Kydd (24 page)

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:

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.