Marguerite emerged from the wash house feeling like a new woman. Outil left her hair down for the sun to dry, and they set off to see how Louisa was feeling and if Claude could help them come up with a plan to save Jacques. They found Claude in the shop working on a small engine on his bench.
“How is she?” Marguerite asked.
“Sleeping now. She is good. I talked to her and got her to eat and drink. She will be fine. We just need to let her rest for now.”
“Claude, I hate to even ask anything of you, knowing what I’ve put you through already. I’m sorry we even came.” She meant every word.
Claude put down his tools and looked her in the eye. “I’m not sorry at all. I’m glad you came. It’s time you two women met and got to know each other. Plus, I’d feel terrible if you were in trouble and didn’t think you could come to me. You are family, Marguerite, always will be.” He picked up his wrench and started tinkering again.
“But Louisa thinks …”
“Please,” he sighed. “I need you to understand that she is not always like this. She is just overcome with worry about the baby. She only has one more week before it will be safe to deliver. We just have to get to that point, and I’m sure that once this is all done, she’ll be back to her normal self. She is the sweetest person I’ve ever met, Marguerite. You’ll have to come back, or better yet, I’ll bring them both to visit you in Montreal.” He smiled. Always an optimist, Marguerite thought.
“So what do you need from me? Because I have suggestions, but knowing you, you already have your mind made up,” Claude asked. Marguerite decided to let the whole wife issue drop and move on.
“Well, we need guns, a ship, and a lot of ammunition.”
Claude dropped his work and looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Sounds like you need the Royal Fleet. I don’t have any of that here.”
“But you could make it.” Marguerite pressed. “Jacques said you just finished a commission for the Royal Fleet, a defense system or weapons?”
“Yes, I did, but it wasn’t a very big job and only paid enough to get us through the winter, not to stock my workshop. Maybe if I had a couple of months, but there’s no way I can do that in a couple of days.”
Marguerite folded her arms. “Then what do you suggest? We can’t go back to Montreal yet. They’ll lock me up again. I am pretty sure I just got myself kicked out of His Majesty’s service when I jumped out of the Renegade, and my father is going to kill me if I don’t get myself killed first.”
“Does he know where you are at least?” Claude asked.
“Yes. I sent him a note before we left the boat.” She rolled her eyes at his insinuation that she didn’t think to let her father know where she was.
“Don’t you have any friends down there in the big city that have things like dirigibles and guns?”
“No. I’ve been spending all of my free time with Jacques when I wasn’t in school with a pack of very unladylike ladies.”
“I will vouch for her, Master Claude, the other aerwomen weren’t very friendly,” Outil added. Then Marguerite remembered sitting on the bunk with Lucy her first night on the Henrietta; how kind and helpful she was and her amazing hair.
“I suppose there is Lucy.”
“Who is that?” Claude asked. “She served with me on the Henrietta—the ship I was on after Jacques kicked me off the Renegade. Do you have any auto pigeons, Claude? How fast could we get a message to Montreal?”
“I have something better than an auto pigeon. Do you think this Lucy could help you? Does she have an arsenal at her beck and call? And do you know what you are going to do when you get to wherever it is you are going?”
“The pirate Captain Douleur has captured Jacques and is known to live part time in Cape Fear, North Carolina,” Outil added.
“Right,” Marguerite agreed. “We are going to North Carolina. We will find this Douleur and get Jacques back.”
“Captain Douleur?” Claude asked.
“Yes, why? Have you heard of him?” Marguerite pulled up a stool and sat down, hoping for good insight. Claude stood up and started digging through a box of parts under the work table.
“Marguerite, do you know how she got her name?”
“She? Douleur is a woman?” Marguerite asked.
“Yes, and that’s not her real name. They call her Captain Douleur because she enjoys torturing those who don’t bend to her wishes. Most pirates and privateers do so because they are sick of being mistreated by the royal services of their countries. Being a sailor or an aerman is not an easy life, and you make very little pay.”
“Yes, I’m very aware of that fact. Go on,” Marguerite added.
“Most pirate ships work as a democracy. If you are captured, you have the choice to join the crew or be dropped off at the nearest port, unless you are a bot, then you are sold. It’s a better life for some men than anything they could do legally. All proceeds from plundering are split equally among the crew. The captain gets a bonus, but only because the biggest part of their job is keeping track of the books.”
Marguerite gave him a funny look. “They keep books? Like ledgers and bank notes?”
“It’s a very simple, yet highly organized system with benefits the royal establishments can’t offer. Pirates are not welcome anywhere in the New World except Cape Fear, North Carolina, and I hear there is a new governor in New York who is welcoming all ships to the harbor there as well.”
“So what about Douleur, what is her story?” Marguerite asked. Claude stood up holding an odd shaped gear and a motor box. He opened another box and pulled out a small mechanical swallow.
“This is Hector, my Spanish swallow.” Claude smiled and laid the bird out on the work table then proceeded to dissect Hector from top to bottom. “Outil, could you hand me that awl?”
“Yes, Claude.” The bot scurried to get the tool and place it in his hand. Claude continued to tinker as he continued his story.
