The Silk Weaver's Daughter (5 page)

Chapter 8

Sugères, France, August 1, 1685

A
s he had promised, Jacques returned with Marc just before the informal meal was served. The two men gladly accepted the Colbert’s invitation to join them. Jacques was now dressed in the height of fashion. He wore a stylish royal blue velvet jacket with a ruffled shirt and silk breeches. His pointed shoes had high heels and his legs were covered to his knees by silk stockings. Over his curly black hair, he wore a powered, white wig in the style of King Louis’s court. While they dined in the elegant, frescoed room, he explained his plan for the rest of the journey.

“I have our travelling carriage, and I’ll take Claudine and the children with me. It will look as though I’m driving my family home from a visit here, which I’ve often done. I’ve brought the proper clothing for them to wear, so I see no problem there.”

He turned to his cousin. “Pierre, Marc will take you and Jean Guy in the wagon with the wine barrels. It won’t be unusual coming from this chateau with wine and cognac—all the barrels have the Chateau Colbert crest on them.”

“So the dragoons are on the lookout then?” Pierre asked.

“Yes, they don’t let much get past them, but they know I do business out here. Marc will tell them, he’s transporting wine to my warehouse in La Rochelle. That’s nothing new, and the absolute truth. Dressed as peasants the way you are, they’ll take you two for workers.”

He turned to Marc with further instructions. “You’ll do all the talking. You have my papers. Explain you are my son and these are workers from the chateau. They’ll know of the Colberts, and coming from here, Huguenots would be the last thing they would suspect. So I pray this will work. But you should leave right away to reach the warehouse before dark. We’ll follow an hour or so after dinner.”

As soon as they finished eating, the Garneau men with the exception of Claude left the table and went out to the yard. Jacques watched as they clambered aboard the wagonload of wine barrels.

“I think we’ve covered everything,” he said to his son. “Watch yourselves. I pray we all arrive safely in La Rochelle.”

With a nod, Marc started in a northwesterly direction towards the seaport city. As Jacques watched them depart, the late afternoon sun disappeared behind menacing, black clouds. He found himself shiver as the western horizon turned a strange, blood red.

It’s a good thing I’m not a superstitious man, he thought. If I didn’t know better, I’d certainly think that was an ill omen.

Before long, Jacques returned alone to the dining room with the four stylish cloaks and bonnets he had brought from home for Claudine and the girls. The bonnets hid their faces quite well. He also gave young Claude a pair of breeches, along with a silk jacket and ruffled shirt to wear. Dressed in the new outfits, they looked like one of the typical, affluent families who often visited the Chateau. Seeing them, he felt confident he could get away with this part of his plan. Around La Rochelle, the citizens recognized him as a prominent merchant, and it was unlikely he would arouse suspicion. He was grateful the Colberts were helping them, well known as they were in the Sugéres area as faithful Catholics.

It’s beneficial for Pierre to realize that, in spite of the king, individual Catholics are not bad people, he mused.

He was more concerned about Marc and Pierre, and the load of barrels. He had put a few genuine barrels of wine on the outside of the wagons in case the dragoons wanted to test them. Friends told him the soldiers would sometimes run their swords through to see if anyone were hiding inside. More than one Huguenot had died in this manner. Even, though, it was only the looms, it worried him. If discovered, it would be suspicious and put them at risk. Under his breath, he mumbled, “I’ll certainly be glad when this night is over.”

“Sacre bleu”
Jacques muttered to himself. “What is that?”

He had been driving for a couple of hours when he stopped the carriage. Ahead in the filtered moonlight, he could see a strange, grotesque-looking tree. Two odd-shaped shadows hung limply from a low branch. A shiver ran down his spine, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

“Allez droite”
he called to the horses, pulling on the reins, so they turned into a small clearing from which his passengers couldn’t see the trees.

He opened the coach door and asked Claudine to come out for a moment. When she had stepped down and closed the door, he spoke to her. “Claudine, there’s something ahead on the road I don’t want the children to see. It would frighten them terribly. So somehow, can you get them to keep their eyes closed until I tell you? His tone was urgent. “You too. I mean it, dear. Whatever happens—do not look out the window.”

Claudine got back in the carriage, and Jacques drove past the tree. When he was about two hundred feet beyond it, he stopped and walked back. It was as he had dreaded. Two people hung like rag dolls from the lowest branch of an old, bent oak tree. A man and a woman, middle- aged and dressed in dark, peasant clothing. He breathed a sigh of relief. For a few terrifying minutes, he had feared it was Marc and Pierre.

