‘That would be asking for a misfire, Michael.’ Pearce looked around the barren landscape, as much at the open sky, as O’Hagan acknowledged there was truth in that; powder got damp easily and there were all sorts of additional problems to bearing a loaded weapon for any length of time. ‘Besides, this is not a place for the military – anyone armed out here will be loaded with birdshot, which might sting you but it will not kill or maim.’
It was as if he had sent out a message; his words were followed by a sudden flurry of wings as a flock of birds, disturbed by their approach, rose out of the long grass and fluttered noisily into the clear blue sky. As soon as they reached a decent height, the blast of a gun rent the still air, which had the ass Michael was leading jerk to a halt, feet splayed, while both men reacted by immediately dropping down to a crouch.
‘Where away?’ Pearce shouted, his eyes searching the horizon to left and right from a crouched position.
Michael pointed ahead of them to a rising puff of smoke, where the residue of black from the discharged powder showed just above the tips of the swaying grass. Tellingly, the shot had been successful, as one bird folded its wings and dropped to the ground halfway between where the shot had come from and where the pair stood, that followed by the sight of a dog leaping through the fronds to collect the carcass.
Michael was on one knee loading his musket and Pearce was doing likewise with his pistol; fowling piece or no, they had little desire to be shot at. That completed and both weapons at the ready they began to move forward slowly. They had not gone far when another group of disturbed birds rose up, bringing forth another blast of gunfire that seemed to connect right over their heads, for this time the prey dropped a few feet in front of where they stood.
The dog was not long in arriving, large, brown and white with drooping ears and a long tongue in what had to be a soft mouth, nosing around looking for what its master had just downed. Spotting them, it stopped, lifted one paw and eyed them for several seconds, but since they did not move it carried on with its task, located the shot bird and picked it up so gently it hardly disturbed the feathers, before running back into the long grass.
‘A hat, John-boy,’ Michael called. ‘I swear I saw a hat.’
He was pointing right ahead with the muzzle of his musket and aiming along the barrel with Pearce following the line. It was just visible, the crown and wide brim of a dark-brown headpiece that stood out from the straw colour of its wind-blown surroundings. Then came the sharp whistle of the hunter calling his dog, which had taken too long about its task. Reasoning the first thing this fellow would do was reload, Pearce lifted his pistol in the air and fired; he had no notion to be peppered, for close to it could take out an eye.
That brought the head up higher, to reveal a face that promptly disappeared again. Pearce ran forward following the dog, Michael dropping the lead rope of the ass to do likewise. Bursting through the high grass Pearce nearly went headlong into a watercourse, stopping himself just in time, and he saw a few yards distant a flat-bottomed boat being rowed hurriedly if unevenly away, with the dog, still with the bird in its mouth, swimming to catch up.
‘Stop!’ he yelled.
Pearce signalled to Michael to chase up the bank and threaten the rower, at the same time holding out his discharged pistol on the grounds that the person at whom it was aimed could not know it was lacking a ball, just as, whatever language they spoke, they could not mistake the command. It was the musket that stilled the oars, which were dropped and the hands that had held them raised, one taking off the hat to reveal a very young face. It also released a cascade of long fair hair.
‘Mademoiselle?’
Pearce asked that in a way that underlined how thrown he was, because the clothing was entirely male and of good quality, while the person wearing it was quite obviously a young girl who could not be more, he reckoned, than twelve years of age – pretty, with pale clear skin and bright eyes to go with her golden hair.
The question was met by a look of confusion, his own clothing being examined up and down, with Pearce indicating the boat should return to the bank, which got a glance at the still-levelled muzzle. Michael dropped it when requested to do so, which produced even more visible confusion in this young Amazon. The oars were picked up to sweep the boat into the bank, the dog dragging itself on dry land to shake its fur dry, still holding the bird in its gentle jaw.
‘Michael, the beast.’
‘Sure, John-boy, it is not inclined to move when it should, so I do not think it will run off when it has grass under its hooves.’
Eyes swivelling from one to the other at this exchange, it was clear the girl’s bewilderment had increased. Hard by the shore now, Pearce could see the fowling piece in the bottom of the boat along with the other bird carcass already fetched in by her dog. He addressed her in French, asking her name, aware that in this part of the world she might only know some local dialect.
‘Marie-Louise de Chalus, monsieur,’ she replied, not only in the right language but also with an accent of some refinement; this child was educated, which brought from him a slight bow as he responded with an introduction that had her eyes opening wide.
‘John Pearce, Lieutenant de vaisseau dans le service du roi d’Angleterre.’
Mention of the King of England had her putting her hands to her mouth. Continuing, for he knew he was taking a chance by being open, Pearce informed her that he had arrived by sea and was looking for the forces fighting the Revolution.
‘Sure it would be a kindness, John-boy, to let me know what you are on about.’
The reply to that gave the girl time to think and she quickly crossed herself and began to respond with a stream of words that left Michael O’Hagan high and dry once more. Pearce stopped the flow with an upraised hand, accompanied, to soften his interruption, with an understanding smile.
