by Regan Walker
Zoé followed Captain Victor down a castle walkway to a distant tower where she stopped in front of an arched wooden door. Gabe had trailed behind them and, as they stepped through the doorway, he went to the wood stacked next to the fireplace and offered to light a fire.
Zoé thanked him and took his lantern, placing it on the shelf above the fireplace. The flickering light allowed her to see the chamber’s furnishings. They were sparse but adequate, two narrow beds, a small table and two chairs.
“This tower is more remote than the others,” said Captain Victor. “You and the girl should have some privacy here. Mr. West and the two other men can stay in the adjacent chamber.”
“Thank you,” said Zoé. “I expect she is very tired.”
Gabe’s success with the fire soon produced a steady blaze, warming the small room. “I’ll be just outside, mademoiselle,” he said, slipping out the door.
Zoé sat on one of the beds and invited Captain Victor to sit on the other. “Captain Victor, might you tell me how you came to join Boisguy’s forces?”
“Call me Victorine, if you like. The story of how I came to serve under General Boisguy is not a terribly exciting one, but I will tell you.” She flicked her long plait behind her.
Zoé leaned forward, anxious to learn more about this intriguing woman.
“My family is a very old one, loyal to the king and the Church for many generations. When Brittany rebelled against the conscription that would have had its sons fighting for the revolution, many men joined the loyalist cause. I watched them go and wondered what I could do. But when the Committee of Public Safety ordered the deaths of priests and murdered the king and queen, I could no longer stand idly by. Like Boisguy and Henri and the other nobles who were persuaded by the peasants to lead them, I could shoot and ride. I had to decide whether to leave with the other émigrés or stay and fight. I chose the latter.”
“Your parents must have been horrified.”
“By then, my mother had died. My father just shook his head. I think he knew eventually I would go. Saying goodbye was hard, knowing I may never see him again, but I shall always remember the pride in his voice and the sadness in his eyes when he bid me ‘Godspeed’. Like you, I chose to wear a man’s clothing. ’Tis more practical and easier for the men to take orders from a woman who is not wearing skirts.”
Zoé gazed into the fire seeing again Henri’s face lit with the passion of the royalist cause. “For this trip deep into Brittany, a man’s clothing seemed in order. But I most often dress as a peasant woman to blend with those in the villages.” Shifting her gaze to Victorine, she said, “You see, ’tis my way of avenging Henri. I had only my uncle and aunt to convince that I should be allowed to rescue those destined for the guillotine. My uncle well understood my desire to join the cause, being something of a rebel himself. My aunt, who is Mr. West’s sister, grudgingly accepted my nighttime excursions.”
“Ah, M’sieur West, l’Anglais. He speaks French like one of us but he has the unmistakable air of an aristocrat. Handsome, too. Is he your man?”
“Non,” Zoé replied quickly. “We are just friends.” At the back of her mind stirred a restive thought that they might be more. The attractive Chouan leader’s interest in Freddie did not sit well. “He truly wants to help the royalists.”
“He takes his life in his hands to do so.”
Zoé met Victorine’s dark gaze. “We all know the risks, don’t we? And the dangers. Yet, how could we not join the cause when so much is at stake?”
“I asked myself the same question and here I am.”
“Are there many women in the Chouan army?”
“A few but no others who serve as an officer under Boisguy. Women can help in ways other than fighting. We need them as spies in the villages and towns where the republicans congregate, to hide priests and the wounded and to care for the Chouan army.” She laughed. “As you saw tonight, we’ve a lot of men to feed who are not tending their farms.” She let out a sigh and got to her feet. “I’ll let you get some rest. Dawn comes early. You can bolt the door if you like but you will be safe. No one would harm one of the general’s guests. I’ll see if the one who guards you can be persuaded to bring Isabeau to you. By the way, how is it she came to join you?”
“It was her brother’s request when we left him in Rennes. He wants her out of Brittany. So, we agreed to take her with us to Guernsey where my uncle and aunt live.”
