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.”
“Wreckers? I’ve never heard of them. What are they?” Pierre queried.
“They are cruel, hard-hearted vultures. They have no pity on the poor travelers at sea. They’ll deliberately put up lights on the rocks, so the ships’ officers think everything is fine. It causes a shipwreck, of course, and then the wreckers take the spoils off the ship. They don’t give a damn about the poor folks drowning right in
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.”
“Wreckers? I’ve never heard of them. What are they?” Pierre queried.
“They are cruel, hard-hearted vultures. They have no pity on the poor travelers at sea. They’ll deliberately put up lights on the rocks, so the ships’ officers think everything is fine. It causes a shipwreck, of course, and then the wreckers take the spoils off the ship. They don’t give a damn about the poor folks drowning right in
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