Chapter Twenty-Two

H arriet watched Jack walk to the back of the ship with mixed feelings. How long had it been since she’d had a conversation like that with a man other than her husband? Not since before she’d married, other than the man of business in Bath who’d offered her Keynvor Cottage, and that had been of very short duration. Ben had never encouraged her to speak more than to exchange the simplest of pleasantries if any of his officer pals had turned up at the house, and she’d never dared gainsay him. The thought of what he might do if she did had kept her eyes down and her mouth primly shut. No doubt Ben’s friends had taken her for a mouse of a woman with no confidence in company. No doubt that was what Ben had wanted them to think—that his wife knew her place.

Well, she had been a mouse of a woman when Ben had been at home, and there was no denying that. The thought that Theo, and presumably Lyddie as well, had heard something of what went on between her and Ben made her stomach churn. If she wasn’t careful, that bread and cheese was going to make an unwelcome reappearance.

“Mama?” Theo’s hand crept over hers as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes with the other. “Are you feeling ill again?”

She looked down at him. His dark curls were all over the place and his previously ashen face had achieved some much needed color. And some dirt. “Nothing at all, my darling. Here, Jack brought you some food.” She passed him the plate.

Theo fell on the food like a starving dog. “I feel much better now. P’raps I will still be a sailor myself. A smuggler, I think, for preference. That’s the kind of sailor I shall be. Boats are such fun.” He seemed to have wiped clean away the memory of their night in the hold puking. Such is the resilience of youth. Holding the bread in one hand and the cheese in the other, he jumped to his feet and made a beeline for the side of the boat.

Harriet leapt to her feet as well, hot on his heels. “Don’t lean out. This edge is very low. It doesn’t look at all safe to me. Hold onto one of these ropes.”

But Theo wasn’t listening. Instead, he had his gaze fixed on where the ship was heading. A thin gray line filled the horizon, clearly something quite different to the blue-green of the sea, luring the little ship on. “France,” Theo said with satisfaction. “It has to be. I’ve always wanted to go there ever since Monsieur Bulot told me about it in our history lessons.” He paused. “Although I don’t want them to chop my head off with their guillotine.”

As Harriet had been forced to dismiss poor M. Bulot, a French emigré, as soon as she’d been apprised of her straitened circumstances, his mention brought a pang of guilt to her heart. He’d been such a nice, earnest gentleman, and had even helped her a little with what had remained of her own schoolgirl French. Who knew, this might now come in handy if she got the chance to go ashore. She wouldn’t have admitted it, but she was probably as excited as Theo at the prospect of setting foot in France. At least the war was over, and no one was likely to clap them in prison or try to guillotine them for the crime of being British. Unless, of course, they guessed they were smugglers and didn’t like them for that reason. Who knew what the punishment for smuggling was on this side of the English Channel.

One hand scrunched firmly in the back of Theo’s shirt, and the other on the sturdy rigging that seemed to be holding the masts and sails in place, she watched as the coast drew slowly nearer. At first, she could make nothing out, then she spotted cliffs and the glimmering white sand of beaches at their feet, little rocky islets, bigger islands, and the bright splash of painted houses crouching along the shoreline. Small, blue-painted fishing boats dotted the waters, and as The Fly drew closer to the shore, she gazed down into that water and saw the green of weed and the shine of rocks not far below the surface. The Fly appeared to be skimming in over rocky beds that might well be visible at low tide. Any ship bigger than her would have had to stick to the dark waters of the deeper channels where they wound between the submerged rocky platforms.

The wind licked at Harriet’s loose hair, tugging it out behind her, and salty spray flew up from the wake the ship was leaving. It was going to be a nightmare to comb the tangles out when she finally got her hands on a brush or comb again. She’d have to ask Bertha to help her.

Oh no. Bertha. And Lyddie, too.

Oh no, indeed. Why, in all this adventure, had she not spared a single thought for those she’d left behind so precipitately when she’d raced out into the night after Theo? Lyddie would have woken this morning to find her mother’s bed empty and probably assumed her already risen. However, it wouldn’t have taken long for her to work out that her mother’s continued absence was anything but natural. And Bertha would probably spot she’d departed without any of her outdoor clothes.