“Ah, Guernsey,” said Victorine, reaching for the door. “I was there once. Quite a lovely place. I’d like to think I might see it again but something tells me I shall die in Brittany.”
And with that, the woman slipped through the door like a shadow and was gone.
By the time Jean Chouan and his men took to the woods of Fougères, the half-moon had risen, casting its pale light on the path, that is, when it did not disappear beneath dense leaf-covered branches. Except for the occasional hoot of an owl, or the stirring of the leaves in the night wind, the woods were silent.
Not more than a half-hour had passed when the Chouan leader drew to a halt and held up one hand. Behind him, Freddie came to a standstill, tuning his ears to the subtle night sounds. At first he heard nothing, but then in the distance there came a rhythmic thumping of boots treading through the forest.
Jean Chouan pointed his finger toward the sky, circling over his head.
In response, his men spread out, moving from the path into the woods where they vanished. Not wanting to be left a standing target, Freddie slipped in among the trees. He had no sooner crouched beside Jean Chouan than a company of Blues, their white waistcoats and breeches glowing in the moonlight, briskly strode past, heading in the direction the Chouans had come.
The Chouan leader stood, watching the last of the soldiers disappear down the path. His men gathered around him awaiting orders. “They are heading toward Fougères and we cannot have that. Pick them off and gather the weapons.”
His men hissed, “Vive l’roi!” and took off after the soldiers. Louis XVI might be dead but the battle cry still stood. Long live the king! It spoke of the Chouans’ commitment to one day see a Bourbon restored to the throne of France.
Jean Chouan dashed after his men and, a minute later, the sound of gunfire echoed through the woods.
Eager to see how the Chouans fought, Freddie ran after them. Taking cover behind a tree, he watched them carefully picking their targets. Jean Chouan had been right; they did fight differently. Outnumbered as they were, every shot had to count. They were aided in their accuracy by the flashy white of the enemy’s uniforms, which made them easier to spot at night. As far as he could tell, the Chouans did not miss once.
Freddie took a step forward only to be seen by a fleeing soldier, who turned his musket on Freddie. He whipped his pistol from his sash and shot the Blue in the forehead. The soldier sank to the ground, his eyes frozen in shock.
Leaning against a tree, Freddie’s chest heaved. The soldier had been no older than he. Freddie reminded himself this was war and he had chosen his side long ago. Too, the republicans had committed many atrocities in the name of their revolution and these were headed to Fougères where Zoé slept in the château.
Jean Chouan gave orders to pull the bodies into the woods away from the path and to harvest any uniforms that were not stained with blood.
“Does this typically happen on a night patrol?” Freddie asked the Chouan leader.
“More often here in Brittany than in Maine,” he said, fingering his dark mustache. “Rossignol is eager to retake the château, but he lacks the men and the cunning to do so.”
Zoé tossed on her small bed, worried about Freddie. When Gabe returned with Isabeau, he had told her that Freddie had gone on patrol with Jean Chouan, leaving both Erwan and Gabe behind. Victorine, too, was out there somewhere with her men, searching for the false Chouans. Did no one sleep here?
Sitting up, she flung her feet to the floor. Across from her, Isabeau enjoyed the dreamless sleep of youth.
>
“I might as well be up,” Zoé muttered. Perhaps the patrols had returned. Since she had slept in her clothes, she had only to pull on her boots and light a lantern to be ready. Opening her door, she encountered Gabe lying across the threshold beneath a blanket. He would be displeased with her should she not wake him.
“Gabe,” she whispered, nudging his shoulder, “I’m going down to the hall to see if the patrols have returned. You can stay and keep an eye on Isabeau. Where’s Erwan?”
He answered in a groggy voice. “Sleeping in the hall with Boisguy’s men. He has friends among them.” Groaning, Gabe got to his feet. “If you are going, so am I.” Raking his fingers through his dark curls, he said in a sleepy voice, “I’ll send a servant back to sit with Isabeau.”
To have Gabe by her side was a little like having the shadow of her uncle watching over her. “Très bien,” she said, handing the lantern to Gabe. “Let’s see if we can find our way to the hall.”
