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 fell 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
“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
