by Alaric Bond
And then at last he could see the worried face of Manning as it stared out from the cover, and found himself half stumbling, half falling into the surgeon's embrace.
“We move on,” he gasped, as the others gathered around. Light from the burning haystack was growing steadily and must surely give them away should they remain a moment longer. But Manning was not to be rushed.
“Not so fast,” he snapped with all the authority of medical knowledge. “It will do no good to go blundering headlong into the night. We are all tired, and must surely pace ourselves.”
King saw the sense in the words; Hunt gathered the men together and soon they were moving, but at a reasonable pace, with King still wheezing heavily as he stumbled next to the surgeon.
“We'll take our time,” his friend told him, giving King a sidelong glance. “You're still not fit enough for such antics, Tom, and shall get there just as likely at a walk as a trot.” King's skin carried a faint sheen of sweat and even the poor light could not hide its slight pallor. “And if it all turns out sour, it may even be for the best,” he added.
* * *
Cranston was the first to see the flames and did so before the French. He, Beeney and the boy had made it as far as the low, outer wall of the farm and were just deciding upon a way to get into the courtyard itself, then out again, preferably with a side of pork in tow.
“That'll be Mr King's doing,” Beeney whispered in reply to the nudge and a pointed finger from his friend.
“Ain't they known to catch light on their own?” Cranston queried, but the other man was adamant.
“No haystack burns like that 'less it's set fire to,” Beeney said with authority. “Either Mr King's tryin' to get our attention, or he's had the same idea as us.”
“Frogs don't seem to be takin' much notice,” Roberts, the boy, grumbled and neither man could disagree. Despite flames that were now rising several feet higher than the roof of the lower barn, the music and dancing was continuing without a pause, while those not actively involved were more intent on quaffing drafts of some unknown drink from the barrels, or watching the meat, which appeared ready for eating.
“Maybe we should tip them the wink?” Cranston suggested, as he watched with ill concealed envy, but Beeney shook his head. If the fire truly was King's intervention, it could not have come at a better time; he had been on the verge of admitting to the others his plan was all but exhausted, and he had no idea what to do from that point on. The farmyard was well lit, no one could get even close to the fire without being immediately obvious, and even their current hiding place, behind the crumbling ruins of a wall that hardly deserved the name, would not conceal them for long. But as soon as King's handiwork was spotted, everything would change. Unless they were determinedly single minded, the French would have to investigate, and that must surely provide them with the chance they needed.
“You there, Joe – nip over to the other side, and call out something in French,” Cranston ordered, but Beeney stopped the lad in time.
“Leave it,” he hissed. “They'll notice, we just have to be patient.”
The older man shook his head as if mildly insulted by such a thought and then, finally, the alarm was given.
Within seconds the music had stopped, dancers dispersed, and the small entrance by which the men were hiding became filled with a stream of excited and gesticulating peasants who left an apparently empty yard, as well as its blazing bonfire, to the British.
“Come on,” Beeney said after no more than a couple of seconds. “No time like the present...”
The two men sprinted forward with the lad racing eagerly behind. Close up, the roasting meat seemed almost too large for one person to carry, and Beeney was just wondering if they should make do with a couple of hens, when Cranston knocked the spit holding a side of pork down from its bracket.
“Get the other end,” he grunted, as he collected the forequarters. But the lump of hissing meat was both hotter and greasier than either expected, and they quickly lost their grip, dropping it in the dirt.
“Carry it by the stick,” the lad suggested, and both men exchanged a glance of mutual disgust, before complying, and were almost half way out of the compound when they were spotted.
With a barrage of French, followed by a far more intelligible bombardment of rolled up fists on their upper arms and shoulders, four small but solid old women began to assail the two seamen pitilessly, forcing the roasted side of pig to slide to the ground for the second time.
“The others are coming back,” the boy cried as more figures began to flow into the yard. Both men were now wilting under the force of the women's anger while some deep yet unwritten code prevented any form of retaliation on their part.
“We have to move,” Joe added. The boy appeared to be protected by a similar sanction, but it was only when he managed to get himself between the cowering Beeney and two of his tormentors that the message got through.
“Leave it!” Beeney ordered, then began to make for the entrance, only to notice it blocked by a group of bewildered revellers who were beginning to pin a reason on the loss of their hay store.
“The other way!” Cranston shouted, and sure enough there was a single wicket gate left half open that led to the fields on the opposite side of the farm. The three ran, leaving most of the old women behind, although one was still game enough to follow and tried to trip them as they went. Then all three were squeezing through the small gap and racing out into the dark night, with light from the flames and the sound of pursuing footsteps worryingly close behind.
* * *
Wiessner had seen everything from his position at the edge of the cover: Cranston, Beeney and the boy, as they lumbered over the open ground beside the farm, only to wait, clueless, at the wall. And the officers, the brave Lieutenants King and Hunt, along with Mr Midshipman Adams as they gallantly took on the might of a haystack, before fleeing into the night as if all of Bonaparte's army were in hot pursuit. He also saw the seamen take on a bunch of old women in unequal combat, watching as they, too, fled at the head of a line of angry French civilians who chased them well out of sight. And then when all else appeared quiet, he stood up and strolled over to the farmhouse himself.
