by Regan Walker
Zoé nodded, apparently mollified for the moment. “A rest in England might do you good.”
“You will accompany us?” asked Donet.
Zoé looked first to her uncle and then to Freddie. “I suppose I must.”
Chapter 3
Gorey Harbor, the Isle of Jersey
Zoé watched Freddie descend the gangplank to the Gorey pier, his arm in a sling and his dark blue frock coat draped over his injured shoulder. The sun gleamed in his auburn hair beneath his tricorne. He wore tight-fitting nankeen breeches and polished black Hessian boots, making him appear very much the British aristocrat. Even his neckcloth had been fashionably tied.
He turned to wave, flashing her a wide smile. She raised a hand in reply. They had exchanged similar gestures countless times before but something was different today and it wasn’t just his dashing attire or the evidence of his wound.
For a moment, she remained at the rail admiring him, not just as her loyal friend, who he had always been, but as a man. No wonder Éloise had thought him handsome. Indeed, he was. Why had she never noticed before?
He had told her he was going to meet with Captain d’Auvergne, the British commander of the flotilla of small gunboats that protected the islands. In the distance, she glimpsed the two-story buildings set around the crescent harbor. One of them contained d’Auvergne’s headquarters where he received visitors when he was in port.
In addition to the island’s security, the British captain was the administrator of the French émigrés in the isles. Zoé had dealt with him on behalf of some she’d helped to rescue, but she’d long suspected he did more for England than that, else Freddie would not be meeting with him this morning without her.
In truth, she wondered if Freddie wasn’t a British spy. More than once, she had come upon him leaning against the rail of la Reine Noire, gazing through a ship’s glass toward the coast of Normandy. “Counting ships,” he had told her when she’d asked. Aye, he counted—and doubtless reported—the ships to London, but what else did he do? Freddie was a man of few words, a deep well. At times, he could be maddeningly mysterious.
It occurred to her if she had not taken the side of the royalists, she and Freddie would be enemies. But it was England more than any other country that had aided those fleeing the Terror. And it was to England the émigrés flocked by the thousands.
Casting her gaze around the crescent harbor, Zoé’s attention was drawn to lé Vièr Châté, the old castle set upon a rocky crag, a stone fortress built in the Middle Ages as a defense against an invasion from France. The isles had always been a contentious issue between the two countries, lying so close to Normandy yet dependencies of the English Crown.
Being French, she had some sympathy for her country’s claim on the isles, but that fight had been settled some time ago and the castle had been allowed to return to its sleepy state. With the revolution, however, the fortress had awakened from its slumber to become a fortified garrison with cannons facing out to sea.
Seagulls circled above the castle, occasionally swooping down over the oyster boats just leaving the harbor, their single sails billowing out with the wind. This was the height of the season when the oysters were most plentiful, and the fishermen ranged close to France for the richest beds.
People might be starving in Paris, but on Guernsey and Jersey, they ate well. Good weather and good soil produced a rich bounty of fruits and vegetables; healthy cows provided fine milk, butter and cheese. Wine and spirits were plentiful as well and always had been since the isles were home to many privateers. Oncle Jean had been one of them and still kept a warehouse on Guernsey to store his merchant goods.
In addition to oysters, fish and lobsters abounded. The boats leaving now would return from the oyster banks with the shellfish her uncle loved to eat. Those same gulls, shrieking at the prospect of dining well, would meet them along with the fishermen’s wives and children rushing to the water’s edge with baskets ready to receive the day’s catch.
Zoé had watched the reunion many times and thought it a charming sight. One day, the war and the Terror would end and she, too, could return to domestic pursuits.
In the meantime, she had work to do. She had agreed to her uncle’s request that she accompany him to England, but only for a short while. Once she made sure Freddie had recovered she would return to the streets of Granville.
Freddie studied the man leaning over the large map of France bathed in the morning light from the windows facing the harbor. Behind the desk stood shelves of books bound in leather that Freddie had often admired, as well as instruments the captain had once used in sailing His Majesty’s ships.
