Smuggler's Legacy: A Breton Sailor's Adventure

By Jan Tucker Mulligan

It is 1802. In the struggling seafaring town of Concarneau, on the perilous Breton coast of France, people endure Napoleons increasing taxes and cultural persecution. The last straw comes in the form of a cholera epidemic, in which they lose their only healer.

Captain Louis Bedard, master mariner and bereaved patriarch, begrudges God, Napoleon and the Coast Guard. With the encouragement of the mayor - who has his own agenda, which involves Bedard's single daughter - Bedard and his crew resort to smuggling as a path to quick money, which they'll use to bring a doctor to Concarneau. It's a desperate plan worked by desperate men; each month on the dark of the new moon, they slip the safety of the wharf and sail under false identities. They are skilled sailors, but most times they barely avoid the reefs and sandbars, and the risk of capture grows; Concarneaus young and ruthless Coast Guard Lieutenant Peder LaMotte is determined to arrest this unknown smuggler and his crew, gain a promotion, and thereby salvage his own damaged reputation.

Bedards plan works until one stormy night when he is betrayed by a vengeful crewmember and arrested by LaMotte. Bedard - still using the security of his alias - awaits trial in the town jail and thinks his life can get no worse, until Nicole, his only and beloved daughter, visits. She brings wonderful news. Finally she has met the man she wants to marry.

As Bedard listens, his heart hardens; the man who has captured his daughter's love is his mortal enemy, the very man who arrested him.

These three stubborn characters clash in a riveting power struggle. Bedard refuses to give his consent to Nicole's marriage, Nicole discovers that her beloved father is not as innocent as she believes, and LaMotte learns that the young woman who has won his affection is the daughter of a criminal.

The choices they make will ulitimately determine the future of the whole town. A gripping tale of adventure, danger, suspense, hidden treasure, love and justice!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456714048

Jan Tucker Mulligan

Jan Tucker Mulligan lives in Pennsylvania with her family. She enjoys work, hiking, music, sailing and genealogy and is currently earning a graduate degree in Creative Writing at West Chester University. Her first novel, "Smuggler's Legacy: A Breton Sailor's Adventure" was published in 2010. It is set on the Atlantic coast of 1802 France and pays fictional tribute to her grandmother's ancestor, who struggled against perilous odds - both geographic and political - and prevailed. Jan's second historic fiction, "A Square of Apples: The Journey of Daniel Fischer" was inspired by one of her husband's ancestors. The story takes place in Bavaria in the turbulent 1860's and recounts the life of a battle-hardened veteran of the Bavarian Fusiliers who grudgingly travels to post-Civil War America in fulfillment of his family's debt of honor. Upon arrival in Philadelphia he discovers that although he survived a war, his real challenges are just beginning.

Book preview

Smuggler’s Legacy

A Breton Sailor’s Adventure

Jan Tucker Mulligan

missing image file

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2011 Jan Tucker Mulligan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 1/25/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1405-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1406-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1404-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011901220

Printed in the United States of America

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank the following individuals, without whose help this novel would not have happened:

Madeleine Le Cleac’h Tucker, my grandmother, and her Aunt Rosa, for their family legend.

Brian, Brendan, Daniel and Fiona, my family, for their abiding love and encouragement.

Barb Foster, Sheila Grant, Claire Mulligan, Jane Resides, Leslie Robertshaw, Connie Shapiro and Cathie Voorhees for editing so patiently and generously.

Dr. Maureen McVeigh at West Chester University for her inspired guidance and the students of the Seminar Novel I class for their valuable feedback.

Alexis Gale, for her advice about horsemanship.

Logan, my nephew, who named the donkey.

DEDICATION

This story is dedicated to my ancestors, who went to sea.

GLOSSARY

NAPOLEONIC TIMELINE 1801 - 1805

1801:

July 6: French fleet defeated by British Navy at Algeciras, the Strait of Gibraltar.

August 3: British raids fail off Boulogne at the Channel coast of France.

August 15: French in Egypt capitulate.

