Voyage of a Legacy

By T C Sutton

Renowned fencing master Napier Gerard has been enjoying an opulent existence amidst the gaming clubs and coffee houses of late 18th‑century Paris, but this is about to change. Exiled from his native England and isolated by his reputation as a deadly duellist, he finds himself increasingly threatened by powerful enemies on both sides of the Channel. At the same time, the threat of terror and revolution is looming over France. It becomes clear to Napier that, to survive, he must flee to the American colonies. However, fate disrupts Napier's plans, thrusting him into a series of perilous adventures. While he has the good fortune to be accompanied by the steadfast Will Styles, whose skill with a bow matches Napier's with a sword, his ingenuity and courage are tested to their limits as he and Will navigate the dangers of the American wilderness. Napier soon finds himself unwillingly entangled in a colonial war, struggling not only against wild animals but also involved in battles that he never sought. Unbeknownst to him, his decision to escape France will lead him repeatedly to confront death itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035841769

T C Sutton

Born in the town of Nantwich, Cheshire, the author has lived most of his life in the city of Wrexham, North Wales. He was educated at the Wrexham Technical College, and his working life involved chemical engineering construction and then aircraft manufacturing. From the age of seventeen onward, he has had a lifetime of interest in the sport of fencing, taking part in competitions from a teenager to the age of sixty. He has spent many years on the organisation side of the sport, serving as Chairman of the Chester Fencing Club and Competition Secretary of the Cheshire Schools Fencing Association. Now in retirement, he follows a much gentler hobby: Secretary of the Garden Village Fête Committee, involved in the running of the local fête.

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Cover of Voyage of a Legacy by T C Sutton

Born in the town of Nantwich, Cheshire, the author has lived most of his life in the city of Wrexham, North Wales. He was educated at the Wrexham Technical College, and his working life involved chemical engineering construction and then aircraft manufacturing.

From the age of seventeen onward, he has had a lifetime of interest in the sport of fencing, taking part in competitions from a teenager to the age of sixty. He has spent many years on the organisation side of the sport, serving as Chairman of the Chester Fencing Club and Competition Secretary of the Cheshire Schools Fencing Association.

Now in retirement, he follows a much gentler hobby: Secretary of the Garden Village Fête Committee, involved in the running of the local fête.

T C Sutton

Voyage of a Legacy

Copyright © T C Sutton 2024

The right of T C Sutton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035841752 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035841769 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Does each one of us through the journey of life

Carve out our future with our labour and strife,

Or is there some vast eternal scheme

Set out by some celestial being,

Waiting at birth for each woman and man

To set first foot on their predestined plan?

Deprived of choice, they must follow their fates

To the end of their lives where destiny waits.

Foreword

Napier Gerard: professional gambler, fencing master and socialite, born in England but now exiled to live in eighteenth century Paris. A man well-liked by his peers, although universally feared for his deadly reputation as a duellist, the owner of a well patronised fencing school, he can be easily recognised by his predilection for wearing the latest fashions of the day, also for the fact that he is never seen without a most unusual, magnificently crafted sword. This weapon, once owned by his adopted father, himself a famed duellist and renowned swordsman, Napier prized this above all things, as it was the only legacy his father was able to bequeath to him.

In his late teens he was forced to leave England with a substantial price on his head after killing the duke who had caused the death of his father. France, once a place of refuge for him, was fast becoming a dangerous country for him to live in. Without knowing his assailant’s identity, he had killed a man in a duel, a man who was a leading figure in a powerful, subversive organisation dedicated to the overthrow of the French Monarchy, thereby setting back their cause by many years. With the political situation becoming increasingly turbulent and the organisation’s assassins after his blood, he made the decision to flee to the North American Colonies. He had hoped to slip aboard a ship about to cross the Atlantic and spend a pleasant three to four weeks’ voyage before docking in the port of Boston, where he would manage a company dealing in the export of tea. However, the best laid plans can oft-times go astray. Fate would step in to alter the plot; it would be many months before he was to see Boston.

He would have to make hard decisions, face difficulties and trials and become a traveller and adventurer before finally entering Boston to discover he had arrived right in the middle of a Colonial war. Being a French citizen, he had no intention of taking sides, opting to be neutral and taking no part in the conflict. Fate, however, as always, had other ideas. In order to save the life of a good friend, he was forced to forgo his neutrality and attempt a dangerous rescue mission.

With the war over and the North American Colonies settling down to be an independent country, his hopes for a peaceful life at last are once again shattered when the spectre of an old enemy arises to threaten his very existence, pushing his powers of survival to their very limits.

Chapter 1

The Start of a Journey

Napier Gerard was feeling on top of the world. He had just dismissed a master class of aspiring fencers and was more than pleased with their progress; it was not often that you gathered together a group who showed genuine flair and the potential to become skilled competent swordsmen. More often than not, he would be wasting his time trying to pass on his skills to clumsy incompetents whose chances of mastering even the basics of swordsmanship were zero. If you got them to the stage where they could walk into a drawing room wearing a court sword without getting it wrapped between their legs, that was about all you could hope for. Therefore a whole class who showed signs of becoming skilled in the art of swordsmanship was an achievement, a credit to himself as a master and the fencing school he owned. However, he had to take the wheat with the chaff. After all, a fencing school in eighteenth-century Paris was an essential part of a gentleman’s education: eventually, anyone possessing wealth and status would pass through its doors.

