She settled into her chair and stared out the window, fearing the answer she would receive the next morning would not be the one she hoped to hear.
Chapter 3
Rye Harbor, England
A pounding on his cabin door interrupted Simon Powell’s examination of the chart of the English Channel spread upon his desk. “Enter!”
The door burst open and Amos Busby, the burly first mate on Simon’s second ship, the Abundance, erupted into the cabin, his wiry brown hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead. “Captain,” he rasped. His chest heaved as he hunched over, hands on his knees, wheezing.
Surprised to see Amos in Rye, Simon snapped his fingers at his cabin boy who stood open-mouthed beside the desk. “Pour the man some ale, Nate.”
“Yes, sir.” The lad snatched up the pewter flagon, splashed some of the amber liquid into a mug and pushed it toward the first mate’s outstretched hand.
Amos straightened, took a long swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aye, that’s better.” He stepped forward and set the mug on the desk. “’Twas this morning before dawn, sir. The damned Frenchie Donet seized the Abundance.”
Simon surged out of his chair, the legs screeching across the timbered deck in protest, as his mind tried to take in the words. “What?” Fury raced like a firestorm through his veins. “That heathen frog has my ship?”
Amos backed away from the desk in the face of Simon’s wrath. “We were anchored off Dover in heavy fog, sir. I had just come on shore with some of the crew, fixing to arrange for supplies when, bold as brass, a sloop flying the red ensign of one of our merchantmen crept up in the fog, and its crew slithered over the rail with knives between their teeth.”
“You saw this?”
“No. ’Twas Zeb, the cabin boy. He was the only one to escape. Jumped overboard and swam to shore”
Simon let out a breath and raked his fingers through his hair. “Bloody hell.” His brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “How did you know it was Donet? He captains a brig-sloop with that Frenchified Jolly Roger of his.”
Amos held up his hand. “A minute, sir.” He disappeared out the cabin door, immediately returning with a young lad in tow. Simon recognized Zeb Grant, the cabin boy on the Abundance. Soon after he was hired on, the sandy-haired lad had become a favorite of John Wingate, captain of the Abundance.
“Here’s the lad, Captain,” the first mate said, shoving the boy forward.
Zeb quaked before Simon’s intense gaze.
“I understand you were there, Zeb. Did the ship fly a Jolly Roger on a blue field?”
“Nay, sir. She flew a British flag.” That news did not surprise Simon. Pirates and privateers carried many flags.
“Did the men who attacked you speak French? Did they talk of Donet?”
The lad stood at attention, obviously proud of the knowledge he alone possessed. “They did, sir. They spoke the Frenchie tongue. I understood some. One of ’em dropped Donet’s name and reminded his men of their orders.”
Busby interjected, “The crew would’ve been suspicious of any ship, Captain, even an English one coming so close, but the fog hid them.”
“’Twas as dense as pease porridge, Cap’n, with nary a light on deck,” said Zeb. “Made the Frenchies near invisible till they were ’longside.”
Simon fixed his gaze on the cabin boy. He needed answers, not excuses. “And the crew?” he demanded, concern for his men settling into his gut like a heavy weight.
“The Frenchies said their orders were not to kill ’em, but one of ours took a knife in the chest and a few suffered slashes before I jumped. We was outnumbered, sir, ’twas at least two to one.”
“It’s not like Donet to attack a privateer,” said Simon. “His usual fare is English supply ships.” What the devil is he up to?
“I’m thinking it was the crew and the ship he was after,” suggested the first mate.
“They talked of capture,” Zeb cut in.
“Did they say nothing of cargo?” Simon asked.
“No, sir,” Zeb replied in earnest.
“’Twas an odd affair, Captain,” said Amos. “It’s not like the bloodthirsty Donet to be so—”
“Gracious?” Simon raised his brows. “No, I should say not. Damn scurvy corsair!” For years, the French pirate had been the bane of their existence, attacking English merchantmen and supply ships for the cargo bound for the Colonies. But from his contacts in Paris, Simon had recently learned that the American commissioner, Dr. Franklin, had been enlisting privateers in his cause to gain prisoners to exchange for Americans held by the British. “Seems like Donet has a new mission.”