October 1: Treaty of London: Brief cessation of hostilities between British and French

1802:

March 27: Napoleon breaks ‘Peace of Amiens’ with England.

May 10: Napoleon, having ruled as ‘First Consul’ since 1799, is voted ‘First Consul For Life.’

1803:

May 3: France sells Louisiana Territory to United States.

May 16: Britain blockades the French ports of Brest on the Atlantic and Toulon on the Mediterranean.

October 9: France allies with Spain against Britain.

1804:

May 18: Bonaparte is elected Napoleon I, Emperor of the French.

December 2: Bonaparte crowns himself in Paris.

1805:

March 17: In Milan, Napoleon is crowned King of Italy.

October 21: British Navy defeats Franco-Spanish fleet at Trafalgar.

November 12: Napoleon enters Vienna.

December 2: French victory at Austerlitz against Austria and Russia.

missing image file

Contents

At the Mariner’s Obelisk

Shock in Saint-Malo

Betrayal

Evidence

Sailing To Jail

Nicole’s Visit

A Thunderbolt On a Clear Day

Refuge at the Spice Shop

Crossed Signals

LaMotte’s Gambit

A Sea Change for Nicole

At the Steps

The Maer Answers a Summons

Nicole’s Ultimatum

LaMotte Learns To Shop

Ker’riou’s Mission

Bedard Signs

Into the Web

Chess Match

LaMotte Tries a Bluff

Family Matters

Answered Prayer

The Housekeeper Prevails

LaMotte Decides

Jailbreak

LaMotte Sets a Trap

Judgment

One Determined Man

Allies

Epilogue

1 January 1801

Palais de Versailles, Paris, France

By Order of His Excellency, Napoleon,

by the Grace of God and the Constitutions of the Republic of France, First Consul of the French People:

It is Hereby Instituted that Effective Immediately, Smugglers Operating Outside the Authority of the Government shall be Prosecuted to the Fullest Extent of the Law.

No Person, Regardless of Citizenship, May Import any Items on or Near the Atlantic Coast of France Without Full Payment of Duties and Taxes as Ratified by the Commercial Code of the

Government of France.

Failure to Comply is Hereby Punishable by Arrest, Prosecution, Fine and Incarceration of the Owners and Captains and Crews of These Vessels, Immediate Impounding of Said Vessels and Revocation of Any and All Port Privileges.

It is Further Mandated that Any Cargo Appertaining Thereto Shall be Considered Contraband and Retained by the Government, to be Dispersed at the Discretion of the Government.

ONE

At the Mariner’s Obelisk

Christmas Eve, 1802. The dark of the moon. Mikal Poulier, Maer of Concarneau, muttered and his breath made puffs of vapor as he spoke. How dare he keep me waiting so? He furled his cloak against the cold, gripped his black walnut walking stick and peered from behind the granite Mariner’s Obelisk at the cemetery of Saint Anne’s Church. Who does he think he is? From his post he watched the main street. It ran parallel to the wharf of this ancient port town, a wharf which now slept, but was lit by whale-oil lamps. The North Atlantic Sea — for once — was calm; night air hung cold and still, interrupted only by indifferent brine breezes that skirled up the grave-covered hillside. Poulier saw the golden, glowing windows of the Prancing Ermine, one of Concarneau’s only two remaining taverns. His mouth watered as aromatic smoke curled from the chimney. Reminded of the warmth that he’d feel by the Ermine’s hearth, his face felt the December chill even more.

He heard a step behind him. With both fists he clenched the two-part ivory wolf’s head atop his walking stick. He gripped it hard and twisted it in opposite directions. The top part separated from the base. Between the two sections a glint of metal shone in the moonlight; it was the blade of his sword, hidden in the sheath of the wood.

A voice chuckled in the darkness. Poulier, put that thing away before you hurt yourself. It was Louis Bedard, furled in his dark cloak; master mariner and Poulier’s business partner.

Poulier sheathed the blade and hissed, You scared me half unto death. And my ass is frozen.