The yard was empty, but a fine fire still burned and, against it, the second side of pork lay gleaming and succulent. He considered this for a moment, as well as the one Cranston had dropped which looked far less appetising lying in the mud. Despite his race, Wiessner had no qualms about eating such meat, indeed he did so regularly when aboard ship. And he was a strong man, who could probably have managed either lump on his own, but could see little point. A side of pork was far more than he could eat in a week, while there were cooked hens lying on a plate in front of the fire. A single bird would provide an ample meal for one, which happened to be exactly the number he had in mind to feed. He glanced momentarily at the barrels of beer, but had no use for the stuff, then there was a sound from inside the house. Wiessner had no intention of getting into the same fix as his shipmates and, moving quickly, he scooped a cooked bird up from the plate and tucked it firmly under his arm. Then, stepping carefully over the side of pork that would have fed so many more, he headed out and into the anonymous darkness beyond.
* * *
After midnight, King gained his second wind. His breathing normalised to the extent that there were no longer any gasps or wheezes, and even his seaman's legs – limbs accustomed only to walking a defined space on a flat deck – no longer protested when asked to travel over a seemingly endless and uneven road. He was also starting to realise that his group were not only at liberty still, but had a good chance of remaining so, at least for as long as the dark hours continued. Even at Manning's prescribed pace, they had covered a good deal of ground in the intervening hours. The town beyond the farm turned out to be little more than a collection of rather shabby houses grouped about a few commercial buildings, and was every bit as quiet as they had hoped. He and his men were able to pass through witho
ut incident, even if there was little opportunity for petty theft. Of the errant seamen, there was no sign, although that caused him no great concern. From what King could make out, those at the party were mainly female or elderly; he had created a diversion that must have allowed anyone with a degree of nous to either avoid detection, or make an escape if already taken. And even a pair of bullheads like Cranston and Beeney should be sensible enough to know the rest of the group would be moving on. The three would be either behind, or on a parallel path, with the likelihood strong that daylight would allow both groups to meet up.
So once they passed through the village, King did not pause. It was still Christmas night; there would be darkness for the next few hours and the countryside had opened up once more to the low lying scrub and marshes that had all the appearance of a Mediterranean tundra. The next sizeable settlement was less than twenty miles off, and Brehaut's chart gave it far more significance. There may well be military established there, something King viewed as a mixed blessing. A standing garrison might give them more problems, although he secretly hoped that any town that justified an armed presence might also provide the means for a far more permanent escape.
And so it turned out. They reached the outskirts of what was clearly a substantial port just as dawn was breaking, and took shelter in the remains of an abandoned pig pen, set just off the road, and King knew he was not alone in craving rest.
“It's probably nothing more than local militia,” Hunt said lightly, as the musical notes of a reveille caused temporary silence in their cramped quarters. The sound came from a way off, although it did at least signal they had come upon more determined opposition. “That or perhaps coastal defences,” the lieutenant added.
“If there are shore batteries, there must surely need to be something to defend,” King replied, and there were nods of agreement from the other officers.
“I could take a look and see,” Adams, the midshipman, suggested.
“Dressed like that?” King asked, looking pointedly at the lad's tatty uniform.
“Maybe swap the tunic for a round jacket?” the midshipman suggested. “Then anyone would simply take me for a regular Jack.”
“And if they decided to ask questions?” King felt slightly mean as he quashed the young man's enthusiasm, but was feeling deathly tired, and to take risks at this stage seemed worse than futile.
“I could go,” Brehaut suggested. “I have the lingo, and a sailing master's coat is much the same as those sported by many merchant officers.”
“And I could accompany him.” All eyes turned to the new voice, and were surprised to see it belonged to Lesro, their prisoner.
“No one would suspect an officer in the French Navy,” he continued lightly. “And I might go to places you are not allowed, and so learn more.”
“Then stitch us up into the bargain,” Cooper, the master's mate, stated firmly from the outer edges of the group.
“Why should I do such a thing?” Lesro protested. “I have already explained my position; do you think it one a Frenchman would be inclined to imagine?”
“Never mind that for the moment,” Manning interrupted. “What exactly are we expecting to discover?”
“Ideally a way out,” King replied. “Apart from mislaying a few men, I'd say we've been relatively lucky so far. We might continue on land, but it will be several days before we get anywhere near to Toulon, where the chances of meeting with British forces are strongest. Until then, we have to trust our good fortune holds out. But we cannot travel more than twenty miles a night, and for all that time will be in danger of detection.”
“But ahead we have a sizeable port,” Hunt interrupted, suddenly grasping the idea. “If we could find ourselves a boat, we might make the fleet off Toulon in less than a day's sailing.”
“And be back aboard a navy ship before the New Year!” another, anonymous voice, added.