‘We have struck gold, brother; it seems we are in country controlled by the very people we seek. There is a village not far off called Beauvoir and there, in an old priory, resides a priest who can lead us to those we need to find.’
At the mention of the word priest it was the Irishman’s turn to cross himself, which attracted a look from the girl, who once more launched into an explanation with the rapidity that went with her years, the upshot of which was that she would row down to the nearest wooden crossing, then tie up her boat and lead them by foot to the village.
A sharp command had the dog leap into the boat, where it finally dropped the second dead bird.
The curé brought out to meet them was young, ascetic-looking, poorly clad in a severely worn cassock and he reassured them they were in territory safe from the forces of the Revolution, protected by a deep belt of marshland held by the insurgents, into which the army sent to subdue them feared to enter.
Beauvoir was not much better found than the priest, a tiny hamlet in a featureless landscape set around the Romanesque priory and the remains of a fortress that, though it might have once been substantial, was a ruin and one that seemed to have provided most of the stones for whatever non-clerical buildings the place possessed.
The arrival of a British naval officer in full uniform did not go without comment – the girl let everyone they met on entry know how and where they had met. In time, as word spread, a small crowd gathered setting up a babble of chatter, which had the curé suggesting it would be best to talk inside the church.
On entering through the low arched doorway, Pearce, who was not religious, felt awkward where Michael did not, the Irishman rapidly genuflecting, dipping his fingertips into a font and crossing himself again, which received a nod from the appreciative priest, who no doubt thought anyone not French was a heathen. The interior was cold, the walls of long-hewn stone whitewashed to maximise the shortage of natural light from slit windows, the statuary and carvings of a design that spoke of its ancient provenance and centuries of peaceful contemplation.
Gentle questioning followed as the Frenchman sought to nail their exact purpose, h
is disappointment that the two men were not the precursors of a substantial force of redcoats or fellow Frenchmen very obvious. Pearce was interrogating him too, to find out where the rebels could be found, which was frustrating because the fellow would not oblige.
Eventually he agreed to lead them to the leaders of the revolt personally, without admitting where that might be, apart from telling Pearce it was in the wet marsh – it seemed where they were was considered dry – and also that they would have to leave the ass, as part of the journey would be by boat.
Eager to be off, Pearce was frustrated when Michael asked if he could have his sins heard, which he had not done since Toulon, and given the curé spoke no English or Erse Gaelic it was necessary for him to translate the request, though not the actual confession, which left him wondering at the sense of it; it did, however, seem they managed to communicate both the transgressions and requisite penalties.
‘Sure, I feel a better man for that,’ Michael declared, as he emerged from the curtained confessional booth. ‘Though it would have been grand to take communion as well.’
‘Just as long as you’re ready to kill if need be,’ Pearce replied, in a jaundiced tone.
‘You don’t understand, John-boy, it’s about being ready to die.’
By the time they emerged from the priory church, the curé was outside and waiting, now wearing a wide-brimmed hat and thick, brown woollen cloak. The whole of the village had gathered to stare, and before they got clear young Marie-Louise tugged at Pearce’s arm and whispered something in his ear. They were on their way east when he told Michael what it was.
‘Seems her father is one of the leaders. She wants me to give him a message of love.’
‘Careful how you word that, John-boy,’ Michael joked, being shriven having left him in high spirits. ‘You being in naval garb an’ all.’
After an hour of trudging the two sailors found out exactly what the priest meant about wet and dry, for they were no longer crossing a salt grass landscape similar to that which had brought them to Beauvoir; it changed completely to dense and forested wetlands in which what light penetrated the canopy shone on dappled patches of water and undergrowth which smelt of rotting corruption.
Trees filled the higher ground, but each wooded rise led to another still and silent watercourse or deep pool that had to be crossed by logs or stones, given any bridges had been destroyed, their gaunt remains a stark reminder that such demolition had been deliberately engineered to close off the region to straightforward access.
That was easy compared to the lower-lying ground, which was mud at best and ooze at worst; there was no way of keeping their feet dry. Sometimes that included their knees and thighs as they traversed the sodden landscape, their guide weaving through these areas with an admonishment to stay close and keep right behind him, indicating there were bogs into which they might be sucked whole.
It was a place that those who lived within its confines would know, which made it a deadly area for an army of strangers to fight in. Leeches soon found bare flesh and sucked their blood, swelling until replete then dropping off back into the water or mud. If this was a bad place now, it would be tolerable in high summer, but Pearce wondered how anyone could exist here in winter, when perhaps all this wet turned to ice and snow.
Thankfully the last part of the journey was, as promised, made by boat, which the priest located from an inlet where it had been carefully hidden – the same broad flat-bottomed sort in which they had found the girl. Pearce was doubly thankful; the bags of coin around his neck had seemed to grow heavier with each step and he had looked at Michael many times half hoping he was suffering likewise. If he was it did not show.
Even sat in the boat there was little respite; the damp made the line around his shoulders chafe and before long they were walking again until, finally, the curé indicated they should halt, putting his hands up to cup his mouth and calling out like an owl. There was a half a minute of wait before the hooting was returned and only then did Pearce sense by the pauses that it was some kind of coded message. When silence fell, their guide turned and spoke softly to Pearce.