He looked at their blackened faces. So horrified, he spoke aloud,
“Fichu!
Another Huguenot clergyman, no doubt. How many of them must they kill? What a horrendous sight. No wonder Guilliame was in such a hurry to leave the country.”

The acrid smell of smoke assailed his nostrils. Back from the track, in a little clearing in the fir woods, the embers of what had been a modest farmhouse smouldered. Some of the outer buildings were still ablaze. The crackling of burning wood broke the silence, and there was the smell of roasting meat and the frenzied squawking of dying chickens.

“Maudit,
this was just done. They won’t be far away. Pierre’s family is getting out of here barely in time. The terror has definitely reached us.”

Shaking his head in distress, he stumbled back to the coach. With trembling hands, he drove on for about fifteen minutes. In his travels, he had often witnessed violence. Nevertheless, this scene—such a horrible murder of innocent people—had stunned him more than he would expect. When they were quite far away from the farm, he stopped again. He motioned Claudine to climb out of the coach once more. Then as gently as he could, he told her what he had seen.

“I hope none of the children looked?” he queried.

“No, I—I expected the worst. I had them play a game of remembering our house. They all had their eyes shut trying to picture their favourite room.” Her voice was shaky, as if she could cry; however, she smiled bravely at him.

“Very clever, dear girl.” He patted her arm. “No doubt we’ll meet the men who did this. However, I’ll do the talking. They’ll want to look inside the coach, but don’t worry. We’ll be fine. Just warn the children to say nothing.”

Again, Claudine climbed into the coach with the children, while he once more jumped up on top. He flicked the whip, and they started forward. It wasn’t long before he saw a band of soldiers riding towards them. He had been all over the world and, in New France, had come face-to-face with the natives they called Indians. He had never been a coward. All the same, fear gripped his heart as they came nearer.

Knowing now, what they are like, I’m sure they would have no pity, he thought.

“Declare you,” the leader called to him.

“Bonsoir, Capitaine,”
he replied. “I am Jacques Phillipe Garneau, merchant of La Rochelle.

“From the
Maison du Garneau
in La Rochelle, you say? Do you always do your own driving, monsieur?” The man appeared suspicious.

Jacques hesitated before answering. The question took him by surprise. The family employed a coachman for the times when he was gone, but he was too much the adventurer to allow someone else to take the reins while he sat inside a coach. It had not occurred to him this might arouse their doubts.

His quick mind came up with the answer. “Our coachman took ill only this morning,
Capitaine.
I didn’t want to disappoint my family. They’ve been looking forward to this visit.”

“So who
do
you have in the carriage, Monsieur?”

“Madame Garneau and the children.”

“We’d better check this out, Sergeant,” the captain ordered, turning to one of his men. “Get them out of there.”

The soldier opened the carriage door and with his musket pointed at them, he motioned them out. Louise came out last, and he grabbed her roughly. “Now here’s a pretty piece of baggage,
mon Capitaine,”
the man said, glancing at his superior with an evil smile. “Perhaps we need to see her credentials,
non?”

Jacques spoke up. “I think I should inform you, I am in the service of the King’s French East India Company. And a sworn Catholic,” he added.

“This is your family then, monsieur?” the leader asked.

“Mais oui.
We have been enjoying the evening with our friends, the
Compte et Contesse de Colbert.”
The thought ran through his mind—at least most of it is true. He had a hatred of liars. “We are now on our way home to La Rochelle.”

“And you’re with the
Compagnies des Indies Orientales,
you say?”

“That is correct.”

“Well, Marcel. We mustn’t molest the family of a loyal servant of the king. Let them get back in the carriage.” Turning back to Jacques, he stated. “This isn’t a good time to be travelling around the country,
Monsieur Garneau.
I would suggest you keep your wife and children at home from now on.”

“I understand, sir. I’ll keep it in mind although I, myself, have business out here often. By the way, I sent a wagonload of wine barrels ahead of me by a few hours. My son was driving the load. Have you seen anything of it?”

“Oui, Monsieur.
We stopped him, and he showed us the papers he carried. He did tell us, you would be coming along later. However, I had to be sure of you. We haven’t harmed him. I’m sorry to have bothered you, but those Huguenots are everywhere trying to flee our glorious country. My men and I can’t be too careful. You’re free to go now with the King’s blessings.”

Inwardly, Jacques breathed a sigh of relief. His clothing was damp with sweat. His fear was not for himself, as he had never flinched from danger; however, he cared a great deal for Pierre’s family and their lives had been in his hands.

“We’ll be on our way then, Captain.
Bon soir et merci.”

Again, he pulled on the reins and the horses began the final lap of the trip to La Rochelle.