On Jersey, d’Auvergne had the title of Senior Officer of the Gunboats. But d’Auvergne had other, less well-known duties that involved Freddie, such as maintaining lines of communication with the Continent and monitoring hostile enemy movements, particularly ship movements. Beyond that, Freddie had often delivered supplies and weapons to those resisting the revolution.
Today, d’Auvergne wore his Royal Navy frock coat over a white waistcoat and breeches, smartly proclaiming his rank. At forty, his hair had already turned a pale gray, which Freddie attributed to the captain’s many battles in the American war. Yet there was nothing feeble about him. His waist was trim, his posture erect and his hazel eyes bright with excitement beneath his dark brows.
“Good morning, sir.”
D’Auvergne shifted his gaze from the map to fix Freddie with an inquiring look. “Good Lord, West. What happened to you?”
“An encounter with a republican musket in Granville a few days ago.”
The captain frowned, making Freddie assume whatever the message, it must be important and Freddie’s wound did not figure in the assignment. “Have a seat. I’ll not require a wounded man to stand. I trust you are on the mend?”
“Aye.” Freddie sank into the chair, wincing at the pain as his shoulder encountered the hard wood, and faced the captain across the desk.
Pointing to Brittany and the area just east of it on the map, d’Auvergne said, “I assume you are familiar with the provinces of Brittany and Maine?”
Freddie nodded. He knew well the map of northwestern France. On orders from Evan Nepean, the Undersecretary of War responsible for intelligence, conveyed through d’Auvergne, Freddie had entered France more than once using forged documents. Paying bribes with forged French assignat notes produced in England, he’d gathered information on the movements of the republican army near the coast. That he had chosen as his method of transport an oyster fisherman’s boat had been his own idea.
Donet and his niece smuggled émigrés out of France and Freddie smuggled supplies in, sometimes on oyster boats and sometimes, with Donet’s permission, aboard la Reine Noire.
The captain straightened, his demeanor taking on a serious mien. “Despite General Turreau’s wholesale massacre of the Vendéens, some have escaped to join a group of royalist fighters in Brittany and the neighboring province of Maine. They are led by a timber cutter named Jean Cottereau, though he is known more often by the name Jean Chouan. The Chouans, as they are called, fight in small bands, scouring the countryside, ambushing republican soldiers, couriers and coaches carrying government funds. They are well-disciplined marksmen and highly motivated in their desire for revenge after the slaughter in the Vendée.”
Freddie found all this interesting but where was it leading?
D’Auvergne dropped into his chair, leaned his elbows on the map and steepled his fingers. “Undersecretary Nepean wants to support these Chouans but requires intelligence to do so. In short, West, we need to know precisely what they need and where they are.” He paused, fixing Freddie with an intense regard. “I proposed to Nepean that we should send you and he agreed.”
Freddie was puzzled. “I’m not opposed to the assignment, sir, but why me?”
The inscrutable expression that crossed d’Auvergne’s face told Freddie the captain had yet to reveal a salient fact.
“It did not go unnoticed by me that you have formed a bond with the oyster fishermen here on Jersey, even traveling with them on occasion when they sail close to Normandy. Am I right?”
Freddie didn’t want to reveal all he had done. “Well—”
The captain raised a hand. “I am not asking for details. I am merely recognizing your initiative, which, I might add, gained us vital information. But there is more than initiative required here. You have the confidence of your brother-in-law, the Frenchman Jean Donet, who, in addition to his home on Guernsey, still maintains a home in Lorient on the coast of Brittany. Moreover, he has allowed you to use his ships to transport arms to the royalists. I am hoping he will agree to participate in this venture as well.”
“Likely he will,” said Freddie, “but I would not presume upon his good graces.”
“Given his views, I am confident Donet will agree to help. After all, he is married to the sister of an English earl and both Donet and his wife support the royalist cause. One of his ships can take you within striking distance of Lorient. From there you will receive help from La Correspondance, our network in the region. The Chouans on the coast will direct you to the interior.”