“Aye, sir,” Busby replied. “And maybe a new letter of marque.”
“Pirate scum.” Simon clenched his teeth and his eyes fastened on the Abundance’s cabin boy. “What of Captain Wingate?”
“It were him that took the knife in the chest,” said Zeb, sadness and worry etched on his young face.
Simon sank into his chair, resting his forehead in his hand. Wingate was a good captain and more. He was a friend from their boyhood days in Dartmouth who’d signed on as a seaman the same day as Simon.
After a moment, Simon raised his head. The Abundance’s first mate looked dead on his feet. “Sit down Mr. Busby.”
The man eagerly reached for a chair.
“Nate, fetch Mr. Landor and Mr. Hawkins,” ordered Simon.
“Aye, sir.” The boy darted through the door.
Simon turned his attention back to Zeb. “Do you know if Captain Wingate’s wound was fatal?”
“I didn’t stay long enough to find out, sir. The knife was stuck high in his chest near his shoulder, so mebbe not. ’Twas him who yelled at me to jump just after he took the blade.”
Simon turned to the windows, casting his gaze on the harbor and the sun glistening off the water. The river mouth formed a huge marsh, a labyrinth for any pursuers, the perfect port for a privateer, which is why he had selected it as the home port for his two schooners. He let out an exasperated sigh. If the Abundance had been anchored here, he would still have a second ship, and he would still have his friend.
At the sound of boots coming toward him, Simon shifted his attention to the cabin doorway where his curly-haired first mate, Jordan Landor, appeared. Behind him was Elijah Hawkins, the wizened old bos’n of the Fairwinds. The old salt wore his usual dark blue knit cap pulled down over his ears where it met his short gray beard.
“Captain?” said Jordan, his green eyes casting an anxious glance at the first mate from the Abundance.
“Come in, Jordan. You, too, Elijah. We have a most unpleasant business to deal with.”
With a nod and a mumbled “Amos” to the first mate from the Abundance, the two men claimed the remaining chairs in front of his desk. Young Nate and Zeb took a stand in front of his shelf bed.
Simon allowed his gaze to drift out the window, this time stretching beyond the harbor toward the coastline of France. In a somber mood, his jaw set in firm resolve, he turned to face the two men who had joined them.
“Donet has struck again and this time he has taken the Abundance.”
Simon studied the faces of the men who were gathered a few days later around a table in the common room of the Mermaid Inn in Rye, key members of his crew from the Fairwinds, and several from the Abundance who had been ashore when it was seized. Good men and true, some former Royal Navy, some who’d crewed with him on his first ship and some from Dartmouth, all now together as one, having fought enough battles in the last several years to bind them together.
From their faces, he could see his men still seethed at the Frenchman’s effrontery. For his own part, Simon was more than a little embarrassed that one of his ships had been so easily taken. If his friend John Wingate had survived the knife wound, he would be giving himself a scathing rebuke about now.
“We must retake her and regain the crew,” Simon said, not bothering to hide his anger. “I will not lose them to that
heathen, God-cursed Frenchman.”
Sally arrived at their table just then to hand out mugs of ale. “Can I get you and your men some food, Captain Powell?” The blonde innkeeper’s daughter waited for a response while glancing at the others, but their gazes were fixed on Simon.
“Not just now, lass, we’ve a problem to solve,” he said. “Perhaps later.”
“Just give a shout when you’re ready.” She smiled and left, swaying her hips flirtatiously as she walked away. Simon watched her wend her way through the empty tables to the one by the front window where two men conversed over their food. It was only afternoon and the tavern had yet to fill for the evening, which suited his purpose well.
“It can be done,” said Jordan Landor, in a low voice, his green eyes staring off into the distance. “Donet can’t stay in Lorient forever and I reckon that’s where he’s holed up with the Abundance.” Then turning to Simon, “He’ll be expecting trouble and prepared to sink us right quick. ‘Twill call for stealth.”
“Aye,” said Simon. He’d had experience at stealth, going in and out of France for the last several years collecting messages and gathering information for his superiors in London.
