Hamilton Smith, the government man, gazed at her, quite moved by her gentle, quiet dignity, at the composure when faced with extreme anxiety.
‘Madam, Mary if I may, I will not deceive you. He is in a dangerous country and probably in the hands of a traitor who is now a desperate man. I have taken some measures to assist him but in truth I do not know his present circumstances or situation. Those who know your husband inform me he is a resourceful and capable officer. He will need those resources to survive; but do not abandon hope.’
Mary swallowed hard and knelt down to gather up the puppy as the door opened to Helen Squires who strode forward and, with evident anxiety announced, ‘I am told we have a visitor from London who may have news of Lieutenant Vizzard.’ She moved to the centre of the room and stood directly in front of Hamilton Smith. ‘Sir, I am Helena Squires, a friend to Mistress Vizzard and I presume you are he? What news do you have, sir?’ She glanced sideways. ‘Sir Henry, do we have good news?’
Hamilton Smith bowed to Helena and said, ‘I have acquainted Sir Henry and Mistress Vizzard with such knowledge as I possess.’ He sipped from his glass, the better to view the wife of the man recently condemned, in his mind, as a traitor and a spy; and wonder. ‘I take it Major George Squires is your husband, madam?
‘You are correct, sir. I am ashamed to admit it.’ Helena’s eyes moved from Hamilton Smith to Sir Henry and back once more to the visitor. ‘I have put myself under Sir Henry’s protection, having faithfully informed him of all I know of my husband’s activities, sir.’
‘Then, madam, I wish to converse with you. You may, unwittingly, have information of immense value to our country,’ he spoke gently. ‘Perhaps you would allow us to withdraw, Sir Henry?’
‘Hmm? Oh yes, certainly, my dear sir. Please avail yourself of my study. Mary, if you would be so kind as to show them the way, my dear.’
A minute or more passed as Henry Vizzard stared absently into the flames dancing in the hearth.
‘Well, and what do you imagine this private tête-à-tête is for, Henry?’ said Mary re-entering the room.
‘My dear, I deduce Mister Hamilton Smith, as an agent of the King’s minister, knows more than he is presently willing to divulge. He also wishes to interrogate Helena, in the gentlest manner I am sure, to determine if she has other knowledge of benefit. I believe him to be an intelligent young man.’
‘I simply wish for his help in obtaining Jack’s return, Henry. It is what I pray for nightly.’ She slumped into the chair opposite her father-in-law and sobbed.
* * * * *
The old woman shuffled into the room, back bent, eyes darting. She spoke no English, but signalled she had come to clean the rooms and prepare a meal. Jack had not left the room for two days, other than furtively for necessary reasons of hygiene. He and Vanessa d’Aubusson had no contact during those days and nights, leaving Jack confused, anxious and troubled. He was in a small cottage close to the port that much only did he know. Mlle d’Aubusson had slipped away on the first night before light, with a hurried word to stay hidden from sight and a brief assurance she would return when all was arranged.
Jack was grateful; he had not thought much of food, but was now ravenous. Some dry bread and water only had he consumed today. By crude signing he indicated he wished to shave. Understanding lit the old woman’s eyes and she poured water into a blackened kettle, hastily gathering a handful of small logs thrusting them into the range in the corner of the kitchen.
Then he realised his pack was still in the farmhouse. He had the gold concealed in his belt and his hat, a notebook and a crude sketch of the town, but his supplies and field-kit were lost. ‘Hell and damnation,’ he said to the wall. Then he laughed.
The old woman looked up from the eggs she was beating in a bowl, a note of alarm in her brown, kindly eyes.
‘I have no razor’, he said to her. Another hand gesture and she understood.
‘La bas, monsieur’, she said, pointing to a drawer of the stained chest behind him.
A French-pointed, straight razor, with an ivory handle was revealed when the drawer was opened, alongside a matching brush.
The old woman brought a small bowl of water to him. ‘Voilà, monsieur.’
With the residue of a well-used piece of soap, Jack shaved; the water hot, stubble on his chin, thick and tough. He washed and used his fingers to comb his hair. The simple act of hygiene improved his humour.
