Sir Philip Stephens glanced about and coughed gently. The business would be conducted in the absence of the First Lord, the Earl of Chatham, who at the time was presumably answering questions in the House of Lords.
The talk died away, quickly, respect for the Secretary of the Admiralty deep and sincere. This was a man who, beginning as secretary to Lord Anson, could bring to personal remembrance all the sea heroes of the second half of the century, and had more interest at his command than most of the Lords Commissioners themselves.
“Mr. Ibbetson, if you please,” he murmured. His lean assistant opened a beribboned folder and passed it across without comment.
Sir Philip read for a moment, his spectacles balanced precariously at the end of his nose, and glanced up at the Board. “I have here a communication from the office of the Prime Minister, desiring an early response to his enquiry of the twelfth of March, which was” – he riffled the papers -“concerning our advice upon the matter of support for the Royalist cause in France, and in particular for any insurrection which from time to time may eventuate.”
He laid down the papers and removed his spectacles. “You will, of course, know of Mr. Pitt’s position in this. He believes that the country’s interests are best served by circumspection in this matter, yet he is concerned to appear active and diligent.”
Looks were exchanged around the table. Pitt’s austere, reserved manner hid a keen intelligence, but lost him many friends. His preference in expending gold rather than lives would translate without doubt to tax increases later.
Sir Philip continued smoothly, “The Duke of York’s, er, difficulties in the Austrian Netherlands would seem to make an action of some kind useful in drawing the attention of the regicides westwards.”
Nodding heads around the table showed that the politics were well taken. Not for nothing was the Tory party known as “The King’s Friends.” And these were British troops in Flanders, the only real effectives on the Continent; anything that preserved their strategic presence was welcome.
Leaning back in his chair, Sir Philip said carefully, “It might fairly be said that we are out of luck in the matter of intelligence at this hour, yet we know of a rising in Brittany, attended by more than the usual success.” His face wore a frown, however. “Maréchal du Pons is known to us from the last age, a stiff and unbending soldier, yet he has the trust of the people. I believe we must assist him.”
He paused. Not all present would be keen in such circumstances to put British troops in a subordinate command. “I propose, therefore, a limited engagement of support-say, a battalion of foot and a few guns. If he presently triumphs, as I fervently hope, we will follow this with reinforcements of a more substantial nature. If he fails, we will be able to withdraw with naught but insignificant loss.”
The following morning Duke William sailed into the rendezvous on the ten-fathom line, four miles to seaward of the small fishing port of St. Pontrieux, said to be in Royalist hands.
Kydd was fascinated. Over there was France, his first foreign shore – and it was the enemy! The very thought seemed to imbue the rugged Brittany coastline with menace. Somewhere over the dark hills was a country locked in war with his own. His island soul recoiled from the notion that there was nothing but dry land separating this point from the raving mob in Paris.
The rendezvous was crowded with shipping: nearly a hundred sail, dominated by the three big sail-of-the-line, several frigates and two lumbering transports. The rest were small fry: provisioning craft, water and powder hoys, a host of small sloops and armed cutters. They lay hove to, waiting impatiently for the word to move on the port.
Just before noon a deputation approached in a fishing boat, displaying an outsize white flag – the fleur-de-lis of the Bourbons.
“Haaands to cheer ship!”
As the little boat plunged past, seeking the broad pennant of the Commodore in Royal Albion, men crowded the rigging to cheer, the Captain graciously doffing his hat. The ensign of King Louis’s Navy made its way grandly up to the mizzen peak.
In the boat a cockaded and sashed individual stood erect, waved and bowed, clearly delighted.
Within the hour the big men-o’-war had anchored, the frigates had taken stations to seaward, and the transports prepared to enter port. These would require pilots for the difficult rock-studded entrance, and even so they would then need to lie offshore among myriad islands, the tiny port’s river entrance too difficult to navigate.
The transports got under way, passing close enough for Kydd to watch the redcoats thronging their decks. The thumping of martial music carried over the water.
“Don’t stand there gawpin’, tail on to that fall!” Elkins growled.
The launch eased alongside and the first of the four upper-deck twelve-pounders was readied to be swayed in. A delicate and precise operation, the long cannon, free of its carriage, had to be lowered into the boat that surged below in the slight sea. The slightest ill-timing, and the boat coming up with the waves would meet the mass of iron moving down and the result would be so much splintered wreckage. Lines ran from the yardarms in a complex pattern, balancing movements and loads with the use of tie blocks, guys and mast tackles in a complex exercise of seamanship.
What was surprising to Kydd in this difficult maneuver was that there was silence – no shouted orders. The boatswain controlled the men on the tackles through his mates and their silver whistles. Orders were passed by different patterns of twittering calls: a continuous fluttering warble sounded continuously while lowering, and at the right position a sharp upward squeal told the crew to avast.
It was hard work, and Kydd envied the seamen who waited in the boat.
