by Regan Walker
As Freddie helped her to the sand and her hand left his, she felt a chill that could not be explained by the cold wind blowing onshore. Her disquiet grew as she scanned the dense stand of trees guarding the beach.
“Freddie, are you quite certain someone will be meeting us?”
Freddie gazed toward the trees, his expression uncertain. “D’Auvergne assured me he sent a message to his contacts in Lorient who are to guide us to the best route into the interior.”
Zoé hoped the British captain in Jersey could be counted upon. Except for the coast, neither she nor her companions were conversant with Brittany’s terrain. They had been advised the interior consisted of dense woodlands and rough pastures punctuated by an occasional village or a manor house once occupied by a minor nobleman.
Freddie had taken the lead, being several years older than the rest of them and the one whose mission it was to gather information for the British war ministry.
Erwan and Gabe’s wary expressions as they climbed from the boat and scanned the crescent of white sand told Zoé the eerie calm and dark woods had also affected them. Undaunted, they shoved the boat back into the water, their faces speaking only determination.
The two oarsmen lifted a hand in farewell before quickly rowing away.
“Since we have no welcome party, how are we to find these Chouans?” she asked Freddie.
“They will find us,” he said with a confident tone she doubted reflected his true feelings. “Perhaps they watch us even now.”
She stared into the trees but saw no movement. Oddly, no birds tweeted though the sky had grown lighter with the rising sun. “I don’t like the idea of being watched, even by those who mean us no harm.”
“Come, Pigeon,” Freddie said, offering his hand, “let us move from the beach.” Over his shoulder, he had slung a satchel into which she’d observed him stashing small bottles of what looked to be ink and paper along with his spare ammunition, food and other possessions.
She placed her hand in his, comforted by the return of his warmth. Since she had first met her uncle and his English bride, Freddie had been a part of her life. Once she had thought of him as a brother but after those days she had kept vigil at his sickbed, she no longer thought of him that way. Though what he was to her she could not say. Still, the possibility of his falling victim to another republican soldier’s musket left her disquieted.
Could she protect him from the revolutionary government that had ordered all the British in France arrested? He was more vulnerable than she. And what if the Chouans cared not that she had once held the confidence of Henri de la Rochejaquelein? Would they trust her? As she thought of these things, her spirit became more unsettled.
On Guernsey, they spoke English, French and “Guernsey French”, which was sprinkled with Breton words. But only Erwan spoke fluently the Breton language they might need to communicate with the Chouans.
Gabe and Erwan picked up their satchels and joined her and Freddie. The four of them trudged up the beach toward the trees. Zoé was glad she had replaced her peasant skirts with the clothing of the men who lived in this region, enabling her to walk more freely. The dark brown jacket fell to her hips. Under it, she had donned a linen shirt, umber waistcoat and fawn-colored breeches. On her head she wore the brown wide-brimmed felt hat, a characteristic of the Breton men.
They had been told the peasants often went barefoot or wore wooden sabots with leather gaiters protecting their shins. Erwan wore the sabots of his youth and the Breton peasant clothing, the worn cloth bearing signs of much use.
Zoé preferred boots.
Henri had always worn boots, polished black Hessians, but then he was one of the Vendéen officers from the French nobility who, like the other officers, dressed in accord with his station. Zoé had chosen a pair of scuffed boots that did not speak of wealth. Freddie wore Hessian boots, as was his custom, though she noted he had not polished them. Gabe wore his seaman’s shoes, adding the Breton gaiters.
Zoé’s blade her uncle had taught her to wield was strapped at her side. Around her waist, she had tied a wide sash into which she thrust a pistol. In between her lessons in the use of a knife, her uncle had taught her to shoot. A pistol could only be used once and then had to be reloaded but that one shot might save her life.
Freddie, Gabe and Erwan carried both pistols and muskets. Freddie alone had sheathed a French small sword at his hip. Most gentlemen wore them as part of their costume, but did Freddie know how to use it? She had never seen him wield a sword.