A wooden plate of beaten eggs appeared before him adorning a crust of poor quality bread and he forked the food into his mouth, careless of the mess created by his haste, taking pleasure in pacifying the gnawing pangs of his stomach.
He moved to the armchair, thanking the old woman in halting French. She smiled at his clumsiness, a broken row of carious teeth protruding from thin lips. He thought she would just as readily slit his throat if called on to do so.
A hand on his shoulder woke him; it must have been many hours later, because darkness had cloaked the small window and filled the room, a flickering oil lamp dying slowly on the table.
‘Lieutenant, we must go quickly. We have a boat waiting.’
She stood with a glass lamp in one hand, his knapsack in the other.
‘What? How did you come by my pack, mademoiselle?’ He was awake now. Questions filled his mind. ‘Where have you been?’
‘The bodies, monsieur, have been disposed, yes? The Major has been taken away. I know not where he is. Now we must be gone. A boat is ready for us.’
The old woman was nowhere to be seen, so Jack followed, buckling on his sword and ducking as he passed through the low door.
It was colder as once more he followed Vanessa d’Aubusson along a mud-clogged lane, downhill he noted – toward the harbour. The odour of the port mingled with the salt air and caused his spirits to rise higher at the thought of a ship home.
Then Vanessa paused by a wall and slipped into its shadow, pulling him behind.
‘Hush, monsieur. Regardez – look.’ She nodded towards an untidy squad of French sailors, striding along the cobbles toward them.
He pushed closer to the wall, finding a recess, he pulled her behind him, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his mind working fast. How many more of them? Where to go when, or if, he disposed of these men? The odds were against him, he realised, but hell and damnation, I’ll not be taken again. His grip tightened as the shapes drew nearer. Only fifty paces now. Forty, thirty.
Perhaps they will pass by. He pushed further back into the darkness.
Twenty paces, ten.
He held his breath and prayed.
The last man stopped, grunted to the others, turned, opened his culottes and steamed piss into the cold shadow. Jack felt it on his boots and he could not tolerate it.
The Frenchman, aware something, or someone, was close, raised his head. Jack’s sword skewered the man’s throat, allowing a stream of blood to leave the Frenchman’s dying body as his last sight on earth was of an English officer’s bared teeth set in a silent, open mouth.
It was if the hounds of hell were loose as the street exploded with noise and light and shouts and screams. A musket ball struck the wall behind Jack’s head, sending stone chips and dust into his ear. He realised Vanessa had disappeared. His mouth clenched in a silent curse.
If he were to die then he would do so fighting. He wished for a musket but must make do with the sword. He glanced along the cobbles and slumped as the stock of a musket struck his back sending a flash of pain across his shoulders.
He rolled, grasping for his fallen sword but a boot smashed his side, adding fire to his side and he retched. Shaking his head full vision returned and he saw a pair of bayonets inches from his chest.
‘Monsieur Vizzard, I believe. I am so delighted to meet you.’
He stared up at the strong, haughty face of a French officer.
‘You are a difficult fellow to apprehend, monsieur. But I regret you are in a good deal of difficulty, for you have compromised one of our agents.
I think you will be welcome in Paris, yes? But do not expect a prolonged stay.’
‘Your English is very good, lieutenant…?’
‘Charles de Bruin at your service, Lieutenant. Now please, I have little time.’
Two gendarmes hauled him roughly to his feet and pulled him along the street to a waiting coach with a pair of Breton horses and he was pushed into the darkened interior, where he saw Vanessa d’Aubusson smiling at him.
‘Madam, I wish I could say it was a pleasure; alas I succumbed to your charm and, fool I am, was deceived by you.’
A finger raised to her lips silenced him.
‘All may not be as it seems, sir,’ she whispered, pulling a cloak tighter around her shoulders.
Jack narrowed his eyes and half-opened his mouth, but lay back against the padded leather bulkhead and just looked at her.
The carriage crawled along dark roads, its ultimate destination an unknown; a prison in Paris probably. He felt a wave of despair. Once more a prisoner, he was constrained to ask no questions; to do so was only to become a hostage to fortune.
