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 fe
ll 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.
Several cavalrymen reined their horses to a walk as they searched the sides of the road. An isolated scream sounded once but in the main they passed on up the road, prodding the scattered corpses as they went.
Kydd and Renzi crouched, motionless, the pungent scent of the undergrowth almost overpowering.
“We can’t follow the road,” Renzi whispered. “Despard will be marching on St. Pontrieux just as soon as he can. The road’s going to be alive with soldiers.”
It was impossible to tell what lay over the crest above but they had no choice. Fighting their way cautiously upward, they broke through the bushes into poor grass interspersed with weathered granite outcrops. Soon the road was out of sight.
“Nicholas, your pardon, but I am foundered, beat. Could we not . . .”
“Of course, dear fellow.” It would mean the end of any chance to catch up with their shipmates, but Renzi looked about for somewhere to rest. The sun was already out of sight beyond the crest of the hill and the chill of evening was coming on. The resting-place would have to serve for the night as well.
The best that could be found was an overhanging rock under which they sat, Kydd groaning with exhaustion.
“It has a certain attraction, this country I find,” Renzi said, musing through his own aching fatigue. “A definable quality of beauty that stems perhaps from its very wildness.”
“Yes,” said Kydd, in a muffled voice.
“A grandeur, a nobility that one supposes can only exist as a consequence of man’s inability to impose his will on this rugged land.”
There was no answering comment. Kydd’s head drooped and he slid sideways against his friend.
Renzi could not bring himself to speak of his fears. Without doubt St. Pontrieux would be taken very soon and the British would give up the project, and sail away. He tried not to think of the consequence. Abandoned in a hostile land, he and Kydd would not last long.
While Renzi brooded and dozed, Kydd slept; a deep, profound and necessary sleep for a youthful body not yet fully hardened by sea life.
Renzi awoke shivering. It was dark and chill, the nearly full moon veiled in cloud. Kydd was awake and Renzi noted ironically that he was now leaning up against his friend.
“B-bloody c-cold!” Kydd said.
They both shuddered uncontrollably, hugging their knees.
“What o’clock is it?” Kydd croaked.
“Past midnight, is all I can say,” Renzi replied.
Kydd stood up stiffly and cuffed himself. “This is no good — we shall die of the cold. We must go on.”
“Yes, of course.”
Their bodies aching and protesting, instinctively they headed for the top of the ridge. They trudged slowly, letting their muscles take up again, on and up the shadowed slopes. The moon-distorted countryside felt cruel and hard. Renzi foresaw them trying to hold to a steady course in the night, crashing into unseen obstacles, going in circles, awakening a hostile countryside. It was madness. Dark patches of tussocks lay everywhere and the hilltops in the distance were tinged with silver. It was deathly still, disturbed only by unseen scurries of wildlife. A soft flutter of wings signified either a bat or an owl, and a rabbit screamed as it was taken by a stoat.
They reached the top just as the moon retreated behind the clouds once more. They stumbled on in the dark, tripping over rocks and plow ing through bushes, conscious all the while of gnawing hunger.
The moon emerged again, and Kydd jerked with surprise. On all sides they were surrounded by gigantic structures rearing up in black evil ranks, glowering down on them. His hair stood on end; there was something primeval and overpowering about them.
“Cromlechs!” Renzi breathed.
“What?”
“The Breton dolmen! I’ve never seen one before — a mighty building of stone, untold ages old. Built by an unknown people, for who knows what purpose?” Renzi wandered about the big stone circle, marveling. “Look, I do believe that we should wait until the morrow,” he said, “until we can see where we should go.”
“So we can gaze upon y’r stones?” Kydd snapped.
“Not at all,” Renzi lied. “So that we are in no danger of having to retrace our steps.”
“Then I wish you joy of y’r rest. I will continue.” Kydd’s face was indistinct in the shifting patterns of moonlight.
“You will find that St. Pontrieux has been taken,” Renzi said softly.
A slight hesitation. “Do y’ think I’ve not thought of that? Enough waste of time. I’m leaving.”
Renzi noted the slumped shoulders, the dragging feet. Kydd was past caring. His heart went out to the lonely figure hobbling stubbornly through the gloomy megaliths and out of sight. For a minute or so he waited alone, then reluctantly went after him, only to see Kydd heading back toward him, head down.
“Be damned to both you and y’r stones, Renzi!” Kydd said thickly, swa
ying past and dropping to the ground in the lee of the central one.
“You will find that our mysterious ancestors always built at a prominence,” Renzi said gently. “Tomorrow we shall have such a splendid view as will make you stare.”
The long cold night eventually gave way to a gray misty dawn, the light of day turning the gaunt black megaliths to gray, lichen-covered crags. The mist stayed with the daylight, a quiet enshrouding white that dappled all things with a gentle dew. They cast about, and it was not long before they came across a well-worn animal track meandering along the ridge top. Hunger had become an insistent, hollow pain. They tramped on, not speaking.
A muffled sound carried through the mist. They stood absolutely still.
Hooves! It was impossible to say from where the sound came in the enfolding white and they remained rigid, ears straining. Then out of the mist trotted a small goat. It saw them and stopped in surprise.
“Breakfast,” Kydd whispered.
“Yes!” gloated Renzi.
Kydd advanced slowly on the animal, which pawed the ground uncertainly.
“Pretty little one, come to me . . .”
A few feet away he lunged, and grappled the terrified animal by the horns, wrestling it to the ground. It kicked and struggled, bleating piteously, but eventually it lay still.
Kydd held it securely, its big frightened eyes rolling. “What do I do now?” he gasped.
“Kill it!”
“How?”
So focused on the animal were they that the little girl was able to come upon them unawares. “Qu’est-ce que vous faites avec ma chèvre?” she cried out, aggrieved.
“Sois calme, mon enfant!” Renzi said, in a soothing tone, removing his battered hat politely. “Your little goat, my friend thinks it has hurt its foot,” he continued smoothly. He went to the goat and stroked its head. “You think it’s hurt its foot!” he muttered at the mystified Kydd, who immediately began carefully to inspect a dainty hoof.
Kydd let the goat go and smiled winningly at the little girl.
“Who are you, M’sieur? A villain perhaps, or a lost Royalist?” she said, looking at them doubtfully.
“But, no!” said Renzi, frowning at the suggestion. “We are, unhappily, lost. We seek the farm of Monsieur, er, M’sieur . . .”
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