Each of them had pinned the sacred heart patch to their jackets. They would have to be careful. The same royalist symbol that would be welcomed by the Chouans would condemn them in the eyes of the republican soldiers.
With trepidation for Zoé, Freddie plunged into the woods, never letting go of her hand. Along with his concern for her, he experienced an excitement stirring in his chest. This would be an assignment worthy of the trust the Crown had placed in him, a chance for him, as a younger son forever in the shadow of his father and older brothers, two of them dead war heroes and the other an English peer, to distinguish himself.
And then there was Zoé’s infamous uncle, a hero of another sort, known to both England and France for his daring and courage. With an uncle like that, would Zoé ever see Freddie as a man she could respect? A man she could love?
Freddie wished he had prevailed upon her to remain behind though, from the start, he’d doubted his arguments would be successful. She was headstrong in her pursuit of a royalist victory. For that, he admired her, but she could be reckless, too. With her a part of his mission, he must be cautious.
They had walked some distance when he looked up to see a patch of blue sky above the dark treetops of the tall Scots pines around them. Not much light filtered down to the forest floor except in areas where the trees thinned.
Notwithstanding his counsel to his companions to tread lightly, their heavy footfalls snapped twigs and fallen branches, sounding to Freddie like a family of wild boar hoofing it through the woods.
He wondered if he should be sounding the cry of the tawny owl. Perhaps that is what the Chouans expected, why they waited to reveal themselves. He’d not seen any of the birds nor heard their distinctive cry, but that didn’t mean they weren’t guarding nests hidden among the foliage. He stopped, let go of Zoé’s hand and leaned his musket against the tree. Cupping his hands, he gave the cry of the female owl. Retrieving his musket, he proceeded forward, holding his breath.
With a suddenness that made him start, a half-dozen figures clothed in the colors of the forest soundlessly emerged from the trees to stand before him.
Zoé gave out a small gasp and Freddie placed himself in front of her, his hand lifting his musket, poised to fire.
“Are you le pêcheur, l’Anglais we were told to expect?” asked a leathery-faced man of great height who took a step toward him. Thankfully, the man had spoken French and not Breton.
Zoé came alongside Freddie, her brows rising as she turned to look at him. “Le pêcheur?”
“‘The fisherman’,” Freddie muttered. “D’Auvergne’s attempt at humor. ’Tis a reference to my friendship with the oystermen on Jersey. A code name, if you will.”
Freddie returned his attention to the Chouan spokesman. “Oui, I am the one you seek and these are my companions.”
The tall Chouan casually stood his musket on end and laid his forearm on the muzzle while he examined Freddie. With the bayonet rising above the muzzle, the man and the weapon were of the same height, taller than Freddie’s nearly six feet and that before one counted the Chouan’s wide-brimmed felt hat.
He cut a striking figure. Long chestnut hair hung to his shoulders encased in a woolen jacket of dark green over a linen shirt and green woolen waistcoat. His breeches were buckskin and around his waist was a white sash into which he had shoved two pistols with wooden handles. Displayed on his chest was the sacred heart patch of the Catholic and Royal Army. But unlike his men, whose shins were encased in gaiter
s splattered with mud and their feet shod in wooden sabots, the Chouan leader wore fine black boots and pinned to his hat was the white cockade of the Bourbons.
“And you,” the Chouan inquired of Zoé, “might you be the friend of Monsieur Henri?”
Freddie was not surprised the man’s discerning eye had recognized Zoé as a woman. Though, from a distance, some might judge her a young man, to Freddie’s mind, even in breeches, her delicate features and female curves made clear she was no boy.
“I am,” Zoé replied, her voice laced with pride, her chin rising slightly. “Mademoiselle Donet. And who might you be?”
Amusement danced in the Chouan’s dark eyes. Inclining his head, he said, “Georges Cadoudal, à votre service.”
Freddie had heard the name for it was one d’Auvergne had mentioned. A Breton politician of some consequence and a royalist who had been rescued from the Vendée. He now fought with the Chouans. Clearly no peasant by his dress, speech and manners.