After dinner the landing party assembled by divisions, two hundred men in their seaman’s rig wearing their field sign – a white band on the left arm. The boats took them ashore, the men happy to be away from shipboard discipline. As the boats approached the landing place, Kydd looked around with interest. There was a wild beauty about it, rocky spurs among tiny beaches, the ragged land interspersed with dark-pink granite outcrops, and the port, a walled city, the ramparts connected to the mainland by an ancient causeway. Adding to the exotic effect was a subtle, exciting foreignness about the houses, the tiny farms and the patterns of cultivation. And the smell: after the purity of the sea, the odor of land – a mix of raw earth, vegetation and manure – had a poignant effect on Kydd. It reminded him of the countryside he had left, but it was overlaid with tantalizing alien scents.
On the quayside of the inner harbor the marines were formed up, their lieutenant languidly fanning himself. It seemed the elements were smiling on the enterprise, for the sun was breaking through with unusual brilliance.
“Hold water port, give way starboard – oars; rowed of all!”
The boat glided alongside the quay, oars tossed upright, and the men scrambled ashore, laughing, joking, the novelty of their surroundings refreshing but unsettling.
As soon as Kydd stepped off the boat onto dry land, the solid stone of the quay fell away under his feet. The boat had been perfectly steady, but despite the evidence of his eyes the land felt like the deck of a ship, heaving gently in a moderate swell. Mystified, he shrugged and walked away with a fine seaman-like roll.
From some windows drooped hastily found Bourbon flags, and banners with foreign words that seemed to offer welcome. Small groups of townsfolk gathered to stare at them, the ladies wearing quaint ornate lace headdresses, the men surly and defensive.
Petty officers called them to order: “Form up, then, you useless lubbers. Get in a line or somethin’, fer Chrissake!”
Sailors could be trusted to lay aloft in a gale of wind, but the rigid mechanical movements of military drill were beyond them. A ragged group, they shuffled off. The line of marines on either flank marched crisply, and with more than a touch of swagger.
“Silence in the ranks! Corporal, take charge o’ yer men!” The marine sergeant’s face reddened at the shambles, but the seamen continued to chatter excitedly.
They moved through the narrow streets, the sound of their tramping feet echoing off the roughcast white houses. Windows were flung open and women looked down, throwing a blossom or screeching an incom prehensible invitation. The company emerged into the town square and halted. The previous shore party had prepared the cannon for transport, chocking them into stout farm wagons, which waited for them on one side.
“Stay where you is!” snarled the sergeant, as the sailors began to drift away, gaping at imposing stone buildings. The flanking marines chivvied them back until they stood together in a bored mass.
More ranks of seamen arrived from the other ships; they took position around the sides of the square, facing the central fountain, which was decked with bunting and draped flags.
“Who would believe it?” Kydd said. “I’m in France. It would make them stare in Guildford t’see me here like this.” He shook his head, then laughed and turned to Renzi. “Where would we be, do you believe?”
Renzi pursed his lips. “St. Pontrieux. I was here before, in… different circumstances. It’s in the northwest, in Brittany. Odd sort of place, mostly fishing, some orchards inland a bit. We know it as a nest of corsairs. It is supposed that they have moved elsewhere for the nonce. Don’t remember too much else about it.” But he remembered only too well Marie, whom he’d left in tears on the quay. But that had been a different man.
In the distance they could hear the military band. The stirring sound came closer, drums thudding, fifes shrilling, and into the square marched the Duke of Cornwall’s 93rd Regiment of Foot, a burst of bright scarlet and glittering equipment, stepping out like heroes. At their head rode the officers on gleaming horses, with tall cockaded hats and glittering swords held proudly before them. Behind them stolid lines of soldiers marched, white spats rising and falling together, the tramp of boots loud in the confines of the square. The seamen fell silent, watching the spectacle. Screamed orders had the soldiers marking time, then turning inwards and forming fours. Finally the band entered, the sound almost deafening. The drum major held his stick high – double thumps on the drum and the band stopped. More orders screamed out and the stamp and clash of muskets sounded as they were brought to order. The soldiers now stood motionless in immaculate lines.
Kydd loosened his neckerchief and waistcoat. The noon sun seemed to have a particular quality in this foreign land, a somewhat metallic glare after the softness of more northerly climes.
The ceremonial party mounted the steps of the fountain, the British officers deferring to a personage who had the most ornate plumed hat that Kydd had ever seen. It was worn fore and aft in the new Continental style.
“Silence! Silence on parade!” roared the sergeant major, his outrage directed at the sailors, who seemed to have no parade ground discipline whatsoever.
The square fell quiet, and the plumed individual climbed to the highest step. With the utmost dignity he began his speech. “Un millier d’accueils à nos alliés courageux de l’autre côté de la Manche …”
The sailors were mystified. “Wot’s he yatterin’ about?” whispered Jewkes to Kydd.
A ripple of applause came from the townsfolk.
“No idea,” Kydd had to admit. He looked at Renzi.
“Welcomes the glorious arms of their friends across the Channel,” he whispered. “Promises that God, with perhaps a little help from us, will send packing the thieving rascals in Paris.”
The oration continued, illustrated by grand gestures and flourishes. The soldiers in their ranks stared woodenly ahead, but the sailors moved restlessly. At last it came to an end. The British army officer in charge stood alongside the orator and removed his own large hat.
