Tender the Storm (9 page)

Adoption.
He had said the word on impulse with no clear thought of what he was saying. He considered it now and decided that the idea was not without merit. If the child was alone in the world, there was no telling what might happen to her. He frowned, not best pleased by the drift of his thoughts.

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*
   
*

Everywhere there were refugees — people who had abandoned their property and means of livelihood in the hopes of finding some quiet corner of France where they might live without interference. Brittany and Normandy, for the moment, seemed to offer the only haven, relatively speaking.

Without passports, however, movement from city to city was almost impossible. But forgeries were easily come by. And for those who had both money and connections, commissioners could sometimes be bribed to provide the proper documents of authority. The possession of a passport was not, in itself, a guarantee of immunity. There were checkpoints at the exits to every city
And
it was here that men saw the ruin of all their hopes.

On the outskirts of Coutances, a roadblock had been set up. It was a familiar sight, but lost none of its menace for all that. Zoë could scarcely contain the sharp rise of terror which threatened to overcome her at such moments. It was not aristocrats who were hunted now. Most of those had long since perished or made their escape from France. It was survivors of the defeated Grand Army of the Vendee, or members of the wealthy mercantile class, or refractory priests who
practised
the old, proscribed religion, who had become the new enemies of the Revolution. The authorities were determined to purge the young republic of all subversive elements. Some of those in authority were assiduous in following their orders. Others were selective. And some few were lax. Zoë looked into the impassive face of the young captain who was on duty and wondered what she might expect.

"Everybody out."
His voice was clipped and held
the hard edge of authority. "You there, old man, get down off the box."

Inside the coach, Zoë's eyes flew to Rolfe. Without haste, he removed his letters of authority from the inside of his coat. The red cap, which he had taken to leaving off when they were on the road, was already on his head. He eased his way out of the carriage. Unsmiling, he held out his hand, and Zoë allowed him to help her down. One of the coachmen, the elder of the two, whom Zoë recalled went by the name of Housard, was climbing down from his perch. The younger man held the reins in his hands, keeping his team steady.

There was a slight drizzle falling, threatening to turn into sleet. People were huddled about miserably in groups while their papers were inspected. One man was arguing volubly as his wife and two young children looked on in unremitting despair. Their case did not look hopeful. In the fading light, shadows lengthened, casting a grotesque, unearthly appearance on the proceedings. The smell of fear seemed to pollute the atmosphere. Zoë tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.

Having scrutinized Rolfe's papers, the captain gave him the most negligent of salutes. In Zoë's eyes the omission was sinister. She was used to seeing the deputy treated with the utmost respect.

"Captain, a moment please."
The bored, faintly drawling voice belonged to Rolfe. "You're a newcomer, here, if I'm not mistaken?"

The captain stiffened perceptibly at the challenging tone. In the act of reaching for the coachman's papers, he hesitated.

Zoë could not be sure but she sensed that, in that
moment, an unspoken message passed between Rolfe and his coachman. Her heart skipped several beats when the captain spun on his heel and took the two strides which brought him level with the deputy.

An uneasy quiet descended as bystanders became conscious that something of some moment was taking place. And though no man in that sad crush wished his neighbor ill, no one was sorry that the spotlight had moved to the deputy and his party.

The two men who stood toe to toe were of an age. Both were meticulous in their dress, though one wore the uniform of the revolutionary army and the other was in civilian garb. The captain's bearing proclaimed that he was no untrained conscript, but was used to military discipline. The deputy's posture was deceptively indolent, and for that very reason commanded respect.

What the captain was to say in answer to Rolfe's question was never to be discovered. The young deputy put another question to him; this time, in accents that deceived no one. It was evident that the deputy considered himself the captain's superior.

"What's going on here?" he asked. "And I mean
precisely,
Captain. Has there been an attempt to storm the prison where they are holding Guery?"

"Guery?" repeated the captain. He knew of no Guery, though he did not reveal his ignorance. He was not quite sure where the deputy's authority ended and his own began. In the regular army, he knew the chain of command. The deputy was right about one thing. This was a new detail for him. And working with civilians, he had yet to determine his place in the hierarchy.

"Guery," bellowed the deputy, and began to pace impatiently. His jaw tightened as he took in the miserable huddle of people and the long line of vehicles which blocked the road to Coutances. He spun to face the captain. "By God, if your chaps have allowed Guery to escape in Commissioner Duhet's absence
— "

"Sir!
There has been no escape attempt. The town is quiet."

