Falcon 1 - The Lure of the Falcon

by The Lure of the Falcon (v1. 0) (lit)

  Gilles had orders to go ashore for the last time and make sure that no further letters had arrived and came for the last time to the house in the Cours Dajot where the Admiral's and the General's personal correspondence was kept for them.

  He was crossing the courtyard to call on the offices when he heard the porter calling him.

  'Hey, you over there! Young man! Hey, Monsieur Secretary, if you please! There is a letter for you—'

  Gilles stopped dead as though he had been shot.

  'A letter? For me? What are you doing with it? It should have been with the rest of the post.'

  The man's smile was at once sly and knowing.

  'Come, come! One doesn't put a nice little letter like that in with an admiral's or a general's post. Such a pretty blue seal must be from a lady.'

  The dainty missive which the porter was holding in his thick fingers was indeed artistically folded and sealed with a small seal on which Gilles, with a beating heart, made out the martlets that were the arms of Saint-Mélaine.

  He was so shaken that he stood for a moment turning the letter over and over in his hands, unwilling to open it before the leering porter who was visibly consumed with curiosity.

  'Well, to be sure,' that worthy said, unable to contain himself, 'you don't seem in all that much of a hurry to read it! Should be interesting, though.'

  Gilles shrugged. Casting an angry glance at his tormentor, he turned back towards the main building and ran up the stairs two at a time to the refuge of the attic where he had lodged before going aboard. It was bare and unlived-in once more but it was still familiar and no one was there to watch him. Not until then could he bring himself to break the seal and unfold the letter. It was all he could do not to grin for pure joy.

  The writing was clumsy and unformed, while for signature there was only a large, flamboyant J. The letter was not long but it seemed to him worthy of the greatest poets.

  'I am told that you have begun well and that great things are to be hoped for you if you prove worthy of the trust reposed in you. Do not fail, for if you should you would grieve more persons than you think. And lose no time, for three years are soon gone.

  Nevertheless, I pray you will take care of yourself, for it may be that the greatest danger in this war you go to will not come from the enemy. There is another, more treacherous, who is on the watch for you. Keep your eyes well open, for there are those, I know, who would grieve much should you fail to return…'

  The mysterious tone of this letter was, naturally, alarming. But for the present Gilles paid no heed to that. He was overflowing with happiness. He kissed the big, sprawling J a dozen times over and read and reread the letter, seeing nothing in it beyond Judith's anxiety for him. She was warning him against some vague danger, something she dared not tell him openly, but it probably meant no more than that she was afraid for him and longed to see him return alive. From there it was only a step to the thought that she must love him a little, and that step Gilles was very ready to take.

  Stowing the precious letter safely in his bosom, between his shirt and his skin, he sped down to the offices, swept up the General's letters and rushed back to the Penfeld to rejoin his ship as quickly as he had come.

  He was making for the boat belonging to the flagship which was now standing out into the roadstead with her copper-lined hull bristling with eighty-six guns and her soaring masts, when he saw a number of men coming towards him and recognized by their heavily frogged hussar jackets that they belonged to Lauzun's regiment. They were heading for a transport vessel, the Françoise, which had just that moment finished taking on water. In view of the large numbers to be transported, the Admiral had demanded three extra ships at the last minute. They were the Françoise, the Turgot and the Rower. The contrary winds had at least made it possible to effect this addition to their supplies.

  The little group of men had to cross Gilles' path and, just as they were doing so, Gilles realized suddenly the exact nature of the threat Judith meant to warn him of. One of the men was looking at him, even turning his head to keep him in view, and he saw that the man was Judith's brother Morvan, whom he had so expeditiously tipped into the Blavet.

  It was no more than a moment. Already, the men were crossing the gangway of the transport vessel and vanishing on board, leaving Gilles to make his way thoughtfully to his own boat. Here was a mystery. What was a gentleman from Brittany doing in a regiment from Saintonge? And what was Morvan, who had been described to him as something like a wild animal, quite incapable of enduring the slightest discipline and passing his days in a lair in the woods along with his elder brother, doing in the army? Was it the lure of the American adventure which had drawn him or the lust for vengeance – or something of both? Unless there were some other reason which was still hidden from him.

