Men of War

By Lou Faulkner

Two nations at war. Two enemies, with more in common than they know. A swift ship, and stars to sail her by. How can Captain Henry Noble and Christophe, Comte de St-Denys, chart a safe course through the shoals of eighteenth-century politics and social norms to find a safe anchorage together? A tale of action, adventure and romance on the high seas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: satis fiction
• Release date: Dec 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201746445

Book preview

Chapter 1

June 1759

A gleam across the dark water showed where the shore lay - more specifically, where the British outpost kept watch over this remote sea-loch.  Nowhere on this west coast of the Highlands was entirely free of their vigilance, but the Jeanne, fast and handy as she was, had a better chance of escaping detection than the frigate which had accompanied her from France, and which now waited for her beyond the chain of islands to the west.

Christophe, Comte de St-Denys, was sitting in the stern of the Jeanne's chaloupe, watching as the last of the small iron-bound caskets was lowered down to them.  Though sturdy, the little boat at once settled lower.  A man in the bows pushed off, the oars dipped, and they were on their way across the chilly water.

He pulled his cloak closer around his thin frame.  The sky opened out above him as they left Jeanne's side, but only the faint ghost of a new moon showed through the clouds; it was the perfect night for this undertaking, though he missed his familiar friends the stars.  But as the son of a Scottish mother, he had been long familiar with the mist and rain, fog and cloud that enveloped these northern waters, and they could not wish for a better night than this for the task at hand.

A steady churning sounded from the open sea, even through the muffling effect of the damp night - unlike the wash of waves closer to hand in that it never ceased.  From that direction too came a swell that travelled slowly in from his left, lifted the boat with ease for all the weight of the treasure securely stowed amidships, and ran on to the military camp at the head of the loch.

A sudden flurry of deep breaths came from the water nearby, and Christophe's eyes had adjusted so well to the dark that he could make out the shape of three or four dolphins as they passed close by, and he could hear the sound of their passage.  They kept station with the chaloupe for a while, their liquid roil and splash forming a counterpoint to the steady stroke of the oars, and then turned northward, speeding beyond the chaloupe's capacity to keep pace.  And from that direction also came the cry of a shore-bird, its melancholy call drifting across the water - though Christophe knew it was no bird that was calling them in to the shore.

There are the lights!  A whisper came back from the bows, and indeed they could just be made out, pinpricks against the dark bulk of the hills.  Duval, at the tiller, steered towards them, and the oarsmen settled to their work.

A jagged, tooth-like shape loomed at Christophe's left hand; another slid by on the other side, and they were almost there.  A narrow little inlet opened to receive them, smelling of wet seaweed.  Every man who was not rowing had his musket at the ready; Christophe had his pistol within reach.

Pictor.  The password was softly spoken, but clear across the water.  It was David Maclean's familiar voice.

Fornax, Christophe replied.  They were constellations of the southern skies, named during his year at the Cape.  No-one else on this coast would know of them.

A soft flurry of movement on the shore, and half a dozen men unfolded themselves from their various hiding places among the low trees and bushes that ran down among the rocks.  The chaloupe's nose grated on the shingle of the tiny beach.  Duval was over the side, the boat lurching as its crew followed him.  Christophe clambered after them.

David!

In the shadows Christophe could make out a familiar loose-limbed figure: David MacLean of Creagmore.  He held out his hands, and David took them in a strong grasp.  He could barely see David's face against the dim sky, but knew he was smiling.  Behind him the sound of the men unloading the caskets went unnoticed, save for a stifled oath or two.

I thought you might be here, but didn't count on it.  They were talking English now, as least likely to be understood by their men if overheard.

Nothing could keep me away, you know that! And we've an excellent place to hide it.  The clasp of David's hands spoke volumes, but Christophe, reluctantly, loosened his grasp. 

That's good.  That's very good.  You need to see the gold first, but take us there as soon as may be, yes?

Of course.  David let his hands go and brought the lantern closer to the little stack of caskets.  Christophe produced the keys and the hasps were unlocked and flung back.  Quickly David opened each of the small leather bags therein; the gold gleamed under his fingers as he counted the contents of several of them, looking up in the end to say, It's all here, Christophe, I have no doubt.  Let's be away.  He got up, and turned away to wave at someone waiting at the top of the foreshore.  There was a group of small, shaggy ponies there, and a shadowy figure holding them.

They scrambled up the slope, and David said, Margaret!  Come and meet Christophe.

She was a tall young woman, her face barely visible; but he could just make out her smile. He took her hand and kissed it.  At last - after all these months of hearing about you!

