Secrets of the Fearless

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘Kit,’ he whispered.

  But just as he spoke, Rufus, who had been lipping over a mouthful of straw, snickered noisily down his long nostrils.

  ‘Did you say something?’ she yawned.

  ‘No.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘John?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think I’m a little bit afraid. Not as much as I was before the ball, but still . . . afraid.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m going to make sure you get through. You’ve got to trust me.’

  ‘I do.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Oh, I do.’

  A moment later her regular breathing told him that she was asleep. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep too. But sleep wouldn’t come. He was intensely aware, through every nerve, of her presence beside him. For the last few months it hadn’t been hard to push away the feelings she’d aroused in him at Jalignac. In her sailor’s clothes, she’d almost been a boy again, the friend and companion of before.

  But not really, he told himself. She’s hasn’t really been Kit at all. She’s Catherine, and I love her, and I always will.

  Admitting it to himself at last made him feel tremblingly happy and blunderingly stupid at the same time.

  She mustn’t know, he thought. I mustn’t give myself away. She’ll think I’m a clumsy, ignorant fool.

  He wanted to turn over and put his arm around her, but he didn’t dare move in case he woke her. He let the warmth of her arm, still touching his side, seep into him and comfort him. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

  They slept longer than they had intended, and the sun was over the horizon when they finally woke. Kit sat up first. She looked down at John and laughed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked sleepily.

  ‘You. You’ve got straws stuck in your hair. You look like a scarecrow.’

  He grinned at her, relieved to hear the friendly jokiness in her voice.

  ‘What do you think you look like?’

  She stood up and shook out the skirt of her thin dress. It was hardly recognizable now as the elegant ball gown it had once been.

  ‘I wish we had some breakfast,’ she said. ‘I never thought of bringing anything to eat.’

  ‘I did.’

  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small flask and a cloth-wrapped package.

  ‘Ship’s biscuit and grog,’ he said. ‘Not much, but better than nothing.’

  They breakfasted quickly.

  ‘We’d better get going,’ said John, unhitching Rufus’s reins.

  He wanted more than anything else to stay in their little haven and blot out the knowledge of the parting that lay ahead, but he knew they could remain there no longer.

  The stream of men, with their mules and carts, had slowed to a trickle now, and it was easier to walk up the hill against the flow. The soldiers, limping and weary as they were, seemed in good spirits.

  ‘Whoa there, sailor!’ one of the them called out to John. ‘Goin’ in the wrong direction, ain’t yer? There’s no need to come up ’ere and fetch us. We’re gettin’ ourselves down to your bleedin’ ships as fast as ever we can, ain’t we, boys?’

  John, not bothering to answer, grinned at them and walked on. To his relief, none of them showed any interest in Kit or Rufus.

  It was well past midday when they reached the top of the ridge. Soldiers stretched in both directions, as far as the eye could see, waiting for the order to start down the road to Corunna and the ships that would carry them home. They sat hunched over or lay on the cold ground, some curled up as if trying to hug themselves warm, others on their backs with their hands under their heads and their hats over their faces. None of them moved much, or spoke. The silence, hanging heavily over the many thousands of them, sent a shiver down John’s spine.

  And then he looked up, and gasped. The next ridge of hills was nearer than he had thought, and all along the top of it, mustering thickly, were more soldiers. Many more. Thousands more. As he watched, the wind tugged at a flag fluttering from a pole on the highest point, and it slowly unfurled to show the unmistakable red, white and blue stripes of France.

  ‘They’re there,’ he said to Kit. ‘Up there.’

  She caught her breath.

  ‘Yes.’

  Nearby, stood a couple of officers. One was shading his eyes, looking anxiously up towards the French on the skyline, as if he was trying to count them. The other was staring back wistfully towards the sea, where hundreds of little boats were busily ferrying soldiers from the beach to the safety of the fleet.

  ‘Will they attack?’ John called out to them. ‘Will there be a battle?’