Taken as a whole, Napier was more than content with his life, he had enjoyed the morning and the afternoon showed signs of being equally pleasant, a visit to his tailor to put the finishing touches to a suit he was having made, then a sweep through the gaming rooms to win enough to pay for it. That was the course of action he had in mind, however fate as often as not would have other plans mapped out for you, he was about to take his leave of the school when a messenger arrived with a note from François Faubert, saying that Faubert wished to see him urgently. François Faubert, lawyer and businessman by appearance, but in reality a shadowy spy master controlling a vast network of agents throughout Europe, was not a man to ask to see you without good reason. He did not do social niceties; therefore, Napier, who was secretly employed by Faubert as a professional duellist, knew that a request to see him was in truth a demand.

Knowing he had little choice, Napier cancelled his appointment with the tailor, abandoned his plans for an afternoon’s gambling then took a sedan chair to the banks of the Seine, where he hired a ferry to the house in the Faubourg district where the lawyer lived. Wending his way skilfully through the heavy commercial traffic on the river, the ferryman made short work of the journey, eventually pulling alongside the jetty at the bottom of the large, well-tended gardens belonging to the house. Being a frequent visitor, Napier was well acquainted with the route, making his way through the trees and along the side of the house until he came to the imposing frontage with its lawns and long double driveway, designed to allow coaches to pull up to the front door and move away without turning. After ascending the steps and nearing the front door, he was not surprised to see it open, well before he was within knocking distance. A liveried footman stood there, greeting him by name and inviting him to enter. No one ever approached this house unobserved.

Even though he could have found his way blindfolded, he still had to endure the ritual of following the footman at a sedate pace through the many ornately decorated corridors until they reached Faubert’s study, where his presence was formally announced. As he entered, the lawyer stepped forward to greet him shaking him warmly by the hand.

Napier, my boy, good to see you! I have been wanting to have a word.

For a man who was known, and sometimes feared, by the rich and powerful throughout France, the lawyer was not a particularly imposing figure. Of medium height and slightly built, he scorned the peacock fashions, the flamboyant silks and satins worn by men of his status, preferring the dark, sober apparel worn by clerks or men of the cloth. Even the powdered wigs worn universally by men of all status he had no time for, preferring to tie his jet-black hair in a bunch at the back of his neck. Many the time was that he had been taken for a servant, a fact that he seemed to enjoy rather than resent. Possibly it suited him that his outward appearance hid the fearsome intellect that lurked behind that less than imposing image he presented to the world.

Faubert took his place behind his desk gesturing for Napier to take a seat opposite. I asked you to come here, Napier, because I have task for you. There are some papers I want you to collect. They are of vital importance: it is imperative that they do not get into the wrong hands. You are the only one who I can trust with this mission. I cannot stress too strongly how important this is to both you and me. France is heading for a terrible turmoil, a battle between the ruling classes and those who would see the end of the monarchy. No one can foresee its outcome. I for my part play a dangerous game: I run with both the fox and the hounds. The only thing I know for certain is that whoever nails his colours to the wrong mast, ending up on the losing side, he is doomed. That is why I play both ends against the middle, hoping that when the battle is done I can then choose my side. A risky and precarious strategy: one that could easily blow up in my face, but the only way to come out of it all unscathed. These papers in the wrong hands could expose me: that is why you must keep them safe. Deliver them to me and only me. No one else must see them.

Napier nodded in agreement. He had heard the rumours of civil unrest but had not given them much credence. After all, he moved socially in the upper echelons of society, where none of his friends or acquaintances seemed to be overly concerned. But now that a man like François Faubert was issuing dire warnings, you had to take it seriously.

I understand the serious nature of what you are asking of me and will take every precaution, where do I collect these papers from? Napier asked.

A hint of a smile passed over the lawyer’s features, for he knew well the reaction his answer would provoke. I want you to collect them from someone you know well and an area you are well acquainted with, the Prioress of Mulgrove at Mulgrove Priory.

Napier sat bolt upright in his chair. Mulgrove Priory! That is in England. I am still wanted for robbery and murder. There is a price on my head: if they catch me, they will hang me.

Faubert calmed him down with a wave of his hand. Do not worry. I have arranged a new identity for you a disguise that has stood you well in the past. You will be Phillippe L’Estoile, a traveller and dealer in brandy and fine wines. I have clothing suitable for such a man and a travel bag already packed with everything you will need. In this valise are travel documents, paperwork and receipts proving where you have been and deals you have done over the past five years. With this paperwork, you will be able to prove your identity beyond any doubt: I can guarantee they will stand up under any scrutiny. You will be the representative of some of the finest vineyards in France: even people who know you well will be fooled by it, seeing their recognition as a case of mistaken identity. I have of course had the coat cut in such a way that it hides that sword of yours as much as is possible. I know it is a pointless exercise to try to persuade you to leave it behind, but it is the one doubtful part of your disguise: the weak link that could possibly betray you.

