The Silk Weaver's Daughter (9 page)

“May God give you a good life, Madame,” he said, smiling at her. Like her daughter, she was a lovely woman, which he apparently had not failed to notice.

Dry land never looked so good. They hurried down the gangplank onto the dock. The only light they could see, as well as quite a lot of noise, came from a small tavern near the quay. They had no luggage, only the clothes on their backs, so it was easy enough to hail the lone carriage in sight, which stood in front of the tavern.

“To the home of Jean Bourdon, the Huguenot, we wish to go,” Pierre said to the driver in his accented English. “Far, is it?”

“No yer honour,” the man said in a thick dialect. “Tis tuller side o’ town. We be there shortly. Maister Garneau ‘tis it then? Oi been waiting most nights this week for you to cum. The French curate asked me ter look out for ye. Well, brave ye are, and lucky to be ‘ere, away from them murdering Papists over yonder. ‘op aboard then. Lots of your friends cumin’ over these days. Almost every week oi waits here for someit.”

“I ask your pardon, me. I do not speak the English so well yet,” Pierre replied.

“Well, if yer goin’ to learn a language, I tell ye, boy, the old Devon dialect ‘tis the best, oi say.”

He went off into a gale of laughter at his small joke while Pierre looked somewhat askance at this speech. It was like no English he had ever heard, and he could understand little of it. In any case, he smiled at the man as his family climbed aboard. Once inside the carriage, he undid the belt hidden under his coat and breeches, where he had stashed a large sum of gold. The children showed amazement at seeing so much coinage.

“We’ve still got a long trip ahead of us to get to London,” he explained. “We’ll need this money until we see Paul Thibault. Thanks again to Jacques’ foresight, we should have enough. Tonight we’ll stay with the curate of the French Chapel here in Plymouth. He’ll help us see about getting a trustworthy coach driver to take us to London. Jacques told me, it would take several days as the roads are slow and dangerous—muddy and full of highwaymen.”

He did not show them the other item Jacques had given him for the trip. Stowed under his shirt and jacket was a small pistol. Although he was a peaceful man, for the sake of his family, he would use it if the need arose.

Chapter 13

Plymouth, England, August 26, 1685

Julian Calendar

P
lymouth was not a large town, so it did not take long for Pierre and his family to arrive at the English church where non-conformist groups were allowed to hold their meetings. Tired as they all felt, they clambered sprightly down from the carriage, while Pierre paid the driver. Next to the building sat a neat little house, which Jacques had told him was where the Huguenot curate lived. At his knock, a mild-looking man in his mid-forties answered the door.

“Well bless my soul. Pierre Garneau and family is it?” He spoke in French.
“Bienvenue.
Jacques has told me all about you.
Gràces soient,
you are safe. We hear some have not been as fortunate. Well, we’re happy to have you here, and I’m sure you will all want a wash up and a good night’s sleep.”

He turned and called to someone in the background. “Martha, come and meet the Garneau family from home.”

A plump, middle-aged woman with a happy, rosy-cheeked face came to the door and greeted them warmly.

“A dish of your good lamb stew, and some fresh, hot bread, and a warm bath. That’s what they all need, Martha. Take care of these brave souls,” her husband said. “They are some of God’s chosen for sure.”

After they had all washed and been fed, and Claude’s wound attended to, Claudine and the children elected to go straight to bed. Pierre sat in the kitchen with Jean and Martha Bourdon discussing the rest of the trip.

“You could set up shop right here, Pierre,” Jean Bourdon said. “We have a good French community, and merchants arrive here from many lands all the time. We’re not isolated.”

“It looks like a pleasant enough town. However, my cousin has already arranged a house in Spitalfields, and Jacques deposited my money, with a goldsmith in London. I’d have to go there in any event. I think we should all go together and see how we like living in the city. Although it will definitely be a big change for my family. Our village was small.”