“Three cheers for the intendant of Rennes!” He bowed to the man, who beamed.
Released from their enforced silence, the sailors roared out lustily.
“Three cheers for the Dauphin, and may he soon assume his rightful place on the throne of France!”
The townspeople looked surprised and delighted at the full-throated response from the sailors.
“And three times three for the sacred soil of France-may it be rid forever of the stain of dishonor!”
Hoarse with cheering, Kydd waved his hat with the rest.
A snapped order and the soldiers straightened, then presented arms. The band struck up a solemn tune, which had all the local folk removing their hats and coming to attention, followed by “God Save the King.”
The soldiers turned about and marched off through streets lined with people, astride the road to Rennes.
Tyrell roared, “My division, close up on your gun!”
Kydd and Renzi hurried to the first gun, the marines falling back to take up position in their rear.
Fifty men took their place at the traces, a relieving watch of fifty following behind. Kydd wondered why no oxen were available to do the work.
“Mr. Garrett’s division!”
At the head of his men, Garrett’s horse caracoled as he fought to bring it under control. He managed it, and with an excessively bored expression started the horse walking ahead.
“What the devil are you about, Mr. Garrett?” thundered Tyrell.
Garrett looked down, astonished.
“Get off that horse! The men march, you march with them! Get off, I say!”
Sulky and brooding, Garrett dismounted. His fine hessian boots, which looked admirable on horseback, would be a sad hindrance on the march.
For the man-hauling, there was no time to make the usual canvas belts. A simple pair of ropes had to serve as traces. These were of new hemp, which, while strong, were rough and stiff to the touch.
Kydd adjusted his hat back and, passing the rope over his shoulder like the others, leaned into the task. The heavy cart was awkward to move and squealed like a pig as the massive old wheels protested at the weight of the gun. They ground off, taking the road out of town.
The band continued to play somewhere ahead, but the music was too indistinct to inspire. Then someone in the relieving watch started up:
Come cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer
To add something more to this wonderful year.
Hearts of oak are our ships! Jolly tars are our men!
Steadyyy, boys, steadyyyy!
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and agaaain!
Kydd joined in with a will as they toiled along.
The houses fell away, and soon the cobbled road deteriorated, holes making the cart jolt and sway dangerously. The road wound into the hills and at every rise the relieving watch moved to double bank the traces, getting in the way.
There was no more singing. The afternoon sun grew hot and the still weather brought no consoling breeze.
“Halt. Chock the wagon.”
Gratefully they resigned their places and sat on the grass verge, waiting impatiently for the dipper of water.
They moved off again, this time with Kydd and Renzi in the relieving watch behind.
Kydd’s hands were sore and, despite padding with his jacket, the shoulder that had borne the rope across it was raw.
They trudged on. The sun descended, and word came to halt for the night at an open place of upland heath. Kydd ached all over, but especially in his legs, which were unused to marching. He selected a tussock and collapsed against it while the marines foraged for firewood. The rum ration would be coming round soon. “How far have we come, do you think?” he asked Renzi.
Opening his eyes, Renzi considered. “Must be close to halfway,” he said. “I recollect that there is another range of hills and Rennes lies some way beyond, in the valley.” He sighed. “Another one or two days should see us in Rennes – I pray only that nothing delays the Royalists marching to join us. We’re far extended.”
Kydd let his buzzing limbs relax. A single tent had been erected, probably for the officers – there was no time for a proper baggage train, and in any case it would all be over in a short time. The men had a single blanket each.
Cooking fires flared and crackled, the smoke pungent on the still evening air. Kydd felt a griping in his stomach – hard tack and tepid lumps of salt pork were all that was on offer.
“Jewkes, come with me, mate.” Doggo eased his seaman’s knife in its sheath and Jewkes grinned in understanding. The pair disappeared silently into the dusk.
Renzi removed his shoes and sat with his feet toward the fire. Kydd did the same. The early spring evening in the quiet stillness was pleasing. The fire spat and settled, the flames reflected ruddily on their faces.
“Mr. Tyrell must think I’m a fighting man enough, that I’m chosen,” Kydd said.
Renzi grunted.
“Do you not think it?” Kydd said.
“My dear fellow, we had better face it that you and I are both chosen because we would not be missed, should the venture prove… unfortunate.”
“Do you really think it will be so?”
Renzi sighed. “To me, though I am no military strategist, the whole affair seems precipitate, unplanned. We are but few – a battalion of foot and a hundred marines are all our fighting force. Our success depends on getting the guns to the Royalists to give them heart to win a small battle. If anything should prevent the joining…” He stretched and lay down full length, eyes closed.
With a start Kydd sensed the presence of shadows at the edge of the firelight. It was Doggo and Jewkes, bringing in a couple of chickens and some rabbit carcasses, which quickly found their way into the cooking pot along with a handful of wild thyme.
Replete at last, Kydd lay down, and drawing his coarse blanket over him, fell asleep.