Mind that talk; we’re on hallowed ground.

Bah. The riskiest scheme of our lives and you keep me waiting in a cemetery?

Where else could we meet? ’Tis Christmas Eve. The men are in church or at the Ermine, the women are home, cooking. A light coming from any other window would attract the Watch. Besides, I couldn’t get away; Nicole-Marie wanted to give me her gift early. Bedard patted his chest. She made me a shirt.

How domestic, Poulier sneered. But we digress and I’m cold; the next dark of the moon is the twenty-third of January. Are you ready?

Bedard scratched his grizzled beard and sniffed. Hold. He sniffed again. I smell … something … dead flowers?

Er … of course; ‘tis a cemetery.

In winter? He leaned closer to Poulier, sniffed again and stared at him with growing disgust. You didn’t.

Poulier averted his glance. A man has needs.

Don’t speak to me of your needs while we stand on hallowed ground on Christmas Eve. We’re settling the final details of a plan that will save the lives of so many of our people, and you couldn’t wait?

I’ll not be made to feel guilty. After we’re finished I might go back. You’re in this to hire a medisin yet I’m in’t strictly for profit.

You represent us; y’are Monsieur le Maer, by election of the people. How will’t look; you spending Christmas Eve at the Mermaid instead of Saint Anne’s or your own home?

Saint —? Y’are one to talk; since when have you showed your face there, save weddings or funerals?

Bedard spat. The Mermaid is a brothel and everyone knows it.

’Tis a public house that provides lawful, paid companionship and despite the voice of the people I’m entitled to some small bit of privacy.

Cease your spleening. ’Tis a whorehouse and a dishonest one; the women get their men mezv and rob them —

— Only if the men are stupid, which I am not, and this night is akin to any other, and we’re not here to judge my … activities. Now, down to business. I expect you’ll sail with the tide?

"And when was the last time you sailed anywhere? I’ll put to sea when I decide and not a moment sooner. Bedard’s face stiffened in anger. Damn the Douane; pack of hypocrites. This is their fault. And Napoleon’s; import duties, customs, taxes, tariffs. One increase after another. Bleeding us to finance his next war."

I grow sick of your rants.

Do they think we’re featherbrains? That we know naught of his secret deals with the corsairs and privateers, and him being the biggest criminal of them all?

Calm yourself; think of the beauty of our plan. If we do this right, the corsairs and the privateers will pay us no mind and neither will the Douane. In broad daylight, you’ll sail in and out of that wharf, just another common fisherman. And once a month, at the dark of the moon, you’ll make one extra trip. No one in his right mind sails then – not even the corsairs.

Have you done your part?

Poulier nodded. Of course; downcoast I bought a two-masted brig. Solid hull and shallow; perfect for our needs: Fast and fleet.

Who’s the seller?

Only 200 tons. All she needed? New sails and rigging.

Mikal. When was she built?

Her license and registration are up to date —

Who was her last captain?

"— And you’ll love what I named her: La Belle Chienne."

Bedard scowled. I don’t care for’t.

Hah! Didn’t think you would, but ‘tis not your boat.

Poulier handed over a folded parchment. Bedard scanned the information and Poulier said, Here is your new identity. I care not when or where you sail or fish during the rest of the month, but on the dark of the moon when you sail for me, y’are Denez Ker’jean. Learn’t. Make your crew learn’t.

You didn’t answer my questions.

You ask too many. Heed me; the Douane has become quite wily this year past.

But not here; we still have the old capitaine, thank God. Still holding meetings at the Ermine; says his office at the Douane is drafty and bothers his gout. A smuggler couldn’t ask for a better opportunity.

But there’s a new trick amongst the younger officers; if they board you they’ll ask you to swear your identity to God or your dead mother’s memory.

I know, Bedard muttered.

’Tis a common ruse; many other smugglers have fallen afoul of that trap because they don’t want to doom themselves. They’re still scratching the days onto their cell walls in Rennes.

Fret not about me or my crew; they’re storm-hardy and tight-lipped. And they’ll swear to whatever they must.

