Where the Light Falls(103)

And he thought, too, of how he might ever repay Jean-Luc. Not only for his generosity in harboring Sophie, but for his bravery in simply giving them both such support and assistance. André made a note to himself: once he regained his freedom, if he survived the struggles no doubt yet to come, he would find a way somehow to thank Jean-Luc for all that he had done.

Eventually, André folded the letters and tucked them into the breast pocket of his coat, holding the words close to his heart, where their arrival had kindled a warm and comforting glow after so many months of absolute despair. How he longed to reply!

But he was allowed neither pen nor paper for writing. In the laws of the government and the Army of France, he had been stripped of his commission as an officer. He functioned aboard l’Esprit de Liberté as nothing more than an impressed sailor, his hammock one in a long line of many in the crowded sleeping quarters belowdecks. It was in this hammock each evening that he read and reread these letters, this news of Sophie, wondering when his next word from her might reach him on the vast blue waters on which he served his sentence.

As his stomach settled and his legs became accustomed to the ceaseless rocking of his new, undulating home, André adapted to his surroundings. His skin darkened. His lips—at first stinging and raw in the new climate—became accustomed to the permanent film of salt that seemed to settle on them. His days were predictable, if not a little monotonous. He was aboard one in a number of vessels ceaselessly prowling the waters off the southeastern coast of France, their primary purpose fending off the threat of a naval incursion from the Spanish or, worse, the English. They saw little action in André’s squadron, and he most often did battle with the rats that haunted the holds and the gulls that pelleted the deck with their excrement, quickly rendering his hours of scrubbing and sweeping utterly wasted.

Most of André’s fellow sailors, gruff men with varying accents as thick as their beards, seemed to regard him with a sort of distrustful yet civil neglect. Oftentimes, upon entering the communal quarters belowdecks, André had the distinct impression that their conversations had ceased abruptly. They tolerated his presence, yet did not invite him to share their fraternal intimacy. The arrangement suited André just fine; after so many months imprisoned in a dank cell, André did not need new friends or confidants.

As he looked out over the vast horizon of rolling blue, André regarded these days aboard l’Esprit de Liberté as a period akin to what the nuns in his home village had taught him about purgatory. He would keep his eyes down and his mouth shut and he would do his time, paying the penalty for whatever crime he had committed.

And yet, being out here on the sea was not such a terrible fate compared to the one he’d narrowly escaped in Paris. It was far better than serving a similar sentence in the horrid prison of Le Temple. There was food—salted and dry, to be sure, but enough of it. The maritime work was rote, but it occupied his hours and allowed him a deep, exhausted sleep each evening. His arms and legs, previously strong from youth and years of war, became even stronger, his muscles carved out in well-defined contours from hoisting and climbing. The clear, warm air had expunged the cough he had developed in the drafty, wet dungeon of Le Temple.

And, in spite of his indifference, he’d made one friend.

“You received a note from a woman.” Ashar smiled as he approached André on the deck, a roguish grin that creased the dark skin around his black, inquisitive eyes. “Don’t bother denying it.”

Most days, André didn’t mind Ashar’s teasing. Most days he might have gone so far as to admit he welcomed the good-natured banter. Much in the same way he would now relish Remy’s carefree company.

Ashar came from Egypt, which André had heard of, and liked to remind the others of this, often speaking with vague and lyrical language about the home he had left behind. He rarely talked to the other Arabic-speaking sailors, who came from the Barbary Coast. As an Egyptian, he would claim, he might as well be their king.

Ashar, gaining no reply from André now, continued his teasing banter: “A woman…I’m guessing a beautiful one.”

“What do you know of beautiful women?” André quipped, and Ashar’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Perhaps it is more correct to say I know about people.” Ashar sat down beside André, glancing sideways at him. “And you? You I know much of.”

“Oh?” André leaned back, challenging his friend. “And?”

Ashar studied him keenly, pausing a moment before he answered: “You, my friend, are not like the others. You are different, because of what you have suffered.”