  Judging from the red-headed man's ferocious expression, it seemed likely that Gilles himself had a good deal to do with his unexpected embarkation. Judith's letter only confirmed it.

  But the presence of the younger Saint-Mélaine, far from alarming Gilles, actually delighted him. It was a good thing for Judith that her dangerous brothers should be separated, and it also meant that they considered him sufficiently formidable to pursue him half across the globe. He had become, in fact, someone to be reckoned with! As a result of which conclusion, Gilles stepped aboard the Duc de Bourgogne again with something of a swagger. His self-confidence was increasing hourly.

  At five o'clock the following morning, the inhabitants of Brest jumped out of their beds in a body at the sound of the parting gun. Everywhere, people ran to the best vantage points to see the Chevalier de Ternay's fleet and its lumbering convoy put to sea. But while the clerks at the Arsenal and the officers of the garrison hurried to climb the castle's medieval towers, the streets were full of people running to the hills overlooking the Channel. At the same time, the red and blue sails blossomed from the masts of the fishing boats until the harbour looked like one gigantic flower bed.

  The fresh wind swept the lightening sky in great, life-giving gusts, carrying the measured chanting of the men at the capstans far over the sea. Voices boomed through loud-hailers as they hauled on the anchor chains.

  On the bridge of the Duc de Bourgogne, the little admiral stood stiff as a ramrod in his handsome dark blue coat with the gilded epaulettes, watching with a flash of pride in his deepset eyes, as mainsails, topsails and foretopsails were slowly unfurled, as his flag captain, the Comte de Médine, made the vessel ready to put to sea.

  By half past five, the Duc de Bourgogne was under way and heading down Channel. Then, one by one, the forty-two ships of the fleet and the convoy which Louis XVI, by the Grace of God, King of France and Navarre, was sending to the aid of the Rebels slid after her towards the open sea and one of the noblest adventures ever undertaken by men.

  To the frantic cheers of those who had worked so hard for them, M. Destouches' Neptune, M. de Lombard's Provence, M. de la Grandière's Conquérant, M. du Couédic's heroic vessel, the Surveillante, now by much labour refitted and placed under the command of M. de Gillard, and M. de la Pérouse's swift frigate Amazone, sea-birds all of them, now turned into watch-dogs for the twenty-eight slower and heavier ships of the convoy, passed slowly out of sight.

  Gradually the cheers and the drums died away and the guns of the forts of Bertheaume roared a last salute. Then there was only the sweet breath of the wind and the wide sea opening before the freshly painted and gilded figureheads that dipped as regularly as a troop of ballet dancers into the long swell of the Iroise towards the perilous waters of the Sein race.

  Standing by the rail a little way apart from the gilded group of officers, Gilles watched Brittany and his childhood fade away.

  PART TWO

  The Guns of Yorktown

  Chapter Seven

  Scalp Hunter

  As they drew near to the coast of America, Gilles spent long hours at the rail of the Duc de Bourgogne, tiring his eyes with peering into the distance for a first
glimpse of a country which in his dreams had appeared to him as nothing short of fabulous. Helped by his Breton imagination, he was prepared for untold wonders, for vast forests, strange colours and peculiar people, like the Indians of whom he had heard tales almost every evening on that interminable seventy-day voyage. As far as landscape went, he was well satisfied, for it was spectacular and the forests more than majestic but the few townships they caught a glimpse of were scarcely encouraging: a cluster of white houses around a church spire, not much different from those at home, the people dressed in ordinary clothes and not a single canoe paddled by men in colourful feathered headdresses. The uniforms of the French were infinitely gayer and more picturesque than the garb of the native Americans.

  Their arrival at Rhode Island had done little to redress this feeling of disappointment. The French camp was situated on a headland overlooking the little town of Newport, between the harbour, from which it was divided by an area of marshland, and the narrow.

