Page 27 of Echo in the Wind

Jean looked toward Émile, who nodded once. “Two brandies, please.”

“Ye’re French,” she remarked, sounding surprised. “And such a handsome one.” Drawing close, she pressed her ample hip against Jean’s arm. “Would ye like anything else, Lovey?” The invitation was clear and expected. ’Twas often how such women earned extra coin.

“Non. Just the brandy, merci.”

“And yer friend?” she asked, looking at Émile.

The quartermaster sputtered. “Non.”

She sauntered away, a frown on her face, clearly disappointed to have lost the shillings either of their company would have brought her.

“She’s none too pretty, Capitaine, but she appears to like Frenchmen.”

“And what about you?” Jean asked. “She seemed quite willing.”

“I do not think she really liked me.”

Jean’s quartermaster liked to tease, this being yet another instance. “In her business, Émile, she would like anyone in breeches. ’Twas best you declined, for we are here for our business. My own taste does not run to seasoned tavern whores with soot on their cheeks and God knows what disease under their skirts.”

“Mark my words, Capitaine. One of these days, ye’ll find a woman ye cannot say ‘non’ to.”

“If you are speaking of marriage, mon ami, ’tis highly unlikely. You will remember I have been down that road before.”

Émile smirked. “As ye would say, we will see.”

The crackling fire soon warmed Jean and he began to relax, ignoring the familiar smells of sour ale, unwashed bodies and the stinking tidal mud of the Thames.

The serving wench returned with their drinks. Jean laid a coin on the table and resigned himself to a poor version of the drink he loved best. Taking a sip, he tried not to wince. “We are expecting a man to join us,” he told her. “When he does, return for his order.”

“It’d be me pleasure.” She flung her dark hair over her shoulder and slowly walked away. She might have been pretty if one looked past the smears of soot on her cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes. A tavern wench’s life was a hard one, but some girls had little choice.

Émile placed the book on the table next to his brandy.

Jean had just taken another sip of his drink when a man left his stool at the bar and came toward them. He was not dressed in sailor’s slops, but more like a merchant with a dark brown coat over green waistcoat and brown breeches. His boots were not scuffed but shined and his tricorne well shaped. A man who did not mind Jean knowing he was reasonably successful.

“C’est lui,” muttered Émile.

The agent stopped when he reached their table. “Might ye be from the French ship, the Black Queen?”

“Oui,” said Émile, gesturing for the man to sit. “Join us.”

The man pulled out a chair and sat. The serving wench dutifully returned.

“What will you have?” Jean asked the agent.

The man lifted his eyes to the girl. “Another ale.”

While they waited for the drink to arrive, Jean inquired as to the man himself. “Are you from London?”

The man looked directly into Jean’s eyes, making him think the answer would be truth. “Nay. I am from Sussex, come to town only to assist with the trade. I represent many clients.”

Sussex had a long coast so Jean did not doubt the agent could service many smugglers.

“Ye have an order for us?” asked Émile.

“Aye.” The agent pulled a piece of paper from his waistcoat and slid it across the table to Émile. “For Bognor one week hence.”

While his quartermaster read the list, Jean studied the agent. Somewhere in his thirties, but his clean-shaven face had lines enough to suggest experience. His dark hair was neatly tied back at his nape, but not a braided pigtail, the badge of pride for the English sailor. A former officer, perhaps, or a village merchant who had carved himself out a role in the lucrative free trade business. He would have to be trustworthy to have gained such a position, for his compensation would come from the one placing the order only after acceptable goods were delivered.