan as the crew set his orders into action.
Picking up the thread of his thoughts, Delpech glanced at the young woman opposite him, asleep on the floor in the dim light, her young daughter curled into her body and a cape wrapped around them both. The English ship he had boarded in Nassau had put into port to water and to trade in Carolina, where the woman had pleaded for passage. She had promised the captain that her husband would pay on arrival, he having ventured ahead some months past.
Jacob had since overheard her saying to a neighbouring passenger that she could no longer bear the midges and mosquitoes in Charles Town, having already lost two of her children to fever.
The captain blasted out further orders, and the sleeping huddle began to stir. Clawing her shawl away from her face, the woman found herself locking eyes with the gentleman opposite, and instinctively trying to decipher the meaning of his furrowed brow. Was there a good soul behind that stern, unshaven façade? She had previously decided to believe that there was, so she allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch into a half smile.
Before Jacob realised he was staring at the object of his inner conversation, he caught the searching, anxious look that accompanied the woman’s timid smile. He offered a nod in greeting as he put down his quill and then returned his writing material and letter to his leather pouch. Suppressing his worrying thoughts, he strode to the steps leading to the upper deck, before social convention required that words be exchanged between them. His mind was crowded enough without having to dwell on other people’s struggles.
As a man of southern skies, Jacob could never fathom why people had to submit themselves to the rigours of the cold northern winter when there was plenty of room down south. However, there he was, and thankful indeed for his warm overcoat as he stiffly climbed the mid-deck steps and showed his face to the breaking, dingy December morning. Raising a hand to the cold sea spray, he turned his gaze towards the ship’s wheel, where there stood a heavily dressed man watching the crew tying back sails.
‘New York Bay, Captain?’ called Jacob, making an extra effort to articulate through the bitter cold as he climbed the few steps to the quarterdeck.
‘Ah, M’sieur Delpech,’ belched the captain, hat pulled down tight and greatcoat buttoned to the chin. Flicking his head to starboard, he continued with gruff geniality: ‘Aye, Sir, that be Long Island. Gives protection to the harbour, see? And over there, that’s Staten.’
Jacob’s eyes now followed the captain’s nod port side, where, through the thinning swags of mist, he perceived clusters of modest dwellings scattered along the coast, some already smoking from their chimneys.
After a moment’s scrutiny, Jacob declared: ‘No city walls there, Captain Stevens, far as I can see.’ It was a statement carried forward from a previous conversation which had raised the issue of safety in these northern settlements. They had not only suffered Native Indian raids but, more importantly to Jacob, attacks by French forces from New France, whose leaders were keen to secure fur trade routes. Jacob wondered if he should have waited for passage aboard a ship headed directly to London from the Antilles, rather than jump at his first opportunity to head back to Europe via New York. But he had been impatient to remove himself from the treacherous pirate haven of Nassau, where Captain de Graaf had dropped him off.
‘’Tis also an island, Sir,’ said a loud voice coming from Jacob’s right.
Delpech turned from the seascape view to face the large person of Mr van Pel, a Dutchman who had long since settled in the flourishing tradi
ng post. He had climbed the mid-deck steps and now joined Jacob at the quarterdeck balustrade. He said: ‘Folk of your persuasion have settled and built their homes there in the way of your homeland, you know.’
Where Jacob was from, houses were not made of stone. They were made of peach-pink brick, but he said nothing, just let the fleeting picture of the fertile plain where he was born flash past his mind’s eye. He said: ‘So they are French Protestants?’
‘That they are,’ replied the Dutchman, ‘and Quakers too. No doubt you’ll be able to find a plot there for yourself . . .’
‘And a wife to boot, if that be your inclination,’ added the captain, having sauntered over to join them.
‘Oh, I already have a wife, Captain,’ returned Jacob soberly, ‘and my intention is not to stay here. For she and my children await my return in . . .’ It suddenly occurred to him that he could not say with certainty where they were—London, Geneva, France? ‘In Europe,’ he finished.