Undaunted, he was about to set forth his plans for the hazardous mission when Amos Busby spoke up. “I’ll go, Captain. It’s my crew, too.”
Simon nodded. “We’ll include you in the plans, Amos.”
Elijah Hawkins pulled his pipe from his mouth. “I’ve a thought ye might want to consider, Cap’n.”
All eyes turned to the old bos’n whose advice, though rarely given, was seldom ignored.
“And that would be?” Simon raised a brow.
Elijah took a draw on his pipe, then blew out the smoke. “I’d heard tell Donet had turned to privateerin’, so I did some sniffin’ around, askin’ about ‘im on the quiet like. Knew it was only a matter o’ time before he tangled with us.” He laid the stem of his pipe along the side of his nose, a sly grin deepening the multitude of wrinkles carved into his face. “Last time we slipped into Paris to see the Scribe, I learned somethin’ I reckon will be right useful now.”
Elijah’s reference to “the Scribe” stirred Simon’s interest. It was their name for the British spy who worked as a secretary for the American mission in Paris. “And?” he asked impatiently.
Speaking out of one side of his mouth, holding his pipe in the other, Elijah leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Seems Donet has somethin’ he prizes more than his ship.” The old seaman sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face as he puffed on his pipe.
Simon narrowed his gaze. “Enough mystery, Elijah. What could he possibly prize more than la Reine Noire?”
A gleam came into Elijah’s pale blue eyes. “A daughter, Cap’n—”
“He has a daughter?” Jordan blurted out, his brows rising. “I didn’t even know he had a wife.”
“He’s not had a wife fer many a year,” said Elijah. He turned the stem of his pipe toward them, stabbing the air as he spoke. “That’s why he keeps the daughter in a convent near Paris.” He scratched the side of his nose with the end of his pipe. “Must be young if she’s there, I should think.” Then to Simon, “If ye had her, I ‘spect ye’d soon have yer ship.”
“Hmm,” murmured Simon, thinking of the possibilities. They could sail to Dieppe, the closest port to Paris, and after a days’ carriage ride, take the girl from the convent.
“You know where this convent is?” he asked Elijah.
The old bosun sat back in his chair, his pipe resting on his chest and a smug look on his face. “It just so happens I do.”
“It might work,” said Simon, letting his gaze drift over his men to judge their reaction. “If there are no objections, gentlemen, we’ll set our course for Dieppe, not Lorient.”
Every head at the table nodded.
In less than an hour, Simon and his men were back on the Fairwinds gathered round a map of the area surrounding Paris, planning the raid that would gain them a treasure for ransom.
“We need some intelligence,” insisted Simon after they’d agreed on the plan. “I’d not want to grab the wrong girl in the dead of night.”
“I’ll do the scoutin’, Cap’n,” offered Elijah. “I can take Mr. Berube with me. The sailmaker speaks the Frenchie tongue as well as ye an’ me. Once in France, we can travel by horse. If all goes well, we’ll be back in a little over a week.”
Simon thought Giles Berube a good choice for the mission. He’d spent his youth in France before coming to England to live with his uncle who was a sailmaker in Dartmouth where Simon had first met him. Simon nodded to Elijah. “Aye, and while you are there, see if the Scribe has left any messages for me. This business with Donet has delayed my return.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” said the trusted old seaman.
Simon turned to his first mate. “Mr. Landor, see to the transport for Mr. Hawkins and Mr. Berube to the port of Dieppe.”
True to his word, a little more than a week later, Elijah and Giles stumbled into Simon’s cabin where the Fairwinds was anchored in Rye. The wide grin on the old seaman’s face and Giles’ eyes twinkling with mirth told Simon the two had been successful.
“Well?” Simon asked, eager to hear the news. “Sit down and tell me.”
“Before I ferget,” said Elijah, “here are the messages I retrieved from the Scribe’s tree.” The seaman shoved a packet of paper toward him on his desk, then took his pipe out of his waistcoat pocket and packed it with tobacco. The two men sat in the chairs facing his desk.
“And the other item of business that has you smiling?”
