Chapter 2: Old and New Friends

“We’re customs officers,” replies the man. “Halt your barge and stand by for an inspection of your cargo.”

His assertion is a clumsy ruse, but it gives Ninon a moment of doubt. She hesitates long enough for the men to train their weapons. I’m fairly safe where I am, and Valentine has moved behind Napoleon. But Ninon has little chance of avoiding being hit if we end up shooting it out.

“Put your weapons down or we’ll start shooting,” orders the man.

“Like hell we will,” shouts Ninon in defiance, firing her musket at one of the men and then promptly diving into the canal.

Valentine and I also fire our weapons. Only one man gets hit although his tumble out of the boat spoils the aim of the others. Their shots go wide of their mark. Which of us scored the hit is impossible to say. These muskets are old and worn, so hitting anything is more a matter of luck than skill. Valentine and I promptly start to reload our weapons. The three surviving men in the boat do the same. It’s a race against time. The first to be ready gets a free shot at their opponents.

My experience onboard the Zafiro gives me an edge. I’m ready first and I take aim at the man who had been doing all the talking. He’s almost ready with his musket but he’s a fraction too slow. My shot rings out but my wretched weapon misfires and sends my shot wide. I don’t bother reloading and concern myself more with not getting shot in return.

Suddenly there’s a commotion in the water and the men’s boat starts rocking wildly. I soon realise that the source of the disturbance is Ninon. She must have dived underwater and found her way to their boat. The men are preoccupied with staying inside their boat, so stop paying attention to Valentine and I. I take the opportunity to grab my pistol from my pack. It may have a shorter range than a musket, but it’s a much more reliable weapon. I grab my knife at the same time.

Valentine fires another shot with her musket. Her shot misses but it causes enough of a distraction to enable me to get near enough for my pistol to be effective. For the first time I’m able to see the men clearly. I recognise one of the men as a former sailor on the Zafiro who left the crew three years ago to settle down to a peaceful life as a farmer.

“Jules! Jules Dupont!” I call out. “What are you doing here? What game are you up to?”

“Jackie! Jacqueline de Belleville! Well this is a coincidence. I could ask you the same question.”

An uneasy truce is called. As I surmised, the men have resorted to piracy. Jules bought the farm he wanted, but the constant flow of soldiers marching into Spain means most of what he produces is taken by the French army. Their worthless chits for the produce seized has pushed many farmers into a life of crime to make ends meet. Ninon is only prepared to let the matter drop once the men promise never to attack her barge again.

“So, how come you are working on a canal barge?” asks Jules.

“I’m travelling east to escape from the English,” I reply, sighing in relief that Jules didn’t mention my notoriety as a pirate.

“The English are a long way from here, and I thought the French were after you as well.”

“Hmm ... well, yes, but the French aren’t quite so persistent. I thought I’d enjoy the sights of France for a while.”

We don’t spend too long talking as Ninon is keen to reach the next town before dark. We part company with the men and resume our journey. Thankfully the short break in our journey has enabled Napoleon to graze and rest, so he should be okay for a longer spell than he managed yesterday.

“I think we deserve an explanation of your background and what you are doing here, Jacqueline,” says Ninon as the three of us sit around the table for our evening meal. “Why are the authorities after you?”

“Well it’s all over a misunderstanding,” I say. “But nobody in power is interested in my side of the story.”

“Well tell us anyway and we’ll be the judge of that,” says Ninon.

“Hmmm ... okay. Well. I was twelve when I ran away to sea. I was an orphan living on the streets of London and my future looked bleak. Girls in my situation invariably ended up as prostitutes, and were lucky to live more than a few years. I disguised myself as a boy, just as Valentine has done. It was a hard life, but the captain and crew of the Zafiro were okay, particularly after my deception was discovered. They could have dumped me at the next port, but we reached an understanding we could all accept.

“We were privateers. We sailed around the Caribbean using the English Admiralty’s Letter of Marque as permission to raid French and Spanish ships and territory while enjoying the protection of the English against charges of piracy. Things worked out okay until an unfortunate incident on the island of Saint Martin.

“The Zafiro had captured a small French schooner and I had been put in charge of a prize crew of four. We sailed to Saint Martin, a French colony which had recently been captured by the English. But when we arrived we found a French frigate in the harbour and a French flag flying from the fort on the island. In the space of a few days the French must have routed the English garrison and retaken the island.

“We were caught between a rock and a hard place. If we docked, then the French would undoubtedly demand the return of their ship and execute us in the process. But with such a small crew, we couldn’t hope to flee from the French frigate.

“Our only hope was to somehow cripple the French frigate and escape. We quickly devise a plan, and we sail near to the frigate while flying the French flag. Our ruse works and we get close enough to use our solitary cannon to damage the frigate’s rudder. We turn tail and make a run for it. A few shots from the frigate fall harmlessly into the sea and we congratulate ourselves on a successful escape.

“It was several months later when we learned of the bizarre misfortune which had befallen us. It turns out that the French frigate was actually manned by English sailors posing as Frenchmen in order to deceive the French garrison on the island. A garrison who were actually English posing as French in order to lure the frigate into their trap. In a classic act of bungling incompetence only the English toffs seem able to achieve, neither the ship’s crew nor the garrison were aware that the other side was English. They came within a hair’s breadth of shooting each other to bits. Our intervention had spoiled both parties’ plans and inadvertently saved many lives. Of course, when this near disaster was discovered, the Lords of the Admiralty had to quickly find a scapegoat. It wouldn’t do for the son of an admiral or the cousin of a duke to be held to account for their stupid mistakes. The scapegoats they chose were, of course, me and my crew. Fortunately the Admiralty had no idea who my crew were, but a woman captain of a ship is a rarity and I was much easier to identify. Of course the French wanted my hide for stealing their ship, so I’ve had to keep one step ahead of both the English and French authorities ever since.”

My story seems to pass whatever test Ninon had in mind. Valentine seems impressed by my adventures, and perhaps she’s a little bit jealous. Constantly working back and forth along this canal disguised as a man can’t provide much excitement for her. But it at least means she and her mother don’t go hungry. As Jules’ misfortunes illustrated, France is a country whose people are deprived of many things thanks to the war.

Ninon doesn’t leave the barge again until we reach Arles on the river Rhône, which is the destination for Ninon’s cargo. Consequently Valentine and I don’t get the chance to repeat our passionate interlude. At the end of our journey I help unload the cargo into a warehouse before Ninon gives me the wages I’m due. She and Valentine need to find a cargo for Toulouse or beyond before making a return trip. Judging by the number of barges berthed in the canal basin, it seems likely they are in for a long wait. Fortunately for them, the profit from our trip will tide them over for quite a while.

My own plans are not much easier to put into practise. There are no craft sailing north along the river Rhône as far as Lyon. The hardships of war have hit trade along the rivers and canals particularly hard. The taverns are busy with boatmen, but most seem to be drowning their sorrows and bemoaning the lack of cargo.

“Are you looking for a ride to Lyon?” asks a man sitting alone at the bar of one seedy tavern.

“Yes,” I reply. “Are you able to help me?”