Page 26 of A Fierce Wind

Chapter 6

The coast of Brittany, France, early April 1794

It had taken several days for Zoé to convince her aunt the mission to Brittany was only to help Freddie gather information required by d’Auvergne. Even then, her aunt’s eyes reflected a grave concern for the danger she and Freddie would face once they left the coast and the safety of la Reine Noire’s guns. She could still hear the pleading tone of her aunt’s voice.

“Zoé, must you go? Is there no other they can send?”

“In this case, no, but Oncle Jean is sending Gabe to protect me.”

It wasn’t the first time Zoé had set out in the face of danger. When she had first begun helping those fleeing the Terror, she had considered the cost and willingly accepted the possibility she might die for the cause. After all, Henri had given his life.

And so it was, early one morning before dawn with only the light of the setting moon, a skiff launched from la Reine Noire dropped Zoé, Freddie and their two companions on an unfamiliar shore just south of Lorient in an area of the coast they were told was seldom visited by republican patrols.

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?