The Dutch-built merchantman sailed at half sail on an even keel through the placid waters of the natural harbour. Within the hour, she was rounding the small isle that van Pel called Nutten—in reference, according to the Dutchman, to the thriving population of nut trees growing there. At last Jacob began to see through the patchy mist, thicker at this point, to the battery at the tip of the Manhattan trading post.
‘New Amsterdam,’ said the Dutchman in an ironic tone.
‘New York, Sir!’ blasted the English captain, placing a heavy, consoling hand on the Dutchman’s shoulder before swaggering back up to his command station.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it gets another name change before long, though,’ said van Pel to Jacob. Then, as if to plumb the depths of his counterpart’s thoughts, he added: ‘Or will it go back to being as it was?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest, my good fellow,’ said Jacob, not without some pride in his mastery of the English language, acquired from his travels in the midst of the damnedest devils of the deep blue sea. But he preferred not to enter into a political debate. He did not need to let anyone know his deepest thoughts. Either side of the fence could lead to danger in these times of upheaval, he thought, what with the conflict with New France.
The ship entered smoother waters while Jacob leaned on the balustrade, trying to peer through the dissipating mist at the configuration of New York.
It was composed of a mismatch of Dutch-style buildings made of stone and brick, the windmill that presently stood as still as a sentinel on the west side of the promontory, and an assortment of vessels moored along the eastern side. Jacob thought it more reminiscent of the port of Amsterdam than anything English.
The merchant ship continued her course slowly into the roadstead to the east of the promontory. Leaning with forearms on the bulwark and loosely clasping his hands, Jacob was soon able to more closely make out the influence of visiting cultures and the resulting mix of architectural styles inserted between the crenelated Dutch-built edifices. It was an odd blend, he thought, as odd as the English brick houses built among the white-washed Spanish haciendas and one-storey houses of Port Royale in Jamaica. But this was the New World, after all, a new world he was growing accustomed to. It was a land of many nations where people were thrown together in the mutual hopes of a fresh start and a fair chance of success. He only hoped the sins of the Old World had not washed up on the shores of New York as they had done on the spit of land occupied by Port Royale.
Mr van Pel pointed out City Hall, where the battlement was peopled with stevedores hoisting a winch, market sellers carting their produce, oystermen pushing carts, and small clusters of merchants who Jacob imagined were talking business. But if he could hear their muffled voices through the morning mist, he would find that the dwindling fur and tobacco trade due to border troubles was not the only talk of the New England township. The eighty-tonner lying at the wharf, just in from England, had not only brought linens, woollens, tools, and wine. It had also brought unofficial news of a probable invasion of England by the Prince of Orange and his Dutch army. Would the navigation rights now be reviewed to better suit the colonists’ activities? Would New York regain its former status as a province? Would the Catholic king leave England in peace?
But even if he could hear the gossip, it would not have clouded his mind much. His one thought now was to get back to his family; the world could go mad without him. He would take some rest on firm ground, before setting out on another gruelling voyage across the ocean on as solid an ocean-going vessel as he could find. And judging by the size of the English ship at the slip, he was relieved that he had found one that would do the trick.
As he scoured the harbour, it struck him that the colony settlement, though well established, was not exactly as large as Bordeaux or even Marseille. It would surely not be too much of a task, he thought, to locate Daniel Darlington, the Englishman in whose hands he had left Marianne and her grandmother.
He was keen to pay a social visit to the young lady he had watched and cared for during their detention and their escape from Hispaniola. It would tie a loose end in his mind and set him at ease to know that she had found comfort and satisfaction, that neither she nor young Darlington had been accused of involvement in the tragic accident that had caused the death of a drunken soldier, and had forced Delpech to part ways or face trial and execution.
A blast from the captain, followed by the thunderous clanking of running chains, brought the vessel to a timber-creaking halt. The ship came to anchor at a gunshot from Coenties Slip, situated at the mouth of East River. It was, according to van Pel, less prone there to oyster reefs than the Hudson River that flowed along the west side, all the way up to Albany.
