his reckoning, to take a right fork at the top of the beacon ridge, and by his same reckoning they had made that distance easily already — yet without finding the fork. Indeed, if anything they seemed to be going downhill. He was regretting not waiting just a little longer for the revenue guide, but they had stood, horses saddled, for more than an hour in the expectation of his arriving, and he had despaired of making the rendezvous if they stood any longer. He knew the old windmill well. It could be seen for miles. It should not have been difficult to find, were it not for this storm.
Now they were most certainly going downhill; his stirrups told him so. Where in heaven’s name were they? He couldn’t see the moon, three-quarters though it was, let alone a star. The wind was still in his face, perhaps a shade round to the right side, but no more than it might have veered. The sea must therefore be to their right still, but had they overshot the beacon ridge, or had they turned fuller west and not made the crest at all?
It was no good asking anyone behind him. They had scarcely stepped off the well-lit streets of Brighton since arriving. One of the dragoons might somehow have seen the fork, however. But how long would it take him to go down the line anyway? And it would hardly inspire confidence.
He reined about and halted by Private Johnson, just behind. ‘I can’t find the turning to the windmill. We haven’t passed it, have we?’
Johnson had only ridden this way a couple of times. He didn’t know the fork, but he seemed certain they hadn’t passed one. ‘As certain as anybody can be in this lot, sir.’
With such a proviso, the reassurance was of no practical value. ‘Thank you, Johnson,’ said Hervey disconsolately. And then he cursed. ‘Go and get Serjeant Armstrong. We may as well see if he’s certain of anything too.’
‘I only said as I found!’ Johnson protested.
Hervey knew his problems were already too many to go upsetting his groom. ‘Any tea?’
‘I’m not bloody Merlin, Cap’n ’Ervey!’
He could imagine the grimace of a smile, even if he couldn’t see it. ‘Go and get Serjeant Armstrong, then.’
The column stood patiently — even the horses, as if submitting to the rain’s whip was just a little more bearable than struggling and catching its sting awkwardly. Hervey wondered how dry was his map, though what use it would serve he couldn’t imagine. It would be a sodden thing in seconds if he tried to read it, even under his oilskin cape. And there was no more chance of lighting a lantern than of unwrapping a carbine and expecting it to fire. He swore even worse, not bothering now to keep it below his breath, for the noise of the wind and rain would have masked it beyond two lengths even if he had bellowed.
Serjeant Armstrong came forward, cursing the dragoons to make way. ‘What’s up, sir?’
‘I must’ve missed the fork to the windmill.’
‘Well, I’ve seen none. But things are so black I’m not sure I would’ve seen it anyway. Where are we, do you think?’
Hervey was trying to keep his voice no higher than need be to speak above the storm, but it still felt like shouting words of command on the square. ‘I
Hope wasn’t a principle of war. Hervey had said it so many times that Johnson had even quoted it back at him once. Well, this wasn’t war, and in any case he couldn’t think of any alternative. If they retraced their steps there was no guarantee they would do any better than before — except that they might just meet the revenue guide.
He called for the corporal. Up came Sykes: a good man, Hervey considered him, but no Collins. He would spell out the orders. ‘Ride back down the route out, Corporal Sykes, and if you come across the revenue guide, bring him on at once after us. I’ll leave a vidette if the road forks.’
That done, they resumed the march. Hervey was soon praying that he’d done the right thing, for in a further half-hour they had found nothing. By his estimate they must have gone another mile and a half — perhaps two — and they ought surely to be coming off the downs and across
Just as Hervey was beginning to contemplate desperate measures (splitting the troop, perhaps, and sending them to the four points of the compass), he caught a glimpse of a light ahead; just a flicker, but a light unmistakably. He pressed his legs to the girth and Harkaway lengthened obligingly. He wondered how he should close with the light. This was hardly enemy territory, but the revenue men had said they were up against villainizers who would not hesitate to fight, and they had the means to do so. But he had lost so much time already. They should have been at the rendezvous an hour or more ago. Well, it was a rule of patrol work, and one which had never served him ill in the Peninsula, to take the risks early. He therefore decided to risk now, and instead of deploying in order to overwhelm any opposition, would hold the troop where it was and send two scouts forward. He himself would be one of them.
‘Serjeant Armstrong please,’ he called back to Johnson.
‘Serjeant Armstrong!’ called Johnson to the man behind, and so on down the line.
Up came Armstrong within the minute at a fast trot. ‘Yes, I see it, sir!’
‘I’m going forward to look.’ Hervey didn’t need to say more. Armstrong knew his business. ‘Johnson!’
At twenty yards the light revealed itself to be a lamp in a window. But it was another ten before they were sure the window was that of the turnpike lodge. ‘How in God’s name have we come so far?’ said Hervey aloud, for he reckoned they must have been riding due north, and this was the Lewes high road ahead.
Johnson closed alongside. ‘Eh, sir?’
‘Christ!’ Hervey slid from the saddle and, handing the reins to his groom, doubled to the lodge and knocked loud on the door. Moments later he heard a bolt being drawn, and then the spy-port slid open.
‘Who be it?’
‘Captain Hervey of the Sixth Light Dragoons quartered at Brighton. I need your light to see my map.’
More bolts were drawn, and after what seemed an age the door opened. Hervey entered at once, taking off his shako and cape, and pulling out his map in its oilskin. ‘I’m much obliged to you, keeper.’
The lodge-keeper was an oldish man, solid, easy in his manner. Hervey looked him up and down carefully, for it was always possible the man might be an accessory to the smugglers. But what clue might give away the association he didn’t know. He spread the map (dry as a bone, thank God) on the table, and pulled an oil lamp closer. ‘Where exactly are we?’
Maps were not something the keeper was familiar with, though he could read. ‘Ovingdean’s but a mile down the road to the right, sir.’
The answer was enough. Hervey located the lodge on the Ordnance sheet and took out his hunter. ‘Great gods — a quarter to midnight!’ It was later by an hour than he had thought. But the map showed a lane to the windmill from the turnpike just a few hundred yards on, a lane no doubt decent enough to take corn wagons one way and flour the other. If they kicked on they could be there in half an hour. ‘Who has passed through since nightfall?’ he asked, giving the keeper half a sovereign.
‘The Dover coach, sir. Nothing else — not on a night like this.’
Hervey folded up his map and wrapped it back in its oilskin. ‘Is the road to the windmill easy to find?’
‘It is, sir,’ replied the keeper, helping him on with his cape. ‘A furlong almost exactly. There’s a milestone there.’
Hervey thanked him and put on his shako. ‘I shall leave one of my dragoons here. I may need him to give directions.’
The keeper said he would be happy for the company.
Outside it was still raining as hard, and seemed worse to Hervey for his having been sheltered from it for ten minutes. The night too seemed blacker, but he knew his eyes would soon become used to the darkness again. If only the cloud would break and let through some moonlight: how on earth were they going to see their quarry, let alone arrest them?
Hervey remounted and trotted back to the troop. Armstrong had made the dragoons dismount, despite the oaths and cursing that the saddles would get sodden. ‘Broadhurst, please, Serjeant Armstrong.’
Private Broadhurst, the next for a chevron, doubled up the line and stood to attention almost peak to knee with his captain. ‘Sir!’
‘Broadhurst, that light’s a turnpike lodge. There’s one keeper there. I think he’s straight, but I want you to
