Malbreau flushed. No, of course not.
Damned glad to hear it, Hawkwood said, turning the screw. Then tell him what I said.
Malbreau, after hesitating with his teeth clenched, did as Hawkwood instructed. Stuart listened to the grudging translation then turned to Hawkwood and, after fixing him with a calculating stare, gave a brief nod as though acknowledging the offer of restitution. Hawkwood nodded back. For Malbreaus benefit, Hawkwood hoped, honour had been satisfied.
So. Hawkwood stroked the mares smoothly muscled neck. Thats settled then. He looked up. Well, lead on, Lieutenant. The sooner we report to this garrison of yours, the sooner we can arrange Captain Stuarts repatriation. That way, hes out of our hair and ready to bring more of our men back. And if either of us drops by the roadside Im sure Corporal Despard and his men will be only too happy to manufacture stretchers for the two of us.
Unseen by Malbreau and the other members of the patrol, Hawkwood and Stuart exchanged another quick glance. It wasnt hard to interpret the desperate query in Stuarts eyes. Hawkwood didnt have to be a mind reader to know that Stuart was asking him what the hell theyd got themselves into. And, more to the point, how the hell were they going to get themselves out?
As Lieutenant Malbreau wheeled his horse about, Hawkwood was asking himself the very same thing.
Chapter 7
They headed north.
Malbreau had told them it was only two miles to the fort. Two miles in which to come up with a plan of escape. Not far enough, Hawkwood calculated bleakly. To make matters worse, he was being herded further away from his destination: Wimereux and the diligence that was to transport him to Paris. So far, the mission was turning into an unmitigated disaster.
He thought about the consequences of their being taken to Mahon. There was a slim chance the subterfuge might work. Ultimately, their fate lay in the hands of the garrison commander, but if the latter was cut from the same cloth as his subordinate, they were in trouble. Hawkwood revised that thought. Deeper trouble. Just how deep remained to be seen.
The path wound its way through the pine trees, rising steadily before finally emerging on to a narrow road bordered to the east by scrubby heathland and to the west and north by a rolling landscape of grass-topped sand dunes which, Hawkwood presumed, sloped all the way back down to the sea. The path was heavily indented with cart tracks and hoof prints, many cloven, indicating it was a well-worn route for cattle as well as horses and probably a main drover road, linking settlements up and down the coast.
As if taking Hawkwoods direction literally, Malbreau had chosen to ride ahead of them, guiding his horse along the ruts, maintaining point in haughty silence. Hawkwood wasnt sure about the horse. He couldnt recall if it was a requirement for a French officer of fusiliers to be mounted or whether it was a personal affectation. He suspected the latter. Either way, it was another facet of Malbreaus style of command that distanced him from his men, which made Hawkwood wonder if that was why Malbreau had chosen it. Perhaps, Hawkwood thought cynically, the lieutenant considered it more convenient than having his men carry him around in a sedan chair.
Though, in truth, he was thankful for Malbreaus lack of civility. Had the lieutenant been the garrulous type, anxious to discuss the course of the war or exchange tales of hearth and home, Hawkwood knew the journey to the fort would require constant vigilance on his part to ensure he didnt say the wrong thing and inadvertently let something slip which would lay open his and Stuarts deception. Malbreaus unwillingness to engage in conversation had granted Hawkwood a useful respite in which to think. Or at least, thats what Hawkwood had supposed when theyd set off.
Blankets over their shoulders, Hawkwood and Stuart made no attempt to communicate with each other, for obvious reasons. In that regard, Hawkwood had drawn the short straw for, as none of the patrol other than Malbreau understood English, Stuart had been left guarding his own thoughts. Unfortunately, this had left Hawkwood, not to his own devices, as hed first hoped, but prey to interrogation by his new-found friend, Corporal Despard who, in the absence of supervision by his lieutenant, was most interested, almost to the point of sycophancy, in Hawkwoods fictitious capture and flight from the bastard British and their infamous prison hulks.
It might have been wiser, Hawkwood knew, to have pulled rank and kept the corporal in his place from the outset, in keeping with his masquerade as a French officer. But with Malbreau having removed himself from conversational range, Hawkwood had revised his original thinking and reasoned that, if his disguise was to be believed, a prisoner of war newly restored to his own country would probably want to converse with a fellow soldier irrespective of rank if only to avoid marching in a strained silence, which would have made the journey to the fort smack even more of prisoners being transferred under escort. Which might have satisfied Lieutenant Malbreau, Hawkwood reflected, but it wouldnt have been conducive to either his or Stuarts sense of well-being. So, remaining alert, hed given in to the corporals enquiries.
