Bolitho said, “Give them your weapons and the third lieutenant’s sword.”
Allday drove his cutlass savagely into the sand and said vehemently, “I wish this was in his belly!”
Browne unclipped his own sword and stooped down to remove Neale’s from his belt.
For the first time since he had been carried into the boat Neale seemed to show some of his old zest and courage. He struggled to his feet, clawing his hanger from its scabbard, while around him the soldiers raised their pistols and muskets, taken off guard by Neale’s apparent recovery.
Neale yelled in a cracked, barely recognizable voice, “To me, lads! Face your front! Repel boarders!”
Bolitho saw the French captain’s pistol swing up from his hip and stepped quickly between him and the delirious Neale.
“Please, Capitaine. He is ill!”
The Frenchman’s eyes darted swiftly from Neale to Bolitho, from the terrible wound on the young captain’s head to the epaulettes on Bolitho’s shoulders.
The silence closed round again like a wall. Neale remained swaying on his feet, peering at his men, who in turn were watching him with pity and embarrassment.
It was a tense moment. To the French soldiers, more used to monotonous garrison duty than to seeing an enemy ship sink in minutes and disgorge her company on a hitherto untroubled beach, it was like a threat. One wrong act and every musket would be firing, and the sand red with blood.
Bolitho kept his back on the Frenchman’s pistol, sweat trickling down his skin as he waited for the crack, the smashing impact in his spine.
Very gently he took Neale’s hanger from his fingers. “Easy now. I’m here, and Allday.”
Neale released his grip and let his arm fall. “Sorry.”
He was giving in to the pain at last, and Bolitho saw the ship’s surgeon hurrying up the beach towards him as Neale added brokenly, “Loved that bloody ship.” Then he collapsed.
Bolitho turned and handed the hanger to the nearest soldier. He saw the officer’s gaze on his own sword and unfastened it, pausing only to feel its worn smoothness slipping through his fingers. A dishonoured end, he thought bitterly. In a few months it would be a hundred years old.
The French captain glanced at the weapon curiously and then tucked it under his arm.
Allday muttered, “I’ll get it back somehow, you see!”
More soldiers and some waggons had arrived at the top of the beach. Wounded and injured men were being bustled unceremoniously into them, and Bolitho saw the surgeon being ordered to take charge.
He wanted to speak to the files of exhausted men who were already losing personality and purpose as like sheep they followed the impatient gestures, the menacing jerks of bared bayonets.
Perhaps that was what had roused Neale from his torpor. What they were all trained for, those last few moments before a victory or a defeat.
Bolitho glanced at some of the civilians as he followed the French officers up to a narrow roadway. Women mostly, carrying bundles of bread or clean washing, caught in their domestic affairs by the sudden intrusion of war.
He saw a dark-haired girl, her apron twisted bar-taut in her hands, watching the seamen as they limped past. As he drew level her eyes became fixed on him, unwinking and without expression. Maybe she had lost somebody in the war and wanted to know what the enemy looked like.
Further along the roadway a man pushed through the crowd and tried to seize one of the seamen by the shoulder. A soldier gestured threateningly and the man vanished in the crowd. Who was he, Bolitho wondered? Another one unhinged by battle? Curiously, the seaman had not even noticed the attack and was plodding obediently after his messmates.
Browne whispered, “They’ve got a carriage for us, sir.”
The final parting. A French naval lieutenant had now appeared and was busy writing details of the captives on a list, jerking his finger at the soldiers to separate and divide the prisoners into their proper stations.
The midshipmen were behaving like veterans, Bolitho thought. Young Kilburne even smiled at him and touched his hat, as with his two companions and a handful of junior warrant officers he was directed back along the road.
The artillery captain relaxed slightly. Whatever happened now, he could control it.
He pointed to the carriage, a faded vehicle with scarred paintwork, a relic of some dead aristocrat, Bolitho thought.
Allday scowled as a bayonet barred his path, but the naval lieutenant gave him a curt nod and allowed him to climb into the carriage.
The door was slammed shut, and Bolitho looked at his companions. Browne, tight-lipped and trying desperately to adjust to his change of circumstances. Neale, his head now wrapped in a crude bandage, and propped beside him, Styx ’s remaining commissioned officer, the unconscious third lieutenant.
Allday said hoarsely, “No wonder they let me on board, sir. Always need a poor jack to carry his betters!”
It was a wretched shadow of a joke, but it meant more than gold to Bolitho. He reached over and gripped Allday’s thick wrist.
Allday shook his head. “No need to say nothing, sir. You’re like me just now. All bottled up inside.” He glared through the dirty window as the coach gave a lurch and began to move. “When it bursts out, them buggers will have to watch for themselves, an’ that’s no error!”
Browne lay back against the cracked leather and closed his eyes. Neale was looking terrible, and the lieutenant, blood already seeping through his bandages, was even worse. He felt a touch of panic, something new to him. Suppose he got separated from Bolitho and Allday, what then? A strange country, probably already reported dead… he shook himself and opened his eyes again.
He heard himself say, “I was thinking, sir.”
Bolitho glanced at him, worried that another of his companions was about to give in.
“What?”
“It was as if we were expected, sir.” He watched Bolitho’s level stare. “As if they knew from the beginning what we were doing.”
Bolitho looked past him at the humble dwellings and scurrying chickens beside the road.
The missing flaw, and it had taken Browne to uncover it.
The journey in the jolting, swaying coach was a torment. The road was deeply rutted, and with each savage jerk either Neale or Algar, the third lieutenant, would cry out with agony, while Bolitho and the others tried to shield them from further harm.
It was useless to try and halt the coach or even ask the escort to slow down. Whenever he tried to attract the coachman’s attention, a mounted dragoon would gallop alongside and make threatening passes with his sabre to wave him away from the window.
Only when the coach stopped for a change of horses was there any respite. Lieutenant Algar’s arm was bleeding badly, in spite of the bandages, but Neale had mercifully fainted into painless oblivion.
Then with a crack of the whip the coach took to the road again. Bolitho caught a glimpse of a small inn, some curious farm workers standing outside to stare at the coach and its impressive troop of dragoons.
Bolitho tried to think, to discover substance or disproof in Browne’s idea that the French had known all about their movements. His head throbbed from the jolting motion, and the ache of despair which grew rather than lessened with each spin of the wheels. They were heading away from the sea, north-easterly, as far as he could judge. He could smell the rich aromas of the countryside, the earth and the animals, much the same as in Cornwall, he thought.
Bolitho felt trapped, unable to see a course to take. He had destroyed Beauchamp’s hopes, and had lost Belinda. Men had died because of his tactics, because of their trust. He looked through the window, his eyes smarting. He had even lost the family sword.
Browne broke into his thoughts. “I saw a roadside stone, sir. I am almost certain we’re heading for Nantes.”
Bolitho nodded. It made sense, and the bearing was about right.
The pace slowed a little after that and Bolitho said, “They must have orders to reach there before dusk.”
“Alive, I hope!” Allday wiped the lieutenant’s face with a wet rag. “What wouldn’t I give for a good tot right now!”