I've heard no less about you, Comte!  You'd think there was never another man in France.

All those months of conspiracy and negotiation in Paris, while the details of French aid against the British were worked out!  He had heard so much then about David's tower-house on the west coast, and the sister who waited there for his return.  Three months ago David had indeed returned, ready to receive the French gold for safekeeping - and that very likely meant the end of the affair which had warmed Christophe's heart and bed these last two years.

Not just yet, though; not quite.  There might be other nights, now and then. The alliance between France and Scottish Catholics like the MacLeans was still strong.

David was saying, We're ready to go, Christophe, and indeed the ponies were marshalled in a gully leading to the higher ground.  The boat was moored close under the rocks; two of its crew had climbed further up the heathery slopes to keep watch.  Christophe left Margaret and took his place at the end of the little baggage-train.

*

The path was deeply-carven into the peat of the slope.  Boulders reared up here and there on either side, and there were rabbit-holes too, and the grunting calls of birds that scuttled away into the darkness.  Christophe nearly put his foot down one of the burrows, but grew more wary, and concentrated on where he was going rather than on the constraint he thought he had heard in David's voice.  It had been months, after all; it was not to be wondered at if the fires had cooled. And David was in the prime of life, not passing its peak like himself. So mused Christophe as he trudged up the steep, difficult path that rose before him.

David was at the head of the line, and his sister just behind him, both of them very sure of their way.  After what seemed like an interminable time, but was probably only twenty minutes or so, they halted beside a tumbledown ruin out of which sprang a sapling tree.

This is the place.  David's voice came out of the shadows.  Christophe, a little out of breath, for he was unused to so much hard climbing on land, came to a halt beside him.  The gleam of a lantern showed him two of David's men busy at a flat stone in the floor of the ruin; a crowbar inserted under one corner, a rock kicked into place as a fulcrum, and the slab rose far enough for a rope to be passed under it.  Then it was a matter of slinging a block from the tree's branches, and the slab was soon near-vertical and made secure; and under it, an inky gap, into which King Louis' treasure was passed.  Then the slab was lowered again.  One of the men scuffed soil and grass and heather over it.

That's done, then.  David was suddenly back at Christophe's side.  Back to the house.  We'll get the ponies stabled, and I'll need to sign any papers you have for me.

Christophe was acutely aware of David's warmth beside him.  He quietly agreed, but with Margaret close by taking the reins of one of the ponies, he did no more than that.

The little group left the ruined cottage and, lightly laden as the ponies now were, made quicker time along the hillside.  David's house was a squat tower dimly outlined against the water's reflected light on a headland to the east, overlooking the stretch where the loch narrowed before striking into the heart of the mountains.  David's ancestors had held it for centuries, squabbling among themselves, occasionally uniting against a greater foe, usually the English.  Christophe had gathered that it was the centre of David’s being.

They reached it before another half-hour had passed, and gained the shelter of its western wall with some relief, for the short summer night of the north was passing quickly.  They could not take the morning tide, for it would be broad daylight by then, so were to wait in the tower-house of Creagmore until the next evening.

David's men took the ponies to some rough sheds at the back of the tower, where the slope of the hillside eased a little, and David led the way up a wooden staircase to a dim archway a storey above ground level.  A raftered chamber to one side held a scatter of chairs and tables, a little shabby-looking in the gloom, but he led them instead into the great kitchen, quiet and chilly except for a fire in the grate.  A deerhound stirred in front of it, raising its head to look at its master.  A couple of women servants were busy, warming beer or some such drink for the men; there was bread and bacon on the table.

There's space for the men to sleep in the attics.  They'll be safe enough there for the day.  You can leave tomorrow dusk.

Christophe nodded, and took a sip of his beer.  David smiled at his expression. 

Come up to my study, and I'll sign those papers before we go to our rest.  Margaret, will you and Mrs Mackay see the men settled?

Of course, she replied, and turned away. 

David led Christophe back to the entrance-hall and up a stair in its corner that twisted into darkness.  The candle-flicker lit rough stone, shuttered windows, and panelling as it reached a landing; David opened a low door in this and they went through into his study.  Small, wood-panelled also, it held a desk, a book-case, and a couple of chairs.  In a corner was a hidden cupboard, from which he produced a bottle and a couple of small, chased glasses.  Christophe raised his eyebrows at the thistles engraved upon them.

Oh, I know, laughed David, but the redcoats won't find them, I promise you that!  And before long, we won't have to worry about them at all, isn't that true?

I hope so, responded Christophe gravely, watching as David poured amber liquid into each glass.