“It is a possibility,” King admitted.
“Then you must allow me into the town,” Lesro insisted. “I can take this gentleman with me if you are in any doubt,” he continued. “We may discover boats that are not well guarded and make plans to return this evening to arrange a capture. But even if not, at least we can purchase food; you have money, I assume?”
King glanced awkwardly at his fellow officers, all of whom returned blank looks. Prometheus had been in action for several hours before finally being wrecked; apart from Brehaut's charts and a handful of side arms, none had come away with much more than the clothes they currently wore.
“Then it is fortunate that I have a little coin to my name,” Lesro announced in triumph. “A few francs and a pocketful of centimes, as you will discover should anyone care to check,” he added, indicating the belt still secured about his wrists. “It may not be enough to feed us for long, but might at least buy breakfast.”
King, who had been stoically ignoring the increasing hunger pangs found himself looking at the young man with a mixture of doubt and wonder. “Very well,” he said at last. “But see that you are no longer than an hour. And be certain not to come back with company.”
* * *
It was indeed a far larger town than the small village they passed through earlier, although the streets were every bit as dark and empty. As the two men walked silently along the narrow, downward path, Brehaut noted that every shutter was drawn tight, and sensed it would be several hours before any within ventured out. They continued without speaking, although Lesro occasionally rubbed at his recently freed wrists. Then the harbour itself came into view and there they paused to take in the scene.
There were actually two distinct harbours, an inner, closed area that was protected by two jetties and contained an eclectic assortment of small boats. These must be day fishers and were either secured to piers running from the harbour wharf, or a series of mooring chains set in lines across the basin. Beyond was an outer harbour where far larger vessels lay at anchor, while two middle sized luggers were moored to the seaward side of the nearest jetty.
“No sign of military,” Brehaut muttered through half closed lips, but Lesro did not reply. Instead, the younger man's attention seemed to be set on the outer harbour, and the sailing master followed his gaze. The sun was starting to rise; by its faltering light, the outline of two large shore batteries could be made out. They stood at either promontory of the small bay that provided such an excellent natural shelter, and one look was enough to tell both men there would be little possibility of their taking any vessel out unnoticed.
Which was a shame as the growing light was showing the nearby boats in greater detail. The fishers could be discounted: three or even four would be needed to accommodate all of the British force, and to raise sail, then manoeuvre so many unknown craft was bound to attract more attention than simply taking one larger vessel. Then Brehaut looked again at the two luggers secured to the outer wall of the jetty, and his spirits rose.
One might hold them all, although it would be a crowded trip, and the largest appeared almost ready to cast off. If all the British packed aboard, they could expect to be rendezvousing with Nelson within a day, maybe less, and the possibility of being so close to hot meals and rest made his heart beat faster. But no vessel so protected could simply be taken. The area might seem deserted but Brehaut was no fool; he knew there would be some form of guard at the harbour mouth, if only to see that the correct dues were being paid by incoming and outgoing vessels. And, Christmas or not, both of the gun emplacements would be properly manned.
Artillery men were the same the world over; at the slightest suggestion of trouble they would be only too pleased to see their playthings put into action. In fact the holiday period would actually work against the British. It was clear the locals had no intention of putting to sea that day, so anyone doing so would immediately draw attention, and Brehaut felt he had already gained more than enough experience of such emplacements during the present commission.
He went to comment to Lesro, and immediately noticed the look
of extreme interest on the young man's face. Once more Brehaut turned to follow his gaze, and once more was not disappointed.
The light was now positively streaming into the outer harbour and details of the shipping it held were becoming clear. At the far, seaward, end lay another vessel, and one he had missed completely. She must have come in relatively recently and was riding to a single anchor. The sun continued to grow and even held a modicum of warmth; by its light the familiar lines of the ship became recognisable. It was the corvette, the one that had almost spelled their doom at least twice over the last few days. And she was Lesro's ship – Lesro's home. Brehaut was just reminding himself of the fact when the young man's countenance altered once more and he noticed, with horror, that he was smiling.
There were just the two of them and one, at least, was on enemy ground. If Lesro chose to, he could denounce Brehaut at any time. Or he might not even bother and could simply go. The sailing master was several years older and no fighter: he would not be able to stop him, while even the smallest protest would draw dangerous attention. Brehaut's eyes flashed across and in a moment of insight he could tell his companion was having similar thoughts. It would only need a few steps, and maybe a shout to raise the alarm. Then, whether Brehaut was detained or not, Lesro could signal his ship, and be safe, warm and eating breakfast in his own quarters within the hour.
Meanwhile, the guard would be turned out, search parties sent to discover the rest of the British force and all their efforts would have been wasted.
“What do you intend?” he asked, not wishing to hear the answer.
“I am going to buy bread,” Lesro replied evenly. “The stores might be closed, but one back there is a boulangerie, and I saw a light upstairs. Then we can take both our news and breakfast to the others,” he continued. “Why, what were you thinking?”