Gesturing to Erwan and Gabe, Cadoudal asked Freddie, “And these two?”
“Erwan is a Breton. Like yourself, he is a surviving soldier of the Vendéen army.”
The Chouan chief’s brows rose with Freddie’s indication that he understood something of Cadoudal’s past.
“And Gabe,” Freddie went on, gesturing to the seaman, “is a trusted member of Monsieur Donet’s crew on the ship that brought us to Lorient.”
“Eh bien!” exclaimed the Chouan. “I am aware of M’sieur Donet. Your father, peut-être?” he asked Zoé.
“Mon oncle.”
Cadoudal smiled. “Votre oncle is of one mind with us. A friend of the royalists. Très bien, we go.” Tossing a glance at his men, but apparently judging it unnecessary to introduce them, the Chouan leader took his musket in hand and set off into the forest, his long legs setting a fast pace.
Freddie followed with Zoé close behind him. Erwan and Gabe guarded their backs and Cadoudal’s men brought up the rear.
They wove their way single file through the dense woods of pine, birch, oak and beech. The world around them became a sea of green. At one point, Freddie spotted a tawny owl peeking out between branches of an oak. If the circumstances had been different, with no republican soldiers to worry about, he might have enjoyed the excursion. Frequently, he glanced back at Zoé to see if she was tiring and to offer her a drink from his waterskin. His spirited companion drank the water, never pausing or complaining.
As the trail narrowed, Freddie looked back over his shoulder and saw no trace of their having traveled the path.
After what seemed to Zoé like hours of trudging through the woods, the tall Chouan suddenly stopped. Glad for the pause, however brief, Zoé removed her hat and wiped her forehead. The sun was high overhead but its light was diffused among the oak trees where they stood.
Lifting his cupped hands to his mouth, Cadoudal made a sharp “kew-wick” sound.
Freddie shot her a glance as if to confirm what he had told her before they left Guernsey, that the Chouans used an owl’s call as a signal.
From some distance away, a “hoo-hoo-hoo” answered back on the light breeze stirring the leaves of the trees.
Having apparently received the acknowledgement he sought, Cadoudal resumed his forward march. Soon they came upon a clearing where a makeshift camp had been set up around a fire over which hung a black cauldron, steam rising above its rim. Zoé sniffed the aroma that smelled of stew and experienced a gnawing hunger.
Around the fire, she counted a dozen men dressed in haphazard fashion she assumed reflected their profession as farmers and tradesmen. Some wore waistcoats of rough goatskin and breeches of faded, dirt-splattered cloth. Their shirts, stained with the soil of their travels, were of various shades of white and chalk. Each of their jackets, most of a fawn color, displayed the sacred heart patch. Around the necks of a few were long rosaries in further defiance of their suppressed faith.
None wore boots like their leader but, instead, wooden sabots and gaiters.
They regarded Zoé and the others with suspicious eyes.
At Cadoudal’s approach, one man rose to speak to the leader and Cadoudal answered in the Breton tongue.
“He tells them we are the ones expected,” said Erwan, lifting his hat to run his fingers through his long dark hair. “They have done business with others sent by d’Auvergne before, but his men are distrusting of English offers of help.”
“With good reason,” muttered Zoé.
Freddie shot her a quelling look.
She raised her chin defiantly. The English failed the Vendéens in Granville and that failure had led to Henri’s death. She would not say otherwise.
“You can rest here,” said Cadoudal, coming up to them. He gestured to a log placed alongside the fire. “Sit. I’ve asked my men to bring you food.”
A few of his men rose from the log, making room for them.
Tired from their morning march through the woods and feeling famished, Zoé was happy to take a place on the log in front of the fire. The air had remained cool and she welcomed the heat from the blaze.
Freddie dropped down beside her. Gabe and Erwan found places on either side of them.
“How are you, Pigeon?” Freddie asked.
“Tired, but then I expected to be.” She glanced at Freddie, who didn’t appear at all fatigued. Rather, he seemed energized. “And you?”