He awoke in the predawn dark, bitterly cold and stiff. The fire had burned to ashes and the soaking dew had made his blanket limp and sodden. Struggling to his feet, Kydd eased his stiff limbs, then sat hunched and miserable. It was proving a far from glorious war.
After a lukewarm breakfast they set off in the bleak dawn. They had not made more than half a mile up the road when a horseman galloped toward them, coming to a halt in a shower of stones at the head of the column. It was a lieutenant of the 93rd Foot.
“Who is your officer, my man?” he said haughtily to the lead trace.
“I am,” growled Tyrell, emerging from the other side.
“Er, I am desired by his lordship to make enquiries concerning the progress of our guns.”
Tyrell glared up at him, the elegant officer seated nonchalantly on his immaculate chestnut. “We are proceeding at our best pace. Does his lordship require that I exhaust my men?”
“His lordship is conscious that an early juncture with our allies is desirable,” the lieutenant said peevishly. “The regiment is at a stand, sir, and awaits its guns.”
“Damn your blood, sir! These are our guns, and we go at our own pace. Be so good as to clear the road and let us proceed,” Tyrell snarled.
The subaltern colored. Wheeling his horse around, he galloped off ahead.
Over the rise the road went downhill for a space and the traces had to be streamed astern to check the cart’s motion. At the bottom the hauling resumed up a steeper incline, into the bare granite outcrops of the highest range of hills…
It sounded like a firework, just a flat pop and a lazy plume of smoke from halfway up the hill. There was a meaty slap and the first man of the starboard trace grunted and flopped to the ground, writhing feebly.
Stunned, the men let the gun grind to a stop.
“Take cover!” yelled someone. “It’s a Frog!”
There was a general scramble for the shelter of rocks, someone fortunately thinking to chock the wheels of the cart. The marines doubled past and began fanning out, climbing slowly among the rocks of the hillside.
“You craven scum!” roared Tyrell. “Have you never been under fire before? Get back to your duty this instant!”
Crestfallen, and with wary glances at the hillside, the traces were resumed. Kydd felt his skin crawl. Next to him Renzi toiled away.
Again, the little pop. This time it was up the hill but on the other side of the road, leaving the marines helplessly combing the wrong side. Again it was the lead man on the starboard trace. This time the man was hit in the throat. He sank to his knees, hands scrabbling, his blood spouting between his fingers, drenching his front. Within minutes his life gurgled away.
“Keep it going! Don’t stop!” Tyrell shouted, with a higher pitch to his voice.
“A pair of them working together – intelligent,” murmured Renzi. “And not killing the officer – if they did we’d just carry on. As it is…”
Kydd didn’t reply.
The guns squeaked on.
The new lead starboard trace man looked around fearfully, his arm half up as if to ward off any bullet.
Under the impact of the ball in his belly, he doubled up and fell screaming and kicking in intolerable pain. He was dragged to the side of the road, where he died noisily.
This time Tyrell did not try to stop the stampede. The unarmed sailors cowered behind rocks and tussocks, white-faced. Tyrell stood contemptuously alone. He signaled to the marine lieutenant, who came at the run.
Tyrell’s terse orders were translated by the lieutenant, and the marines started to advance on both hillsides in a skirmish line. He waited until they were beyond musket range and called the men back to their task. The gun wagon had rolled backwards and into a watercourse by the side of the road, and it took considerable backbreaking work to heave it back on course and let the weary task resume.
Sore hands, raw shoulders – it seemed to Kydd as if the world was made of toil and pain. In front a man was leaning into it like him, a dark stain of sweat down his dusty back, and beyond him others. To his left was the other trace and Renzi, bent to the same angle but showing no sign of suffering. And always the cruel, biting rope.
The sound of horse’s hooves at the gallop, and the lieutenant of Foot raced into view. In one movement he crashed the horse to a stop and slid from the saddle, saluting Tyrell smartly.
“The Royalists have got beat, ’n’ you must fall back,” he said breathlessly.
“Make your report, Lieutenant,” Tyrell said coldly.
“Sir – sir, his lordship begs to inform you that the Royalists have met with a reverse at arms, and are in retreat,” he said. “We are to fall back on St. Pontrieux, and he hopes to reach you with the regiment before dusk to escort the guns.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Is that all?”
The lieutenant mopped his brow with a lilac silk handkerchief. “Well, they do say as how with the Royalists on the run Despard may now split his forces, and send his cavalry after us.” He lowered his voice. “Tell the truth, it’s amazin’ how quick the Crapauds move! Outflanked du Pons completely, they did, ’n’ if they take it into their heads to come after us, then we’ll be hard put to stop them.”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant. Return to your unit,” Tyrell snapped.
The talk of outflanking was disturbing. Even the most unlettered could conceive of the chilling danger of fanatic revolutionaries swarming past the redcoats, then falling on them from behind.
“Turn those guns around! Get a move on, you lazy scoundrels, or I’ll see your backbone tomorrow.”
“Change the watch – marines, rearguard!”
They ground off back where they had come, spurred by the thought of a hostile army possibly on their trail. The countryside now became brooding, malicious, the outcrops threatening to hide a host of snipers.