The stone walkways connecting the thirteen towers were winding and convoluted so that one could easily get lost, but she kept the central hall far below in her sights, glad for what light the moon afforded.
They arrived in the immense chamber, which, even at this late hour of the night, was crowded. At one end of the hall, men slept on pallets. The other end was a hive of activity with men standing around engaged in low-voiced conversations and stacking weapons on a table. She could not see Freddie among them, but she recognized Victorine who was speaking with Boisguy.
“I’m going to talk to General Boisguy,” she said to Gabe as she walked away.
Boisguy smiled as she approached. “What has you up in the middle of the night, mademoiselle?” He seemed remarkably awake for the late hour and pleased to see her.
Glancing at Victorine, she said, “I was hoping for news of the night patrols.” She said nothing of her concern for Freddie.
“Jean Chouan has yet to return,” said Boisguy, “but, as you see, Captain Victor is here with her men.”
Victorine looked as if she had been in a fight, her cheeks and jacket besmirched with dirt and her hair, so neatly plaited at dinner, now had loose strands dangling to her shoulders. “How did the search for the false Chouans go?” Zoé asked.
Victorine returned her a smile of success. “I was just telling the general. We found them and, after a brief skirmish, made sure they will never again harm one of ours.”
“Any of your men wounded?” inquired Boisguy.
“One man took a bayonet in his arm. He will recover.”
The sound of men’s voices caused Zoé to turn toward the hall’s entrance. In strolled Jean Chouan followed by his men. Several carried extra muskets. Her eyes raked over the Chouans who, like Victorine, bore the evidence of their excursion.
“All’s quiet?” asked Boisguy of the Chouan commander.
“It is now. We took out a company of Blues heading toward Fougères.”
At the end of the line of Chouans filing into the hall was Freddie. Zoé’s heart leaped to see him unscathed.
She rushed to meet him, touching his shoulder. “You are well?”
“I’m fine, Pigeon. The Chouans are good at their jobs. They are stealthy fighters and crack shots. I did manage to dispatch one of the Blues who had his musket trained on me.”
She looked into his eyes but saw no trepidation, no regret. He spoke of killing a man, albeit a despised enemy, with a coolness that surprised her. How could he be so nonchalant? “Oh, Freddie, you might have been killed!”
“Do not dwell on what might have been, Pigeon, only what is.” With a broad smile, he said, “I have returned hale and hearty.”
She slapped his shoulder. “And as arrogant as ever.”
Freddie fell asleep with a smile on his face as he remembered the look of concern in Zoé’s beautiful eyes.
He rose a few hours later. Since the war began, his sleep was fitful and often disturbed by vivid dreams. He could not always remember them but the sense of foreboding he had upon rising told him the cause had been a dream.
He intended to spend the day talking to Boisguy’s men about their particular needs and to get an idea from Boisguy as to the routes he preferred for delivery of the supplies Freddie arranged when he returned to Guernsey. He had yet to reduce to code what he had learned thus far, but he would this night. Captain Victor had been right about their ammunition running low. The lack of artillery and cavalry might make them less effective in the open, but without ammunition, they could not fight at all.
It was his plan to leave for Lorient tomorrow. If all went well, they would arrive earlier than expected since they weren’t traveling on to Maine. The trip to the coast would take them a week, maybe longer depending on what they might encounter. Donet had told them he’d bring his ship close to shore each night for the week before they were expected—and the week after, should they be delayed. Hopefully, the timing would be right for la Reine Noire to take advantage of the dark of the moon.
Stuffing his notes into his satchel, Freddie left his chamber for the hall. On the way, he knocked on Zoé’s door, but there was no answer. Seeing no sign of Gabe, he assumed she had already risen. He suspected Zoé slept little at night. After all, she and Erwan were combing the streets of Granville and other port towns at that time to meet fleeing émigrés. Several times he’d observed her napping in the afternoon on the aft deck when they were at sea, doubtless making up her lost sleep.
