Kydd (25 page)

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.