You’re certain they won’t balk at the sin of lying?

Bedard lifted a shoulder. They can go to confession on the way home from the dock.

How are you going to keep them quiet?

Their loyalty to Napoleon, he replied. At the look of shock on Poulier’s face, Bedard added, Don’t be ridiculous. Coin, how else? From my share I save half for the medisin and half to pay the crew. ‘Tis only two dozen sailors, after all.

’Tis too many for a boat that size. Poulier smoothed his dark moustache.

I couldn’t help’t. In case you hadn’t noticed, people are poor. Once word got out, I had many volunteers. Too many; turned men away, I did.

Still, you don’t need two dozen men to sail her.

True. Only eight or nine, weather depending, and a rotating schedule at that; yet once my men heard how many other families were desperate to take this risk, they knew they had to share.

Equal profit, equal guilt. Charming.

And before you mention it, they do understand how to use their coin in town so they’ll not attract Douane attention. ’Twill start with the millers and dairymen and slowly but surely help everyone eventually.

Spare me your idealism; I just want this to work.

’Twill; they hate Napoleon as much as I do.

Poulier smirked. Y’are naïve. Napoleon is not your real problem; ‘tis his Commercial Code.

Damn his laws, Bedard retorted. What I want is justice. We want to live as honest folk; we should not have to turn to a life of crime just to bring a better life to our children. A sea wind whipped up the hill to the cemetery and then was gone, yet it was enough to chill them. They furled their cloaks. The men of the Town Watch walked slowly down the street carrying their whale-oil lanterns, huddled against the chill. Bedard and Poulier hunched behind the Obelisk. Bedard lowered his voice. Did you hear? Napoleon invited Surcouf out of retirement; offered him a captaincy and his own frigate squadron. Imagine: Four-and-ten vessels, free run of the Indian Ocean. A Letter of Marque with his personal permission to harry the English – not that they don’t deserve it.

Poulier lifted a brow. Your sources must be better than mine; Napoleon’s getting desperate.

No matter. Surcouf declined; said he was building his own ships. Want my opinion? It gets down to ego and coin. They’re already calling Surcouf ‘King of the Corsairs;’ he’ll not kneel to a mere ‘Consul For Life’ —

—who probably demanded more of a cut than Surcouf was willing to part with. Poulier chortled.

You’re right. Still, that took nerve; not many people say ‘nann’ to Napoleon and survive. There’s even talk that Napoleon wants a crown for himself. When will he stop?

’Tis his own power lust and not my concern.

Y’are right; he’ll not last. Long after he’s gone, we’ll remain. Us, Brittany and the sea.

Hold. There’s someone you haven’t thought of.

Impossible; ‘tis only my sailors who know about this. They’re the only ones I trust. Granted, we’re a drop in the pail compared to our total population, but ‘tis a start, and even one medisin will make a difference —

Y’are not listening. There’s Nicole-Marie.

My daughter’s not involved in this.

Don’t be a fool; you think she’ll not notice your nighttime sails and question them?

’Tis only once a month; she’s but a girl and will be sound asleep by the time I leave, and I’ll be back before she wakes.

Bedard, she’s almost six-and-ten. A grown woman. And she’s been running your household for years. Poulier smirked. And women are nosy, meddlesome creatures. She’ll notice.

She trusts me; she’ll believe whatever I tell her.

If you say so. Just promise that my part in this will never come to light.

Belay your worries; I’m the only one knows y’are involved. My men know you only as the Maer, and a haughty one at that.

I’m not haughty.

Indeed? When was the last time you spared a word for any of my men?

I’m simply being protective of my position; what kind of Maer would I be if I socialized with the lower class?

Lower? For shame, Poulier; and you just coming from a place like the Mermaid.

That’s different; that’s business.

Bedard pulled his wool cap closer about his ears. I’m not here to argue. My men think this is all my idea. As for the boat — if anyone asks — I inherited it from a dead uncle down coast, south of Ker’ity. And I have a berth on the other side of the wharf; no one goes there.