‘We wait here, Michael, until we are fetched.’
With darkness approaching, the wetlands had taken on a diabolical aura, which had Michael crossing himself repeatedly, his head jerking to each sound: a fish flapping its tail in a nearby pool, the splash of a wild duck entering the water, the cry of what might be a bittern, which was the kind of bird that relished these surroundings and, it seemed, a great number of owls – or were they humans?
‘Holy Mary Mother of God,’ Michael hissed when the lights first appeared, playing around in the dense foliage, appearing and disappearing like some ethereal presence, making strange shapes that seemed to assume human form and playing havoc with the Irishman’s superstitious nature. ‘The devil is in this place, John-boy.’
With sore shoulders and tired from the long march in his heavy broadcloth coat, John Pearce was in no mood for what he thought was Michael’s credulous nonsense. Normally tight-lipped about any other man’s religious beliefs – it was their concern what they believed and not his, unless they tried to persuade him to their way of thinking – he could not keep quiet now, even with a man he highly esteemed.
‘Michael,’ he growled. ‘There are no devils here and no God either. What you can see are torches.’
There was enough natural light left to observe the doubt in his friend’s face and to see him cross himself again, as another owl hoot filled the air, to which their guide replied. Within seconds the small clearing was full of light and humanity, men clad in dark clothing and low flat hats who seemed to emerge like chimeras from the surrounding undergrowth, every one of them armed. That was when the curé raised his hat to show his face, Pearce doing likewise, even if he would not be recognised.
There was no response to him, but one of the new arrivals did approach the young priest, and head bent, listened to what he had to say, a whispered exchange Pearce could not hear. Then he took a torch from one of the bearers and approached the pair, shining it in their faces but saying not one word. It was the curé who spoke once the examination was complete and the fellow had stepped back to talk to him. That was to tell Pearce that these men would take him on from here.
About to open his mouth as a torch changed hands, Pearce stopped himself; it was near to dark and there was no way this young man could find his way back to Beauvoir by torchlight through the kind of terrain they had traversed, regardless of how well he knew it. The reason for not speaking was simple; they had been led a merry dance on a circuitous route to ensure they could not recall how they came to be where they were. Beauvoir was a lot closer to this spot than they wanted them to know.
‘Michael,’ he said, ‘would it surprise you to know they do not trust us?’
‘Sure, John-boy, they would have to mine deep to find mine own.’
‘Au revoir, monsieur.’
Pearce just nodded at the priest, whose face, in the light of the torch he held, looked other-worldly now, but there was no lingering. The men who had come to find them were already moving out in file – not all, for half of them were waiting for him and Michael to do so; they would bring up the rear.
Now they were on well-worn forest tracks, dry, with evidence of much use; the undergrowth had either been cut back or worn away by passage. No one spoke but it was certain that if they made an untoward move there would be a reaction, which left Pearce wondering if this was a trick they had experienced before. Perhaps it had not been a British naval officer and his seaman companion who had come with offers of help, but some emissary claiming to be on their side, while seeking to find them only for the purpose of betrayal.
Now they were on land carpeted with pine needles, the trees higher, straighter and the undergrowth sparse, finally entering a large clearing lit by several bonfires and surrounded by wooden huts and a large cabin, well constructed. It was a fair guess they were near the middle of the wetlands on some kind of e
levation, given the air was drier than hitherto.
A mass of torches, fuelled by pine resin judging by the smell, illuminated the surroundings, and it seemed there were lanterns in the cabins. The clearing ground was worn flat by much use and all around them people emerged from doorways, not only men but women too, visible in the flickering flames.
Their escorts had fanned out to form a torchlit circle and to reveal a fellow standing in military garb, tricorn hat edged with feathers, a dark-green coat with brocade edges, white breeches and long waistcoat. He wore a sword at his side, while behind him stood several others who also looked to be soldiers, as well as a fellow in high-value canonical garments, obviously a bishop by his decorated crook, whose fingers flashed with his jewellery as his hand moved a fraction.
It was almost comical, the way the leader, a man Pearce took to be in his forties, swept off his hat and gave a deep bow, with a courtesy that would not have shamed the manners of a Bourbon courtier. His speech was as cultured as the bow was elegant, the introduction naming him as ‘Joseph-Geneviève, le Comte de Puisaye.’
Tired, dirty, with his breeches black to the knees and his coat streaked with mud, John Pearce could not but respond in kind. He too swept off his naval scraper and executed a bow, naming himself, as he had to young Marie-Louise de Chalus, as Lieutenant John Pearce.
The female cry that rent the air made him stand upright abruptly.
‘Jean, c’est pas possible – c’est toi?’
It took a while for the lady who had cried out to emerge from the crowd and he did not recognise her till she threw back the cowl of her cloak to reveal her features, but once she did there was no mistaking a woman he had last seen in Paris over a year before.
‘Amélie?’ he responded weakly.
‘Chéri!’ she cried, rushing forward to embrace him.
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