Fortunately, Hawkwood had been able to draw on his own experiences to satisfy Despards curiosity. The events that had taken place on the hulk, Rapacious, and his association with Lasseur were still vivid in his mind and the physical scars he bore added credence to his story. There had been no need to manufacture detail or events.
Also, as it turned out, the information had flowed both ways. By the time they crested the final rise to find the estuary and the coastline spread out before them, Hawkwoods store of newly acquired knowledge included the troop numbers and disposition of the Mahon garrison, the calibre of the shore batterys seven cannon, the proclivities of the garrison commanders mistress and the name of the best inn and brothel in Ambleteuse. Admittedly not all the intelligence was strictly relevant, but as Hawkwood had learned over the years, one never knew when accumulated facts might prove useful.
The first thing that struck Hawkwood was that there wasnt a great deal of town to see. What there was of it a cluster of unexceptional buildings huddled behind a low sea wall on the estuarys northern shore lay a little under a mile distant and it didnt look as if the place could support more than two or three hundred souls at the most. It was even doubtful whether Ambleteuse qualified as a town. Hawkwood thought back to what the corporal had told him. The place had likely been a quiet spot before the army arrived. Despards brothel probably hadnt existed either until the soldiers decided they wanted another form of entertainment to complement their alcohol intake. In that regard the place was undoubtedly no different to any garrison town in England, or anywhere else for that matter. It was the same with soldiers the world over. When they werent marching to war they were either fighting among themselves, or whoring or drinking. The only difference lay in the languages they spoke and the colours they fought under.
The fort drew the eye immediately, though it wasnt nearly as formidable as Hawkwood had been expecting. Neither was it situated in a commanding position on the high ground as so many garrison fortresses were. Instead, the squat, semi-circular construction was perched in lonely isolation on a rocky shelf at the mouth of the river. It looked not unlike a large wide-brimmed hat that had been washed up by the tide and deposited at the edge of the sand. The forts curved side butted into the Channel, its thick crenulated battlements forming a defensive barrier against the wind and waves. An oblong, grey-roofed blockhouse dominated the top of the keep. Smoke rose from the single chimney stack and a flag, buffeted by the breeze coming off the sea, flew stiffly above it. The fort was tethered to the shore by a concrete causeway and Hawkwood could see that, come high tide, the garrison would be completely cut off, leaving the troops stranded on their stone island. It didnt look like anywhere hed want to be posted in a hurry; which went a long way, he thought, to explaining Lieutenant Malbreaus churlish disposition.
The fort drew the eye immediately, though it wasnt nearly as formidable as Hawkwood had been expecting. Neither was it situated in a commanding position on the high ground as so many garrison fortresses were. Instead, the squat, semi-circular construction was perched in lonely isolation on a rocky shelf at the mouth of the river. It looked not unlike a large wide-brimmed hat that had been washed up by the tide and deposited at the edge of the sand. The forts curved side butted into the Channel, its thick crenulated battlements forming a defensive barrier against the wind and waves. An oblong, grey-roofed blockhouse dominated the top of the keep. Smoke rose from the single chimney stack and a flag, buffeted by the breeze coming off the sea, flew stiffly above it. The fort was tethered to the shore by a concrete causeway and Hawkwood could see that, come high tide, the garrison would be completely cut off, leaving the troops stranded on their stone island. It didnt look like anywhere hed want to be posted in a hurry; which went a long way, he thought, to explaining Lieutenant Malbreaus churlish disposition.
His gaze shifted to the mouth of the estuary and the jagged bend in the river directly behind it. His eyes moved upstream towards a low stone bridge. There were people in view; early risen townsfolk going about their business, some driving or pushing carts, a few herding livestock, either to market or fresh grazing land, Hawkwood presumed. He could see milking cows, a dozen or so sheep and a small flock of geese. It was a tranquil scene. What he couldnt see were other fording places, which suggested the bridge was probably one of the districts main crossing points.
There she is, Despard announced without noticeable affection and nodded towards the fort as if it had just materialized out of thin air.
Malbreau neither paused nor bothered to follow his corporals gaze but continued on towards the river with all the aloofness of the local squire returning home after a mornings hack. The indifference, Hawkwood noticed, as they followed Malbreau down the track, appeared to be mutual. If any of the locals were curious at the sight of two civilians flanked by a patrol bearing weapons at shoulder arms, they gave no outward sign. The garrison had been there long enough to ensure that troop movements had become a daily normality; either that or familiarity really did breed contempt.
Approaching the bridge, Hawkwood glanced towards the sea and the fortress outlined against the low-hanging sky. Differing in size but with the same shade of tiles covering its summit, it bore a vague resemblance to the bastion that had guarded the entrance to the Medway and the Sheerness dockyard that had been the mooring place of Rapacious. As omens went, Hawkwood thought, it left a good deal to be desired.
