The man went about his work, gutting the soft white bellies and pulling gills, scraping scales. He whistled as he cleaned the fish, called out to people and sold the grilled sardines to them, drank from a wineskin, squirting the liquid into his open mouth. Johannes finished eating and sat for a while in the sun and watched the boats and the fishermen on the docks.

When the man packed up his grill and kicked sand over the coals, he slapped Johannes on the shoulder. ‘May the Virgin protect you, friend.’

The high treacherous roads at the border were busy with French troops marching into Spain, but Johannes managed to get through. He made it to the outskirts of Bordeaux. He’d hoped to find a ship there, but barely escaped being arrested in La Brède (gangs were rounding up peasants to replenish the ranks of the Grande Armée) and he had to give the idea up. His luck held for another three hundred miles, but in a little town not far from Paris, the war caught up with him again.

After his arrest, it was discovered that Johannes was a deserter. Records were summoned and decisions made. A lieutenant by the name of Duval confiscated his collection of beetles and took the notebook with all his drawings. He gave Johannes a uniform and said, ‘A fair exchange, no?’ He didn’t smile. Then he sent Johannes Meyer to Holland, to fight against the English once more.

THE STORM

Elisabeth von Hoffmann stood on the deck of the Anne-Laure and looked out over the sparkling sea, calm now after the storm. The sky was an enormous blue dome, the horizon glaring white in every direction. She stood with confidence, tall, proud and not a little euphoric.

Général Fourés was still in their cabin, suffering. Last night’s storm had emptied both his stomach and spirit. It had done so for many on the ship, even a few of the old sailors who’d seen every kind of sea, but Elisabeth had endured and of all the passengers on board today she appeared fresh and even rejuvenated on deck. The sailors acknowledged her, no words, just small smiles and winks.

Sure-footed, planted, the deepest surges of the ship, the deepest currents of the sea, it had all come up through Elisabeth’s feet and she’d felt as firm as a rod of iron. And supple too, intuitive. If it weren’t for dresses and propriety and women’s shoes, she’d have climbed the rigging barefoot, right to the top of the mast.