  It was a very beautiful spot, with a view over the row of green islands between which the fleet had put chains, hermetically sealing off the approaches to Newport. Beyond lay the long, low island of Conanicut on which could be seen the remains of a fort, destroyed by the retreating British a year before, and the big, isolated house which served as a hospital for the army's four-hundred-and-twenty sick, who had been taken off the ships. There were also the shimmering blue waters of the huge bay of Narragansett, looking strangely peaceful since the war had interrupted Rhode Island's busy trade with Africa and the West Indies.

  Not long since, vessels built by the people of Newport with their own hands would cross the seas to the Guinea Coast to pick up profitable cargoes of slaves, then back to the Caribbean, where the 'black ivory' could be exchanged for sugar and molasses to be brought home to Newport for the manufacture of rum – which would then be taken back to Africa for sale to the numerous petty black kings who provided the slave ships with their cargoes. Even though the greater part of Newport belonged to the strict Anabaptist sect, this trade proved so profitable that the governor levied a tax of three dollars a head on the slaves and was able to pave the whole town on the proceeds. But the war had put an end to all that. Newport had been captured and recaptured and was once again in the hands of the Rebels who had offered it to their French allies as a base.

  It was not, perhaps, the safest of bases, for its inhabitants were still split into two camps: the rich tory merchants remaining blindly loyal to the mother country and the whig rebels, farmers and intellectuals, who dreamed of being simply Americans, each cherishing their careful copy of Thomas Jefferson's striking Declaration of Independence which the first Congress had voted and signed in 1776. And since no one yet knew quite how the wind would blow, both sides were doing their best to avoid proclaiming their beliefs too loudly. It was better to wait and see.

  Rochambeau and his secretary were made aware of this when, accompanied only by the headquarters staff, they went ashore on the tenth of July. Gilles did not soon forget the strangeness he felt when M. de la Pérouse's frigate Amazone, which was to take them into the harbour, crept up to the long pier, shining with seaweed. It was nine o'clock in the evening. The sky was purple and only the white houses of the town seemed to hold some vestiges of daylight. A bell was tolling mournfully from the spire of Trinity Church but that was the only sound they heard, for no one came down to the harbour or out into the few streets to witness the arrival of the French.

  Not only did the governor, or any other official, fail to put in an appearance, but every door remained obstinately shut as though in the face of an invader. The most they saw was the blur of an anxious face, the glint of a suspicious eye behind the small panes of sash windows. They could almost hear the whispering. The atmosphere around the little group of officers standing alone on the empty quay was so oppressive that Fersen could bear it no longer.

  'Here's a friendly welcome! What do these people think they're about?' he exclaimed, glancing at his chief's grim face. 'Do they think we've been at sea for seventy days simply to look at closed doors? I vote we go back on board and make our landing in some more hospitable spot.'

  'It is for me to decide, sir, what we shall do,' Rochambeau interposed calmly. 'My orders are to establish myself here and I shall do so. In any case, you should not complain. The people here sent pilots, after all, to guide us into the bay. Give them time to get used to us.'

  'You are too good,' M. de Charlus said. 'But all the same, you will have to go back on board. The commander of the French expeditionary force can scarcely camp out in the town square.'

  'With your permission, sir,' put in Gilles, for whom the idea of returning to the ship was like deserting, 'I think I can see an inn sign over there.'

  A chorus of horrified exclamation greeted his words, but he went on undeterred: 'When you want to make contact with the people of a village, you always start by going to the inn.'

  'Quite right, too!' Rochambeau agreed with a smile. 'To the inn, then! Lead the way, my friend.'

  And thus it came about that the French headquarters staff spent its first night on American soil democratically at Flint's Hotel in Point Street.

  For the worthy citizens of Newport it was a night of sleepless deliberation but it brought results. The whigs decided that it might be politic to show some consideration for men of such aristocratic appearance who had travelled so far. As for the tories, for all their strong attachment to King George III, they could not but feel that prudence counselled at least the appearance of complaisance.