Mead, from our own bee-hives.  To the Cause!

The Cause, he responded.  The mead was fragrant and he sipped it slowly, enjoying its sweet slide over his tongue, then set his glass down.  You were right when you said there would be papers to sign.  He reached into his breast pocket, and brought out the Marquis de Choiseul's notes; David spread them out in the light of the candle, nodding and making little sounds of assent.  He signed the last of them, and returned the sheaf to Christophe.

All done, then.  We'll be ready, come next year.

I'm glad of it. 

You will come back then?

If I am sent.  No-one else can pilot the fleet, or so they say, but...

Yes.  But.  David's dark eyes were avoiding his, flickering here and there, to other legal-looking papers on his desk, to a map of his estate, to an open account book.  "Christophe.  I must talk to you, mon cher."

And it was at that point that Christophe knew it was over between them.

I hardly know how to say this - it's been hanging over me for so long -

This is farewell, is it not?

I'm to be married in three months' time; the articles have been drawn up and only await my signature.

Who is the lady?  Christophe was surprised at the steadiness of his voice, though the words seemed to come from a distance.  His eyes filled briefly with tears; he blinked them away on the instant.

A widow; she married a lawyer of Edinburgh and he was well-to-do.  But she's a fancy to return to her own country now, and would like well enough to be Lady Creagmore and mistress of an estate.  So we'll get along, she and I.  I knew her when we were children; we met sometimes at cousins' gatherings... 

He talked on, about the advantages of the match, until Christophe said, You do not need to convince me as well as yourself, David, which stopped the flow.

It is for the best, said David, after a short pause.  And if it is not exactly what I would like, it is my duty to my mother and sister.

And the estate.

Yes.  And it's not as though my body has not been for hire these last few years, while I've been a soldier of King Louis!  This is much the same thing.

That’s all it is to you?  Yet somehow Christophe was not surprised; in some ways David was carefree as a butterfly.  Indeed, it was a marvel that he had taken no other lover in all his time in France.  But his loyalty and his sword, once pledged, were absolute, or he would not have been trusted with the gold.

David grimaced.  Perhaps not, but that is how I must look at it.  And it's not as though I'm not fond of her.  But for you and I, and until you go tomorrow, we have a little time to ourselves.  My room is up there, and he indicated a little door in the corner of the room, which no doubt led to a turret staircase.  No-one will know...

Caution and desire warred for a moment in Christophe's breast; then he capitulated.  Very well.  I should not, but -It is not you who has signed the marriage articles.

No.  We can have one night more.  They left the fireside, and went through the little door, and up the twisting stair.

*

For all David's careless bravado, he was more intense that night than he had ever been.  He lay under Christophe's striving body with a passion and surrender that startled them both.  In the gasping aftermath, David said, As last times go, that is one to remember.

Not quite the last.  There's still the morning.

Morning.  Yes.  He hooked a leg round Christophe's with the suppleness of a man ten years Christophe's junior and, thus entangled, they slipped into sleep.

And the morning was better yet.

*

They went down to the hall in the misty dawn to break their fast; at a round table in the corner of the big, raftered room they sat and ate porridge and bread and honey, and drank tea.

From one of the windows Christophe caught sight of Margaret, taking a bowl of something across the courtyard to the stables.  Something hot; it added its steam to the mist of the morning.  She was wearing an old shawl and bonnet, and had a thick skirt and pattens on.  She opened the door to the stables, and disappeared within.

Ah, she’ll be going to see to the garrons, said David, when Christophe remarked on this.  She got into the habit when I was away - we’ve never made up the numbers of men since the Rising, and she wanted to do what she could to help our father.  I wanted her to give it up when I came back, but she wouldn’t.  She loves the horses.

We should help her, perhaps.  We’ve men enough here, and they won’t be seen through this mist.

Aye, if you wish!  Some help with fetching and carrying wouldn’t be unwelcome, I’ll admit!

Christophe’s men, resigned, were helping to muck out soon enough, and Christophe himself, in the gloom of the stables, picked up a brush and approached one of the small, hairy beasts with little enthusiasm and less familiarity.

They don’t bite, for the most part, said Margaret. 

He looked round to see her standing at the door of the stall, surveying him with some amusement; a tall young woman, in her mid-twenties, he thought - and her hair was as red as David’s.  I’m glad to hear it!  They look determined enough.

Oh, they’ve minds of their own.  But they’re tough.  None of your high-bred chargers could have done their work last night.

