Chapter Twenty-Five
It began to rain, a stinging deluge. Driven by a fresh breeze it hit the deck like musket balls and they were soon ankle-deep in water. They were fast losing the fight, unable to bail fast enough.
Anthony made his way over the slippery deck and took his turn at the tiller. A wet lock of hair straggled into his eyes. He took off the hated red hat and swiped his hair back. What he wouldn’t give for a haircut, a barber, and a hot bath. He hoped Christian was right about the smugglers. Would they accept payment once they’d reached Portsmouth? And he worried about taking Henrietta and Verity into a den of thieves.
He was also concerned for Philippe who wouldn’t be able to walk far. He’d carry him if need be. And Verity had not said she would remain in England. She might wish to return to France, and if she did, he wouldn’t stand in her way. Power was constantly changing hands in the Republic, and Danton would soon have concerns of his own to deal with.
Hungry, wet, and tired, they shared the rest of the food. Another uncomfortable night on board dragged by, everyone too exhausted to sleep. Not much was said; they were nervous about the next stage of their journey. Perhaps the most dangerous part of all.
The rain stopped as they reached the mouth of the river and dropped anchor. Ahead lay Le Havre.
“That’s the path we’ll take.” Christian pointed to the rough trail disappearing over a grassy hill.
Eager to set foot on solid ground, Henrietta and Verity removed their shoes, gathered up their skirts and waded ashore. Verity afforded Anthony a reviving view of her pretty legs as he assisted Philippe from the boat.
Christian pulled up the anchor, slipped over the side and pushed the boat free of the bank. “No sense in revealing the spot where we left the boat,” he said. “I’ll leave these red woolen caps on board and they can draw their own conclusions.”
Anthony didn’t give a damn what happened to the boat. He hoped it would soon sink to the bottom. François could rot in hell as far as he was concerned.
They began their hike. The clouds had cleared, and the sun on their backs was welcome, steaming their wet clothes. The trail skirted Honfleur, meandering through the fields. Philippe trudged beside them, his breathing labored.
After two hours, at the top of a hill, the Channel stretched out before them. Below was a cove, a small sandy bite out of the coastline. The waters of the channel looked gray and choppy, the horizon a misty smudge. No sign of a boat, or the smugglers. Anthony caught Christian’s eye. Then he turned to assist Philippe, who seemed to be close to collapse.
“I can see England,” Henrietta cried, shielding her eyes with a hand.
“So near and yet so far,” Philippe murmured.
Anthony winked reassuringly at him as they climbed down.
“The smugglers’ hut is south of here,” Christian said. “I’ll go and find them.”
Henrietta took his hand. “I’ll come with you.”
“No sweetheart. Stay here with your father. He’d only worry about you.” Christian pulled the pistol from his coat pocket and shoved it into the top of his breeches. He strode toward the far headland.
They watched him climb the rocky cliff. At the top, he turned, waved, and disappeared.
Henrietta sat near her father. “Is it dangerous?”
“He’s a capable fellow. Try not to worry, Hetta.”
Anthony wished he could soothe her like he did when she was small. When her mother had died, he’d put aside his own grief to care for her. Now he was as helpless as she. He put one arm around her, and the other around Verity, drawing them against him. Philippe nodded sympathetically from the shade of a rock.
They waited.
An hour passed and then another. The sun was high in the sky. In a few hours they’d lose the daylight. Impossible to remain here long without food or shelter. Anthony’s throat was dry. They had no fresh water. What would they do if Christian failed to return? The women and Philippe couldn’t walk to Le Havre. He would have to go alone.
“Look!”
At Henrietta’s cry Anthony raised his head. She was on her feet, dancing and pointing. A three-mastered fishing boat came around the point under full sail. As it sailed close to shore Anthony made out a familiar figure. Christian was at the rail his hand raised. Anthony gasped and swallowed, relief threatening to make his voice crack. “He’s found them.”
***
Henrietta stood at the rail beside Christian, gazing out over the rolling waves to where the English coast loomed ever closer. She was thankful that Christian and her father remained close beside her and Verity. The sailors’ heated glances frightened her. They might have other plans for them. Only the promise of more money held them in check. Her fears eased at the sight of land. The tall, brave, and capable man at her side would soon be her husband. The very sight of him took her breath away. She was eager to experience married love and share his thoughts and dreams for their future.
Portsdown Hill and the gray stone walls of Portchester Castle looked reassuringly familiar. The smugglers’ boat moored off Portsmouth Harbour. The captain, a beefy man with a gold ring in his ear, his face reddened by sun, wind, and wine, demanded one of them remain on board until their passage was paid for.
Her father refused to agree.