Napier put his hand on the ornate hilt. Unquestionably Faubert spoke the truth: it was a unique weapon, not the type of sword a man who made his living selling fine wines would own. But Napier could not bear to be parted from it. With a blade of Damascus steel, it had been created for his father by a far Eastern swordsmith, who considered it his masterpiece and as such never made another sword in his lifetime. This was the legacy left to Napier by his father and he would rather die than be parted from it. However, he was well aware of the possibilities of betrayal it represented. Among those who appreciated fine weaponry, it was quite famous; many people, including his enemies, could identify him as its owner. To take it with him on this trip was a serious risk, and well he knew it. Jacques, his father, had always carried it with honour; he could do no less or, as he saw it, suffer the disgrace of abandoning it for no other reason than craven fear.

Faubert oversaw Napier’s transformation from Parisian socialite to a humble wine-seller, checking every item in minute detail, until finally he pronounced himself satisfied. Excellent, my boy: you will pass any scrutiny – apart from that sword, of course. The last phrase he said with a sniff and lift of the eyebrows, unable to keep a hint of disapproval out of his voice.

Napier chose to ignore the slight against his beloved sword, picked up the travel bag and prepared to leave. Faubert took him by the hand, wishing him good luck: My coachman will drive you within a few miles of Le Havre but not all the way. You must take a public coach for the last few miles. It would not do for a travelling salesman to arrive at the port in a luxury coach; it would look suspicious, to say the least.

On arrival at the port, Napier decided against booking an inn for the night. The day was yet young; it made more sense to go straight to the water front to seek a ship sailing on the tide, bound for Dover.

This turned out to be a sound plan, for without too much trouble he found a passenger packet about to sail on the afternoon tide. All being well, he would be in Dover by late evening, in good time to find a decent inn for the night.

With a fair wind behind her, the packet made good time and Napier found himself disembarking at the quayside feeling well pleased with the way the trip was going. The port officials gave no more than a cursory glance at his credentials, directing him to a coaching inn where he could stay the night and book a ticket for the London Coach leaving first thing in the morning. The inn proved to be comfortable and welcoming: oak beams, log fires, well patronised with people preparing to take the long trip by coach to the capital. They seemed to be a merry bunch, sitting around quaffing tankards of ale and smoking long churchwarden pipes. Napier ordered a meal of roast mutton with vegetables and a chunk of crusty bread, a touch on the coarse side for his French chef-educated pallet. However, it turned out to be well cooked and, despite his doubts, surprisingly enjoyable. After his meal, he spent a couple of hours chatting with the customers, all of whom wanted to discuss the relative pleasures of French wine as opposed to English ale, a subject that never came to a satisfactory conclusion. However, it passed the time and served a useful purpose in proving his credentials as a wine merchant.

After a good night’s sleep, the following morning found Napier sitting in the London coach, squashed between two rather portly gentlemen who never stopped talking, although neither seemed interested in what the other was saying. On the opposite seats was a rather large lady with her rather thin daughters. One of whom, when finding that Napier was a merchant trading in fine wines, decided that she would like to know all about vineyards and the growing of grapes. This gave Napier some uncomfortable moments; he could discuss fine wines with the best of them, but how it got into the bottle and what happened to it prior to arriving at the table was a mystery he had never bothered to unravel. This lack of knowledge was the soft underbelly of the charade he was playing, and the girl kept probing at it. It was doubtful that she was doing any other than making conversation, but nevertheless Napier was very glad when the track under the speeding coach began to get rough, resulting in a rather uncomfortable ride for the passengers. Conversation tends to dry up when you are flung from pillar to post, with your one concern being to remain in your seat and not get thrown onto the other occupants.

Riding a coach and six over unmade roads, with the driver on a tight schedule, cannot be said to be a pleasant comfortable experience, certainly not one you would want to do as a hobby. However, all things come to an end: eventually they arrived in the capital, with the guard enthusiastically blowing his post horn in a triumphant announcement of their presence well under the scheduled time of arrival. Napier disembarked from the coach, looking around to get his bearings. It had been some time since he been here, but he was familiar with the layout of the city; a short walk down a side-street would bring him into a square where the traders gathered. Within a few hundred yards beyond the square was a coaching inn where he knew a coach would leave in the direction of Mulgrove Priory, dropping him off at a village where he could hire a trap and driver to take him to his destination. He could have taken a sedan chair but decided to walk. He did not intend to stay the night in the capital and as such would not have the time to stop for a meal. However, there would be a muffin man or pie seller in the square where he would be able to purchase food to consume on the coach – assuming, of course, that he had not missed it.

Napier arrived at the square to scenes of panic. People were leaving as fast as they could; traders were gathering up their wares and disappearing. Everywhere, a warning cry on everyone’s lips: the dreadful word, Mohocks! The square was emptying very quickly, and with good reason: the Mohocks were gangs of young men who derived their name from a tribe