“Well, then if you must go, I know a trustworthy coach driver who normally goes as far as Salisbury. However, he’ll be happy to go the distance for you. You’ll have to pay for his lodging both there and back, for the unscheduled trip; but it is to your advantage to have him take you. Some of them would gladly deliver you into the hands of the highwaymen. They are not all honest, I fear. This fellow is of French descent, so he can be a big help to you with language at the coaching inns. We Huguenots do stick together you will see.” He smiled.

“Good. My English is limited, so I will appreciate his help. At the moment, money isn’t a big worry. My cousin took care to think this thing out carefully. All he asks in return is I lend my support to those who come after me. As you say, it is the way of the Huguenot brethren.”

“Then we’ll speak to the driver tomorrow. After everything you’ve been through, you should consider staying at least two nights here in Plymouth. We’re happy to have you and I think your wife and young Claude need to rest up. I know my Martha will enjoy hearing all the latest news from France, even if most of it is bad. But right now, you look as if you could use a good night’s rest. So go to bed now and tomorrow we plan.”

The following day, the curate and Pierre, met with the stagecoach driver named Luc Le Blanc. Like many Huguenots, Luc’s family had left France during the siege of La Rochelle in 1628. Although he was born in England, he had a slight French accent, and he spoke both languages fluently.

Pierre thought him to be a strange-looking fellow, with a long face and ears that stuck out from his head. A large, black hat covered his hair, but it didn’t hide the fact it was thin and pulled tightly away from his face, in a sad-looking ponytail. His nose was gigantic and quite crooked. It stood out like a monument between mottled, rosy cheeks.

“I’m the one who brought your cousin and his son out this way from Salisbury last month,” the driver explained. “His captain had agreed to pick him up here in Plymouth. He told me to expect you along in about two weeks.”

“Well, we’re certainly relieved to have arrived here safely. Now, we must get to London. Can it be arranged, do you think?”

“Yes, I could do it. I usually run a distance of approximately eight leagues a day—mostly between Plymouth and Salisbury. But my grandfather told me what it was like to escape France in his day; so for fellow Huguenots as brave as you folks, I‘ll be happy to go all the way to Wandsworth. There’s a French settlement there where I have family, and I’m always ready for a visit with them.”

He looked at Pierre through sad, coal-black eyes. The eyelids drooped and under the large nose sat an equally droopy moustache. Even his clothes had the nondescript look of a man without a good wife. There simply wasn’t a handsome feature to be found, and yet Pierre took an immediate liking to the man. It appeared he didn’t smile often, but when he did, it lit up his entire face.

“I’ll need to arrange to borrow a change of horses at our stopover in Salisbury,” he continued. “We’d better plan on a two-night stop there. Then I can get you to Wandsworth altogether in six days. It will be another day into London, but you can hire a coach there. How does that agree with you?”

“I don’t mind stopping at Salisbury. Jacques told me about their astonishing cathedral, and the lace trade established there. I’ve always been interested in architecture since I went to the Huguenot University in Saumur. It’s in the Loire Valley. And both my wife and my oldest daughter are expert at making lace, so we’ll visit their guildhall as well.”

“That’s a little more than half way to London. There’s an excellent inn where your family would find comfort for a couple of nights. Compared to most of the places along the way it’s exceptionally clean, so it’d be well worth the money. Shall we plan on it then? Day after tomorrow we will leave—very early. We never want to be on the road after dark, so we must always get a good start.”

“I understand. We’ll be ready. So tomorrow is September 7
^th
. We should be in London by the 15
^th
then. That will be just fine.”

“Excuse me, Monsieur. This is still August. Tomorrow is August 28
^th
.”

“How can that be?” Pierre was mystified. “We left France on September 2
^nd
.”

Luc and the curate both started to laugh. “You forget, Pierre,” Jean Bourdon said. “England is still on the old Julian calendar. You’ve just gained eleven days, my brother. Do you feel any younger?”

“Zut alors!
I had forgotten about that. Jacques did tell me, but my head has been so full of everything. Well, even better. By Friday, we’ll be rested and ready to go. So far, on this adventure we’ve been truly blessed. I pray it continues.”

On the way home, the curate told Pierre that Luc Le Blanc surpassed as a storyteller, and knew almost everything that went on in the west counties. “With Luc driving, it won’t be a boring trip,” he stated.