D’Auvergne got to his feet and pointed to a spot on the map in the easternmost part of Brittany. “Before you reach Maine, you will pass through the town of Fougères in Brittany. I’m told the leader of the Chouans there is Aimé Picquet, chevalier du Boisguy, not yet twenty, yet he is considered a skilled tactician.”
Freddie’s expression must have revealed his skepticism.
The captain returned him a sharp look. “Take Boisguy seriously, West. He has held the town against the republican soldiers for more than a year, an astounding feat. He will know of the needs in Brittany.”
“Very well, I will seek him out, but how am I to make contact with the Chouans in Maine?”
“It will not be easy, but Boisguy may prove helpful, which is why I ask you to meet with him. Cottereau’s followers are a devoted bunch. They live in secrecy in dense forests and must be approached with caution. Their small bands will be difficult to penetrate. ‘Chouan’ is a reference to the tawny owl whose call they use to identify themselves to each other.” At Freddie’s raised brow, the captain added, “Gaining that fact nearly cost a man his life.”
Freddie let out a huff. A man’s life risked for an owl’s cry?
As if reading his mind, d’Auvergne said, “The owl’s call is important. Before you take your leave, I will see you are instructed by one who is familiar with the bird’s call. Oh, and you will take Jean Donet’s niece with you when you sail to Lorient.”
“Zoé? No.” He shook his head. “I will not involve her in this. She already risks much for the cause.”
“I recognize involving her in this presents danger for her but she is needed and she may be the key to your success. Remember, you are English and, after Granville, we are currently out of favor with the royalists. Donet’s niece is not so hampered. She is trusted by the Vendéens and respected for her loyalty to their fallen leader, de la Rochejaquelein.”
Freddie ground his teeth at the name. “I don’t like it. Republican soldiers are known to patrol the streets of Lorient and I have to assume they hunt for these Chouans in the woods of Brittany and Maine. This will only expose her to further danger.”
D’Auvergne’s face took on a stony appearance. It was clear he would not yield, but Freddie had another thought. Perhaps Zoé might decline. After all, her hands were full with the émigrés escaping France, more every day. “And if she does not want to go?” he asked the captain.
D’Auvergne’s smile was nearly a smirk. “Why, then you will persuade her, won’t you? But from what I have heard, she will not fail to aid those royalists who lament de la Rochejaquelein’s loss and seek vengeance in his name.”
Freddie heaved a sigh. He knew Zoé well enough to hear the ring of truth in the captain’s statement. Hoping to stall for time, he said, “You should know, her uncle plans to sail from here to West Sussex to visit his wife’s relations and he is taking his niece with him.”
The captain waved a hand. “No matter. As long as the visit is but a few weeks, we can adjust. Besides, your wound must be healed and I’ll need a bit of time to prepare.” He rose. “On your way out, arrange for my man Ozanne to teach you the owl’s call.”
The captain picked up an item of correspondence and, after reading a few lines, glanced up. “Anything else?”
Freddie heard the proverbial door slam in his face. He shook his head and turned to go. Donet was his last hope. As a French citizen, he had authority over his ward. Perhaps he could order Zoé to remain on Guernsey.
While her uncle and young Jack were up on deck, Zoé went below to join her aunt for a breakfast of eggs and brioches.
“We sail for England in two days,” Tante Joanna reminded her, “which leaves us little time to have any clothes made.” She gave Zoé’s attire a studying perusal. “If you’re to visit the English branch of the family, you will require some new clothing. What you have is terribly out of fashion, dear. The waist on gowns is rising, you know.”
Impeccably attired in a round gown of mauve and silver striped silk with a higher waist than the dress Zoé wore, her aunt knew well of what she spoke. Zoé’s clothing was woefully out of date. Her last ensemble had been made for the Fête de la Fédération, an event she regretted ever attending. The gown, its military style in the blue, red and white of the revolution and its matching hat, had been dismissed from her wardrobe with the September Massacres. The terrible events that resulted in the murder of many clergy, including the bishop of Saintes, once her family’s bishop.
