Under Enemy Colors (21 page)

“I thought as much. Let us hope we meet no one.” He was quiet a moment, and in the faint moonlight Hayden could just make out the concern on his face. Leaning toward Hayden, he whispered, “Do you think this endeavour has been designed to be shut of us?”

Hayden made a warning sign to the marine.

“Oh, you needn’t worry about Childers.” Hawthorne jerked a chin toward the coxswain.

The same thought had crossed Hayden’s mind, and secretly he wondered if Hawthorne was not right. “We chose duty in Plymouth. Can we choose differently now?”

“Exactly so,” answered Hawthorne, and they fell silent.

The little boat rocked over the low swell, and as the thole-pins had been muffled with rags, there was barely a sound to be heard but the water hissing past the hull and whirling off astern. Hayden was struck by the beauty of the unseasonably warm night—the moon waning toward new, stars hanging bright and crisp in the heavens’ dark depths. He felt a strange excitement at returning to France; excitement and trepidation—like meeting again a woman one still loved after a long separation. Feelings washed through him like a running sea, though he could not name them. In vain he tried to push these emotions down, to focus his mind on the task at hand; he had Hawthorne to keep safe, after all. The Brittany where they were about to set foot was not the land of his youth—it was a dangerous place now, and for many reasons.

The pull to shore was long, and as Hayden had predicted, it was near to dawn when they finally slid up on the sand beneath the village of Crozon. Hayden had caused them to be landed at the northern end of the beach, as distant from the small jetty as possible. As Hayden and the marine lieutenant splashed ashore, sailors jumped over the side to push the boat off, knowing that if it were seen by morning and the French could guess from where they had come, a search would certainly follow.

“Good luck to you, sir,” Childers whispered as the boat was pushed astern into the lapping waves.

“And you,” said Hayden.

The men shoved the boat bodily out until they were waist-deep, then clambered aboard. The long, shadowy oars flashed out against a moon-silvered sea.

“Double time,” Hayden said, starting down the beach. “Sun will be up soon.”

“Aye, sir,” came a voice from behind, “we’ve not a moment to lose.”

Hayden spun around. “Wickham!”

“Aye, sir. I thought you might need another who can speak to the natives. I found some French clothes that fit, do you see?” The boy’s face was barely visible in the moonlight, but even so, he looked terribly sheepish.

“You are returning to the ship…” But when Hayden turned out to sea, the cutter was already beyond hailing without him calling out loudly. He rounded on the little midshipman.

“Mr Wickham, this is the second time you’ve come away in the boats without anyone’s sanction. Hart will be in a fury when he learns of it.”

“You needn’t worry, Mr Hayden,” Wickham said softly, and only slightly abashed, “the captain will never miss me. You’ll see. And last time I saved your life, or so you said.”

“And this time we might all lose ours.”

“There is nothing for it,” Hawthorne said, touching Hayden’s sleeve. “Come. We must be on our way. Perhaps Lord Arthur will be an addition to our little
ruse da gar
.”

Hayden was torn between relief to have another who could pass for a Frenchman—or French boy—and his very real vexation at Wickham’s cavalier attitude toward discipline.

“Ruse de guerre,”
Hayden corrected as he began to trot along the margin of the sea where the sand was firmest and they could make the best time.

“Just so,” whispered Hawthorne and fell in behind Wickham.

They found the little jetty where a fire burned on the beach, illuminating boats drawn up above the tide line. There were, no doubt, men there, but they were asleep by the fire, Hayden was certain. The Englishmen struck the path that wound up the bank and hurried on.

“Were those guards of some sort?” Wickham whispered as they stumbled up the path.

“So I would guess. Some French variant of Sea Fencibles or Militia. Perhaps even soldiers. I hope we meet no more. Shh…”

The noise of them tripping up the path had attracted attention, and someone challenged them in French.

“Shall we make a run for it?”

“Only if you can swim to the
Themis
.”

Hayden answered the challenge in French, and led his companions forward.

At the head of the path they were met by two men in matching tunics and round hats—local militia, Hayden suspected. They pointed their muskets at the strangers, though they did not seem to be overly worried that they would meet the enemy here.

“And who are you?” one of the men demanded. “We don’t know you.”

Hayden knew the accent immediately and answered them not in French but in the local language. At the mere sound of their own speech, the muskets were lowered.

Hayden introduced his companions and rapid-fire conversation took place, some money changed hands, and the three Englishmen were off into the darkness.

When they had gone a hundred yards, Wickham whispered, “That wasn’t French…was it?”

“Breton,” Hayden answered. “They think you are my son, despite the fact that I would have sired you at eight, and they believe Mr Hawthorne is an English smuggler. They look forward to a long and lucrative friendship.”

“They knew me as English!” Hawthorne whispered indignantly. “I said only a single word:
bonjour
.”

“Yes, well…” Hayden responded, and led them on without further comment.

The seaward side of the narrow peninsula was barren and treeless—a heath battered by winter gales off the cold Atlantic. But over the crest of the hill, facing Brest Harbour, the landscape changed to fertile pastures and luxurious woods, as though they had passed into another land entire.

Cottages were avoided, as was the tiny hamlet of Crozon, its church spire visible among the stars. They kept to narrow lanes and fields whenever possible, stealing through the shadows of trees and hedges. Hayden’s boyhood memories let him down, now and then, but for the most part they served tolerably well, allowing him to guide his companions if not unerringly, at least tangentially to the place he wished to go. Unfortunately everything looked different by night—all moonlight and shadow. He was forced to stop frequently and match the stark shards of visible landscape with his store of memories.

