For Love of Country (38 page)

“Did Katherine not object to our . . . relationship?”

“She was hardly in a position to object. At the time, she was engaged to marry a British sea officer.”

“Ah, I see. My, my, Richard Cutler. What a fascinating life you have led.”

He shrugged. “No more fascinating than yours, Madame.”

Their eyes locked a second time and stayed that way until Françoise stirred in her slumber, muttering something incomprehensible. She turned, facing forward now, and curled up like a baby. Her mother spoke softly to her, stroked her arm, coaxed her back to sleep. When she had succeeded, she looked up.

“Richard, forgive me, but I must ask you something.”

“Ask me anything.”

She drew a deep breath, hesitated. “You love her very much, don't you.” It was a statement more than a question, and she said it with a note of resignation, as though steeling herself for the answer she knew he would deliver.

“Yes, Anne-Marie, I do. Very much.”

She nodded her understanding. With a gentle sigh she said: “Then God has blessed your union, Richard. What bliss it must be, to be married to someone you truly love. Katherine is a most fortunate woman.”

“And I, a most fortunate man.”

She held his look for another moment before dropping her gaze to her daughters. She resumed her singsong lullaby as Richard closed his eyes, feeling sleep overcoming him anew.

He sprang suddenly awake at the distant
bang!
of a pistol and a shout from someone approaching from behind. Aubert yanked in the reins, and the coach shivered to a stop on the western edge of a Breton
village of timber-framed white stucco homes and shops crowded close together.

Fumbling for his pistol from the seabag placed under the seat, Richard shot a glance out the right side of the coach, to see the soldier Stéphane closing in on them. When he was abreast of the coach, Stéphane drew hard on the reins, causing his horse to rear up on its hind legs. He spoke directly to Richard, who had opened the window to its full extent.

“Monsieur Cutler,” he cried, “I must warn you, we are being followed. I heard rumors of this in Rennes and went back to see for myself. It is true. The semaphore confirms it,” referring to a recently constructed system of communication that transmitted messages from one relay station to another by manipulating two long white arms according to a prescribed code.

“Who is following us?”

“Militia.”

“How many?”

“Four, five, I cannot say for certain. I have not seen them.”

“How far away are they?”

“Ten miles, monsieur, maybe less.”

Richard cursed under his breath and heard Gertrud gasp beside him. He reached over to pick up his coat, which had fallen to the floor when she jerked awake. From an inside pocket he withdrew the pouch of extra shot and powder.

“Monsieur,” the soldier hesitated.

“Yes,” Richard replied irritably, his mind awhirl. “What is it, Stéphane?”

“Monsieur, I am sorry. I cannot stay with you. I cannot protect you.”

Richard instantly grasped what the soldier was saying. It was what he had suspected from the start of their journey. The army escort was for the sake of appearance only, to ward off any isolated troublemaker who might think to waylay the coach and rob its passengers. It was unlikely that a king's soldier would defy a citizens' militia, certainly not a militia force chasing a fleeing aristocrat. To do so could have dire consequences, not only for the soldier but for France.

“I understand,” he said, his tone much subdued. “Stéphane, may I beg you to ride ahead to Lorient, to warn my vessel at anchor there? Her name is
Falcon.
She is schooner-rigged and has a yellow hull. Ask for Monsieur Crabtree. Tell him what has happened here.”

“I will do as you ask, monsieur.”

“Thank you, Stéphane. God be with you.”

“And with you, monsieur. And with the kind lady and her children.” He saluted and galloped off westward.

Richard knew precisely how many rounds of shot he had in the pouch, but he counted them out anyway, to buy a few seconds in which to think. Giving up was out of the question. That would spell disaster for everyone inside the coach. They could make a stand here, but he had only one small weapon which he could not reload fast enough to have much effect against a force of men coming at him on horseback. Or they could make a run for it. The militia was five to ten miles behind them and catching up fast. The coach was still fifteen miles from Lorient. Quickly he estimated the different rates of speed of coach versus horse, the relative distances involved, and the time required to reach the coast, assuming both pursued and pursuer were traveling at full tilt. It would be close. Very close.

