Page 41 of A Fierce Wind

Captain Victor’s brows rose as she gave Freddie a studying perusal.

“Mademoiselle,” Freddie said in the clipped English of the British upper class.

In a lowered voice, possibly for Isabeau’s benefit, Boisguy said to his captain, “You should ask Mr. West for a description of the men who killed Jodoc.” Then he pointed to the other side of Jean Chouan. “Over there is young Isabeau le Gallou whose brother serves under Cadoudal and, if I have it right, next to her are Erwan and Gabe.”

Captain Victor acknowledged each of them, graciously inclining her head. “Bienvenue, welcome.”

Boisguy addressed his captain, “They say they have come to learn of our needs so that England might help supply our growing army.”

“Ammunition,” said Captain Victor without hesitation. “’Tis a critical need.”

“Dan ce cas,” said Boisguy, “if the time has come for this discussion, let us sit.” He called to a serving girl, “More wine!”

The servant returned with a pitcher and, while she was refilling their glasses, Boisguy asked her to take Isabeau to the other side of the great hall to introduce her to those closer to her age eating there.

Captain Victor, Jean Chouan and Boisguy took seats across from Zoé, Freddie and the others.

When their cups were again full and Isabeau had gone off with the servant, Freddie opened the discussion. “Your men are armed with muskets and knives, some with swords. In addition to ammunition, is your need for more of these?”

Boisguy took a long drink of his wine. “Many of the weapons my men have were gained through our victories over the Blues. We could use more, of course, as men join us each day. However, we also have a need for small artillery and horses. We’ve no cavalry to speak of save for those of us who had horses and were trained to ride from our youth. And the only small mobile cannons we have are ones we seized in a raid.”

“We do not fight like the English or even the French,” interjected Jean Chouan. “We fight from behind rocks, from between trees, taking care with our shots. Our army is made up of mostly peasant farmers. They are comfortable with muskets and knives. But the general is correct. In an open area we are at a grave disadvantage against the Blues’ horses and artillery.”

Freddie rested his chin on his upturned palm, his eyes gazing at his wine. Zoé recognized the contemplative look, the one he always got just before deciding whether to share something he’d been hiding from her.

Finally he looked up, meeting Boisguy’s steady gaze. In a voice only they could hear, he said, “There is talk of landing a British-backed émigré force off Brittany’s coast in which case you would have your artillery and many men to join you.”

Boisguy sat back in his chair. “That is, if the British actually make an appearance this time. We have not forgotten Granville, l’Anglais.”

“A sad chapter, I know,” said Freddie looking down at his wine. “Your chiding is well taken.”

Jean Chouan huffed. “The supplies and weapons would be welcomed, but even if the British make good on their word this time, I have reservations about émigrés leading a force into Brittany. As I said, we Bretons do not fight like the British or even the French. It is one reason we have been successful.”

“Such an operation,” put in Boisguy, “would require considerable planning and strategy to be successful. In the meantime, we have needs you can meet.”

“Like ammunition,” reiterated Captain Victor. “For that, you need no ships or landing forces, only small boats.”

Gabe, who’d been silently watching until now, said, “My capitaine has delivered supplies for the royalists to the shores of Normandy and Brittany before.”

“Who is your capitaine?” asked Boisguy.

“My uncle,” said Zoé, “Jean Donet, comte de Saintonge, or at least he held the title until the revolutionary government took it away. He has three ships, la Reine Noire being his flagship.”

“I have sailed with him on all three,” said Freddie, “and can vouch for his commitment to the royalist cause.”

Boisguy gave his attention to Zoé. “I knew your name sounded familiar. Was your uncle at one time a privateer out of Lorient?”

“He was,” said Zoé. “And a smuggler. Now, in addition to his merchant shipping business, he helps Erwan and me smuggle refugees out of France.”

Boisguy’s dark eyes simmered as he continued to gaze at Zoé. “I sensed you were an unusual woman when I first met you, mademoiselle.”

Perhaps he found her snatching men, women and children from the guillotine’s jaws a worthy endeavor. It was no more than others had done and less than the sacrifices of many. “Not so unusual in these times, Monsieur le chevalier.”

Boisguy rose and offered her his hand. “As you’ve had a trying day and tomorrow morning will be soon upon us, it might be best if I escort you to your chamber.”