  One of the officers shrugged. The other laughed shortly.

  ‘Heaven help us if there is,’ he said.

  Another hour brought John and Kit to the furthest edge of the ridge. A valley, swooping down and up again, separated them from the French on the far side. The ground everywhere was broken up with walls and hedges, little fields and farmsteads. John and Kit stood still, looking uncertainly ahead. It would be madness simply to set off into the empty space between the two opposing armies. They would be challenged immediately.

  ‘What’ll we do if there’s a battle?’ Kit said, trying to sound calm.

  John didn’t answer. He had seen an ominous ripple of activity run down the length of the French lines, and now he could hear shouts and bugle calls echoing through the thin winter air. Then, with deafening, shocking suddenness, the French guns opened fire.

  Kit started and stepped back instinctively. John ducked his head and looked round for cover. Rufus snorted, pricked his ears and began to paw the ground, as if expecting a bugle to sound the cavalry charge.

  And now all around them the soldiers, who had a moment earlier been lying in exhausted heaps, leaped to their feet, like corpses coming to life. Within minutes their knapsacks had been buckled to their shoulders, their weapons were in their hands and their shakos on their heads. They were laughing and shouting to each other, jostling into position to form tight, disciplined columns, while the air rang to the click-click of bayonets being fixed to musket barrels.

  John grabbed Kit’s arm.

  ‘Quick! We’ll be caught in the middle!’

  He looked round wildly.

  ‘There. Down there!’ Kit cried. ‘That farmhouse!’

  He saw at once that she was right. The farmhouse’s thick stone walls might give them some kind of shelter if they were caught in the crossfire. He took off, leaping down the rough grass of the hillside, scrambling through hedges and over ditches, with Kit and Rufus close behind.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The farm was no more than a small cluster of stone buildings. Shutters were fixed across the windows and an iron padlock secured the main door. A quick survey showed John and Kit that no one was there. The inhabitants had obviously fled at the approach of the two warring armies, driving their animals with them. The door of what was clearly a cow shed was open, however.

  ‘These walls are solid,’ John said, leading Rufus inside. ‘At least they’re stone. If we’re bombarded, there won’t be any flying splinters.’

  At the far end of the cow shed was a small window. Kit ran across to it, the hem of her gown trailing in the thick dirt on the floor, and pushed open the shutter, which creaked on its long-disused hinge.

  ‘John! Look!’ she gasped.

  He stood at her shoulder and, as he looked out, he felt the blood drain from his face.

  The far hillside, facing them, was a moving mass of men. Thousands upon thousands of French soldiers, tightly assembled in square, solid columns, were streaming down from the heights above, coming closer by the second. From behind them roared out Napoleon’s great guns, sending forth hails of murderous shot that must be tearing brutally into the British troops massed on the slopes above the farm.

  ‘We’re right in their path,’ Kit said, and John could tell that she was trying hard to keep panic out of her voice. ‘We can’t st
ay here. We don’t even have a cutlass between us.’

  John felt the hair rise on his scalp. He ran back to the door of the cow shed and looked up the hillside behind them. A wall and a line of trees obscured his view, but he could see flashes coming from further along the ridge as the British guns sent answering fire slicing into the French columns. Then, suddenly, the hillside all around the farm was swarming with red coats as British soldiers came scrambling down over the walls and bursting through the lines of trees to meet the French.

  From all around came the shrieks and groans of wounded men, the shouts of officers’ commands and the rattle and crash of musket fire. John looked to the left and right, in an agony of indecision, then raced back to where Kit was still watching through the window as the French advanced. Should they stay, clinging to the shelter of the farm, such as it was? Or should they take a chance and try to get out from between the two armies?

  Rufus, whose reins Kit had thrown over a post in the cow shed, was excited by the noise, whinnying and tossing his magnificent black head, his hoofs pawing the ground.

  There was turmoil now all around the farmhouse. The massed ranks of the French lines had broken as the British troops had poured in among them. Knots of men stabbed and shot and lunged at each other, bellowing like wild animals as they did so.