He glanced out the window. Scores of local Bretons had emerged from their homes and shops and were cautiously approaching the coach, drawn as much by their natural curiosity as by the pistol shot. He looked across at Anne-Marie. She held a hand of each of her daughters, both girls wide awake now, and wide-eyed with fear.

“Put the pistol away, Richard,” she commanded in a half-whisper. “I will not tolerate gunfire. I will not put my children at such risk; nor these innocent people outside. Put the pistol away.”

“I'll put it away,” he said, “in a moment. Keep the children close to you and brace yourself. You too, Gertrud.”

He clicked open the coach door and stepped outside, closing the door with a loud bang.

“Driver!” he barked up in French. “Step down from there this instant!”

Aubert gaped down at him. “Monsieur?”

“You heard me, damn your eyes! Get down from there!” He raised his pistol, aimed it. “I mean
now,
monsieur!”

Aubert climbed down. When he was on the ground next to Richard, he said in a voice laced with spleen, “There is no need for such words, Monsieur Cutler. And no need for the pistol.”

Richard grabbed a fistful of Aubert's shirt and pulled him in close. His mouth twisted in a sneer as he bent to address the man. He kept his voice low, conspiratorial, as he held the pistol against the Frenchman's head. “Forgive me, my friend, but there
is
a need. I want these Bretons
to bear witness that I am forcing you at gunpoint to surrender your coach. It may save your life, Aubert. If you have any wish to save mine, delay the militia as long as you can when they get here.” With that, Richard shoved Aubert in the chest so hard the driver staggered backward and fell down. “Now back off!” he shouted out loud. “I warn you, monsieur: make no further attempt to stop us!”

Richard tucked the barrel of the pistol under his belt and clambered up the footholds leading to the driver's seat. Releasing the reins from their hold, he raised them high and flicked them with all his might.

“
Vite! Vite!
” he commanded the horses. The coach surged forward. “
Allez! Vite!
”

 

TWO HOURS LATER, aboard
Falcon,
Agreen Crabtree trained the lens of a long glass on the semaphore soaring above the fort guarding the southern approaches to Lorient's harbor, clearly visible a quarter-mile away down an ever-widening estuary from the town's center. For greater stability in these relatively calm inner-harbor waters, he had the glass set up on a tripod erected on the after deck. Through the lens he could clearly see the semaphore's outstretched bony arms moving in spasmodic gestures up and down, sideways this way, sideways that way. But since he had no knowledge of the code, he could not determine what message was being relayed to the authorities in Lorient from the next-closest semaphore.

He swung the glass to his left, focused the lens until the steep-sided rocks and sandy beaches of the Île de Groix leapt into view. Yes, she was still out there. The French frigate he had noticed earlier continued to stand off and on at the entrance to Lorient Harbor, between the fort and the strip of island a mile or so offshore. Her sails were full and white, making it difficult to discern the white Bourbon flag fluttering high on the wind abaft her ensign halyard. Was she on maneuvers, Agreen wondered, or was there another reason for her presence there? He glanced up from the glass to the American ensign snapping above him. The breeze had strengthened, he noted, and was blowing at perhaps fifteen or twenty knots. Of greater significance, it continued to hold steady from the west-northwest.

“Coach-and-six approaching from across the river, Mr. Crabtree.”

Agreen wheeled about. He saw the coach before his name was out of Micah Lamont's mouth.

“And unless my eyes deceive me,” Lamont's voice rose in excitement, “that's the captain driving it.”

“Your eyes do not deceive you, Mr. Lamont.” Agreen snatched a speaking trumpet from its becket on the binnacle and held it to his mouth. “Stations t' set sail! Stand by t' weigh anchor!”

As quickly as naval protocol allowed, Agreen walked forward to the bow of the schooner and directed the trumpet to starboard, to the long stone jetty ashore and the schooner's gig bobbing alongside, its four oarsmen sitting on the thwarts. He had originally assigned six oarsmen to the task, to transport Richard as quickly as possible over to the schooner, but the French soldier Stéphane had informed him a short time ago of the other passengers in the coach who would be coming aboard as well. The gig would be considerably slower than he had hoped, but nothing could be done about that.