What would they think? And what would they do?

Might Bertha try to get in touch with the local constable, if such a worthy even existed? But how would she do it, with no transport other than her own legs. Or would she try the neighboring properties first, asking if anyone had seen her mistress, perhaps omitting the fact that Harriet had gone missing in her night attire? And then, of course, there was Theo’s absence as well. Might Bertha add Theo’s well-clad absence to his mother’s night attired disappearance and fear they’d both fallen off the cliffs in the dark into the sea? That was what Harriet, in a similar position, would assume—the worst. How dreadful for them both to have no idea what had happened, nor that they were safe, if only for now.

Guilt ate at her, but she pushed it aside with trembling hands. With nothing she could do about it right now, she’d just have to think about it later. But how hard that was when all she wanted was to take Lyddie in her arms and reassure her that everything would be all right, and give Bertha an apologetic hug for having given her such heartache.

“Look!” Theo pointed a grubby finger towards the land, where by now the small fishing village that must be Roscoff was hoving into view, green hills rising behind it. A long stone breakwater or jetty, Harriet was unsure of the terminology, poked out into the sea across the submerged rocks, and, along the seafront, a row of what looked like some sort of boathouses stood, half the doors open wide. “And there’s an island.”

Still edging in over shallow water, The Fly crept closer to the land with every minute, half her sails lowered now, as she passed the biggest island and headed into even shallower waters.

But they weren’t aiming for the boathouses. Instead, Jack brought his ship in along the jetty, close to the landward end, and his men leapt into action taking the rest of the sails down, slinging the rope fenders over the side and securing their ship with ropes at front and back. All done with great efficiency. These men know their jobs well.

“We’d better sit down again out of the way,” Harriet said to Theo, pulling him away from the side and back to their previous seating. “Or we’ll end up being shouted at.”

He wriggled. “Can’t we go ashore? I’d like to. Can we ask Cap’n Jack if we can go and explore? I want to see what France is like. Might we see Revolutionaries?”

She hung onto him all the tighter, having no intention of letting him out of her sight. “No, they don’t exist any longer. That was years ago from when Monsieur Bulot was a boy. Now sit down and do as you’re told, or I’ll have to ask Jack to shut you in the hold again.”

With a disgruntled scowl, Theo took his place beside her on the sails, his gaze fixed in envy on young Clemo as he helped to tie up the sails and make The Fly shipshape. He probably saw himself usurping Clemo’s job at some time in the near future.

*

Jack, busy with Will organising the laying up of his ship, nevertheless kept a weather eye on Harriet and Theo, approving of her decision to take a seat again out of everyone’s way. A sensible young woman. And she had tight hold of her boy. Just as well, as the lad had about him the look of adventure now his nighttime ordeal of seasickness was over. Amazing how the young could just bounce back as though nothing had ever happened to them. He’d been like that himself, or so Will, fifteen years his senior and already a seasoned sailor when Jack had first joined the crew, swore.

He’d just finished sorting everything out, when M. Bagot of Malabee, Lisle, and Bagot arrived ready to inspect the cargo. A small man, outfitted all in brown, with sparse brown hair and a sallow face, Bagot had the appearance of an earnest and efficient banker about him, which he was, if only in his spare time. Plenty of money to be found in Roscoff, although not all of it ended up in banks, of course, with her semi-permanent population of English smugglers, and no French customs men for miles.

Luckily, thanks to his job and all his English customers, Bagot spoke excellent if strongly accented English. Jack had enough French to get on in a bar or with a woman, but, for negotiations, he preferred his own language. Bagot hopped down onto the deck from the jetty, with an agility born of many such encounters, and Jack, having shaken hands with the little man, opened the hatch on the hold. The stronger aroma of tobacco seemed to have dissipated the lingering aroma of vomit, thank goodness. Clemo must have done a good cleaning up job.

“Let us ’ave a look,” Bagot said, seizing the top of the ladder and swinging himself over. “But eef it ees as good as ze last shipment you ’ave brought for me, zen I shall pronounce myself an ’appy man.”

Jack followed him down, conscious of Harriet’s curious gaze. Bagot, being so short, barely had reason to bow his head in the hold, but Jack was straightaway reminded of how his back still ached and of how he would be delegating unloading their cargo to his and Bagot’s men very shortly. Up close now, nothing remained to indicate their stowaways’ mal de mer.

