However, few words were exchanged between them. It was the advice given by Trouvier so that if anyone got caught they would reveal little or nothing of their fellow travellers.
Monsieur Cordelle took refreshment with the party. Then he headed back to Villemade, saddened but relieved that he had done his duty by Monsieur Garrisson, and with a rush of blood to be going back to Marie.
*
Jeanne and her new companions travelled by night, taking refuge come morning in a landscape of deep valleys and steep gorges. On three occasions they were able to halt at a remote inn or a safe house owned by resolute Huguenots determined to remain in the rocky range. But mostly they sheltered by day in barns, granaries, shepherd’s huts, and in the woods off the beaten track of patrolling soldiers. There they would pray, take refreshment and rest their aching bones. It was the right season to travel, and if all went well they would be in Geneva well ahead of the first snowfall.
The talents of the cabinetmaker were put to good use building a temporary shelter on the rare times it rained. It quickly became clear to Jeanne by their furtive gestures that Etienne and Claire were not siblings, they were lovers, she was sure. What drama had they left behind them? No doubt they wondered the same about her, but all persons present had vowed only to speak of the task at hand, which sometimes made Jeanne almost feel as young as Claire again.
One mid-September morning Jeanne let out a gasp of surprise as they emerged from a dim mountain pass and halted at a gap in the vegetation. The sun was rising brightly over an expanse of softly rolling hills abounding with terraced vineyards and fields of lavender. Claire, though exhausted, gave a wheeze of delight. They had reached the Rhone valley.
‘Halfway there,’ said the guide, breaking the silence in his slow country accent. The ladies admired the clear view while Trouvier raised his arm and pointed to the left of the sun. ‘From here we follow the river to Seyssel,’ he said.
Etienne Lambrois, who had been keeping up the rear, halted his mule and said, ‘I was given to understand that we could pass into Orange country by crossing the bridge at Saint-Esprit. That is to the right of the sun, is it not?’
‘If you have a passport you can cross,’ said Trouvier.
‘Can’t we slip a guard a Louis d’or?’
‘Some you can, some you can’t, some you never know. I prefer not to take the risk.’
‘Seyssel is only a few days from Geneva, is it not?’ asked Jeanne who had heard the name before, no doubt during dinner conversations with her husband’s customers.
‘Yes, it be that, Madame,’ said Trouvier.
‘But that would mean another three weeks on French soil,’ said Etienne.
There was indulgence in Trouvier’s voice when he turned in his saddle and said, ‘Which is better than a lifetime on a galley ship, is it not?’
‘As long as we do not get caught now that the terrain is more open,’ said Jeanne to soften the guide’s natural ascendancy over the young man.
But the young cabinetmaker was still visibly wrestling with a dilemma. After a moment he said, ‘Don’t get me wrong, but how can we be sure we are not being led astray, into the hands of the King’s men? There is a good reward for delivering Protestants.’
‘If I were that way inclined,’ said the guide, ‘I’d have taken you over the bridge at Saint-Esprit. It’s where they catch many an unwary traveller. Now, we’d better get to a safe house before we’re seen by all the world and his wife.’
The guide dug in his heels and rode on down the track. Jeanne and the clandestine couple followed behind.
11
Mid to Late September 1687
Late afternoon on the 18th September, Jacob squinted as he stepped into the daylight. He was being led out of the obscure hospital ward with nineteen other Protestant prisoners. His body felt stiff and his face still twinged from his fall onto the stone floor the week before. But the deep blue sky was like a therapy for the eyes. And he was relieved that his group included his small cast of friends.
Port activity was resuming following the afternoon siesta imposed by the sultry heat. The group shuffled through the Arsenal yards to the harbour where two galley ships were still in construction. Jacob remarked how they had progressed since he first saw them. One was already being fitted with its ornate figure-head, which meant it was almost ready for its crew of two hundred and fifty slaves whose living, eating and toilet quarters would be the bench they were assigned to.
Around the animated port, seasoned slaves were already knitting or sewing in the long galley ships. A few trustee convicts were busy at small stalls posted mostly on the west side of the harbour where their galleys were moored. Apart from the shaved heads coiffed with red bonnets, these men were recognisable by the limp caused by the ball chained to their ankle, or by the chain that attached them to their stand. They were, however, the lucky ones, allowed to serve out their time by offering their wares and know-how to port visitors by day, and returning to their galley bench come evening tide.
They exercised a multitude of trades from cobbler to wig maker, and made anything from straw boxes to small pieces of furniture, pipes, wood sculptures and figurines made of shells. Some offered an astonishing assortment of services from letter writing to producing certificates stamped with fake seals, all under the knowing eye of the King’s police.
But there were no Protestants among these privileged few, even in servitude Huguenots were deprived of any sort of relief. Not only had their personal fortunes been added to the King’s treasury, they were given worse treatment than the basest of criminals.
The group continued past horses pulling winches, dockers unloading Caribbean cargo, and officers barking commands. Well-heeled ladies and gentlemen who must have recently disembarked were directing their effects onto carts that waited among wine baskets and barrels of sugar loaf, cocoa, tobacco and ginger. The port water thronged with boats, galleys, tall ships, and seagulls pecking into sludge. But the windmills on the crest of land above the harbour stood motionless, and the place stank of fish, salt, seaweed, horses and humanity.