“Whiton!” he shouted to the coxswain. “Stand by, the captain!” He gestured to where the coach was approaching the jetty. It was moving at a much slower pace now, weaving in and around the shore traffic afoot and in carriages, winding its way down the wide cobblestone street set between the harbor and the low-lying wooden structures with large, faded block lettering that announced in peeling paint the name of the bankrupt owner: La Compagnie Française des Indes Orientales.

Abel Whiton waved back in reply. He removed the gig's forward line from a bollard and held it in one hand, waving with the other at the coach. Aboard the gig, the two starboard oarsmen slid their oars between their thole pins and held the blades in the water.

Agreen swapped the trumpet for a short spyglass and held it to his eye. The carriage had stopped a hundred feet or so shy of the jetty, stalled by the waterfront congestion. Good, Richard had seen the gig. He was waving back at Whiton. As Agreen watched, Richard climbed down from the driver's seat and opened the carriage door. A woman stepped down, followed by another woman. Two little girls followed, helped down by the first woman—the younger one—their mother, presumably. Together, hand-in-hand, the small party ran up the street toward the gig.

“Look there, Mr. Crabtree!”

Agreen slid his gaze to where Isaac Howland was pointing. Seven men a-horse, five with muskets strapped across their backs, had bypassed the town of Lorient and were riding at a hard pace along the dirt road leading to the fort at the southern entrance to the harbor. Compared with the other dangers
Falcon
now faced, their firepower was negligible. To get free of land
Falcon
would have to pass within point-blank range of the fort's great guns, three tiers of them on the east-facing wall, perhaps
thirty cannon total, most of them 32s or 64s, the dreadnoughts of shore batteries. One well-placed cannonade from that east-facing battery could reduce an admiral's flagship to kindling wood.

“Heave the anchor short, Howland,” Agreen said. “We'll be under way in a few minutes.”

“Aye, Mr. Crabtree.”

As the party ashore scrambled into the gig and her starboard oarsmen backed oars to point her bow toward
Falcon,
Agreen scanned the deck and top-hamper. All was primed for departure. The two square sails remained furled—the ship would be on a starboard tack leaving the harbor—but the two giant fore-and-aft sails had been released from their stops, and the foresails lay loose on the foredeck and bowsprit. Amidships, the small capstan creaked and groaned under the pressure of the anchor rope being heaved aboard; only the anchor itself now rested on the harbor bottom.

The gig bumped against the schooner's larboard side, and sailors leaning through the open entry port helped Anne-Marie, Gertrud, and the children aboard. Richard was up next, with his gear, his eyes sweeping the deck before alighting upon Agreen. They shook hands as the four tired oarsmen and Abel Whiton clambered aboard.

“Whiton,” Richard said, “show these women to my cabin. And have my gear stowed below in Mr. Crabtree's cabin. Dr. Brooke, good to see you, sir. I'd advise you to go below as well. Cates,” he ordered the sharp-eyed topman, “lay aloft and keep me informed about everything you see. We'll tow the gig behind,” he said to Jacobs, one of the oarsmen, “and sway her aboard later. Now, lads, let's get her to sea!”

The anchor was up and was being catted to the starboard side of the schooner as sailors in the bow backed the jib to windward, forcing the bow to swing to leeward until the ship was headed southward toward the harbor entrance.
Falcon
's two great sails, hoisted up their masts moments before and thundering in protest as the schooner made her turn, had caught the wind and had fallen silent, their clamor replaced by the more pleasant gurgles and splashes of a vessel moving smoothly, rapidly through water.

“What do you make of our situation, Agee?” Richard asked. They were standing together in the bow by the jib sheets, peering ahead at the fort through a glass. It was clear sailing only in the sense that, at the moment, no other vessels were sailing in or out of Lorient. They noted only the French frigate on patrol outside the entrance. “By the way, in case I forgot to mention it, it's goddamn wonderful to see you again.”