Dawn was upon them too soon, and they went to ground in a stand of trees, eating a little of the ship’s biscuit they bore. Hayden also carried a collapsible telescope and a pistol in his satchel. He had added a book he possessed, on the birds and other animals of eastern Europe, hoping it would suffice as explanation for the glass, if not the flintlock: a natural philosopher observing the miracle of botanical and avian life. By luck, the book had been written in Italian, not English.

In truth the wood was alive with many examples of this miracle: chaffinch, wood lark, blue tit, wren. The men lounged in the morning sunlight, which swam over them, broken and dappled by wind-shivered leaves.

“How much further might it be?” Wickham asked.

“Not more than a mile.” Hayden shifted to one side to avoid a root that dug deep into his buttock, but landed upon another. “I think we should stay here most of the day. No sense wandering about in daylight more than is required. People here are curious of strangers, and we don’t want to set them to talking or asking questions. If we break cover an hour before sunset that will allow us to reach the point of land where we can reconnoitre Brest Roads, then make our way back toward Crozon through the dusk…and starlight, if need be. We shall bribe our friends, the French militiamen, and be on the beach before midnight.”

“As easy as rolling downhill,” Hawthorne agreed, but his grin said otherwise. “I must say, I don’t think much of their agricultural practices. Have they never heard of planting clover? Of rotation? Did you see that patch of abandoned cabbages? Runty and infested. A cobbler could grow better.”

Hayden laughed. “We shall not have time for you to improve their methods along scientific lines, I’m afraid, Mr Hawthorne.” He looked around. “We are fairly well hidden here and should sleep by turns. It could be another long night. Mr Wickham—”

“I will stand first watch, sir,” the midshipman interrupted.

Hayden smiled, and lay down upon the hard ground. “And Mr Hawthorne? I strongly advise against snoring. It will give you away as English.”

“I shall sleep like a Frenchman, Mr Hayden. You may count on it.”

For a while Hayden lay awake, breathing in the forest scent, which kindled strangely powerful childhood emotions. He had spent a good part of his youth not far from this place, had once played in this very wood with his cousin. The happiness he had known then, the contentment and feeling that the world was both safe and just, flooded back. How much that world had changed! As a boy he had been either French or English by turn, depending upon which country he was in, but circumstances and age would no longer allow that. One must choose—but it was like a child choosing between one’s mother or one’s father, an unbearable loss either way.

He remembered telling Henrietta that in France he felt like an Englishman masquerading as French. When had that begun? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. Of course he never expected it to be so true as it was that night.

Hayden did not know how long he’d slept, but wakened from a deep slumber to a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find himself in a patch of unseasonably warm sun, overly hot in his French cloak. “Is it my watch?”

“Not yet, sir,” Wickham whispered, “but there are people nearby.”

Hayden sat up, boiling warm, muddle-headed, and dizzy. He shook his head and tore open his cloak, allowing the small wind to reach him.

“Where away?”

Wickham rose to a crouch and crept through the sparse underwood, pressed aside a branch, and pointed silently. Two young ladies and a throng of children were in the throes of doing what could only be described as gambolling.

“Damn…” Hayden whispered.

“What are they about?” Wickham asked.

“Out for a frolic, I would say.” He noticed the older girls carried baskets over their arms. “Collecting mushrooms, perhaps.”

“I don’t suppose they’re cousins of yours?”

“No. My uncle’s family removed to Arcachon some years ago.”

“Bad luck.”

Hayden gazed with a certain sadness at the scene; two pretty young women beneath ribboned straw bonnets, aglow with youth and high spirits. The children skipped and ran about them, like a little moving sea, overwhelmed now and then by gales of laughter. How far removed these innocents seemed from the
sans-culottes
of the Paris mob. It was a shock to think that he warred against these people, too.

“If they come into the wood we shall have to slip out the other side, which I do not much favour, as there is a lane and a large farmhouse in that direction and we shall almost certainly be noticed.”

“Do you think they’ll come into the wood?”

“Very likely, yes. It is a warm day to sit in the sun, and if they’re seeking mushrooms, they will come looking in the shade.”

“Then I suppose we can only wait,” Wickham said, letting the branch go slowly back into place.

“Yes. Better wake Hawthorne. I can hear him snoring from here.”

“Aye, sir.” Wickham slipped quietly away, leaving the lieutenant to listen to the children’s laughter.

Wickham and the marine were back in a moment, Hawthorne looking decidedly out of sorts.

“A drum, Mr Hayden, from the sou’west.”

The lieutenant trotted as quickly as he could through the stand of trees, and, crouching behind a fallen log and some low bushes, saw a company of French Regulars heave into view. They marched in perfect columns, rows of blue coats, their officers seated on horseback.

“The forces of the revolution,” Hayden whispered. “How they would like to seize some English spies.”

“We’re not spies,” Wickham protested, sounding a little offended. “We’re officers of the British Navy.”

“In uniform, that is true. Dressed as we are, they would declare us spies, and condemn us as such.”

Wickham looked surprised. “What is the penalty for spying in France?”

“The guillotine is the punishment currently favoured.” He saw the look on the boy’s face grow dark. “But you needn’t worry, Lord Arthur. Your father sits in the House of Lords. You they would exchange. Hawthorne and me…” He shrugged. “English spies are not their interest at the moment, I suspect. Many in Brittany do not support the convention, and as good papists, they have been hiding reactionary members of the clergy. A military presence here has very little to do with the English.”

At that moment the lieutenant of marines blundered through the bush.

“There you are,” he whispered, falling down beside them. “One of the children came into the wood, unbeknownst to me. I was observed.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Hayden crawled backwards from the log for two yards. “What did they do?”