“Captain Douleur is not a normal pirate. She runs a huge crew, and she doesn’t take prisoners. You either join her crew, or you die. She is also very battle savvy. She has a tendency to outmaneuver even the most sophisticated of ships with whatever ragtag vessel she’s commandeered at the moment. She’s an amazing shot, and she doesn’t like French officers of any branch. Jacques got himself captured by the wrong woman.”
“Well, I’m sure he would just join her crew, then escape at the first chance he could. I plan to be there to meet him.” Marguerite leaned forward, fascinated by Claude’s skilled movements.
“Oh no, see, that’s the thing. She tracks all her men. When you join, you are branded with her mark. The first few volunteers who left didn’t realize they had signed on for life. She hunted them down and either killed them or tortured them until they came back. She runs the largest crew in the Atlantic. And because she is fair with wages, no one tries to run away anymore. When you’re too old for service, she grants you leave with a new brand.”
“She did have three ships at her command when we ran into her. One of them was exceedingly fast—the Dragon. Have you heard of it? Do you know how it works?”
“Everyone that studies pirate movements has heard of it, Marguerite. I’m surprised you haven’t.”
“Well, I was busy this year studying mechanical engineering and flight controls,” she quickly reminded him.
“Hand me that wrench, please?” Claude pointed to a tiny wrench by Marguerite’s hand.
She gave him the miniature tool and asked, “So, what do you suggest?”
“I suggest you let the military handle his extraction.” He popped a wing into place and screwed it in.
“They aren’t going to do that. Jacques is already on some sort of probation and apparently getting caught by pirates is not a favorable move. The first thing I did was ask them to go save him. They said no, getting servicemen away from pirates is not their priority. They seem to think that if he wants to be a pirate, then he can, an
d if he doesn’t, then good luck,” she said with disgust.
“Well, then I suggest you go carefully and quietly. Learn the lay of the land. Find out where he is, and be sure to make friends wherever you go because I know I can’t talk you into not going.”
“As opposed to what?” She watched him place a little motor inside the bird and pop its other wing into place, then close it up carefully with miniscule screws.
“As opposed to usual Marguerite style—guns blazing and no plan at all,” he smiled at her and playfully punched her in the shoulder. “You smell a lot better, by the way.”
“Thank you,” she said as she watched the little bird come to life in Claude’s able hands. It jumped upright and hopped around the table a few times before flapping its wings and coming to rest in front of Claude.
“Not many like Hector these days. Everyone watches for the pigeons and their huge scrolls. If you are in trouble, best to use a smaller, less noticeable messenger.” Claude pulled a tiny gilded box out of a drawer in his work table and opened it up. Inside was a scrap of pencil, a stack of tiny papers, and a carrier tube.
“Now, who do you wish to write?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Marguerite did her best to write her request in legible, yet tiny script on two pieces of the miniature paper. She let Claude affix the tube to the bird, and then he programmed it to fly directly to her father. “Are you sure he will help you with this? Your father isn’t that interested in your globetrotting schemes,” Claude pointed out.
“My father and I have made great progress over the past year. I know he isn’t thrilled with my life choices, but he also agreed to support me when he can.”
Claude handed her the little bird. “Would you like to do the honors?”Marguerite took it gingerly in her hands and kissed it for luck before she tossed it into the air and it flew away. “What can we do for your wife?” she asked.
“Louisa is doing all right. She just needs to stay quiet and rest. Maybe you could help me make supper?” Claude suggested.
They spent the rest of the day helping Claude with his settlement, talking about the old days and catching up on the new. Outil helped repair his autocart, and Marguerite successfully avoided Louisa until dinnertime. Louisa grunted as she passed Marguerite on her way back to her room from the washhouse, which was better than the tongue-lashing she’d received earlier that morning.
Marguerite climbed into the loft that night, feeling better than she had in days. Good food and warm blankets made a huge difference. She resolved to do all she could for Claude and his little family while she was there in person. She prayed her father would humor her request as quickly as possible.
In the morning, Outil woke Marguerite early, and they set to work in the kitchen. Marguerite hadn’t grown up cooking or cleaning, but she wasn’t completely oblivious. She’d picked up enough working her few days in the kitchens of the Henrietta that she could make a decent meat pie. Plus, Outil had been programmed to serve in many different capacities.
Once they got going, they realized that the kitchen, although organized, was in need of a deep cleaning. Outil scrubbed and Marguerite cooked, which allowed Claude more time to work in his shop. Eventually, he came in for breakfast. “This place looks amazing. You two have been working hard. And what is that I smell?” Claude looked pleased, and this made Marguerite glow with pride.
“I made a meat pie and two loaves of bread, and I’ve got a pot of stew going for tonight,” she said. “Outil has been cleaning like her life depended on it.”
“Well I can’t thank you enough,” he said as he sat down at the table and Marguerite joined him.
“We’ve tried to be quiet for Louisa. Was she well this morning?” Outil asked as she served breakfast. “Yes, she was well. I told her not to leave the room today. She can enjoy some quiet time in there while you two are here to help.” Claude took a bite. “This is delicious. Really. Excellent work, Marguerite. I’m seriously blown away. Who knew the Princess of La Rochelle would ever learn how to cook?” Marguerite slugged him in the arm and took a bite from her own plate, savoring her success.