The West Indies merchantman—with its delivery of molasses, rum, and ginger—would have to lay in wait for a loading bay to become vacant. But the captain allowed all the passengers to be rowed ashore. All, that is, except for two.
As the travellers excitedly brushed down clothes, straightened hair, and gathered their effects in the dim light of mid-deck, the captain motioned to a lady fastening her daughter’s bonnet.
‘Madame Blancfort,’ he said, standing on the hatch steps. ‘With all due respect, I’ll have to ask you to remain aboard till yer husband comes to pay your fare.’
Jacob, now standing at the ginger barrel where he had recovered his meagre effects, could not ignore the ball of indignation that surged in his chest. ‘But Captain Stevens, Sir,’ he protested, placing his leather pouch back down on the barrel of ginger. ‘That is wholly unfair. She can hardly run away from the island. Indeed, I will vouch for her and her child.’
‘Then I must ask you to do so with coin, Monsieur Delpech,’ said the captain affably enough, though standing erect and formal to match the Huguenot’s posture.
‘It is all right, M’sieur,’ said the lady in French. ‘I will wait here. We have waited to come to New York for so long, another hour or so will do us no harm.’
‘As you wish, Madame,’ said Jacob, secretly relieved to opt out of the potentially embarrassing situation, for he did not have the means to spend his money needlessly. He really ought to learn to put the reins on his acute sense of injustice.
‘But please, Sir,’ continued the woman, ‘if you would be so kind as to enquire after my husband. His name is Jeremy Blancfort. Please tell him his wife and daughter are here. He will come immediately, so please do not fret, Sir. What’s an hour more compared to a month-long voyage?’
Delpech and the French-speaking wives of the other families aboard assured her they would do as she asked and arranged to meet again in church. Then they proceeded to the upper deck, where they could climb into the boat which would take them to their new lives.
It occurred to Jacob that he would not have left his wife without monies to pay her fare, even if it were to scout for an adequate settlement. Was the husband not conscious of the dangers that could befall a lone woman? At least, he would not have left her entirely without means; for he had seen what became o
f penniless women in Port Royale. But then, was his situation so very different? Could Jeanne have suffered similarly in Amsterdam, in the hope that her husband would be able to pay her fare on arrival in London?
*
Half an hour later, Jacob Delpech was standing on the timber boardwalk of the cold and foggy wharf with his fellow travellers. These consisted of Irish, Dutch, German, and Huguenot individuals and families who had boarded the ship as it sailed from port to port up the North American coast. Some had relatives in New York. Others spoke of Staten Island, where they planned to purchase land now that their indenture was ended. Jacob glanced around at these hopeful colonists, all looking slightly bewildered. But it was a welcome change from the privateers, pirates, soldiers, and profiteers he had become accustomed to.
The sight of small parties of would-be settlers had long since become an integral part of the New York portscape, and welcoming them had been set up as a procedure. The patrolling town constable who came to greet them invited them to make their presence known in an official capacity, something they would need to do should they wish to apply for denizenship.
‘City Hall is over there, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said in a Dutch accent, pointing across the battery to a fine five-storey brick building. He then waved to a cartman to come and carry their effects while Jacob bade farewell to Mr van Pel.
‘Godspeed, and good luck in your endeavours, Sir,’ said the Dutchman. Then he sauntered, with stick in hand and sack slung over shoulder, along the wharf and into the busy market street with other returning passengers.
After being at sea for so long, climbing the sturdy stone steps of City Hall without having to counter any pitch or sway brought a secret feeling of security and permanence to more than a few. The petty constable, the cartman, the registration process, and the solidity of the building all enhanced the impression that this township, be it but a speck in the vastness of the American continent, constituted a sure foothold, made to last. However, they pushed the doors into a spacious lobby where furrowed brows and concerned undertones contrasted radically with any feeling of optimism.
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