were, he was more like the Constable at Heme Bay, or a London parish Charlie. What do we do if even Frogs have t'have identity papers? Whip 'em up on the spot?'
Pull 'em out o' yer small-clothes? Lewrie thought.
What really gnawed at Lewrie, though-and even he would admit it-was that he was so completely out of his depth, and not a whit of his competence as a Commission Sea Officer, an experienced Post-Captain, would avail them. He was good with a sword, a dab-hand shot with pistol, musket, or rifled piece, but if it came to using those skills, the game was up; surrounded and out-numbered at the last resort, with his back to some wall!
And our lives are in the hands of this daft, play-actin dolt? Lewrie almost angrily thought; Good God, we're dead as mutton!
'Listen!' Sir Pulteney Plumb interjected, raising his hand to shush him. 'Begad, I believe they've gone on! Fooled 'em, haw haw!'
Not a single word had penetrated; the impossible geste was yet alive, in his mind; the game was still afoot!
Fourchette and his party, with Capitaine Aulard's light horse troop, reached the gates of Beauvais round midnight; even the skilled riders thighs chafed, their legs shuddery-weak, and their fundaments saddle-sore. Their horses were certainly played out, by then capable of only a plodding, head-down walk, lathered with sweat and reeking of ammonia, Men swayed in their saddles, barely able to keep their eyes open, their balance astride, and some, once the pace slackened, had nodded off completely, trusting their horse to follow its fellows and keep its feet.
Beauvais was a fairly large town, a garrison town, and with so many roads passing through it, there were watchmen posted at its portes day and night. At one time before the Peace of Amiens, Napoleon Bonaparte had contemplated an invasion of southern England cross the Channel, so the town had been mindful of spies as the lead elements of the armies had started to assemble, before it was called off. Beauvais's authorities might have slackened their watchfulness after that, but that did not mean that they had let their guard down completely.
Yet with all that watchfulness at the city gates, there was no sign of a two-horse farm waggon with four occupants, no M'sieur Fleury and family declaring himself at the southern gate, and after checking with the town's constabulary, no one of that name or description noted in the registries at any of the town's overnight lodgings! No concierge could report any Fleurys taking an appartement; no landlord, hastily wakened, knew of anyone suddenly leasing a house at such a late hour!
'We would have caught up with them if they were ahead of us on the road,' Major Clary sleepily muttered over a welcome cup of coffee as he slumped, exhausted, on his elbows at a rough plank table in the inn at which they had retired. 'Ergo, they never were on the Beauvais road. Another goose-egg, messieurs. Un zйro!'
'That damned villageois, that pйquenot stableman! Either he is in league with them, or he's an idiot!' Guillaume Choundas accused as he sat on a padded chair nearby, his hand clawed round a brandy glass. A few hours on horseback, even most of the day and night at ease in a comfortable carriage, had caused him even more pain than it had the others. His iron-braced leg throbbed, his abused bottom was between numbness and muscle spasms, and the cool, damp night air even made his ravaged face's nerves now and then spike with knife-like pain, forcing him to set down the glass and reach up to soothe it. 'Someone should ride back there and have the fool arrested! Tortured 'til he talks!'
'He told us only what he was told,' Charitй de Guilleri numbly mumbled over her own cup of coffee. 'His sort is too dense to lie, too much the ox to be curious… or risk his life for another.' Her first bleak year spent with her distant relations in the village of Rambouillet had shown Charitй the dimness of rustique French people!
This tavern had been about ready to shut its doors for the night when their party had clattered up, demanding hot food, spirits, and lodgings. The tavernier and his barman, cook, and waiters, now kept far past their bedtimes, clattered, clomped, and silently sulked and sneered as only Frenchmen can, while the hot meal was prepared. Its arrival was delayed by the excuse that the cookfire had ebbed, and even though the interlopers accepted the quickly doubled prices and willingly paid in gold franc coins, their party was still unwelcome.
The door to the street opened, and Matthieu Fourchette and Capitaine Aulard clomped in, the cavalryman looking exhausted and Fourchette looking grim. Fourchette ordered brandy at the tin- covered bar counter, Aulard opting for a mug of beer, before they came to the table to join their compatriots and slouch in matching manner.
'The Colonel of the local regiment… the idle time-server!' Fourchette spat after a deep draught of brandy. 'He finally allowed us audience, after more than half an hour!' Fourchette swiped impatiently at the hair that had fallen over his face. 'It was only after we declared our mission was ordered by the First Consul that he got out of bed!'
'So we start out at once?' Major Clary asked.
'No, mon cher Major, we start at dawn!' Fourchette said with a snarl. 'He's sending riders to Rouen, Amiens, Le Havre, and Dieppe as we speak, but will not send out his troops 'til the sun is up.'
'We do get remounts, and he did offer my men use of the barracks for the night,' Aulard sleepily told them. 'That is something, I suppose.' When he lifted his beer mug, his hand shook with tiredness.
'Such bourgeois… shop-keepers and clock-watchers would have lost their heads a few years ago,' Guillaume Choundas told them with relish; in his heyday during the Terror, he'd sent more than his share from his own navy to such a fate, and looked as if he'd be delighted to see a few more heads tumble into the bloody basket. 'Perhaps a report should be sent to Bonaparte, Fourchette… to encourage the others.'
'Oh, for God's sake…,' Fourchette said with a weary groan. 'I may lose mine if we fail, not you, you…!'
'Where will the good colonel send his patrols, m'sieur?' Major Clary said, his mind still sharp, even at that hour. 'We did not catch up with them because, as I was telling the others, they were never on the Beauvais road… They did not come to Beauvais. Perhaps did not ever have the intention of risking discovery at the gates. Yet there are dozens of farm lanes and un-mapped tracks. They turned off somewhere along the way. East or west? To skirt Beauvais and proceed to Rouen or Le Havre? It seems to me that, even if the entire regiment turns out and is split into files of only ten or fifteen men, it will be impossible to scour all of the lanes. And all the while, those we seek will make their way to the coast… in disguise, assuming we are not following another false lead.'
'Denis is right,' Charitй sleepily mourned. 'And if so many search parties are sent out, how will any of them be able to recognise the Lewries? There are only four of us who know what Lewrie and his wife look like! Are we to dash from one patrol to the next? Is half of France to be arrested 'til we can arrive and sort through them?'
'If that is what it takes, yes!' Guillaume Choundas demanded.
'Even given your coach, m'sieur, you could not dash after a lame snail,' Fourchette angrily scoffed, 'or a batch of escargot in garlic sauce!' He'd had more than enough of this bitter old cripple, his continual bloodthirsty eagerness, and more to the point, Choundas's snide and cutting comments, which galled sore.
Fourchette shut his eyes for a long moment, half nodding as he contemplated what Fouchй would do when he reported back to Paris; the guillotine was no longer out in the public square, but it still was in operation.
'It very well may be your head, as you say, Fourchette,' the old ogre shot back in a soft coo. 'I will be delighted to see that. If I cannot have Lewrie, perhaps I will have you, for letting him escape!
'Yet…,' Choundas continued after a moment, 'consider that he is a sailor, hein? We