  Kit had left the window at last and now she ran back to the door of the cow shed.

  ‘What shall we do? Stay here? Or go?’

  ‘Stay,’ he said, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘Yes, for now, best to stay.’

  A yell close behind him made him jump and turn round. A pair of soldiers in ragged kilts had run into the farmyard. The first one stopped in astonishment when he saw John and Kit. The second burst out laughing.

  ‘What for did you leave your ship, to come a-roving around in the middle of a battle, sailor boy? And who’s your bonny wee friend?’

  The man lunged forwards and grabbed Kit round the waist. She struggled, but he tightened his grip and bent his head to kiss her. John, his eyes seeing nothing but red, launched himself at the soldier, biting, pummelling with his fists and lashing out with his feet. The violence of his assault took the man by surprise and he let go of Kit and turned to John with a snarl, his bayonet threateningly close.

  The rattle of musket fire just over the farmyard wall made them all start back.

  ‘Come on, Jimmy!’ the other one called. ‘Leave the lassie be. There’s Frenchies here for the takin’.’

  The next moment, several French soldiers had leaped up and over the wall. They dashed towards the Scots, their swords outstretched. John put out his arm to push Kit back into the shelter of the cow shed, but she had seen a new danger. Wisps of smoke were curling into the cow shed from under the eaves and an ominous crackling could be heard overhead.

  ‘The roof, John! The roof’s on fire!’ she cried.

  Rufus had smelt the smoke. Before, he had been merely excited. Now, he was frightened. His ears were laid back and he was trampling the ground nervously, straining at his reins.

  ‘Here, boy. Quiet, boy.’ Kit was unhitching the reins from the post. ‘Off with you now. Get away while you can, and good luck to you.’

  She lifted her hand, ready to slap him on the rump and send him running away.

  ‘Wait!’ John called out. ‘We’ll ride him! It’s our best chance to get away!’

  He cupped his hands and held them low for her. She put one foot in them and launched herself on to Rufus’s bare back, then leaned down to give a hand to John. He scrambled up behind her.

  ‘Which way?’ she said, turning to him.

  He tried to think.

  ‘Up the hill. On to higher ground. So we can see what’s happening.’

  She was already digging her heels into Rufus’s flanks.

  The horse leaped out of the burning cow shed and dashed for the farm gate. Looking back, John saw that a desperate fight was in progress between the two Scots and the French attackers. He saw one of the Scots lift his musket and, with a blood-curdling shriek, plunge the bayonet into the breast of the Frenchman facing him, whose sword arm was raised to cut at his adversary’s head.

  But there was no chance to see more. Rufus was out of the farm gate already and was taking off at a gallop along the lane. John, looking over Kit’s shoulder, could see more Highlanders running down towards them and, as he watched, several of them jumped into the air and fell, hit by bullets from the French below.

  ‘We’re running into more trouble!’ he shouted in Kit’s ear. ‘Pull across into that field to the right. There’s a gap in the hedge beyond the tree.’

  Kit swerved into the field, and Rufus took off over the rough grass. The ground dipped down at the far end, and John suddenly saw the flash of sunlight on the water of a stream.

  ‘Hold on,’ Kit called out. ‘We’ll jump it.’

  ‘No!’ shouted John. ‘He won’t . . .’

  But he spoke too late. Rufus had seen the water too. Instead of sailing over it in an easy bound, he came to a skidding halt and locked his fore hoofs into the ground, so suddenly that Kit tumbled off over his neck and John slid down to the ground on the other side.

  ‘I forgot to tell you,’ John said, picking himself up and giving a hand to the shaken Kit. ‘He doesn’t like water.’

  ‘But he saved us. Look,’ she said, pointing ahead.

  There was a row of trees on the far side of the stream, and through it John could now see a line of French soldiers. They were running silently forwards, their bayonets bristling in front of them.

  ‘We’d have run straight into them,’ she whispered. ‘Well done, Rufus.’