And you’ll put to sea every day and fish, akin to all the rest.

Bedard replied, Ya, just one more fishing boat among hundreds.

Poulier smoothed his moustache. Come to think of’t, you should be thankful that I don’t charge you a percentage of your catch.

Bedard snarled, You do, and I’ll tell everyone who the real owner is.

Now, now. No need to get so prickly; ‘twas merely a bit of taunting.

Ya, I’m on edge. ’Tis still hard to believe our plan is finally coming to bear: Your customers, your drop points. My trips, my crew. Bedard scratched his grizzled chin. Poulier, something is clearly wrong with this economy.

How do you mean?

Think of’t: If this works, each month we’ll make more in one night than what I clear from that same month of fishing, and I go out ‘most every day.

Never mind that. And don’t forget; all your drops will be to the north, and the north only. You’ll never have a trip to the south.

Why?

"Because ‘tis where my contacts are. And you’ll leave your real identity to home. Nothing matters more than your alias. Aboard La Belle Chienne y’are Capitaine Denez Ker’jean and y’are an innocent fisherman, out for an evening sail with your friends, testing your maritime skills."

I’m not stupid.

And if you do get boarded, jettison all.

Bedard frowned. You never said aught about that. ’Twould set us back and I’m already spleened at how long this will take. Besides; I’m the finest mariner in all Concarneau. I’ve never had to jettison a single thing. I’m not about to start now.

Have a care about that pride, mon Capitaine. I’ve had advice from … from someone more experienced in these matters.

Who? Someone from town?

No one you’d know. Just swallow your pride. You’re a contrebandier now, and they all jettison from time to time. ‘Tis the price they pay for not having a corsair contract with the government. You know Napoleon’s Criminal Code as well as I: To be caught with such cargo is evidence — and a three-year minimum sentence for you and your entire crew. If you want to save enough for your precious medisin then you’ll jettison if y’are boarded. ‘Twill probably never happen, yet on this we must agree. After all that I’ve invested I can’t afford discovery. And if y’are as good a mariner as you say, then you’ll never have to spleen about the Douane.

Enough of your lecture. This wouldn’t take as long if you’d share your half.

’Twill be my money and I’ll be the one decides what I do with it.

But you already have the Maer’s stipend from the town and the free house, and that will change not, for ‘tis in the charter. About this other income; you should throw in your share with us instead of spending it on fineries and the Mermaid. If you did, we’d have enough coin saved in one year instead of two, and we could all go back to being honest men all the sooner. If you helped, we could bring two medisins.

I don’t need one. I need profit and secrecy.

You’ve got it. And about the Douane: If the worst happens and we get arrested, you guarantee you’ll get us freed?

If you’re going to be a successful smuggler, you’ve got to stop asking so many questions. I agreed to bail you out, although’t galls me to say so; affiliating my name with the likes of common tars.

Bedard bit back a retort and instead replied, Just think of how ‘twill improve your image: The Maer taking sympathy on a poor lot of wrongly-accused sailors, paying their fines so they can go home to their families. Bedard lifted a corner of his mouth. Think of the votes.

Poulier replied, Ya; votes. But men’s memories are short. He shook his head. ’Tis a great deal of trouble that you’ve gone to; you could have borrowed from the bank, like so many other men in town. Or the moneylender. ‘Twould’ve been much simpler.

Bedard sighed in frustration. Were you not paying attention? I’d already considered that idea; had we borrowed, we’d’ve paid interest to either one, and part of that coin would’ve gone to Napoleon instead of putting it towards a medisin. Besides; on top of the interest on my loan, Napoleon charges the banks a fee for to lend in the first place. Yet another way to get his greedy fingers on more of our coin. Nann, Poulier; my way is the only way.

Very well. Poulier set his ivory-tipped walking stick against the Obelisk and spread his pudgy fingers on the names carved in the granite. Let us finish; I’m cold and thirsty. Now, swear.

What for?

Security.

Everyone knows my word is enough.