  Consequently, it was quite a delegation which, the next morning, was led by Governor Wanton to pay its somewhat embarrassed respects to Rochambeau at the inn. Once past the barriers of suspicious guards and an unfriendly secretary who looked very much askance at them, they were met with a graciousness that surprised them. There were introductions and expressions of mutual goodwill, all the more heartfelt when the Frenchman indicated that his expeditionary force was soon to be followed by another, even then in preparation at Brest. There was more talk and when, at last, the ships' captains, with the Admiral at their head, came in to see how matters were progressing, everyone was in high good humour. The town's best rum was distributed on a lavish scale. Lanterns were hung everywhere, even on the church spire, there was a firework display and the junketings were kept up half the night with both parties very much pleased with one another.

  By July 25th, fifteen days had passed since that memorable night and everyone had settled down to a rigid discipline, imposed by the General with an iron hand. The camp had been laid out, the four regiments on the left, the artillery on the right and Lauzun's cavalry in front. Headquarters were in the town itself, the thousand or so sick with scurvy or other ailments caused by the excessive length of the voyage, had been landed from the ships and put, some in the hospital at Newport, some in the big house on Conanicut Island, and a start had been made on the rebuilding of the fortifications destroyed by the English; all with a degree of discipline that was all the more admirable for being quite unusual. But the severest penalties were laid down for anyone caught looting, stealing or committing the smallest offence against the island's inhabitants.

  There was, moreover, nothing else to do, for no news had yet arrived from the Rebel leaders and if Rochambeau had thought he would be able to go into action immediately, he was much mistaken. All that was known for sure was that La Fayette had arrived a few weeks previously.

  There was, however, news of the English. Admiral Graves' strong fleet had appeared four days earlier and taken up a position outside the entrance to Narragansett. Rochambeau had his work cut out to prevent the infuriated Ternay, with barely a third the strength, from hurling his own force at it to hack a way through.

  'Through to where?' he asked. 'We don't even know yet what they want of us. Besides, don't forget that Sartines requires you to stick by me at all costs.'

  The champing little admiral was brought to reason and, since the English seemed in no way
inclined to attack a position so well defended, the two fleets might have remained staring at one another like a pair of china dogs for a long time, rousing the younger officers and the men who did not understand the situation to a fury. To have the enemy in sight and not be able to get at him was enough to make a man weep!

  Gilles' thoughts were exactly like those of Noailles, Fersen, young Rochambeau, Dillon, Damas and every other young officer and he found himself wondering at last what they had come there for. Ever since they sailed out of Brest, he had beguiled the tedium of the voyage improving his technique with sword and sabre with the master at arms of the Saintonge regiment and he had achieved a very pretty skill which he was burning to put to use. Since coming ashore he had kept in practice by daily bouts with no less a person than Axel de Fersen himself.

  In his silent way, the Swede had now admitted him to a kind of fellowship. Seeing that the young man was embarrassed to find himself almost the only civilian among a host of military men, he had obtained Rochambeau's permission to enter him in the Royal Deux-Ponts, so that he could at least wear a uniform. Gilles nearly wept for joy the first time he put on the blue and yellow uniform, even though it did belong to a foreign regiment, because it meant that he was no longer merely a dusty scribe but part of that enormous family, an army in the field, far from its home base. What was more, this promotion earned him a new respect from his friend, Tim Thocker.

  Tim was one of the two mysterious Americans who had come aboard the Duc de Bourgogne at Brest. The whole of their mystery lay, in fact, in their being the bearers of private letters from Benjamin Franklin and Silas Deane to their respective families. Young Thocker, son of the minister of Stillborough, on the Pawtucket River, was particularly charged with those of the United States Agent who, being a native of Connecticut, was in some sort a neighbour but there was nothing of the secret agent about him. He was a simple, only moderately God-fearing young fellow with the curiosity of a cat and very nearly the same degree of stealth, for no one ever heard him coming and his ordinary rate of speech was no more than ten words an hour. Mention hunting or fishing, however, and Tim would chatter like a drunken parrot.