Page 13 of A Fierce Wind

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.”