Page 32 of A Fierce Wind

Freddie shared dinner with Zoé in the room he now thought of as their chamber. The small table set before the fireplace made for an intimate setting as the fire subsided to embers and a single candle illuminated their faces.

Their meal was a humble one but, shared with her, it seemed a feast. He would have called the thick soup “beef stew” if he’d been in one of England’s taverns. The rich broth contained pieces of beef, carrots, onions and potatoes, the latter being a vegetable Cadoudal had told him was previously considered unacceptable by the French. But famine, brought on by poor crops and fields abandoned when farmers were conscripted into the republican army, had forced the potato on the country.

The only thing the meal lacked was a slice of thick crusty bread and butter. Still, the wine was good and there were apples for dessert. And the company was all he could hope for, though Zoé spoke little and ate less, occasionally moving her spoon around in her soup.

She did drink her wine, running her tongue over her bottom lip and driving him half-mad with want of her. Even dressed as a Chouan, she raised a longing within him so strong, he had to fight the urge to take her in his arms and make his dreams a reality.

Patience, he reminded himself, was a virtue. “Aren’t you hungry?” he inquired. “You’ve been walking all day.”

For a moment, she stared at him over her glass. “I am tired and my feet are protesting my boots, but my appetite has escaped me.” A small smile played about her lips. “I promise to save an apple to celebrate your return.”

She would never admit it, but he glimpsed fear in the tightness around her eyes and the way she worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

He set down his spoon, leaned his elbows on the table and drew a steadying breath. “Pigeon, rest easy. I am not new to this game of assuming another man’s identity.” Hoping to bring a smile to her face, he said, “I can curse with the best of the sailors in Guernsey’s taverns; I can fish with the oystermen and pass myself off as one of them; and I can speak enough of the local French in the port towns to move easily among the dockside workers.” He smirked. “Trust me to blend with the peasants tonight and to be quick in a fight if it comes to that.”

She frowned despite his attempt at frivolity. “It may very well come to that, Freddie, and you know it.”

“Are you worried for me?” He had thought he glimpsed such worry in her eyes but would she admit it?

“Why… non,” she said defensively. “I just don’t want to lose the man leading our mission.” She let out an exasperated sigh and her eyes turned the color of storm clouds. “You may play games in Guernsey’s taverns, Freddie, but what do you know of war? Or of fighting with that sword you carry for that matter?”

More than you know, he wanted to say. Instead, he met her disquieting gaze and said nothing. Would it help for her to know he was not just d’Auvergne’s man but also Evan Nepean’s, the British Undersecretary of War? She was intelligent enough to have questioned where he went when he disappeared for weeks at a time. He had always managed to avoid giving her a full answer. Finally, deciding he must say something, he assured her, “I have had the usual lessons and I can use the sword if I must.” He would not tell her of his training with the finest sword master in London nor the times he had survived because he was that good with a blade. Another reason Nepean had recruited him.

Nepean’s exact words were, “You have skills that the others I could send into France do not, West. Those skills would be wasted on a ship. Why, even I cannot speak French in as many dialects as you. You are also conversant with the codes we use. And then there is the family connection to the Frenchman, Jean Donet. Not a man to be taken lightly, I understand. Now that he is ferrying émigrés to England, you will have transportation when you need it. Of all the choices, you were first on my list. You can serve England better this way than in the Admiralty, as you have proposed.”

Freddie had accepted the charge Nepean had given him and Donet had consented to being involved, but neither he nor Freddie had told Zoé he was England’s spy.

Lifting the wine to her lovely lips, Zoé took another sip and stared into the pale liquid glistening in the candlelight. “I suppose,” she began slowly, “there is much I do not know of your work or why d’Auvergne chose you, an Englishman, for this task.” Raising her gaze to meet his, she said, “We have been friends for years and yet, in some ways, you are still a mystery to me, Frederick West.”

A knock sounded on the door, relieving Freddie from having to comment. Rising, he said, “There will be time for you to ask me about that in the days ahead, but for now I must go.”

Freddie slipped out with Cadoudal, taking the route agreed upon by the Chouans that would bring them to the square in front of the Palais de Justice. The moon was a mere crescent against a black sky dotted with stars as they wove their way through the deserted streets. A chill had Freddie turning up his collar and buttoning his coat.

Light from the lanterns hanging from posts set about the square cast faint light on the imposing structure where the Parlement of Brittany had met before being closed by the National Assembly. Freddie thought it ironic that a building dedicated to justice now imprisoned those who sought it.

In the ghostly atmosphere, the guillotine took on a sinister appearance as if the monster were lurking in wait, its jaws eager for the blood of its next victim.

Freddie moved with Cadoudal into a darkened corner just as another group of his men took their places on the other side of the square. The six men who had donned the uniforms of the National Guard arrived two by two, coming from different directions to converge on the entrance.

The guards that would have relieved the ones on duty were nowhere in sight. Freddie didn’t have to ask what had been their fates. He imagined they were sleeping off a blow to the head in some deserted alley.

With a nudge to his ribs from Cadoudal, Freddie turned to see Chouans disguised as guards climbing the stairs leading to the entrance of the palais. They moved like the real ones Freddie had observed earlier that day. Some had added mustaches to their upper lips in the fashion of many of the Blues; others had suddenly grown short-cropped beards making their transformation more dramatic. With straight backs and practiced adjustments of their muskets, they strode to the posts they were to assume, nodding under their bicorne hats to the guards on duty. Cadoudal had told him that in the dim light with their disguises mirroring the actual guards, they hoped their true identity would not be detected.

Few words were exchanged. What Freddie heard sounded more like grunts than speech. Having been relieved, the real guards departed, showing no concern for those taking their places.

Two of Cadoudal’s men took up their posts on either side of the entrance, while the others disappeared inside. A short time later, they reappeared with a young girl in tow, scantily clad in a thin blue dress. To anyone in the square, they might have thought her a prisoner being escorted away; however, the Chouans treated her as the precious jewel she was, one on either side of her and two following.

Freddie, Cadoudal and the other Chouans moved from the shadows to follow surreptitiously. As soon as they were off the main street, the ones wearing the republican uniforms disappeared into the night.

The girl’s brother, one of the Chouans who had come to the square, wrapped his sister in his coat and embraced her, tears of joy filling his eyes. He stood her away from him, examining her appearance. “You are all right?”

The dark-haired girl nodded as tears ran down her cheeks. A smile formed on her face. “I knew you would come.”

“I would never leave you with our enemies, Isabeau. Forgive me for not coming sooner.”

Freddie asked one of the Chouans, “How did you convince the guards inside the prison to release her?”

The young man leaned close to whisper. “I told them General Rossignol wanted her for the night. His men know well his twisted inclinations, but even at that, her guard expressed surprise and said, ‘The general usually prefers them a bit older’, which, Dieu merci, told me he had not yet touched her.”