But a prisoner he could not be. It was anathema to his soul. Therefore he must force himself to be patient and await an opportunity to escape. He had not offered, nor had he been requested, to give his parole. There was a guard on the carriage, in addition to the driver, he discerned. What of the French officer, he wondered? De Bruin, was he in attendance?
He listened. Yes, there it was; the distinctive sound of hooves to the rear. So, he had an escort. He would have to find a way of dealing with the guards before he could attend to their officer. Or should he deal with the officer first? He decided de Bruin would be the greater danger and therefore should be the first target.
How to achieve it? The coach would have to stop for a change of horses. A halt on the journey might present an opportunity. They would be watching, naturally. He must be alert to any chance.
‘Mister Vizzard. I `ave decided I must flee to England’. Her voice was low, she leaned toward him. ‘You can `elp me do this, yes?
He hesitated. Escape would be hazardous alone but accompanied with a woman? She might prove to be a help or a hindrance. He nodded.
‘First we must remove our escort’, she said, echoing his thoughts. ‘The guards are loyal, monsieur. It is their officer we must…’ The intention was unspoken but understood. ‘You must do this if we are to escape. I `ave a weapon, it is small, but will be of use.’
From beneath her cloak she produced a small pistol. Jack took it from her outstretched hand and recognised it as a muff pistol of some quality; a handle of engraved ivory and a brass barrel. Probably by Bunneys, he thought.
‘Is it primed? Do you have powder?’
‘I loaded it this evening, lieutenant. It is reliable.’
Vizzard concealed it beneath his jacket. ‘It is light madam; neither is it a powerful weapon. It may suffice, however. We will see what may be possible.’
An odorous leather curtain flapped as the vehicle rumbled slowly along a worn road, the dark sky showing traces of light as the dawn signalled its arrival. There would be a change of horses soon. A chance, if he could count on surprise and boldness. His head ached and his mouth was dry. He would need more than a lady’s peashooter. He wondered about his sword. He missed the reassurance of it by his side.
As he searched the surrounding countryside a village came into view in the valley to the right of the road. A malnourished and neglected dog barked as they drew past a farm, along a road twisting its way around an empty, dilapidated barn standing guard over unploughed fields, dressed with a surfeit of weeds, signalling a lack of husbandry by the local community.
The horses, steaming in the morning air, came to a noisy halt outside a shabby roadside tavern the walls and windows covered in mud and grime, the studded door at the front denuded of paint, as a young boy, he was no more than twelve Jack thought, strolled out with no enthusiasm and held the bridle of the lead animal.
The driver spat at the boy’s feet and demanded water for the animals and wine for himself. He dropped to the muddy road, stretched and shouted at the guard, ‘Venez vous le malotru gros, je veux le petit déjeuner!’ The guard lowered his bulk slowly to the far side of the carriage.
Lieutenant de Bruin pulled up alongside and stared into the carriage as Vanessa d’Aubusson stirred from a disturbed sleep and Jack Vizzard returned the hostility in the officer’s eyes.
‘Come now, monsieur Vizzard. You may be our prisoner but we are both gentlemen, sont nous non? Nous mangerons ici et changerons les chevaux. We will eat something and change the horses, yes?’
Slowly he eased the door open, bending down to exit as de Bruin’s horse sidestepped, its shoes clattering on cobbles and Jack stepped down from the carriage. At the same moment, de Bruin swung his leg to ease out of the saddle. The shot was good, the weapon as close to de Bruin as Jack could make it, the ball passing through the Frenchman’s right eye, snapping the head backwards, the blood poured down his face. He was dead before his crumpled body hit the earth and Jack was on the motionless body in a moment, reaching for the man’s pistols and yes, his sword was on the Frenchman’s horse. His silent prayer was answered; both pistols were ready.
Spinning around the rear of the carriage, he came up behind the guard, still peering to his right, any understanding of the action during the last few seconds eluding him. The hilt of the sword struck the back of the man’s skull, the crack of bone audible and rendering him unconscious.