It was nonetheless a stirring sight, though one which induced an anxious silence among the prisoners as they neared their embarkation point. In the calm water that shimmered like a silken lake, Jacob saw a pink – a square-rigged merchantman – and a larger ship, both anchored a short distance from the foreshore. He could make out that the smaller vessel was called La Marie, the larger one La Concorde.
‘One of those, I believe, is to be our home for the coming months,’ he said turning to Mademoiselle Duvivier. She instinctively placed her hand on her chest as the notion sunk in that they really were about to embark on a voyage to the other side of the world.
They had walked out of the dim hospital ward together. Mademoiselle Duvivier and Madame de Fontenay had been angels to Jacob since the terrible shock which caused him to collapse. The young girl had nursed his brow, cut in the fall on the flagstone floor, and they had comforted him with prayer to mend his broken spirit.
They were standing in the middle of the line, behind them were Madame de Fontenay and Monsieur Blanchard.
‘I wonder which,’ said the girl.
‘The bigger the ship the better she sits in the sea, I have heard it said,’ said Monsieur Blanchard.
‘Well, the closest is La Marie,’ said Madame de Fontenay. ‘I am sorry to say…’
‘Oy!’ roared Canet. ‘No talking in the ranks!’ he bayed, limping back down the file. ‘Unless you wanna feel my stick!’
A minute later found them at the embarkation point where the head of the line began boarding a longboat. It was soon Jacob’s turn to place a foot on the gangplank slippery with sludge. With her bundle of effects strapped to her back, the girl lifted her skirts above her shoes, took his hand over the gangplank then lowered herself into the boat. He then held out his hand for Madame de Fontenay.
By now Canet, standing three yards away, was losing patience, such gentility made him want to puke. A
nd besides, he still hadn’t had the last laugh on the old duchess. So he lunged forward and held out his stick like a turnstile in front of her.
‘Halt there,’ he commanded. Then with a snarl of triumph to Jacob he said: ‘You. Get in!’
While detaining Madame de Fontenay and Monsieur Blanchard, he told the prisoners behind to proceed into the longboat.
It took a moment for Jacob and Marianne to realise what was happening. Then the girl called out in a tone of voice that conveyed her sudden anxiety. ‘Grandmother!’
Against the flow of the incoming prisoners, she hoisted herself back onto the gangplank. Madame de Fontenay still looked confused and reached out her hand to her granddaughter.
‘Put her in the boat!’ called Canet to a subordinate guard, while pushing back the old lady with his stick held in two hands.
‘Get back in the boat!’ hurled the guard whose deep bark would make any man shake in their boots. But Marianne Duvivier persisted. Jacob reached her before the guard could use his stick. He placed himself in front of the girl.
‘Sir,’ he said to Canet trying to keep his voice reasonable and calm. ‘The lady is the child’s grandmother.’
‘That, you Protestant ponce, is why we are separating them,’ roared Canet spraying his bitterness into Jacob’s face. ‘Now do as you’re soddin’ told!’
Before Jacob could answer back, a sharp pain on his right upper arm made him cow down. He turned in time to see the second guard raising his stick to carry out a correction commonly known as a bastonnade, which was a series of blows normally inflicted on obstinate galley slaves. But Jacob retreated down the plank forcing the girl back behind him.
‘Grandmother!’ she cried in a fit of hysteria. However, Madame de Fontenay, being of a practical nature, understood that the scene could quickly degenerate. She pushed out her palms as if to push the girl away, and cast an imploring look at Jacob which needed no words.
She knew she might not survive the voyage herself anyway – then what would become of the girl? Monsieur Delpech was a good man, he would take care of her, give her protection day and night in the den of vigorous sailors. Was this not then God’s intention? In return she was sure that taking care of the girl would take his mind off the dark thoughts he had been having since the death of his child.
‘Stay with Monsieur Delpech,’ she called to Marianne.
Jacob gave the old lady a nod to confirm he would take good care of her granddaughter, though he secretly wondered how. He took hold of the girl’s arms before she could battle with the guard to get past. With a firm grip he turned her back towards the boat.
‘Come, Marianne, there is no use fighting them, you will only make things worse,’ he said. ‘We will see your grandmother again when we arrive, on the other side.’ Jacob realised the ambiguity of his words, but did not try to correct them.
It was a cruel and needless separation, designed to cripple more than any blow of the stick. The intention was to wrench a conversion from either grandparent or grandchild, even though it was widely accepted that once a Huguenot had come this far, there was very little chance of them abjuring.
Mademoiselle Duvivier suddenly seemed so frail, and she let him guide her. She looked back over her shoulder as her grandmother stood dignified on the foreshore. Madame de Fontenay stared back with passion in her eyes in a last effort to impress her obstinate resolution onto her granddaughter.