A cry from the direction of the bridge cut into his thoughts. Following the sound, he saw that a cart had come to a skewed halt at the far end, with one of its wheels dislodged. A mule waited patiently between the carts shafts as the carter tried to untangle its harness. Half the carts produce had been spilled. Several empty wicker cages lay strewn across the road and a dozen squawking hens were making a valiant bid for freedom. Hawkwood wished them luck, though he didnt think theyd get very far.
And then he saw that another catastrophe was about to ensue. A couple of drovers approaching from the opposite direction had failed to notice the damaged cart. Their half dozen or so head of cattle had obviously been blocking their view and theyd allowed them to get too far in front. With exquisite timing, the beasts had also decided it was time to pick up speed and a minor stampede was under way. On the bridge, the cart driver was too intent on rescuing his goods to have noticed the new threat bearing down upon him.
By the time Malbreau got there the bridge was milling with livestock and a heated altercation had broken out between cart owner and drovers. So much for tranquillity, Hawkwood thought.
Unflustered by the contretemps, however, Malbreau, shoulders erect, manoeuvred his mount slowly and surely through the small jostling herd and past the arguing trio without so much as a sideways glance. Neither did he try to avoid the carpet of fruit and vegetables lying squashed beneath his horses hooves. Not that there was much of anything edible left to salvage. The cattle had taken care of that.
By the time Hawkwood and the others arrived, Malbreau was some twenty horse lengths ahead of them and the row was still in full flow, raising grins from the corporal and his men, who wasted no opportunity in grabbing up several fruit that had survived the collision. They did not try to conceal the theft and laughed as they slapped the now docile cattle out of the way and tossed the purloined apples back and forth between them.
As the patrol passed by the spilled cart and the raised voices, Hawkwood saw Stuarts eyes flicker to one side and widen. He followed the English captains look and was surprised to see that one of the drovers was a young woman, and an attractive one at that. Hawkwood found his attention drawn to a pair of cornflower blue eyes set above a pert nose, framed in an oval face. The auburn hair poking out from beneath the hat emphasized her pale complexion. One thing was certain: she bore little resemblance to the drovers he was used to seeing around any of the Smithfield pens. He was still thinking that when she broke off from berating the carter, drew a pistol from beneath her coat and with calm precision shot Corporal Despard through his right eye.
And all hell broke loose.
In the time it took the ball to exit the back of the corporals skull, Hawkwood was already moving, throwing the blanket aside and scooping up Despards musket before it hit the ground. As Despards corpse was flung against the parapet, Hawkwood swung the weapon up and smashed the butt into the shocked face of the next fusilier in line. From the corner of his eye he saw the girl turn and the second drover step back, sweep aside a basket of vegetables and snatch up the pistol that had been hidden beneath.
The pistol flashed, another loud report sounded and a third fusilier spun away, his chest blossoming red. A body thrust past Hawkwood and he saw it was Stuart, making a grab for one of the other discarded muskets.
The remaining fusiliers, caught between the decision to return fire or make a run for it, were left floundering; their dilemma made worse by the cattle who, already unnerved by their aimless rush to the bridge, were immediately driven into fresh and increased panic by the gunshots. The scene suddenly became a mêlée of terrified soldiers and bellowing livestock all trying to choose the safest direction in which to flee.
Hawkwood heard the girl call out and saw her point. He looked immediately for Malbreau and caught sight of him across the backs of the scattering herd. The lieutenant had wheeled his horse about. It occurred to Hawkwood, as he watched Malbreau draw his sabre, that what the man lacked in humility he made up for in grit.
There was a loud crack from close by and Hawkwood felt the wind of a musket ball as it flicked past his cheek. One of Despards surviving companions had decided to make a stand, but in the fusiliers excitement hed fired too soon. An ear-splitting clamour filled the air as the ball struck one of the milk cows. The animal went down as if poleaxed. Hawkwood had never heard a cow scream before. It was a terrible sound. A spinal shot, he thought instinctively as the beast continued to writhe in agony, legs thrashing in the dust.
He saw Stuart raise the musket hed recovered from the dead fusilier. Somehow, with his good hand, the lieutenant had managed to haul back the muskets hammer. Jamming the muzzle into the midriff of the soldier whod loosed off the last shot, Stuart pulled the trigger. There was a vivid flash and a loud crack and Stuarts features disappeared behind a cloud of smoke from the ignited powder. The fusilier fell back with a shriek, arms spread wide as he went over the side of the bridge into the water below.