Her aunt gave Zoé an indulgent smile. “Beyond that, ’tis time you dressed as befits your station. How will you ever find a husband looking like a peasant waif?”
It was a testament to her aunt’s commitment to keep their lives as normal as possible that, despite war, revolution and death stalking the streets of France, she could maintain a peaceful oasis for them on Guernsey and concern herself with finding Zoé a husband.
“If I had a husband, Tante, he would only tell me to stay home. And you know why I dress the way I do.” It wasn’t that Zoé objected to her aunt’s wish that she wear a lady’s clothes, but rescuing people from the revolution’s atrocities required the clothes of a peasant, the plain and often soiled attire that allowed her to blend with the townspeople. “My safety depends upon the disguise.”
A cloud passed over her aunt’s face. “I wish you did not engage in pursuits that require such costumes.”
“At least I wear skirts. I’m told the women who fight with the royalist army wear men’s clothing. Henri used to speak of one named Victorine with great admiration.” In her mind, Zoé saw Henri’s angelic face framed by blond curls speaking of the valiant woman whose skill with a sword was the envy of his men. “My men call her ‘Captain Victor’.”
Her aunt shook her head. “Where will it lead? Women fighting with men, young men killed before they’re even wed and my own niece traveling the streets at night disguised as a peasant. I know you have taken a courageous path, dear, but I worry so.”
“I must do what I can while there is time. Surely you understand.”
“I do.” Her aunt nervously flicked a thick auburn curl over her shoulder. “Jean and I may not be your parents, but we raised you. Much as I would like it to be otherwise, you take after him more than me.” Letting out a sigh, she added, “It is my fate to love you both.”
Zoé laughed. “You must remember that Oncle Jean and I are both Donets and French. Therefore, we are stubborn, impetuous and given to moments of temper. But be cheered; we could not function without you.”
“You two keep me on my knees before God,” said her aunt.
“To show you how cooperative I can be, I will go with you and the princesse today for your shopping jaunt but, pray, let us order only the few gowns I will need in England. When I return to France, I must once again don a
peasant’s skirts.”
Freddie endured an hour of instruction in the call of the tawny owl—something the spymasters in London failed to mention would be necessary when they enlisted him—before tromping off to the shore to practice.
The day was fair with a pale blue sky and sun dancing on the water. Shore birds skittered about on the sand in front of the gentle waves. Gathering his resolve and hoping no one could hear him, Freddie began. Though hampered by the sling and the pain in his shoulder, he managed to blow into his cupped hands through his slightly parted thumbs as he had been told to do.
First, he made the shrill “kew-wick” sound of the female owl. When he was satisfied he had mastered that, he moved on to the “hoo… hoo-hoo-hoo” of the male. By then, his shoulder was beginning to ache. Still, he thought he did well enough to rouse a Chouan from the forest if not the owl itself.
“What are you doing?” inquired an amused Jean Donet drawing up beside him with young Jack in tow.
“He’s practicing, Papa, though I do not know what.”
Freddie smiled his approval at the auburn-haired imp. The lad might only be seven but he was observant. “Just so, young Jack. ’Tis the call of an owl.”
“Ah…” Donet pursed his lips. “I recall it now.” Whereupon he gave a good imitation of the owl’s call but combined the two distinct sounds into one.
“Papa! You can do it, too!” Jack said excitedly as if his adored papa had made some incredible discovery.
Donet lifted his tricorne to his young son at the compliment. “I can at that.”
“Well, not exactly,” Freddie insisted, feeling obliged to correct Zoé’s uncle since, at this point, Freddie had invested more time than he cared to in learning about the owl and its mating habits. “To be precise, ’tis actually a duet. The ‘kew-wick’ sound is the female calling the male and the quavering ‘hoo, hoo-hoo-hoo’ is the male answering back and letting other males know the territory is his.”