“Still, we’ve got the army at our backs. They’ll hold ’em off – if they come!” Kydd said hopefully.
Renzi said nothing, but Kydd noted his half-smile.
The afternoon sun grew wan with a high overcast, but it did nothing to still Kydd’s stomach. The long iron mass of the twelve-pounder was a brute to be served; Kydd hadn’t thought he could hate something so much. The torture continued. There was always a small chance that the hurrying army in its turn could be outflanked before it met up with them, but it seemed unlikely. The wheels squealed on, grinding grittily on the road.
There was a shout from the marines in the rear.
“Still!” Tyrell bellowed. The men ceased their labor. In the silence could be heard a faint, irregular tapping, popping.
“They’re coming!” the marine lieutenant said. “Form line!” he ordered.
The marines spread across the road in three ranks, the front kneeling, and waited apprehensively.
Over the crest of the rise pounded a horse, pushed to the limit. It was the lieutenant of Foot, disheveled and wild-eyed. “We’re cut to pieces! Got to us before we could form up!” He stopped for breath, his chest heaving. His horse was equally affected, snorting, wide eyes rolling and unable to stand still.
“What’s the situation, man?” Tyrell snarled.
“They’re through! You’ve a squadron of Crochu’s cavalry in your rear, God help you!” Without waiting to see the effect of his words, he flogged the sweating beast around and galloped back.
In the stunned silence Tyrell spoke levelly. “Spike the guns. We leave them here.”
“Mr. Dawkins!” Tyrell called the marine lieutenant over. “The best defense against cavalry?”
“A square, sir!” the young man said.
“Well, then, you will form square around the seamen on my order. When possible we move forward – ”
He broke off as red figures on foot breasted the rise and staggered toward them. Some had their muskets and packs but many did not. They were ragged and torn, stumbling for the safety of their fellow kind.
“Duke Williams!” He addressed the sailors in a bull roar. “We fall back on St. Pontrieux. When I order ‘square’ you move for your life inside the lobsterback’s square. If you’re caught outside we can’t help you. Understand?”
Kydd felt cold. His life had become the familiar sea world of masts and spars, where skills and intelligence could make a difference, not this bloody butchery.
“Keep together!”
They made off rapidly down the road, the marines warily in the rear, ignoring the pathetic stragglers still struggling hopelessly after them.
Kydd’s legs burned, but he knew the penalty for fatigue.
A half-sensed rumbling became an ominous drumming, louder and louder, then over the rise burst Crochu’s cavalry.
“Square!” roared Tyrell.
The marines trotted into place, fixing bayonets as they ran. Three ranks faced outward in a hollow square, enclosing the seamen and the pitifully few stragglers who had reached them, rows of bayonets in the front rank pointing seamlessly out in an impenetrable fence of steel, the muskets of the remaining ranks at the ready.
It was a frightful sight – the heavy crash of hooves and mad jingling of equipment seemed an unstoppable juggernaut. They were in blue and white with plumed silver helmets, holding at the ready pennoned lances and heavy sabers, which they swung loosely in anticipation. The sun picked out points of shining steel, which added to the men’s dread.
In utmost terror, the exhausted stragglers saw their fate approach. Some screamed like children and tried to run, others made clumsy attempts to hold their ground.
The result was the same in all cases. A chasseur would detach from the squadron and canter toward the terrified man. The saber would rise, the horseman would lean gracefully into the task and at the right moment would slash down, slicing blood and bone like a butcher’s cleaver – a brief death cry, and on the road would be another untidy huddle.
One brave soul tried to make a stand: he swung round to face the enemy, aiming his musket at the horseman. The chasseur rode at him, bending low over the horse’s mane, his pennon held in pig-sticking fashion. The musket puffed smoke, but the bullet went wide. Instantly, Kydd saw the bloody spike of the lance emerge from the soldier’s back. There was a tearing shriek as the impaled man was forcibly rotated on the ground to allow the weapon to be withdrawn by the chasseur as he cantered past.
One man at the extremity of exhaustion was only yards away. He staggered and swayed toward them, his eyes coal pits of terror, his mouth working. “God’s mercy, let me in! For the love of Christ – ” He could hear the thunder of hooves behind him and began blubbering and screaming.
The marines held firm, not a man moved to open the ranks. If the cavalry got inside the square it was the finish – very quickly.
“Open up, open up – let the poor fucker in!” sailors cried out.
“Still!” roared Tyrell, from the center of the men.
Casually, a lone rider turned and began his run, deliberate and measured. At its culmination the saber lifted and fell, slicing through hands pitifully trying to fend off the inevitable. The man’s skull split like a melon and cascaded blood and brains.
A cry of rage broke from the seamen. “Fire at ’im, yer bastards! Get ’im!”
The marines, however, would not be drawn. The muskets would wait for the main charge, which must surely come.
Out of range, the squadron eddied and weaved, assembling for the charge. One of their number slashed at his horse’s side and urged it ahead. The others followed at a brisk trot, heading straight for the unmoving square. Kydd could see the sun-darkened features of the horsemen, concentrating on their target, foreign, disturbing, frightening. The canter turned into a gallop, then a race, a full-blooded charge.
