Page 3 of Echo in the Wind

She urged her mare to a canter, mindful of the tasks awaiting her. Tomorrow, Richard would host a reception for the Prime Minister and she must be ready. William Pitt’s Tories had won the general election, a cause for great celebration. Many in London’s nobility would attend. Her brother, the Earl of Torrington, would not be pleased if his hostess were ill prepared.

“Make ready to sail!” Jean Donet shouted, giving Émile a look that spoke of the need for haste. Jean would not linger offshore of Bognor with revenue cutters prowling the waters of the Channel.

“To Chichester Harbor, Capitaine?” asked Émile, raising a thick russet brow.

At Jean’s curt nod, Émile bellowed over the heads of the crew, “Cross the headsails! On the fore, wear ’round and brace sharp!”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the lines surged and the sails flew to their new positions on the port side. Billowing and snapping taut, they emerged into the perfect white curves of a well-trimmed rig.

Jean shared a pleased look with his quartermaster as la Reine Noire turned her head and swiftly gathered way, white foam flowing out from under the carved queen on her bow. There was nothing Jean liked so much as being free of the land.

Now that they were under way, he turned to his second mate, Lucien Ricard. The tall sailor was easily identified by his red knit cap and the stray white hairs trying to be free of it. “M’sieur Ricard, take the helm, s’il vous plaît, and set a course to Chichester Harbor.”

“Oui, Capitaine.” Lucien acknowledged the order in a clipped tone as he headed to the quarterdeck. “South around Selsey Bill, then due west till we fetch Hayling Light.”

Jean turned to Émile. “Join me for a drink? Our English friends did not get all the brandy we carry. I’ve a cask of cognac held in reserve.”

Émile grinned and followed Jean down the aft companionway to his cabin, his home when he was at sea. He had named his ship the Black Queen for Marie Antoinette’s spendthrift ways. But no matter her name, Jean loved his brig and knew well every creak emanating from her timbered decks, every sound whispered from the shrouds. Lorient might claim the place as his home, but his ship had his heart.

The captain’s cabin was not so elegantly appointed as his hillside home in Lorient or his townhouse in Paris, but it contained all he needed: his charts, his nautical instruments, his books, his weapons and a fine mahogany shelf bed with a velvet cover the same blue as the French royal flag.

Jean stepped over the threshold, his eyes alighting on his cabin boy, Gabriel Chastain, who was busy freshening the finery Jean would don tomorrow. Then he must appear the nobleman he had been forced to become.

“Gabe, two glasses of cognac.”

The lad dipped his head. “Oui, Capitaine.” Brushing dark curls from his plump cheeks, Gabe darted to where the glasses and a flat-bottomed flagon of cognac rested on a fenced tray in the center of the pedestal table.

Gabe had joined the ship during the years Jean had been a privateer in the American War. To his great pleasure, the lad had the instincts of a gentleman’s valet de chambre and catered to Jean’s standards.

Along with the rest of his crew, Gabe had stayed on after the end of the war. A little smuggling on the side in defiance of the English authorities allowed the ship’s company the excitement they once knew, and the extra coin kept them content.

When they were not on the ship, many of them lived in Lorient, la Reine Noire’s home port in Brittany.

Jean pulled his pistol from his waist and took off his sword. Setting both on the table, he accepted the glass Gabe handed him.

The cat that had been lounging on Jean’s bed jumped to the deck, sauntered to Jean’s chair and leapt into his lap. He idly stroked the animal’s black fur. Franklin began to purr.

Émile dropped into the chair beside him. “Ye’ve a way with cats, Capitaine.”

Jean gazed down at the cat whose golden eyes were now closed. “Why, I cannot imagine. I do nothing to encourage them.” The feline’s purr became loud and rhythmic, ebbing and flowing like the tide.

“I remember the day he followed ye through the streets of Lorient and back to the ship as if ye had summoned him.” Émile’s mouth twitched up on one side. “Are ye sure ye do not carry a magical pipe?”

Jean chuckled. “The Pied Piper called rats, mon ami, not cats.”

“Eventually he called children, non?”

“So he did. But only for revenge on those who refused to pay him his due. I can hardly blame him. In Franklin’s case, I am certain it was cream he wanted when he followed me. He manipulates Cook to get his daily ration as surely as Benjamin Franklin manipulated France into giving him millions. The cat is clever, which is why I gave him the name. Even the most ruthless of my men save the animal bits of fish. He’s well on his way to becoming as rotund as his namesake.”

The cat pressed his ear into Jean’s hand. He obliged the animal by giving it a scratch.

Émile took a draw on his brandy. “Yer mention of Dr. Franklin reminds me. I heard the American has become a champion of that huge air balloon we saw floating over the Tuileries.”

Jean remembered the giant balloon from the last time he was in Paris. It was all anyone talked about.

“M’sieur Charles manned that one himself. ’Twas a courageous act. Now that America has her freedom, Dr. Franklin will be looking for things to occupy his mind. I can understand why the inventor would have great interest in M’sieur Montgolfier’s curious balloons.”

The faint moonlight coming through the stern windows drew Jean’s attention as it often did. He tossed the cat from his lap and crossed the cabin, barely noticing the rolling of the ship beneath his feet.