My experience with high-bred chargers is limited, admitted Christophe.  I’m a naval man - have been all my life - and the horses I’ve ridden have been looked after by servants.  But tell me what I should do, and I will do it.

She came into the stall, smiling slightly.  You’ve never brushed down a horse?

Christophe surveyed the animal’s rough bay flank.  None so shaggy!  I’ve seen to a saddle-horse from time to time, but these are working beasts, I think.

Yes, they work hard.  Margaret ran a hand down the animal’s mane.  The mare turned her head towards her and nudged her.  Good morning, Hazel.  She gave her some grain that she had been carrying hidden in her hand.  Barley, perhaps, or oats.  Well, if you’re sure you want to help, there are the brushes; you take that side, and I’ll take this.

They worked without speaking, while the men went in and out with their barrows.  Christophe found it pleasant enough, though very different from the work of an aide-de-camp of the Marine Nationale, and said so.

I imagine it would be!  She had found a knot in the dark mane, and was working to unravel it.  You wait upon the Minister, David tells me.  You’d have little to do with horses beyond riding about his business, then.

Indeed.  I have more to do with the sea than many officers of the pen, but I’m no officer of the sword either. I am an astronomer and hydrographer, working on the problems of navigation.

That made her look up at him across Hazel’s mane.  David didn’t say that!  I imagined -

That I was a courtier first and foremost?  Not I!  I am accustomed to work for my living.  Not as hard as you, of course.

She blushed a little, and smiled.  I am sorry.  You must understand, it’s been so hard for us, ever since the Rising.  I was a child then.  When my father died and my mother became ill, I took over the running of the estate, and when David came home, I hardly knew how to stop.

Things will be easier, now that he’s back.  Christophe was working along Hazel’s flank now, and could no longer see into Margaret’s face, though he hardly wanted to; there was a sudden weariness in her voice.

Yes.  We won’t have to raise money to send to him in France, for one thing!  The estate has been impoverished for so long.  But now, with this marriage of his, he will be able make it prosperous again.

Will it feel strange to you, to have someone else here as mistress of the estate?

Only for a few months!  Now there was a smile in her voice.  Then I’ll be married myself and away across the loch to an estate of my own.  There’s money for the settlement now, and Alan and I have been able to make our plans at last.  It’s been two long years.  The length of time that David had been in France, Christophe realised, living on the money that Margaret had scraped up and sent to him.  The length of time that he and David had had together.  All of it had been taken from her.

But Margaret was still speaking.  There’s better grazing for the horses, and David has said that I can take some of my favourites with me.  This one, for instance. She tapped Hazel's front hoof, and said, Pick up your foot.  Hazel, pick up your foot.  After a short pause, the mare obliged and Margaret bent to examine it.

We had better make sure that she’s looking her best, then, said Christophe gravely, and began to brush out Hazel's tail.

* 

Later that day, as the Highland dusk deepened towards night, Christophe and David descended the stairs to the main floor of the tower-house.  Around the tower-house were the quiet movements of sleepy men.  Christophe all but tripped over half a dozen muskets stacked ready by the main door.  You found a way round the ban, I see, he remarked.

Indeed.  Unless King George’s men wish to go climbing in the chimneys, they will never find them.

King George’s men would certainly do exactly that, did they but know, but it was good that one house at least was prepared for a renewed effort, should the time come. And if one house was ready, surely there must be similar such houses all over the Highlands.  With King Louis' gold on hand as incentive, perhaps this time the Auld Alliance would have its wished-for consummation.

One aspect of France and Scotland, though, would not be in conjunction; David would still be married advantageously to a rich widow.  So thought Christophe, as they drank their farewell toast in the thistle-patterned glasses to the King Over the Water.  The thought stayed with him as they went down the outer steps of the tower-house.  It stayed with him, too, as he took the hands of its laird on the sea-shore, and bowed with real warmth to Margaret, before embarking in the chaloupe, with the cool damp air striking even through his cloak.  He did not look back as they nosed out of the inlet and struck out across the quiet water, with its veils of mist and bobbing seagulls, towards the Jeanne, which had lain hidden in a lonely bay all this time.

*

Just a few hours later, a golden dawn was breaking, and Christophe stood with Captain LeBrun on the foredeck of the privateer, peering ahead towards the line of islands that stood between them and the open sea.  Creagmore was far astern.  To the west, the hills stretched along the horizon, with a single indentation that spoke of a narrow passage through.  Northwards was open water, which at this phase of the moon would soon become an unnavigable tidal race. 

