Page 49 of A Fierce Wind

Erwan had just climbed up the manrope from the ship’s skiff, looking bedraggled from his days of hurried travel. “The morning I arrived,” he began, pausing to take a breath, “a contingent of republican soldiers was leaving the Palais de Justice with M’sieur West. I asked one of the crowd gathered to watch where they were going and was told ‘Paris’.” Erwan dropped his gaze, avoiding Zoé’s eyes. “I overheard one of the soldiers taunting Mr. West with the name la Conciergerie.”

Zoé closed her eyes, her heart sinking along with her hope. The Conciergerie, a medieval royal palace, now a prison, was one step from death. Its rat-infested dungeons were the oldest in France. The tales told of dirt, disorder and disease had given Zoé nightmares.

The turnkeys, often drunk, ruled over the prisoners with a pack of savage dogs, granting favors for food and a bed if the prisoners could pay the going rate. She had read one account of a survivor who dubbed the prison “the vast antechamber of the guillotine.”

Her mind still reeling, Zoé heard her uncle give the orders to set sail and the deck moved beneath her feet. “Come,” she said to Erwan, “we must ask mon oncle what can be done.” She would not give up what hope remained while Freddie yet lived.

In the capitaine’s cabin, her uncle, Erwan and Émile Bequel gathered to discuss Freddie’s situation.

“It is possible to bribe one’s way in,” said her uncle, “but not so easy to bribe one’s way out, particularly if one has a prisoner in tow. And you say, West is being held for Robespierre?”

“From what I was able to learn in Rennes,” offered Erwan, “Rossignol was sending M’sieur West to Robespierre as a kind of gift.”

“More like a sacrificial lamb to be slaughtered,” put in M’sieur Bequel.

Zoé cringed and he patted her hand. “Do not despair, little one. There is some good in what Rossignol has done. At least he has provided us time to intervene.”

“Time, yes,” her uncle said, “but not much. We must get to West before he is called before the Revolutionary Tribunal. The sentence would almost certainly be death to be swiftly carried out.”

“Are we sailing to Le Havre, Capitaine?” asked M’sieur Bequel.

“Oui, I have set a course for that port. It will take Rossignol’s men a week to get to Paris. We can make it there nearly in the same time if the wind is with us and we have a fast carriage from Le Havre.”

For the first time since Freddie had been taken, Zoé began to believe a rescue might be possible.

Her uncle pursed his lips, deep in thought, muttering to himself, “Oui, he might be of use…”

“Who, mon oncle?”

He looked up, his countenance brightening. “François de Dordogne, a lawyer in Paris who owes me his life. That is to say, I refrained from killing him when his betrayal gave me good cause.”

M’sieur Bequel nodded. “Oui, c’est parfait. He owes ye much, Capitaine.”

“Indeed. I still protect his secret. Most convenient for our purposes,” her uncle added, “I believe he is now working for the Committee of Public Safety.”