“Why don’t you have a bot, Claude? I thought you’d have an army of Outils running this place by now,” Marguerite asked.
“Well, it’s been a tricky situation with the Indian wars and government work. I have to report occasionally to the field office to do repairs, but since Louisa has been in bed, they have graciously agreed to bring most work to me.”
Marguerite lowered her voice as far as she dared. “Louisa said that you are in debt to the Iroquois. How is that possible? What do you owe them?”
Claude was in the middle of chewing a much too large bite, but her questions made him set his fork down and rub his forehead. “It’s not so much that we are in debt, as we are in an alliance. They came ‘round during the skirmishes last year and Otetiani and I struck up a friendship. His braves protected our land and home during the worst of the battles and helped me bring in the harvest; I supplied them with all the mechanical supplies and repairs they needed.”
“The steam cycles?” Marguerite raised her eyebrows in question.
“Yes, I thought those up last winter when I was dealing with a pile of autocart parts. They needed to get through the forest trails more quickly, and I figured two wheels could be balanced like a horse if you were going quickly enough.”
“They are really brilliant, Claude. You know that, right?” Marguerite ate a few more bites then added. “You really should be patenting these ideas and selling them. You could be a very wealthy man in no time, my friend.”
“I know, Marguerite, but I haven’t quite decided if I want to be a very wealthy man. The first thing the Royal Corps of Engineers will do is ship me back to Paris, and I just don’t want that. Neither does Louisa. We love it here. We love our land. It’s our own land and our own home that we built. Otetiani is a good friend, and I trust his people with my life. ”
“Why can’t you just go out on your own? Have your own shop away from the Royal Corps?”
“Because we need the money. We only produce enough food here to feed ourselves. I don’t have time to farm the entire property and keep up with the demands of the King and the Iroquois. You’ve seen my shop. It’s ridiculous how hard it is to get parts out here. But maybe now that there is a peace treaty, supply ships will be more inclined to venture away from Montreal.” He shook his head and continued eating. Marguerite let the matter drop and finished her meal, watching Outil finish the cleaning. Even if her father didn’t come through, they would, at least, leave this place cleaner than they’d found it and full of fresh food.
“Thank you for the meal and the help. I’m going to take a bit into Louisa and see if she’s up to eating.” Claude stood from the table and patted Marguerite on the shoulder.
Outil handed him a plate and waited for him to leave before she sat next to Marguerite and whispered, “There is a lot you could do to help them, m’lady.”
“I know, Outil. And I’m going to help them. I just need to get to Jacques first. Why don’t you go look for Hector?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Outil rose from the chair and opened the door, just as they heard voices in the back bedroom.
“Princess of La Rochelle? Really Claude? I’ve cooked pies and bread for you for the past year, and you never dote on me that way.”
“Louisa it’s not like that at all. You are being ridiculous. She’s trying her best to help. Taste it, it’s nowhere near as good as yours, but I can’t be rude. She spent all morning cleaning and cooking. You have no idea what a feat it is to get her out of bed before noon on any given day.”
Marguerite stood from the table and straightened her blue cotton skirt. “I think I’ll join you.” Outside another fine spring morning was under way. She and Outil walked to the barn and stopped to pet the horse.
“I suppose I will just have to accept the fact that she hates me,” Marguerite eventually said.
“It could be a side effect of her miserable state,” Outil offered.
“I never, ever want to have children, Outil. I can’t imagine being that huge and miserable.”
As she pronounced this, Claude came running out of the house. “Marguerite, I need you two to sit with Louisa. I think she’s going into labor. I need to run to the fort and get the midwife.”
“But I don’t know anything about labor! What on earth do we do?” Marguerite wailed.
“Just sit with her and do whatever she says you should do. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.” He pulled open the gate and threw a lead around the horse’s neck. “I’m so sorry. There is a bit of a mess in there, too. Just keep her comfortable and I’ll be back as soon as possible.” Claude jogged away from the pen, the horse in tow, and Outil shut the gate, trapping the goat.
“A mess? Why aren’t you driving the autocart? Do you even know how to ride a horse?”
“Cart isn’t trustworthy enough. I ride just fine.” He pulled a bridle off the wall and put it on the gentle mare, then swung up on her bareback like he’d been doing it his whole life. “I’ll be back. Just make sure she’s comfortable.” He kicked the horse, and it bolted off down the road.
Marguerite looked at Outil, “Please tell me you have some sort of training for childbirth?”
“I do not, m’lady. However, I do know that we should boil water.”
“What for?” Marguerite was aghast at the thought of baby soup.
“I have no idea.”
The two trotted off to help the woman who hated them and found her lying in a very wet bed looking very miserable.
“Oh, my!” Marguerite exclaimed, hand to heart.
“I will get clean blankets,” Outil answered and left the room. “What on earth is all this … damp?” Marguerite asked as she took a careful step forward.
“My water broke, you ninny.” Louisa was in no mood for patience.
Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl Page 16