Rolfe pulled the gauntlets from his fingers and ran them through his hands, regarding the captain in simmering silence. At length, he said softly, "Then if it's not Guery, what the devil is going on? Why the long line-ups?
Why the delays?"

The captain, if anything, adopted a more rigid posture. "Sir, we have information that an English spy is making for the coast."

"An English spy?"

"A Frenchman, sir, a traitor who must not be allowed to fall into enemy hands.
Robespierre, himself, wishes to question him."

The name of Robespierre evidently evoked the deputy's respect.
"Nom de
Dieu
!"
he exclaimed. "Has France not enough to contend with? Civil war scarcely diverted! The whole of Europe against us! Spies! Is no one to be trusted? You did right, Captain, to stop my coach. Pray continue."

Far from being reassured by the deputy's sudden about-face, the Captain seemed uncertain of what he should do next. His eyes made a slow sweep of the groups of civilians and vehicles which blocked the road. He had it in his mind to allow the deputy and his party to take precedence over the others. A moment's reflection stayed the impulse. Commissioners and their deputies were sometimes fanatical in their subscription to the principle of equality. And the red cap on the deputy's head persuaded him that he was dealing with a fanatic. No, the deputy would not thank him for special favors. On the other hand, to delay him unnecessarily could prove most unpleasant.

Coming to a decision, the captain barked out an order, and the soldiers made hast to return passports to travelers before ordering them to proceed.

Zoë, at a curt nod from Rolfe, made to enter the coach. On an impulse, she turned and ran swiftly to the man who had been arguing his case
so
volubly as their own coach had drawn to a halt. At Zoë's approach, the daughter of the family, a child of no more than eight or nine summers, looked up. Like the rest of her family, she was painfully thin and dressed in pitiful summer garments.

"For you," said Zoë, and thrust her doll into the child's arms.

Joy fleetingly warmed those unrevealing eyes before their expression became guarded.

"I'm too old for dolls," said Zoë as the child flashed a questioning look at her father.

"Fleur!"
Rolfe's hand closed around Zoë's arm like a vise.

"I have nothing for the boy," she said miserably, and threw him a look of shameless appeal.

His answering look spoke volumes, but he dug into his pocket just the same and pressed something into the boy's hand before hoisting him into his father's arms. The man was effusive in his gratitude.

"And now,
ma petite fleur!"
Rolfe's hand grasped Zoë's elbow with a fair force. She stole a sideways glance at him, wondering if she had provoked him to anger by her impulsive act. She thought she must have done so. His jaw was set like granite.

He walked her back to the caleche in tight-lipped silence. When he addressed the captain, however, his mode was everything that was conciliatory.

"Your chaps are very sharply turned out, Captain. I'll give you that."

"Thank you, sir."

"They are on their toes, and no mistaking."

The captain's stance relaxed somewhat.

"Not much would get past them, I make no doubt."

"Thank you, sir."

"I know what you are thinking."

"Sir?"

With a flourish of one hand, the deputy indicated his own motley crew who, among the lot of them, could not have provided a complete uniform for one man, and that not belonging to any single regiment.

"Don't deny it, Captain." Amusement coated Rolfe's voice. "You professional soldiers look down your noses at these conscripts. I'm not finding fault with you. It's only natural. But may I say, Captain . . . what is your name, by the bye?"

"Mercier, sir."

"Well, may I say this, Captain Mercier? One of these days, these young men will be a force to be reckoned with throughout the world. And do you know why? I'll tell you why." The deputy had begun on a harangue that was evidently dear to his heart. No one dared answer his rhetorical questions. "Europe has never before seen their like. In the future, our French republican armies will prove invincible, and for a very simple reason. The rank and file, like these men here,
have
made France's cause
their
cause. They are not professional soldiers. They are patriots, Captain Mercier.
Patriots,
I say! Not merely the paid agents of corrupt governments."

The young men to whom the deputy referred sat straighter in the saddle, their shoulders squared, their expressions set in more heroic lines. Zoë was appalled to discover that, through sheer nerves, she was on the point of giving in to a fit of the giggles.

The captain's slow, assessing glance hid nothing of his
scepticism
.

"But I'm digressing," said the deputy. "You have your orders to follow, as I have mine. Well, get on with it, man!"

"Sir?"

"Our passports.
I believe you were on the point of examining them."

Self-consciously, the captain called over two of his lieutenants. Their examination of the proffered papers was of the most cursory
kind. Zoë was more
than a little relieved when
she was returned
to
the
carriage. To her dismay,
the
deputy
still dallied with
the
captain.

"Commissioner Duhet, he's gone to Paris,
I've been
given to understand?"