“Only a little. I’m encouraged we made contact with the ones who can help us.” Zoé could see the relief on his face. He had the responsibility of not only his mission, but of finding their way through the woods and ensuring the safety of their lives. He hid well his anxiety.
One of the Chouans gave them bowls of something that proved to be a thick vegetable soup. There was no bread but then she had not looked for any. In France, few could afford bread. Since Brittany had been a hotbed of revolt for well over a year and the farmers had been fighting rather than tending their crops, bread would be scarce.
Another man poured a dark liquid into cups he’d handed to them. A taste told her it was coffee sweetened with some kind of syrup.
“’Tis my preferred drink,” said Cadoudal. “Picked it up in Paris in better times and now I can’t live without it.”
“The coffee is quite good,” Zoé said, “and sweeter than what mon oncle serves aboard his ship.”
Cadoudal tipped his hat to her. “If you like, you can take a skin of wine with you. Mind, ’tis not that red wine the revolutionaries drink when they speak of the blood they have spilled and the liberty they would deny us.” His chest puffing out with pride, he pronounced, “We drink the fine Muscadet of Brittany, the white wine of the Bourbons.”
Freddie said, “We are grateful for your help, the food and your offer of wine. I am curious about one thing. Your men all have muskets, yet I was led to believe many royalists fought with only farm implements.”
“We have won enough battles that we have reaped a harvest of muskets from dead Blues. Many Chouans are hunters who can shoot and shoot well. Some had muskets before the war.”
Freddie nodded. “I have heard that Chouans are good shots. And do you need more muskets?”
“Bien sûr. We do. Our army grows; it is now well into the tens of thousands. As you travel north, you will find men joining us who have no muskets.”
“Our intention is to travel first to Fougères to meet with your general there, the young chevalier du Boisguy, to ask what he may know of the Chouans’ needs.”
“Le petit général is well known to us. It is good you will visit with him. We cannot take you all the way to Fougères, but we can see you to Rennes and set you on the right path. The young sister of one of our chiefs has been imprisoned in Rennes due to her relationship with us. We go to free her before it is too late.”
Freddie frowned. “Isn’t Rennes the headquarters of the republican army?”
“Oui, it is,” said Cadoudal, “Mais peu importe, ’tis of no matter. We must see to our own and Rennes is where the
Blues hold their prisoners.”
Freddie shook his head. “I’ve no desire to venture into that nest of vipers.”
The Chouan placed a fist on his hip and gestured north with his other hand. “The road to Fougères leads through Rennes. To skirt it from the south would be difficult without a guide and I can spare none. You will be safe with us.”
Zoé sensed Freddie’s unease and his reticence to go through Rennes. She, too, did not wish to enter the stronghold of republican soldiers, but there were good reasons to do so.
Freddie raised a brow at Erwan. The former Vendéen soldier merely shrugged. Being from Brittany, he would know Rennes better than the rest of them, and he had faced republican troops before and survived.
Likewise, Gabe voiced no protest. “I go where the mistress goes.”
“Perhaps we should accept M’sieur Cadoudal’s offer,” she urged Freddie. “That way, we would not be traveling alone. And we may gain information in Rennes that would prove useful.”
Freddie rose, a look of resignation crossing his face. “Very well.” He offered his hand to Cadoudal. “It seems my companions agree with you. We accept.”
Cadoudal shook his hand. “Rennes is nearly four days’ journey north. Every day the child is in the hands of those pigs is a day she is in grave danger. We must leave within the hour.”
At his command, the Chouans began to decamp and, before an hour had ended, the fire had been snuffed out, the ashes strewn about and the clearing made to look as if no one had been there for days. Zoé supposed after the last few years of guerilla warfare, they had perfected their ability to disappear quickly.
When their leader gave the command to depart, the Chouans lifted their satchels, picked up their muskets and moved as one in Cadoudal’s footsteps.
Freddie looked at her, his brow furrowed with worry.
She ran her finger over his forehead, brushing away the frown. “You made the right decision and I have faith you will see it through.”
He caught her fingers against his cheek and pressed them to his warm skin. “I have a good partner.”