I’m not everyone. Swear to God, on Christmas Eve, here on this hallowed ground, that you’ll take this plan to your grave.

Poulier, y’are not religious.

"Ya, but you are."

Not since He took my Laora.

Poulier lifted an eyebrow. You’ve a strange way of showing’t; your entire family still attends every Sunday. Including Nicole-Marie.

And how would you know what my baby girl does?

I don’t. And in case you hadn’t noticed, she’s no baby any more.

Bedard peered at him in the mottled darkness. Stay away from her; y’are old enough to be her father.

The Maer furled his cloak. No matter; I said I don’t care.

Why not? Y’are saying she’s not good enough for you?

"Bedard, enough! Go on; swear or I leave – and take La Belle Chienne with me. Then see how long it takes you to find another partner."

Bedard muttered and set his worn, callused hand upon the granite edifice, filled with over two hundred years’ worth of names of sailors and fishermen lost at sea. I told you, Poulier; God and I are not on speaking terms. But if you insist, I’ll swear to something that’s truly holy. He patted the stone. I’ll swear to them.

TWO

Shock in Saint-Malo

A year later. Christmas Eve morning, 1803. A hundred twenty-five miles north-by-northeast from Concarneau, at the port town of Saint-Malo on the Breton coast that faced the English Channel, Douanier-Capitaine Berned LaMotte and his wife, Cecile-Marie, broke their fast with tea, bara, boiled eggs with fresh buckwheat crepes buttered and sprinkled with brown sugar. Madame LaMotte busied herself with the monthly fashion gazette and Capitaine LaMotte read the daily sailing paper, Le Journal Marine. He scanned first the weather report and then the tide tables, and then the shipping news. His eyes settled on the promotion and transfer notices. He stopped chewing and set down his fork. Cecile. Cecile-Marie!

Madame LaMotte did not look up from her dress magazine. Berned, dear, is Napoleon marching on Brittany?

What?

There’s no need to shout. Have some more tea.

Berned pointed to the notice. Did you see this?

She turned a page. You know I let you read the paper first, dear.

This — this notice. The douane promotions and transfers.

Tut. They’re posted as regular as the tide. I barely give them a glance, and hear the same news from my friends. What has you so spleened?

You know I hate it when you talk like a sailor.

Mantreton; too many conversations with my brothers, I suppose. You were saying something about the paper?

Er … yes. Look here. Seems your son has been promoted to Acting Capitaine —

How nice!

— Of the garrison in Concarneau.

She set down her magazine. What? Why not here? Cecile-Marie picked up her husband’s Journal Marine and scanned the news. Douanier-Capitaine LaMotte tore a heel of bara from the loaf. He chewed and muttered to himself while his wife continued to read. Berned, this is quite a surprise; how could you allow —

I didn’t. He compressed his mouth and smacked his palm on the table. The flatware rattled.

Husband, belay that temper; our home is not the Officer’s Mess.

How dare he? Insubordinate – Why, he went behind my back; must’ve applied and sat the examination without telling me. Deceitful … inexcusable — He threw his napkin on the table and bellowed, Peder! Peder Louis-Marie! Douanier-Lieutenant LaMotte! Front and center! Double time or I’ll have you flogged! A crash of plates sounded in the adjoining room, followed by muffled weeping.

Madame LaMotte added a dollop of honey to her tea and sipped. Good; I never liked that china pattern. You’ll be paying for a new set after Christmas. And I said to belay that temper.

I beg your pardon?

Cecile-Marie Vincente LaMotte was 39 years of age. She’d been Berned’s second wife for 22 years and knew that her 51-year old husband’s outbursts, while explosive, were temporary. She looked at him, still unknowingly turning heads at the wharf: tall, scarred and weather-beaten but handsome features, curly silver hair, vibrant indigo eyes – and uncomfortable without a rolling deck beneath his feet. She had learned how to handle these episodes with a firm yet gentle hand:

Berned, my dear, must I remind you again that y’are not aboard one of your vessels?

I don’t need a woman to tell me my coordinates, wife.

