Page 52 of A Fierce Wind

“At night, oui, but during the day, unless a turnkey locks a prisoner in on a whim, they are allowed to walk about the gallery. At sunset, visitors, even tradesmen like myself, must leave. That is when they call roll. Since many of the turnkeys cannot read and are often sated with drink, the prisoners have to help them. ’Twould be easy to add or delete a name.”

Zoé watched the men carefully, looking for a sign they saw the mission as promising success. She would not leave Freddie’s fate to others. If there were any possibility he still lived, she would go after him, compelled to save the man she loved. “I will go, mon oncle. The jailor at the door may find me pleasing.” With tears welling in her eyes, betraying her heart, she added, “I must find Freddie if he yet lives.”

Her uncle gave her a knowing look. Did he see her desperate need to rescue her friend, now her love? Heaving a resigned sigh, he said, “I expected you would not be kept back.”

“I can go with her,” insisted M’sieur Bequel. “Killing the swine who imprison good men and women would bring me great satisfaction. ’Twould be like the old days.”

Her uncle smiled. “I may need you to remain outside to assist our escape, Émile.”

The quartermaster nodded. “As ye wish, Capitaine.”

“’Tis better if I go with the mademoiselle,” said Gaspar. “I know the prison.”

Her uncle nodded. “Oui, your knowledge will be most welcome, Gaspar. That is, if you are willing to take the risk. But I must be the one to lead the effort. I do not know the prison, but I can convince them the English dog they hold has dishonored my daughter and must pay for the child she is expecting.”

Gaspar chuckled. “Clever, sir. It might work. You would have the jailor’s sympathy, particularly if you and your daughter… er, niece appear supporters of the revolution.”

Zoé bit her lip in contemplation. “I’ll have to explain just how it was a patriot of the revolution succumbed to a charming English dog.”

Her uncle smiled. “You could always say you thought he was French.”

La Conciergerie

Each morning, the prisoners were assembled in the main gallery and an officer of the court appeared to read the list of those whose cases were to be heard by the tribunal the next day. Freddie had thought he had witnessed despair before, yet these sessions were worse.

The reaction of the prisoners whose names were called differed. Some wailed and turned to give their last farewells. Husbands and wives sat on benches placed against the stone walls, embracing for the last time. Others seem to welcome the anticipated end to a miserable existence, saying goodbye to the friends they had made as if leaving on a holiday. Those who had possessions gave them away. A favorite book might be entrusted to one who promised to read to the others. A few turned aside to write a last letter, which the intended recipient would, no doubt, never receive.

When his name and that of the boy he had befriended were called, Freddie slid his arm around Pax’s shoulder. The lad had become his constant companion. “Well, Pax, we knew this day would come. We must face it with courage, trusting God to deliver our souls to Heaven, n’est-ce pas?”

“Oui, M’sieur.” The boy’s voice quavered as he looked up at Freddie. “Will you be with me?”

“Bien sûr. I will be with you as we face the tribunal and I will not leave your side as we travel in the cart to the Place de la Révolution, whether it be tomorrow or the day after.” Freddie vowed to shield the boy from the mud the indignant onlookers were known to fling at the revolution’s victims in the hour-long ride to the guillotine.

The call for Freddie to appear before Robespierre had come the night before. Dressed in a fine suit of clothes and an ornately tied cravat, the master of the Terror sat behind a gilded desk in a room lit by chandeliers one might expect to see in Versailles. The sausage curls of his white wig curled up over his ears. Yet for all his finery, he seemed harried and more concerned with the stacks of papers piled in front of him than with Rossignol’s “gift” of an Englishman. His pockmarked face was unlined but Freddie thought he looked older than a man of thirty-six years.

“What have you to say for yourself?” Robespierre demanded impatiently. He did not invite Freddie to sit, nor did he rise to greet him. A guard stood at the door should Freddie have any thoughts to attack the man who effectively now ruled France. Not that he could do so with his hands in irons.

“I came to see the vegetation of Brittany and now wish to return home to England. General Rossignol was not accommodating, which was most disappointing. ’Tis rare that one who comes to learn about the plant life of another country is treated so rudely. But I am willing to forgive this injustice if I may now depart.”

“Ça suffit!” Robespierre shouted, holding up his hand. “I have no time for such prattle. What can you tell me of the Chouannerie? If you are forthcoming, I might be persuaded to let you live.”

Freddie harbored no illusion that he would be allowed to leave France and he had no intention of betraying those he had come to serve. When he had kissed Zoé in the woods outside of Rennes he had understood it was goodbye. “Alas, I know nothing of whatever that is. As I told the good general, I became lost in the woods and approached his soldiers for help.”

Robespierre gave him a studying perusal as if trying to decide if, under torture, Freddie might be persuaded to give different information “That was very foolish, Mr. West. Very foolish. I shall think on your case. If my inquisitors are available, I may send you to them to see if they can loosen your tongue.”

“Are you certain you want to do that, sir?” In Freddie’s lighthearted tone there was an edge of steel. He was not aware of any English aristocrat who had been tortured in France after the revolution had begun. “After all, I am the brother of an English peer and Prime Minister Pitt might not take lightly the torture of an English aristocrat.” Kill them, yes, but torture them, perhaps not.

Robespierre blinked rapidly, then looked down at the papers before him. “I care not what the English think. In any event, you will face trial and, I daresay, the guillotine. The good citoyens of Paris would relish throwing mud at one such as you.”

Freddie expected to die but he dreaded the thought of torture. Better men than he had cracked under the horrors inflicted by France’s inquisitors. So, when his name had been called for trial, he’d felt an odd sense of relief.

To lose his head was one thing; to lose his integrity was quite another.