Not a word, Hawkwood said. Let me do the talking.
I was hoping youd say that, Stuart murmured.
One more thing, Hawkwood said.
Whats that?
Fall down.
Eh? Stuart flashed him a look of alarm.
Hawkwood said. Youre injured. Your ships foundered and youve just crawled ashore. Youre exhausted. Fall down. Do it now.
Stuarts collapse was rather more theatrical than Hawkwood would have liked and probably wouldnt have looked out of place in a Drury Lane pageant, but anything that gave the patrol pause for thought and less reason to fix bayonets was all he was looking for.
With Stuart slumped on the ground, Hawkwood raised his hand and called out in French, Help! Over here! He gestured frantically and then knelt, as if he was trying to help a stricken comrade regain his sea legs.
Not a word, Lieutenant, Hawkwood said again, though he knew the warning was superfluous. He looked towards the oncoming troops, adopted what he hoped was an urgent expression, and called out once more: We need help here!
The officer reined in his horse. He was a gaunt individual with pale, sullen features. A thin moustache that looked as if it had been pasted on as an afterthought traced the line of his upper lip; a futile attempt to add character to an uncharismatic face. Late thirties, Hawkwood guessed, and rather old for his rank; suggesting a career path less distinguished than a man his age might have expected, or hoped for. Which could account for him being put in charge of a shore patrol, Hawkwood thought as he stood up, leaving Stuart screwing his face in agony and clutching his arm, giving a credible impression that his injury was worse than it actually was.
The lieutenants eyes took in Hawkwoods matted hair, the torn clothing, the scars, the cuts and the stains and the man at Hawkwoods feet.
Whats going on here? Who are you men?
Lieutenant! Hawkwood hoped he wasnt over playing the relief in his voice. By God, youre a welcome sight!
The lieutenant gestured his men to close in. Identify yourselves.
Hawkwood drew himself up. Captain Vallon, 93rd Regiment of Infantry. And you are?
The lieutenants eyebrows rose.
Hawkwood had dragged the name out of the air and awarded himself the promotion to circumvent the man on the horse from pulling rank. The ploy worked. Taken aback and not sure whether he should offer salutations to a senior officer whose dishevelled appearance was, to say the least, questionable, the lieutenants eyes moved back to the still wincing Stuart.
I am Lieutenant Gaston Malbreau of the Mahon garrison. Where are you billeted, Captain? I wasnt aware the 93rd was deployed in this district. The lieutenants gaze lifted.
It isnt, Hawkwood said, deflecting the question and uttering a silent prayer as he did so. Another snippet of information to be stored away.
The lieutenant frowned. Then where have you come from?
Hawkwood jerked his thumb seawards. There.
The lieutenant followed Hawkwoods gesture and stared out towards the Channels murky horizon. His features twisted in puzzlement. He turned back. Im not with you, Captain. What are you telling me?
That Im here by the grace of God and the efforts of this brave fellow, Hawkwood said, indicating Stuart. And Id appreciate a couple of blankets and a canteen, Corporal. Sharpish, if you please. Were thirsty and were bloody freezing. Hawkwood held out his hand impatiently, indicating that the corporal didnt have a choice in the matter.
The corporal blinked and looked to his lieutenant for authorization.
The lieutenant hesitated and then nodded curtly as if annoyed at having his chain of command usurped. As the corporal directed two of his men to hand over their bedrolls and a canteen, he addressed Hawkwood once again. Im still not following you, Captain. Are you telling me youve just come ashore?
Thats one way of putting it.
Hawkwoods enigmatic response drew an immediate frown. I see no signs of a vessel.
No, Hawkwood said drily. You wouldnt. She was lost in last nights storm. Were the only ones who made it. The rest of the crew went down with her. Between you and me, Lieutenant, I wasnt so foolish as to expect a garland of flowers and a kiss on the cheek from the Emperor, but this wasnt the way I wanted to return to the motherland, not after two years in a God-damned British prison ship.
The lieutenants chin came up sharply. Prison ship?
A murmur ran through the rest of the patrol. Hawkwood draped one of the blankets around Stuarts shoulders and held the canteen to the lieutenants lips. Stuart took the canteen with his good hand and gulped greedily. This time there was no fakery in his actions.
Hawkwood took back the canteen and raised it to his own mouth. The water was warm and brackish but it tasted like nectar after the amount of salt water hed ingested. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Eight hundred of us; kept like animals and fed on swill you wouldnt feed to a goat. You ever tasted salted herring and turnips, Lieutenant? You wouldnt like it, trust me. Two years was more than enough.