Kydd looked at the stolid faces of the marines, searching for some kind of reassurance.
“Steady, you men!” Dawkins called, voice cool and composed.
“Present…” The muskets rose and settled on aim.
The horses pounded nearer, nearer.
“Front rank – wait for it – front rank, fire!”
The muskets crashed out and the smoke rolled forward, hiding the horsemen, before it rose slowly, showing the riders considerably nearer, but also empty saddles. The muskets slammed on the ground and inclined forward, the bayonets a formidable barrier.
The horses pounded on.
“Center rank – fire!”
Again the crash of muskets, more smoke, but Kydd could see what the closer range told. One face dissolved into blood, the man swaying and falling, bringing down his horse. Another folded over and was left draped forward over the speeding horse’s mane.
From this distance the expressions of the horsemen were clear#8212;snarls, determination and, in more than one case, apprehension. And then they were upon the rigid square.
At the last possible moment reins were hauled over and the riders streamed past on each side. Unable to break up the square by sheer terror, they in turn made easy targets as the foam-flecked horses thundered past and more riders fell.
They turned and regrouped, some of the horses nervous, plunging and stamping. Again they came, but their high spirits had left them. It was a halfhearted performance, and afterward they turned and galloped back over the hill.
The seamen cheered to a man. Unused to doing nothing in action, they had found the experience daunting, and boisterously gave vent to their fears.
“Good thing there are no field pieces,” the lieutenant of marines told Tyrell coolly. “A square cannot stand against a six-pound ball.”
Nearby a cavalryman, wounded in the leg, crawled away on all fours.
An insane howl broke out, and a private of the 93rd burst out of the square and limped across to the wounded man. He shouted hoarsely, beast-like. The Frenchman stopped and looked back. He tried to stand, but fell again. As he sprawled he tugged at his saber, but it was trapped under his body. His movements grew agitated and at the last minute he fell on his back and his arms went up.
With what looked like a tenting tool the private fell upon the horse man, hacking and gouging frantically. Inhuman shrieks came from the writhing figure, helpless under the onslaught.
The bloodied instrument rose and fell in savage chops. There was no more movement. Still the butchery continued, but finally the man fell across the body, weeping.
“March!” Tyrell ordered.
The pace was punishing. Kydd trudged on, trying to keep up with the rapid rate of march, but he found himself beginning to slow. It was simply that his leg muscles would no longer obey – they felt like lead and refused to swing faster.
The others pulled ahead.
“I do conceive that they will be back,” said Renzi.
Kydd had not noticed that he had fallen back as well. “Yes,” he said, too beaten to say more, moving forward stubbornly, one foot in front of the other like an automaton. His eyes glazed, set on the road moving beneath him, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
They felt it first – through the ground came a vibration, a subliminal presentiment of doom. It became a sound, the hateful drumming of horses, and they knew then what to expect.
“Square!” bellowed Tyrell.
It was hopeless. Together with others who had fallen behind, Kydd saw the square form – and close. They were too late.
Around the corner came the hated cavalry: they would catch the square unformed and smash it, or they would have their way with the stragglers – there seemed enough about to offer them sport. Kydd knew he was going to die. Strangely, he felt no terror, only a great disappointment. He had badly wanted to be rated able seaman and fulfill his promise to Bowyer, but now… He could go no farther; he would turn and face his end. A rider on a black horse had already singled him out for his victim and was beginning his run.
Emotion flooded him, an inchoate rage. His back straightened and his fists bunched. He faced the chasseur – he would try to drag the rider off his horse or something. He shouted meaninglessly at his nemesis – but he found himself jerked off his feet.
“Here, you half-wit!” Renzi yelled. He had found a peculiarly shaped cleft rock back from the road and dragged Kydd over to it.
They made it with feet to spare, cramming into the space in a mad scramble. The horseman slid to a clattering stop, just yards away. He stayed for a moment, uncertain, then grinned, a flash of white teeth under a black mustache. He raised his sword hilt to his lips in mock salute and rode off after easier prey.
Sounds of battle drifted away down the road, getting fainter and fainter. The late afternoon insects could be heard and the peace of the countryside prevailed. But now they were alone – alone in the territory of their enemy.
“Up the hill – we’ve got to get away from here damn quick before they come back looking for us,” said Renzi, extricating himself from the cleft.
The hillside folded into a small dry valley, thickly overgrown with mimosa and gorse. Plunging into it, they found the going tough, but fear drove them on. Twenty minutes later they had established a comfortable hundred-yard barrier of prickly growth. Hooves sounded on the road below – they dropped to a crouch and peered down.
Several cavalrymen reined their horses to a walk as they searched the sides of the road. An isolated scream sounded once but in the main they passed on up the road, prodding the scattered corpses as they went.
Kydd and Renzi crouched, motionless, the pungent scent of the undergrowth almost overpowering.
“We can’t follow the road,” Renzi whispered. “Despard will be marching on St. Pontrieux just as soon as he can. The road’s going to be alive with soldiers.”