Friday Pierre awoke to find the town shrouded in fog. The breeze smelled of seaweed and somewhere down in the harbour a bell clanged to warn any ships of the presence of rocks. The clattering of the carriage, and the ironshod feet of the horses rang out long before Luc Le Blanc and the team came into sight through the swirling mist.

“The fog comes in from the ocean,” the curate explained to him. “But don’t worry. Your driver’s used to it and it’ll burn off long before your reach Ashford. By then, the sun will be out and most likely, it’s going to be a hot day. Here now, my wife has packed you a lunch, so you won’t have to stop at an inn along the way.”

“That’s so kind of you. But you have done so much for us already,” Claudine exclaimed.

Madeame Le Blanc was adamant. “You’ll be spending enough of your gold as it is. I’ve loved having you here to talk about France. I miss it so much. I hope you’ll come back this way. You are welcome to stay with us anytime.”

“And you must come to our place in London.” Claudine gave Martha a hug. “We have so much to thank you for. I never felt as miserable and dirty in my life as when we arrived here. I’ll truly never forget the kindness you’ve shown us.”

The two full days’ break from their travels had given them a new lease on life. Now, they were all anxious to get to their final destination. The Huguenot congregation had managed to come up with changes of clothing for all of them, so they looked fresh and clean. In return, Pierre donated to a fund to help other Huguenots on the run.

“I’m sure there will be many more of us arriving on your doorsteps over the next few months. I fear life in France has become intolerable for followers of our faith,” he said.

Pierre showed Luc the Flintlock pistol Jacques had given him and offered to ride up top with him.

“That’s a good idea. How about your oldest boy? Can he shoot as well?” Luc asked, as he pulled a couple of more pistols and a carbine rifle out from under the seat.

Pierre nodded. “Yes, both he and my oldest daughter can; my wife as well, for that matter. We often went hunting in the forests surrounding our home.”

“They are familiar with the recoil of these things then. I think they each ought to have a pistol. I’ll use the carbine, of course, but if they attack us, it would good to have a surprise element from inside the carriage. If it happens, you and I will have plenty to do, Monsieur. Of course, there may be nothing to worry about at all. It’s just that—well—you never know…” His words hung in the air.

“In any case,” he continued, “I’m glad to have you up there with me. There’s room for the oldest lad as well, if he’d like. It gets rather dull talking to the horses. Good to have some company for a change. Perhaps I can brush up my French a little.”

Claudine and Louise, each armed with a pistol, along with the four youngest children clambered aboard the large coach with its team of four horses. Pierre and Jean Guy hoisted themselves up beside Luc on the driver’s seat. Luc snapped the six-foot whip over the horses’ rumps, and they started at a good pace. Pierre found he rather liked being up in the front, but he kept his eyes roving from side to side in case of an ambush from some unknown quarter.

Mile after mile of English countryside rolled by: grassy meadows; then undulating farmland; and finally forest, where a few trees already showed their autumn colors. The sun had burnt through the mists, and the weather had indeed turned warm. However, the breeze blowing in from the Channel to the south gave a hint of the cooler days to come. Pierre knew that a cold wind in August often meant a long, cold winter; so he was glad they had left France when they did. It meant he would have his family settled in London long before the rains and the constantly overcast skies set in. The inclement weather in that dreary city was one of the things about which Jacques had warned him. After the brisk but sunny winters of his native Charentes, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Soon he began to notice a change in the landscape. There were no more farm buildings, and the cultivated plots gave way to wilder meadows. The mist was again dropping in around them in areas. There were strange grey rocks, some of a large size, and instead of the thick woodlands, sparse growth here and there with low bushes and odd-shaped trees. Somehow, they looked sinister.

“We’re into the moor now,
Monsieur,”
Luc answered his unspoken question. “This is where the fun will begin if we’re going to have any today. In case you haven’t heard, there’s a lot of mischief goes on around here in Devon. Both the north and south coasts of Devon and Cornwall are full of wreckers.”