Further, I am not one of your raw recruits to be terrorized with your bellowing. And neither is Avia-Marie. You’ve scared that poor girl half to death. Now calm yourself, go in there and apologize. She tsked. Most like she’s trembling in the corner and thinking to seek employment elsewhere. I don’t want to lose her and neither do you; those are her crepes y’are wolfing down.

Douanier-Capitaine Berned LaMotte grumbled under his breath. Women.

Go on, Berned; the little dear is barely out of the orphanage. I know that deep in your heart, you didn’t mean to scare her. She patted his hand.

He ran his finger around his starched linen collar. Couldn’t you speak to her? Female to female, as ‘twere?

I’m not the one who has trouble keeping a maid in this house.

What’s her name again?

Avia-Marie, and have a care; she’s only three-and-ten. You have granddaughters older than she.

Poor mite. In truth, I did not know.

Berned, you should listen; I told you her situation when I hired her.

He grumbled, yet stood and walked to the doorway. Cecile watched in mild amusement as he paused and then returned to the table, reached for his dark blue tunic. It hung across the back of his chair, the buttons gleaming gold against red collar and facings. With automatic movements he straightened his white linen stock, donned the tunic, fastened the buttons, checked his battle ribbons and squared his shoulders. He reapproached the door. He smoothed his snowy moustache. He adjusted his gold captain fringe.

Cecile-Marie smiled in amusement. Berned, darling, get on with it. She’s a girl; not the English fleet.

He glanced at her. Times akin to these I’d face Nelson himself over an hysterical female.

If she is, it’s your fault and you must make it right.

He brushed an imaginary spot from his tunic. Damn this blue; I miss my dark green.

Go, she said.

He made his way into the adjoining room. His wife eavesdropped from the doorway as her husband spoke in a calming tone, Er … Avia-Marie, is’t? I … er … lovely name, eh? … Where —? Oh, there y’are. … Ya, do please come out of the corner. Don’t mind the plates; just between you and me? Madame LaMotte has been looking for a pretext to buy new ones for years. … She pointed out to me … that is to say … in my shock I may have … now, now … no need for tears … there’s a good girl … oh, blast … I’m not spleened at you, not at all. You did naught wrong, ‘tis just my way. … You’ll not leave, will you? Never have I eaten such perfect crepes. Why, they’d make the angels sing, they would, and that’s a fact. Madame LaMotte, she’s the envy of all the garrison wives because of you. Come now; forgive a grumbly old sailor? There’s a good child. He returned and resumed his seat at the table.

Cecile nodded in approval. Berned, y’are quite charming when you put your mind to’t. Now, as to our lad, Peder’s not home today. Remember? He left day before last. He assumed provisional command of Capitaine LeGrand’s contingent.

Why? Where’s LeGrand?

Sick Bay; took an English privateer’s bullet in the shoulder. The surgeon’s wife said he’ll likely make a full recovery, thank God. Our Peder’s leading LeGrand’s winter sea trials. Requested our lad personally. Quite a feather in his cap. Madame LeGrand says her husband is quite pleased with the reports.

Why didn’t LeGrand get one of his own subordinates?

Dear. Tomorrow’s Christmas; the entire garrison roster is thin of captains.

’Tis our leadership roster and maritime confidential. How’d you find out?

The Commodore’s wife told me. Peder will be back for Christmas dinner; he promised. She gestured her chin toward the Journal and patted her husband’s hand. ’Tis a surprise but I’m sure he had good reason.

At the mention of their son’s promotion, Berned LaMotte’s calm mood vanished. Y’are naïve.

I’m his mamm, she replied.

This is utter humiliation. A slap in the face. Three generations of Saint-Malo douaniers and my son — my only surviving son — transfers to a backwater akin to Concarneau.

How far away is’t?

Overland? A hundred-fifty miles, south-sou’west; by horse a fortnight if he takes to the main roads.

Only two weeks? ‘Tis a manageable trip for a young man.

"Ya, yet ‘tis rough and fraught with