You escaped?
Hawkwood nodded wearily. He handed the canteen back to the corporal and made a play of wrapping the remaining blanket around himself. The material was threadbare and in keeping with the rough state of the patrols uniforms. As a result there wasnt a great deal of comfort or warmth in it, but beggars, Hawkwood reflected, couldnt be choosers. Damned right, I did.
The patrols musket barrels, he saw, were beginning to droop.
Malbreau nodded towards Stuart, his face set. And this man? He was also a prisoner?
Hawkwood shook his head and placed his hand on Stuarts shoulder. No, hes a British sea captain and if it werent for him I wouldnt be talking with you now.
The members of the patrol exchanged startled glances. The lieutenant stiffened. His eyes narrowed. How so?
Hes a smuggler; what the English call a free trader. It was Captain Stuarts ship that I took passage on. Cost me a fortune; four thousand francs, if you can believe it. Not what Id call free trade. Not by a long shot! But Ill say this for them: theyre damned well organized. Arranged my escape from the hulk, accommodation and all my transportation.
Hawkwood gave Stuart a reassuring pat on the shoulder and wondered how much of the conversation Griffins commander had managed to follow. So I want him taken care of until we can arrange his return home. His arm needs looking at. Youve a medical officer back at the garrison, I take it?
Surgeon Manseraux. It was the corporal who replied, to a tart look from the lieutenant, Hawkwood noted.
Competent? Hawkwood asked.
Hes a bloody butcher. The soldier grinned, showing teeth as yellow as parchment.
Hawkwood returned the grin. Excellent. Whats your name, Corporal?
Hawkwood had no interest whatsoever in the corporals name but he was following one of the first principles of military prudence: cultivate the non-commissioned men. Get them on your side and you could win wars.
The corporal straightened. Despard, sir.
Competent? Hawkwood asked.
Hes a bloody butcher. The soldier grinned, showing teeth as yellow as parchment.
Hawkwood returned the grin. Excellent. Whats your name, Corporal?
Hawkwood had no interest whatsoever in the corporals name but he was following one of the first principles of military prudence: cultivate the non-commissioned men. Get them on your side and you could win wars.
The corporal straightened. Despard, sir.
Then I thank you for your advice, Corporal Despard. He turned to the man on the horse. I regret Im not too familiar with this part of the country, Lieutenant. How far are we from this garrison of yours? Mahon, did you say? Hawkwood forged an expression that suggested he was trying to search his memory. Wait, that would be . . . Ambleteuse, am I right?
The lieutenant twisted in his saddle and jerked his chin towards a point over his shoulder. Two miles up the coast beyond the dunes.
Still very formal, though, Hawkwood noted. A warning bell began to tinkle.
Good. Then we should proceed there without delay. The sooner Im reunited with my regiment the better. Now that Im home, Im anxious to get back to the fight. But then, who wouldnt be, eh?
The lieutenant turned and drew himself up. Quite so, Captain. Permit me to congratulate you on your safe return. The lieutenant paused and his face took on a new severity. My men and I will of course accompany you to the fort, though I regret we are required to escort you under arms.
Malbreau flicked his hand at the corporal and his men, who responded with a look of surprise before taking a renewed grip on their muskets. As youve been away for some time, you may not be aware that the Empire is still under considerable threat from Bourbon sympathizers. There have been a growing number of incursions by royalist agents disembarking from British vessels along our northern coasts and weve been warned to remain vigilant, so youll forgive me for taking precautions.
In that one moment, the expression on Malbreaus face told Hawkwood all he needed to know. Hed sensed his comment about wanting to return to the fight had hit a raw nerve. The lieutenants response confirmed it. At some time in his past, Malbreaus army career had obviously been blighted, probably due to an indiscretion or a poorly judged command. As a result, despite the Emperors dire need for able troops to reinforce his eastern divisions, the lieutenant had been consigned to the doldrums: a small, once significant but now poorly manned coastal garrison miles from anywhere. Mahon was going to be the pinnacle of Malbreaus army career, and he knew it and the inevitability of it consumed him.