It was impossible to tell what lay over the crest above but they had no choice. Fighting their way cautiously upward, they broke through the bushes into poor grass interspersed with weathered granite outcrops. Soon the road was out of sight.
“Nicholas, your pardon, but I am foundered, beat. Could we not…”
“Of course, dear fellow.” It would mean the end of any chance to catch up with their shipmates, but Renzi looked about for somewhere to rest. The sun was already out of sight beyond the crest of the hill and the chill of evening was coming on. The resting-place would have to serve for the night as well.
The best that could be found was an overhanging rock under which they sat, Kydd groaning with exhaustion.
“It has a certain attraction, this country I find,” Renzi said, musing through his own aching fatigue. “A definable quality of beauty that stems perhaps from its very wildness.”
“Yes,” said Kydd, in a muffled voice.
“A grandeur, a nobility that one supposes can only exist as a consequence of man’s inability to impose his will on this rugged land.”
There was no answering comment. Kydd’s head drooped and he slid sideways against his friend.
Renzi could not bring himself to speak of his fears. Without doubt St. Pontrieux would be taken very soon and the British would give up the project, and sail away. He tried not to think of the consequence. Abandoned in a hostile land, he and Kydd would not last long.
While Renzi brooded and dozed, Kydd slept; a deep, profound and necessary sleep for a youthful body not yet fully hardened by sea life.
Renzi awoke shivering. It was dark and chill, the nearly full moon veiled in cloud. Kydd was awake and Renzi noted ironically that he was now leaning up against his friend.
“B-bloody c-cold!” Kydd said.
They both shuddered uncontrollably, hugging their knees.
“What o’clock is it?” Kydd croaked.
“Past midnight, is all I can say,” Renzi replied.
Kydd stood up stiffly and cuffed himself. “This is no good – we shall die of the cold. We must go on.”
“Yes, of course.”
Their bodies aching and protesting, instinctively they headed for the top of the ridge. They trudged slowly, letting their muscles take up again, on and up the shadowed slopes. The moon-distorted countryside felt cruel and hard. Renzi foresaw them trying to hold to a steady course in the night, crashing into unseen obstacles, going in circles, awakening a hostile countryside. It was madness. Dark patches of tussocks lay everywhere and the hilltops in the distance were tinged with silver. It was deathly still, disturbed only by unseen scurries of wildlife. A soft flutter of wings signified either a bat or an owl, and a rabbit screamed as it was taken by a stoat.
They reached the top just as the moon retreated behind the clouds once more. They stumbled on in the dark, tripping over rocks and plow ing through bushes, conscious all the while of gnawing hunger.
The moon emerged again, and Kydd jerked with surprise. On all sides they were surrounded by gigantic structures rearing up in black evil ranks, glowering down on them. His hair stood on end; there was something primeval and overpowering about them.
“Cromlechs!” Renzi breathed.
“What?”
“The Breton dolmen! I’ve never seen one before – a mighty building of stone, untold ages old. Built by an unknown people, for who knows what purpose?” Renzi wandered about the big stone circle, marveling. “Look, I do believe that we should wait until the morrow,” he said, “until we can see where we should go.”
“So we can gaze upon y’r stones?” Kydd snapped.
“Not at all,” Renzi lied. “So that we are in no danger of having to retrace our steps.”
“Then I wish you joy of y’r rest. I will continue.” Kydd’s face was indistinct in the shifting patterns of moonlight.
“You will find that St. Pontrieux has been taken,” Renzi said softly.
A slight hesitation. “Do y’ think I’ve not thought of that? Enough waste of time. I’m leaving.”
Renzi noted the slumped shoulders, the dragging feet. Kydd was past caring. His heart went out to the lonely figure hobbling stubbornly through the gloomy megaliths and out of sight. For a minute or so he waited alone, then reluctantly went after him, only to see Kydd heading back toward him, head down.
“Be damned to both you and y’r stones, Renzi!” Kydd said thickly, swaying past and dropping to the ground in the lee of the central one.
“You will find that our mysterious ancestors always built at a prominence,” Renzi said gently. “Tomorrow we shall have such a splendid view as will make you stare.”
The long cold night eventually gave way to a gray misty dawn, the light of day turning the gaunt black megaliths to gray, lichen-covered crags. The mist stayed with the daylight, a quiet enshrouding white that dappled all things with a gentle dew. They cast about, and it was not long before they came across a well-worn animal track meandering along the ridge top. Hunger had become an insistent, hollow pain. They tramped on, not speaking.
A muffled sound carried through the mist. They stood absolutely still.
Hooves! It was impossible to say from where the sound came in the enfolding white and they remained rigid, ears straining. Then out of the mist trotted a small goat. It saw them and stopped in surprise.
“Breakfast,” Kydd whispered.
“Yes!” gloated Renzi.
Kydd advanced slowly on the animal, which pawed the ground uncertainly.
“Pretty little one, come to me…”
A few feet away he lunged, and grappled the terrified animal by the horns, wrestling it to the ground. It kicked and struggled, bleating piteously, but eventually it lay still.