Good enough so far, Jack thought.
The carriage driver appeared at the door of the tavern, saw the prisoner armed and ready to fire, and quickly ducked inside, the sound of a bolt sliding home clearly audible.
‘Come, madam’, he shouted to Vanessa, ‘I should like to return to England. And I fear I will be even less welcome in this country after today. However, I know not where we are, nor in which direction to travel. But first things first; we need transport and these horses are done for.’
‘They may be, sir, but there must be fresh ones to the rear. Let us look.’
She led the way to the rear of the building, Jack keeping a wary eye, and a ready pistol, facing the door.
The stables, four of them, were occupied. Vanessa d’Aubusson found saddles and bridles hanging from pegs to the side of each and, with practiced hands, secured two chestnut mares and led them from the stables.
‘You are a resourceful lady, madam. I believe these will do quite well.’ Jack carefully tucked one pistol into his belt, keeping one in his right hand for instant use, as he took the reins of the larger mare.
A foot in the left stirrup and he slowly lowered his aching body into the saddle, gaining a measure of respect from the animal. With a soft squeeze of his knees into the sides, she moved forward. Jack thought instantly of the rides with Mary along the escarpment above Woodchester many years ago, becoming melancholic at the memory.
‘Lieutenant, this way I think, she said, heading north along the road recently travelled. ‘Are you forgetting?’
Jack shrugged and smiled, pulling the animal around gently and a ball passed his head as he did so, the wind of its passing breathing against his left ear. The mare snorted disgust and he levelled the pistol at the window from which the shot was fired. His shot shattered the glass covering the innkeeper with lethal shards and sending him ducking, which suited Jack well enough.
‘Come madam, we must ride.’
He squeezed its girth and moved the animal into a canter, copying Vanessa and within a moment they were out of range of anything other than a skilled sharpshooter.
As the sun rose higher the night’s mist slowly disappeared, the muddy road emitting wisps of vapour as they continued, eyes scanning ahead and to the rear. Miserable sights were all he saw. Itinerant peasants, seeking work or food or shelter, some too tired and hungry to walk, slumped against tree trunks, in ditches, against farm walls, their clothes torn and dirty. Faces grimed with sweat and some with the faces of the walking de
ad. The fields they passed were untended.
Vizzard had rarely seen such evidence of total poverty, such images of hopelessness and despair. Then he remembered; yes, he had seen images such as these before, in the transports to New Holland.
His mind meandered as it was wont to do, thinking of the journey to England. How it was to be achieved, what his chances were of surviving and wishing he were not so alone.
They rode until the horses required resting, finding a slow-moving stream heading north. He and Vanessa d’Aubusson sat on the bank of the stream, as the animals drank. It appeared too fouled for Vizzard to risk drinking and he pulled a bottle from his valise, sitting next to Vanessa and taking a large swig before speaking.
‘They will be watching the roads into town, madam. If we can pass their sentries, do we have a boat?’
‘Yes, I believe so, lieutenant. My friend will have sailed, I think. There is usually a boat at, how you say, ready. It may be small, but you can sail, no?’
Vizzard knew he was no sailor. ‘I could manage something modest in size, but an experienced hand or two would be a blessing, madam. Perhaps you know of someone who could be trusted?’
‘We shall see monsieur. We shall see. First we must reach the port, oui?’
‘Before we go further, I wish to know what you were doing while I was in hiding. You were missing for, what, two days? Why?’
A tinge of colour emerged on her cheeks. ‘I had to see to the bodies. They had to be removed and I needed `elp with that. I also had to see Georges. You wish to return to your England, I need to find Georges.’
It was unhelpful and unconvincing. Her explanation, with all the innocence of the fairer sex, did nothing to allay his suspicions.
* * * * *
The first sentry was intoxicated in the day’s waning sun, a pike sprawled across his lap, as they walked past his snoring form, the horses having been left to graze in a field some distance from the town. A patrol of two men glanced without interest as two tired and shabby travellers walked slowly towards the port. There were few citizens abroad at this time of day, and they were not approached before they reached the quayside.
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 12