And as with all such men, the lieutenant clearly placed the blame for his misfortune squarely on everybodys shoulders but his own. The bitterness was engrained in every frown, shrug and thrust of his jawline. It oozed from his pores like sweat on a toad. As far as Lieutenant Malbreau was concerned, he was still a cut above everyone else, be they a general, a corporal or, more specifically, anyone holding the rank immediately above him, which on this occasion, turned out to be one Captain Vallon of the 93rd Regiment of Infantry: frontline officer, escaped prisoner of war and, therefore, in the hearts and minds of the Republic, a returning hero. In Malbreaus eyes, targets of resentment probably didnt come any bigger.
Hawkwood forced himself to nod in acquiescence and keep his voice calm. Absolutely, Lieutenant. Quite right, too. For all you and your men know, we could well be subversives, come ashore to wreak havoc about the Empire. It wouldnt do a lot for your career if you let someone like that slip through your hands without adequate investigation, now, would it? Hawkwood added blithely.
A nerve moved along the lieutenants pale cheek. Hawkwood looked sideways and caught the corporal regarding him with what appeared to be a degree of embarrassment. In response, Hawkwood offered Despard what he hoped was a wry shrug. A corner of the corporals mouth lifted; silent affirmation that Lieutenant Gaston Malbreau wasnt much liked by his own men either and that it was a friction that appeared to transcend the boundaries of rank. Possibly something worth exploiting, Hawkwood mused, should the need arise. He stored that thought away.
His authority sealed, at least in his own mind, Malbreau gripped the reins of his horse. When we reach Mahon Ive no doubt the garrison commander will be able to verify your particulars and arrange for your onward journey. Though it may take a while. The same goes for your . . . companion. Does he speak French, by the way?
Hawkwood shook his head A few words only and Im no linguist, alas, so I cant tell you much about him, other than his name. We were introduced at the beginning of our voyage. Since then, Im afraid our exchanges have consisted mostly of pointing and waving our arms about. You know how it is.
I see. Malbreau nodded. There was no warmth in his voice. He stared hard at Griffins commander and, in passable though heavily accented English, said. You are Captain . . . Stuart? Is that correct?
Christ! Hawkwood thought. If Stuart contradicts the story were dead men. He held his breath.
Stuart lifted his head. Slowly he got to his feet. Cradling his injured arm, he nodded. Captain Jonathan Stuart at your service, Lieutenant.
What is the name of your ship?
For a tiny second, Stuart hesitated. Then he frowned, as if deciphering the lieutenants pronunciation, and said, The lugger Pandora, out of Rye. Or at least she was until the storm ripped her to pieces. Id like to know whos going to bloody pay for her.
The lieutenants brow creased. What do you mean?
What the hell do you think I mean? Stuart replied hotly. You think I was on my own time? I was working for you lot when she went down. Delivering the captain here to the bosom of his family. It wasnt only my ship. I lost my living and my crewmates in that bloody storm. Like brothers to me, they were; with wives and children. Theyre going to need recompense for a start. You going to arrange for me to speak to somebody about that? Stuart glared hard at the lieutenant before throwing Hawkwood an equally accusatory look.
Hawkwood was struck by the emotion in the English captains voice. Stuarts outburst had not been a piece of theatre; it had been genuine. Angry and distraught at the loss of the crewmen from the Griffin, he was letting anyone within earshot know it, Hawkwood included. Stuart was also, Hawkwood knew, sending him another message: that hed understood the gist of his exchange with Malbreau.
Feigning incomprehension and bemusement at Stuarts tirade, Hawkwood turned to the French officer. What did he say?
Malbreau gave a derisive snort. The scoundrels only demanding compensation for the loss of his boat.
Is he indeed? Hawkwood appeared to give the matter some thought. Well, you cant deny the fellow has a point. Seems only fair after the risks hes taken. Ive no doubt something can be arranged. Tell him, Ill do my best to see hes suitably reimbursed.
Malbreau stared at Hawkwood askance.
Hawkwood raised an eyebrow. What? You doubt the fellows claim? You do realize that without friends like the captain here, a lot of good Frenchmen are likely to be spending the rest of the war and possibly the rest of their days in British prisons. What do you thinkll happen if Captain Stuart returns home to tell the rest of his smuggling brethren that we didnt see right by him? Ill tell you, Lieutenant: therell be no one to give aid to our brave comrades; no one to provide them with shelter or arrange their safe passage across the Sleeve. From what Ive heard, the war hasnt been going at all well. France needs every able body. You wouldnt want to deny experienced men the chance of returning home and answering the Emperors call, would you?