Creagmore was sure that all his people were loyal, but someone must have seen us and told the British, said Christophe.  Maybe a patrol.  He stared southwards, frowning.  There the broad sound lay open and inviting - save that a brig of the Royal Navy was there to windward, sails shivering and guns, no doubt, at the ready.  She was only waiting to see which tack the privateer would take before letting the sails fill and bearing down upon her.

Captain LeBrun snapped the telescope shut.  We've no chance against her.  We're out-gunned and she's got the speed to take us in straight pursuit, damn her.  But I've no mind to spend the next few years in captivity, so we'll take the path you suggest.

Christophe nodded.  He would not point, lest the watchers on the brig guessed what they were about. We need to get the timing perfect.  Slack tide in twenty minutes - and she's far enough away that she won't be able to follow us in time.

The brig - the Arrow, he knew, from his own use of the telescope - was waiting, with the patience of a cat at a mouse-hole.  LeBrun took one last look at her and was away to the quarter-deck.  Spread all sail!  Port tack!

Away on the port bow was the route that they would take, if luck were kind and he had planned their course correctly.  If not - well, they would not be taken prisoner, that was certain.

A menacing roar now sounded clearly ahead.  Soon they would be committed to their course.  No turning back.

The crew, Breton men almost all of them and well used to rocky coasts such as this, heaved on the lines.  The jib billowed free.  Half a dozen men pushed on each boom to thrust them out to port.  The privateer heeled over as she caught the wind.  Christophe stepped up onto the windward gunwale and began to climb the ratlines methodically, telescope slung at his back.  The deck receded beneath him, the bellying foresail narrowing down to the gaff above.  He passed two sets of blocks, came to the cross-trees just below the gaff, and settled himself there.

Take in the top-sail, halfway! he shouted, and it furled up towards its yard, high above.

Now he could see, and everything was pin-sharp, diamond-bright to his eyes, though in truth the morning air was still soft and a little hazy.  His senses were so heightened that he hardly felt he needed the telescope at all.  But he pulled it round into his hands, and opened it.

The wind was steady on his left cheek, but the Jeanne was losing way slightly.

That would never do.

Jib to port, staysail to starboard! They needed every breath of wind they could catch.  He settled more securely on the cross-trees, and searched the islands ahead for the marks David had told him about.  There was the first, a steep cliff to the north, and the sea roiling uneasily beneath it.

Two points port!  And no more, or they might be wrecked on the southern shore, or caught in stays -

He found that he was grinning. 

The Jeanne swept on into the gulf, and he spared a moment to glance back at the brig.  She was bringing round her yards.  He laughed as he saw the ants’ nest of consternation that the privateer's change of course had brought about.  A figure - the captain, surely - on the quarterdeck, gesturing here and there, and no doubt bellowing orders which were lost in the intervening distance.  Men were racing up the rigging, and at the foremast head, a figure leaning out and pointing directly at him.  There was urgency in every line of him: stocky, not over-tall, his hair a gleam of gold; and as Christophe watched, he sketched a salute and Christophe could have sworn he laughed.  Too far to see clearly, of course, but it was there even in his posture.

Christophe clung to the foremast cross-trees, the wind ruffling his hair, while they closed the distance to the passage they had chosen.  The roar, as of waterfalls or pounding rain, had diminished, though they were nearing the point of its origin.  Christophe pulled his watch out a little way and glanced at it.  Slack tide in five minutes.  The way was clear ahead, and beyond it, safety - but before they reached that safety, they had to navigate the whirlpool.

Last chance to draw back, to surrender, to save everyone's lives.  He glanced back to the quarterdeck where LeBrun stood, black beard bristling, in an attitude that spoke determination in every line.  The crew were less assured, alert enough, but casting nervous glances ahead now and then.  This was a danger for which even the shores of Brittany could not entirely prepare them. 

Christophe stared ahead.  A trigonometry of rocks, wind and current built itself across the scene.

There was a cry from the quarterdeck.  They're firing!

Christophe twisted round to see smoke puff out from Arrow's foredeck.  A second later, the noise followed.  The bow-chasers, fired in desperation: they were at the extreme of range still, and the balls skipped across the waves before plunging down a hundred yards short.

No more hesitation.  A shout from LeBrun.  St-Denys!  Do we go now?

Yes! Starboard tack! Now!  And God help us all, he thought, while LeBrun ordered all sail and the men leapt into frantic activity, shoving the booms far out, goose-winged, to catch what breeze the pursuing brig had not stolen from them.

Ahead, between two bulky islands, the mild sunlight of a Highland morning glinted on a stretch of surly water.  Slack tide or no it seethed uneasily, like