Bagot poked his long knife into the nearest bale of tobacco and drew out a sliver. Holding it to his nose, he inhaled, then rolled it into a ball and rubbed it between his fingers. A second sniff and his lugubrious face broke into an apology for a smile. “Of ze topmost qualitee, M. Trevelyan. I am pleezed to say zat my colleagues and I will indeed purchase your entire cargo. And we ’ave ze barrels of brandy already in our warehouse awaiting votr’arrivé. Let us go up on ze deck in ze sunshine to see M. Richards and discuss tous les détails.”

Half an hour of ferocious haggling in a mix of French and English as they sat on the hatches, which was always to be expected, as well as the imbibing of most of a bottle of brandy between Will, Jack, and M. Bagot, and the deal was done. Bagot went off well-pleased to order his men to bring along the barrels of brandy, and Jack and Will started their crew bringing the tobacco out of the hold and from there up onto the quayside. Just for a while, The Fly bobbed higher in the water with the weight of her cargo removed.

Many hands made light work, as the old saying went, and before long the barrels arrived and were stowed in the place the tobacco had previously occupied. The Fly sat a little deeper in the water once more. The work had to be completed quickly, before the tide started to go out. If they left it too late, getting over the rocky entrance to the harbor would be impossible.

At last, everything was stowed, and the hatch lid shut. The sun was already sinking in the west and a trail of golden light reflected across the surface of the sea like a magical road to the distant horizon. They needed to get back to one of the deeper channels and drop anchor for the night, but Jack had always loved to see the trail the setting sun left across the sea even as a boy, and this time was no different. He paused just long enough to take the welcome sight in.

“Untie her,” he called out, satisfied he’d paid the sea god enough attention, and his men jumped to it.

“Aren’t we going ashore?” Theo asked as Jack returned to the bows. Sweeps had come out and the men were maneuvering the ship away from the jetty with the extra long oars and into the deeper water with alacrity and skill.

Jack nodded. “We are, but not from here. We have to be in one of the channels when the tide goes out, or we’ll be stuck here on the sand. M. Bagot, my buyer, will send out a gig to collect us when we drop anchor. Have no fear, Theo, you’ll set your feet on French soil tonight.”

He glanced at Harriet, pretty as a picture in her boys’ clothes but probably not dressed for a visit to the town alehouses, which were where he usually went. Neither was young Theo, who was far too young to take somewhere like that. Clemo would be staying on board, as usual, despite his obvious annoyance. He’d been told enough times by the other crew members that he’d have to be fifteen to go ashore and taste the wares on offer, and was used to being the butt of their constant jokes. Might it be better to leave Theo behind with Clemo?

Jack scratched his head. If he did that, he’d have one very disappointed boy on his hands, and Harriet might want to stay on board with him. What he really wanted to do was to show Harriet what a good host he could be, when not constrained by a ship’s small size. To charm her, if he could, and get her to open up about her previous life. Now, where could he take Harriet and Theo that was safe? For a meal in one of the more reputable establishments. Madame S’s hotel, perhaps. She catered for the more genteel of smugglers, of which there were quite a few. She’d also in her time catered for a few of Jack’s other needs, but he wasn’t about to share that with Harriet. And besides, it had been a long time ago.

True to his promise, just as they were dropping anchor in the deeper water, Bagot’s gig came skimming out to collect them with two men at the oars. It pulled up alongside The Fly, shipping the oars, and Silas Finn threw down a rope ladder. By the hatch, Clemo stood clutching the silver shilling Jack had just slipped him, which had not been quite enough to wipe the disgruntled frown off his face.

Harriet, who’d put her shoes on over a pair of disreputable stockings to go with her breeches, shirt and borrowed waistcoat, took Jack’s offered hand with only a small amount of diffidence, for once, and allowed him to hand her onto the ladder and down into the gig to sit in its bows. Theo, on the other hand, was tossed down bodily like a bale of tobacco, which made him squeal with laughter, then Jack and Will climbed in last. Bagot’s men handed the oars over to Silas and Phoby, who set their backs into it and pulled for the shore.