'Sir—if you'll have me.' Andrews, the wispy midshipman, came forward too and looked at Kydd, imploring.
So junior, Renzi thought, but he would not be such a loss to the service if he failed to return.
'Very well.'
From the crowd now came cries of encouragement and further offers but Kydd cut them off. 'Th' Royal Marines an' these two. Muskets f'r the redcoats.'
In a hushed silence they boarded the gig. Renzi followed it with his eyes into the darkness but Kydd did not look back.
The oars rose and fell, dipping carefully and economically, the rowlocks stuffed with rags to muffle the thump of each stroke. Kydd sat upright, his gaze searching what could be seen of the shore until he pointed in one direction. 'Th' beach there—we land at th' northern end.' The lights of the town were along the top of the peninsula, well to the south; an anonymous rural darkness stretched away everywhere else.
Obediently Stirk moved the tiller and the boat headed in. Every sight, every sound that could not be instantly identified was a threat—betrayal and disaster could happen so quickly. The pale beach looked so exposed, a low, dark rock at the end offering the only cover.
The boat hissed to a standstill on the sand at the edge of the water and, taut with tension, the men went over the side, then splashed ashore—aware that the hard sand underfoot was the soil of the enemy. 'T' me,' Kydd whispered hoarsely, and hurried to the nearby rocks, searching for a sea-facing cove.
They scurried after him to the shelter, their boat and security already heading rapidly seawards. With the whites of eyes flashing about him, Kydd whispered, 'No more'n half a mile across here, I've measured it wi' bearings. No lights as c'n be seen, should be all farmland. We come t' a beach th' other side, work our way as close as we need. Questions?'
'If'n we get cut off by a patrol . . .' Ambrose began.
'We don't let ourselves be,' Kydd said. He raised his head cautiously above the line of granite. 'Nothing. We move.'
They crossed a straggling line of coarse grass into low dunes that soon gave way to firmer grassland, but it was now so dark that only gross shadows loomed ahead, not a light within a mile. Kydd struck out inland, the marines on either side, the midshipmen in a nervous crouch behind. The smell of cow pasture was rank after the purity of the sea air.
A stout stone wall materialised across their path with a suspiciously military-looking ditch beyond. They scrambled over and found muddy water at the bottom of the ditch before reaching, panting, the far side. Ahead the ground rose and the skyline could just be made out. Squarely athwart their track was the squat, low shape of a building.
'A sentry post,' whispered Calloway, fearfully.
'Sergeant?'
Ambrose sucked in his breath. 'Not as any might say . . .'
They waited for long minutes, seeing no signs of life, just hearing the breathy night air playing through the straggling grasses. Then Kydd said, in a hard whisper, 'We can't wait all night. We go forward. When we get to the building, we listen.' He moved quickly towards the silent shadow.
It was of rough stone but gave no other clue. They pressed up to its cold bulk, keeping an absolute quiet, their breathing seeming loud in the stillness. Nothing. 'We go—'
The wooden squeal of a door shattered the silence. It was opening on the opposite side. Then came the clink and slither of—a harness? Sword scabbard? A military accoutrement?
'A marine at each end,' hissed Kydd savagely. 'Bayonets! Take him wi' cold steel if he turns th' corner.'
Ambrose dispatched his men who silently took position, unseen in the inky blackness behind the wall. The random clinking sounded from one side, growing louder and more distinct, almost certainly the spurs of a cavalryman. The footfalls, however, seemed uncertain. Ambrose whispered cynically, 'He's bin on the doings 'n' is goin' behind to take a piss.'
The sounds drew nearer and nearer—and, in a desperate swing, a terrified young marine transfixed an indistinct figure with an audible meaty thump. The figure dropped, squealing and choking, the unmistakable clatter of a falling bucket like a thunderclap.
'It's—it's an ol' woman! I done an ol' lady!' The marine's cry of horror pierced the night. He dropped beside the frantically twisting shape on the ground, her terror-stricken frail cries turning to pathetic sobs.
Kydd swung on Ambrose. 'Sergeant!' he ordered stonily.
The man hesitated only a moment, then crossed over, took the marine's musket and thrust the bayonet expertly; once, twice. There was a last despairing wail that ended in choking and—stillness.
'We got t' go back now,' Calloway pleaded, and the other midshipman's wretched puking could be heard to one side. But there was only the serene caress of the night breeze abroad and Kydd turned on them. 'On y'r feet,' he said harshly. 'This is only a farmhouse. We're going on.'
Beyond the structure a rough-made access road gave them fast going to the main road to town, crossing in front of them. Halfway! If it were daylight they could probably see down into the harbour from the other side. As it was—
Kydd whipped round: there was only low scrub nearby, pitiful cover. 'Sergeant—'
But the sentry had yanked out a pistol and fired at them. Then, hefting his musket, he stood his ground.
'It's no good, sir,' Ambrose whispered hastily. 'He's stayin' because he knows there's others about.' More voices could be heard on the night air.
Kydd stood still for a moment, then said savagely, 'Back t' th' boat!'