They continued into the longboat. ‘Keep by me, my girl,’ said Jacob. It was best to make the longboat crew assume they were related in some way. A lass on her own was always easy prey, and some shipmen would not think twice about trying it on. Catching on, she gave him a nod and pressed herself closer to him. But this did not impress the handsome sailor leaning against his punt, and he instinctively ogled the young female as she passed.
The longboat was soon breaking the silky film on the water’s surface as it ferried the forlorn passengers to the place they would inhabit for the next five months.
*
La Marie was a three-mast vessel of 200 tons. Jacob did not know much about ships, but he did know that this type of vessel with its shallow draught was more commonly used for transporting cargo around the Mediterranean coast than for crossing the great ocean sea. She was smaller than La Concorde, the tall ship that Madame de Fontenay and Monsieur Blanchard were to board.
The space below deck was partitioned into five rooms. At the stern was the captain’s and officers’ cabin. Next came the sailors’ and the soldiers’ quarters. The third room was where common prisoners were kept chained. This was followed by a room that housed seventy galley slaves, men of every colour, Turks as well as Christians, also cuffed in heavy chains. Too old or too ill for service, these broken men were sent to America to be sold.
The last compartment was situated under the kitchen at the front of the vessel. This was reserved for the Huguenots. It was so small that twenty people would have been pushed for space, yet there were close to eighty Protestant prisoners. Two thirds men, one third women, all were driven into the hole barely high enough to stand up in. Neither was there room to stretch out the length of one’s body without lying on someone else.
Calling to mind how the hospital ward was divided at night, Jacob took the precaution to settle in the middle along one side so that he and the girl could remain within whispering distance. He noticed that the port holes were their only direct outlet to daylight, and realised the crossing would be more insufferable than any hole he had been made to suffer so far. He nevertheless thanked God for his previous preparation. He knew he would have stood little chance of surviving this scabrous den without it.
As he settled into his thoughts with his back against the timber, there came screams and reports of rats crawling among the buckets placed either end of the room. How many months could they endure in this squalor and sickness, he wondered.
But he vowed for the love of Jeanne and his children he would not give up, for the love of Christ he would not doubt. And he would not let Mademoiselle Duvivier abandon herself to defeat either. As she sat beside him looking distant and downcast, he took her small hand, placed it like a small bird in his large palm, and gave it a pat of encouragement.
‘There is one consolation,’ he said, ‘things can only get better from now on.’
She put on a brave smile, but she knew as well as he did that in truth their crossing the wilderness had only just begun.
*
Thudding, scuffing and rolling sounds were heard well into the night as the last of the provisions were hoisted aboard and stored. With her belly full and her load carefully balanced, La Marie set sail the following day with La Concorde for Toulon, which was a day’s voyage eastward along the coast. This was the rendezvous of their escort, two warships, without which they would be easy pickings for Barbary pirates.
The heat generated by eighty people crammed like sardines in a barrel did nothing to help Jacob find his sea legs. He spent most of the time trying to slumber in the hope of waking to find his body had become accustomed to the constant roll of the ship. But sleep too eluded him.
Nevertheless, the run into Toulon, gruelling though it was, passed without incident. Come nightfall the calm port waters that gently rocked the pink made a welcome change from the commotion of the previous nights. And the Huguenot hole soon resounded with the sounds of sleepers snorting and snoring, some coughing, tossing and turning, among the audacious rats rummaging for anything to sink their teeth into.
Late into the night the clouds dissipated letting white moonlight shine in through the portholes. And the cooler air that whisked round the room took the edge off the stifling heat, not to mention the stench.
One old man was still trying to sleep with his palm on his ear to blank out the intolerable noise of sleepers, when he felt something nip his finger. He gave a yelp, and swiped the rat on the end of it. The obnoxious creature landed on Jacob Delpech’s thigh, glared its annoyance at its aggressor, and then scampered off in search of
another opportunity.
Whisperings at the door, a dimly lit oil lantern, and the turn of a key announced the late night round of a guard. He found the Protestants sleeping top and tail, mostly. There was hardly any space for him to put his feet without treading on parts of their anatomy, which he was very careful to avoid. He stepped from one space to another like on stepping stones in a quagmire of bodies. At last he reached the object of his midnight jaunt.
He stared down at the young girl who had caught his eye in the longboat two days earlier. He had since been eyeing her movements, her mannerisms, smiling at her when it was his turn to take away the buckets, and had decided she was too sweet to suffer being squashed against these smelly bodies every night.
The old geezer did not fool him neither; anyone could tell they were not that close, probably not even related. This sailor was not born with the last tide: this sailor had seen such a charade before. Why was it that some pompous codgers thought young girls wanted locking away when what they truly craved was to be properly loved? So he would do her the honour of taking her on deck for some clean air. The night was perfect, quite warm and starry now, and the captain was on shore.
He bent down and touched her arm gently, almost so as not to wake her. How beautiful she was, how nice it felt to touch a tight-skinned young woman. He had been longing for this, and now imagined cupping her firm breasts in his hands like plump little birds. At that instant he felt love. He had to be careful though, he had to gain her trust first, then he would be able to tame her, make her his little lady for the duration of the cruise.
Merchants of Virtue Page 12