“Aye, we got lucky there, Cap’n,” said Elijah, looking to Giles to explain.
Giles was prepared. “Seems the villagers in Saint-Denis remember well a convent student whose father, Jean Donet de Saintonge, the son of the comte de Saintonge”—he paused and raised his brows—“is a wealthy benefactor of the convent.”
Though Simon was aware Donet had turned pirate some years ago, he had no idea the Frenchman possessed noble blood. The why of it made the man all the more intriguing. “That is most interesting. I can only wonder why a comte’s son would deny his heritage to become a pirate.”
“Perhaps he was bored,” suggested Giles.
“Must be more than that,” Simon conjectured. But the subject was not his primary concern. “Did you get a description of the girl?”
“Aye, we did,” said Elijah. “Had a chat with the butcher in Saint-Denis. Man rambled on about an older girl, one who stayed on when others left. Talked about her hair as black as the nuns’ habits. Said she often accompanies the sisters when they come to the village on errands. The butcher couldn’t leave off talkin’ about her strikin’ blue eyes. ‘A clever girl’ he said.”
“And that’s not all, Cap’n,” said Giles. “Once I learned that the nuns were customers of the butcher, in the guise of delivering fresh meat to the convent, I gained entry. Took no time at all to learn the layout of the place and the location of the students’ sleeping chambers and the one Donet’s daughter shares with some older girls. I marked their window that leads from the garden.”
“You have a knack for intrigue, Giles.” Simon smiled, satisfied he now had all he needed. Rising, he strode through the open cabin door, followed by the two men, and ascended the ladder to the weather deck. There, he announced to his first mate and his assembled crew, “We leave with the tide for Dieppe and thence to Paris.” To Jordan he handed the packet from the Scribe. “See that these messages get to London.”
Much to Simon’s satisfaction, the wind and the tide were with them. Not long after, he set a southerly course and they sailed that evening. The long summer days gave them light for many hours.
The pale light of dawn saw them anchored off the port of Dieppe, the Fairwinds now flying the flag of an American privateer.
Though the wind had favored them, the weather on the north coast of France was less than agreeable. The scattered rain had not impaired their
progress as they dropped anchor and let down the skiff, but it was enough to concern him for the mission ahead and the carriage ride to Paris. He did not look forward to muddy roads that would slow their progress south.
Wasting no time, Simon departed the ship, climbing down the Jacob’s ladder to where four of his men waited in the skiff. He sat in the stern with his tricorne hat pulled down over his forehead to ward off the rain while the crew he’d handpicked for the mission pulled at the oars bringing them ashore.
The cliffs of Dieppe loomed ahead in brooding shades of black and ochre flecked with occasional patches of rust, made more somber by the rain. Hundreds of feet high, they hemmed in the port like a setting for a dark jewel, a forbidding wall that urged caution. It was familiar ground to Simon. He’d anchored off Dieppe many times whilst on missions for England to retrieve messages from the Scribe and pay calls on his contacts for news of French supply ships. He smiled to himself, remembering the masquerade he’d attended two years before to spy on one of his targets. There had been the diversion of his amour dressed as a trousered hussar. And the young chit he’d mistaken for a costumed courtesan. Not all of his assignments were unpleasant.
Elijah raised his head and the wind whipped stray, gray hairs around his face. “Smilin’ at the rain, Cap’n?”
“No, ’twas just a memory. What of the arrangements on shore?”
“I knew ye’d be anxious to be off, Cap’n, so before we left France fer Rye, we arranged for a post chaise and team to be waitin’ fer ye. Giles can see to those while I secure the skiff.”
The thin sailmaker nodded. His tricorne, beaded with rain, shadowed his features, save for his stubbled jaw. “Aye, Cap’n, ’tis all organized.”
In short order, they reached the shore and the skiff was stowed. Soon, they were in the carriage and hurtling down the road to Paris, mud flying in all directions.
By the time they reached Saint-Denis, it was evening. Encouraged by extra coin, the coachman had driven hard, stopping only to change horses. The sleep they’d managed was much disturbed by the rutted road, but it was enough. And they’d have hot food before it was time to seek out their prey.
To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) Page 3