  A little further up the stream, a small copse of trees stood in the angle between two walls at the corner of the field. John and Kit saw it at the same time, and without exchanging a word began running towards it. Rufus trotted after them.

  ‘We’ll be safer here,’ panted John.

  He could see that they would be almost invisible among the trees, while the stone walls would provide shelter from stray bullets from the skirmish now taking place in the field beyond.

  ‘Rufus!’ Kit was calming the horse with trembling strokes down his nose. ‘Thank you for my bruises. They were worth it.’

  Now that they were, for the time being at least, out of danger, John suddenly discovered that he wanted to be sick. He was seeing again, in his mind’s eye, the blood spurt out of the French soldier’s chest as the Scots soldier’s bayonet had gone in.

  I’m glad I’m not a soldier, he thought. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t look into a man’s face and then kill him. Fighting’s different at sea. You don’t see them when you fire a broadside from a ship, and if you have to board the enemy it’s all over much faster.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Kit said. ‘You look a bit green.’

  He looked down at her.

  ‘I’ve discovered that I don’t like war, that’s all. I’m no hero. I wouldn’t dare say it to anyone else. They’d think I was a coward.’

  ‘A coward? You?’ She smiled incredulously. ‘I’m the coward. I hate war. I hate it. I just want it all to stop.’

  Rufus, his reins tied to a tree, was contentedly browsing on a tuft of grass, oblivious to the battle in the next field, which seemed to be receding now into the distance. For some reason, out of the blue, the words of Captain Bannerman’s speech, which had so inspired John when he had heard it, on his very first day on board the Fearless, sounded in his ears.

  You are here, lads, for a noble cause, Captain Bannerman had said, to serve your country as her true and faithful sons.

  It’s not that easy, thought John. I want to serve my country, but I don’t hate her enemies. I like the French. Kit’s French, after all.

  Kit had moved further into the copse and was leaning against the wall.

  ‘We might as well stay here as long as we can,’ she said. ‘It’s as safe as anywhere else, probably.’

  The winter sun was already lowering to the ho
rizon, touching the bare branches of the trees and the stones of the old walls with deep pink light. It was impossible to tell what was happening beyond their small haven. From the far side of the valley they could still hear the boom of the great French guns. Closer to them, all around, but still at some distance, rang out the rattle of musketry, the yells of men attacking and the screams of the wounded.

  Suddenly, everything beyond the little thicket seemed miles away to John.

  She’s going away, he kept thinking. I’m not going to see her any more. I’ll probably never see her again. These are the last few minutes we’ll ever spend together.

  ‘We must wait till it’s dark,’ Kit was saying. ‘The fighting’s sure to stop then. I’ll ride back to the farm and take the path down from there. It leads through the valley and up the other side into the French camp. I saw it from the cow shed window.’

  John, standing at the edge of the copse, squinted up at the sky. The sun would be down in half an hour, no more. There would be a short interval of twilight, then Kit would be gone.

  He went back to her. He opened his mouth, but didn’t know what to say. She spoke before he could find any words.

  ‘John.’

  Her voice was so quiet he had to bend down to hear.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I just wanted to ask you – I wanted to know if – whether you mind that I’m going. Because I really, really mind leaving you.’

  The trembling that had seized him had nothing to do with the chill evening breeze that was rattling the few dead leaves still clinging to the twigs overhead.

  ‘You want to know if I mind?’ He thought he would choke and grabbed her hands, squeezing them tightly. ‘Kit, are you mad? I’m dying from it. From losing you, I mean. It’s killing me.’

  A brilliant smile lit up her face, taking his breath away.

  ‘I didn’t know. I never knew you felt that too.’

  He let go her hands and put his arms round her. She felt small and delicate, and he was afraid of crushing her. He realized he was standing on her foot and stepped back hastily, but she moved forwards, back into his arms. Their kiss was clumsy, but it sent fire and joy raging through him. He had had no idea he could ever feel like this.