The hall was bustling with men when he arrived, some breaking their fast while others were dividing into squads, receiving orders. A small group of priests stood in one corner, conversing in hushed tones. They would be the priests who had refused to take the oath of allegiance demanded by the National Assembly, thereby subjecting themselves to Robespierre’s terrible vengeance. At least these were protected by Boisguy. Freddie had not asked but it seemed likely the priests said mass for the Chouans each morning.
As he gazed about the hall, he spotted Zoé sitting with Boisguy. The young general leaned across the table to whisper something to her that made her blush. Freddie narrowed his eyes on the handsome aristocrat, immaculately attired in his coat, waistcoat and white cravat. Freddie was suddenly aware of his own creased, slept-in common garb, annoyed that he appeared shabby by comparison.
He decided it was past time for him to speak to Donet about courting Zoé. Donet could hardly protest the suit of an English Anglican since he had married one, but Freddie was no peer, only a younger son with little to show for his years serving the Crown. No naval officer’s uniform, no estate of his own, and his prospects were more limited with the war. He had been Donet’s partner in trade before the revolution. Perhaps that might continue.
If they could just get home to Guernsey, he would pursue a deeper friendship with Zoé, one he hoped would lead to love on her part. The war might last for years but he didn’t want to wait years to claim the woman he had loved for so long.
She raised her head at his approach, bringing a smile to his face. Her bright eyes gave no hint of fatigue, though her clothing bore the signs of all she’d been through. Matching Freddie’s appearance, she looked like a crumpled Chouan, her waistcoat stained from their travels, her shirt wrinkled and besmirched and her boots scuffed and splattered with mud. It mattered not. He would take her dressed in lace and satin or in a dirty coat and muddied breeches.
“Freddie,” she scolded, “are you finally awake?”
He laughed and slid onto the chair beside her. “It seems no one here needs sleep. Morning, General.”
“Good morning to you, West.”
“Where is Isabeau?” he inquired, looking about the hall.
“She has made friends,” said Zoé, pointing to a far table where the girl sat laughing with some younger Chouans.
“A pity you can’t leave her with us,” put in Boisguy. “We can protect her, you know.”
“We promised her brother we would take her to Guernsey,” Zoé reminded him.
“Very well,” said
Boisguy. “I will not press. How long do I have the pleasure of your company, mademoiselle?”
Zoé turned to Freddie, brows lifted.
He answered for her. “I am hoping to garner what more I need today, put my notes into code tonight and be off with the dawn.”
A look of regret crossed Boisguy’s face as his gaze met Zoé’s. “Alas, war separates what life would join. When this wretched revolution is over, if I still live, I will seek you out, mademoiselle.”
This time Freddie was certain Zoé blushed, but pleasure infused his soul when the regret he glimpsed in Boisguy’s eyes was not mirrored in hers.
“While you are gathering your facts,” she told Freddie, “I plan to join Captain Victor today. I might learn something about the challenges she faces as a woman fighting with the Chouans.”
Freddie frowned. “Do you mean on patrol?” He didn’t like the idea of her being exposed to more danger just as they were preparing to leave.
“Well, yes, if she is to lead one.”
“Mademoiselle Donet will be fine,” Boisguy assured Freddie. “Captain Victor takes no unnecessary risks.”
It was the necessary ones Freddie worried about, but seeing Zoé’s enthusiasm for her last day with the female Chouan, he made no objection.
Zoé placed her hand on his sleeve. “Don’t worry, Freddie. I’ll be careful and you know Gabe will insist on coming.”
“All right.” He rarely said no to her. Found it near impossible, as a matter of fact, especially when she turned those dove gray eyes on him. It was one of his many weaknesses where she was concerned.
Zoé watched Freddie stride across the hall toward a group of Chouans, his broad shoulders and height standing out amidst the smaller Bretons. She couldn’t remember just when he’d grown so tall. Perhaps it was—
“I have told the men to give your English friend their candid assessment as to what they would ask the English to do for us,” said Boisguy, interrupting her thoughts. “I think I heard one mention uniforms. Unnecessary to my thinking but important to some.”