Page 7 of A Fierce Wind

“That would mean one in the skiff must step out. Our passengers are too dear a cargo to leave even one behind. You and I can maneuver in Granville’s streets where they cannot. Non, I must stay with you.”

Freddie paced the deck, glancing toward shore, wishing the fog would miraculously part to reveal the skiff he awaited. He had tried to convince Zoé of the foolhardy nature of her excursions into the ports to gather the refugees like a mother hen gathers her chicks. Stubborn as always and determined to save as many as she could, she would hear none of it. While he could admire her courage, he feared for her safety.

Standing amidships, Bequel nervously chewed on a bit of broom straw, bespeaking his unease at the vulnerable state of the ship idling in Granville’s harbor for so long.

The crew, silently going about their tasks, kept glancing toward shore.

Except for the occasional band of drunken men, loud in their goodbyes as they left the taverns, silence reigned on the quay some fifty yards away.

Freddie’s anxiety reached a crescendo. “She should have returned by now. Something must have gone wrong.” He faced Bequel. “Spare me a few of the crew. I’m going after her.”

That the quartermaster motioned two of the crew forward and ordered them to lower the boat and take Freddie ashore betrayed his worry for the capitaine’s niece.

Moments later, the rowing boat moved silently through the fog-shrouded waters. Freddie’s stomach churned, his eyes fixed on the wharf emerging from the dense mist.

What could have happened to her?

Zoé recognized the impatience brewing on her uncle’s face as he raked his fingers through his black hair, the silver streaks catching the light from the lanterns on the quay.

“I can see you mean to be stubborn,” he muttered, “but we cannot stand here and debate this all night.” He gazed around him. “We may be attracting unwanted attention as it is. Alors, it shall be as you wish; we will both stay.” He ordered the men in the skiff, “Take these people to the ship and return for us but only if ’tis safe. We will be watching.”

The skiff shoved off, disappearing into the fog that had settled in wisps on the dark waters of Granville Harbor. Zoé and her uncle began to walk down the wharf toward the quay when a small boat carrying three men emerged out of the fog and pulled up alongside them. She recognized the two men at the oars as crew from la Reine Noire. Behind them in the stern knelt Freddie, beckoning to her.

“’Tis Freddie!” she said, her spirits lifting at the sight of her friend.

“Get in!” he implored.

“Be quick,” said her uncle, directing her to the wooden steps built into the side of the wharf that ran down to the water.

She climbed down to the rowing boat and her uncle followed. He was nearly to the end of the steps when shouts from the wharf drew their attention.

“Vous, là! Halt in the name of the Republic!” The musket-bearing soldier strode toward them, his boots loud on the wooden planks. A short distance away, a half-dozen soldiers hurried to join him.

Her uncle ascended the stairs, pulling a pistol from his coat, and fired. The soldier stumbled and fell to the wharf.

Racing down the stairs, her uncle leapt into the boat. “Vite, away!”

The two crewmen pulled hard at the oars.

Freddie drew his pistol.

The cluster of republican soldiers knelt at the edge of the wharf, took aim and commenced spewing shot toward their small boat. Zoé crouched low as the balls whizzed over her head and the loud crack of pistols and musket fire exploded around her.

Freddie and her uncle returned fire.

The crew pressed into the oars and the boat slipped into the fog. Her uncle subsided onto the bench in the bow, stuffing his pistols into his coat pockets.

Zoé cast a long look toward the lights on the receding quay. The sound of muskets still firing echoed in the mist.

One of the soldiers shouted, “I told you he was the one! That was le porc who cut Pierre.”

Her uncle shook his head. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

Zoé turned her gaze away from the shore. Finally, the shots died, leaving only the rhythmic sound of the oars pulling through the water. “Dieu merci, at least ’tis over.”

“Oui, for now,” said her uncle. “We have West to thank for our lives.”

One of the crew pulling at the oars glanced over his shoulder. “The Englishman has been shot, I think.”

Zoé looked behind the seamen. In the darkness, it was difficult to see but she could just make out Freddie’s form slumped in the stern. “Freddie!”