Kydd held it securely, its big frightened eyes rolling. “What do I do now?” he gasped.
“Kill it!”
“How?”
So focused on the animal were they that the little girl was able to come upon them unawares. “Qu’est-ce que vous faites avec ma chèvre?” she cried out, aggrieved.
“Sois calme, mon enfant!” Renzi said, in a soothing tone, removing his battered hat politely. “Your little goat, my friend thinks it has hurt its foot,” he continued smoothly. He went to the goat and stroked its head. “You think it’s hurt its foot!” he muttered at the mystified Kydd, who immediately began carefully to inspect a dainty hoof.
Kydd let the goat go and smiled winningly at the little girl.
“Who are you, M’sieur? A villain perhaps, or a lost Royalist?” she said, looking at them doubtfully.
“But, no!” said Renzi, frowning at the suggestion. “We are, unhappily, lost. We seek the farm of Monsieur, er, M’sieur…”
“Pleneuf?”
“Yes, child. May we know in which direction it lies?”
“I will tell you. It is back along the track. You go down the hill there.”
Renzi smacked his forehead. “Of course! A thousand thanks for your kindness.” He bowed.
“Viens avec moi, mon fou!” he told Kydd, beckoning to him unmistakably. They walked away, Renzi waving reassuringly at the little girl.
They followed the track down, the mist clearing as they went. Pas tures and cultivated fields gave warning of the farm and they stopped at a safe distance.
“We must eat or we perish,” Renzi said. “I have the liveliest recollection that in the barns they cure the most excellent bacon and keep stone jars of cold cider. Shall we proceed?” His eyes gleamed.
They stole toward the farm buildings, uncomfortably aware that in their seaman’s rig they were utterly unlike the smocked and gaitered rural folk and would have no chance of passing themselves off as anything but what they were.
The ancient barn smelled powerfully of old hay as they slipped in through the vast doors hanging ajar. As their eyes adapted to the gloom, they went farther in, rummaging feverishly for stone jars or hanging flitches.
A sudden shadow made them look up, then wheel round – but it was too late. The man in the sunlight at the door held a fowling-piece, an old and ugly but perfectly serviceable weapon, its long barrel trained steadily on them.
“Ah, Monsieur – ” began Renzi, stepping forward.
“Non!” The flintlock jabbed forward. “Qui êtes vous?” The darkjowled farmer moved carefully into the barn to take a closer look. “Diable! Les foutus anglais!” The muzzle jerked up.
There was nothing they could say or do as they were marched out.
“Par pitié, Monsieur! We are famished, thirsty. For the love of Christ, something!”
The farmer said nothing, and outside the stables threw a key to the ground. He indicated to Kydd that he should open the massive old padlock. They entered a small stable. Still keeping the gun trained on them, he closed the lower door. Before the top half shut he leaned in with a triumphant look and spoke. He would immediately go to town and fetch soldiers, but out of pity he would first ask his wife to bring a little of the morning mijoté for them to eat, and possibly some cider.
The upper door slammed shut and they sank down on the straw.
“What’re our chances?” Kydd said.
Renzi answered, with some hesitation, “Well, we can take it now that St. Pontrieux has fallen, probably without a fight. The soldiers therefore will be cheated of their victory, and will be in an ugly mood.” He scratched his side – there were fleas in the stable. “What is worse for us, many of our men will have been saved because the ships will have taken them up, and this they will have seen. Perhaps it is not a good idea to be a sailor at such a time.” The lines in his face deepened.
Kydd said nothing: if there was something to be faced, then he would face it without flinching.
There was a rattling of the padlock and the door was flung open. In the glare of sunlight they became aware of the mob cap and pinafore of a woman. Preceded by the farmer with his flintlock, she entered warily with a tray. She gave a little scream and the tray crashed to the ground. The farmer growled in bafflement. “Les anglais!” she faltered. “They – look so fierce!”
The farmer relaxed. “Espèce de connard!” he said dismissively.
He waited until fresh food had been brought, and swung in a stone jar. The door slammed shut and the two fell upon the food.
“Silly woman!” Kydd said, without malice, savaging a chicken leg that had found its way into the ragoût.
“I think not,” Renzi said meaningfully. He tore ravenously at the country bread. It was infinitely the best meal he had ever had, the rough cider complementing the natural flavor of the Breton cooking.
Puzzled, Kydd looked at him. An urgent rattling at the door was his answer. It was flung open and the farmer’s wife was standing there. “You must go now!” she said urgently, in accented English.
“Marie,” Renzi said, in a low voice.
“No! Leave now! He will be back with soldiers soon.”
“But – ”
“Nicholas, I am married now. Married, hein! Please go!”
Renzi moved forward and held her. She sobbed just once, but pushed him firmly away. “Go to the house of Madame Dahouet,” she said quickly. “It is the white house on the corner of the avenue du Quatorze Juillet off the square. She is a – sympathisante. Her son die in Paris.”
Renzi stood reluctant.
“Take care, my love – allez avec Dieu!” She drew back against the door, her eyes fixed on his. “Go,” she whispered.