Kydd(72)

Kydd and Renzi hurried to the first gun, the marines falling back to take up position in their rear.

Fifty men took their place at the traces, a relieving watch of fifty following behind. Kydd wondered why no oxen were available to do the work.

“Mr. Garrett’s division!”

At the head of his men, Garrett’s horse caracoled as he fought to bring it under control. He managed it, and with an excessively bored expression started the horse walking ahead.

“What the devil are you about, Mr. Garrett?” thundered Tyrell.

Garrett looked down, astonished.

“Get off that horse! The men march, you march with them! Get off, I say!”

Sulky and brooding, Garrett dismounted. His fine hessian boots, which looked admirable on horseback, would be a sad hindrance on the march.

For the man-hauling, there was no time to make the usual canvas belts. A simple pair of ropes had to serve as traces. These were of new hemp, which, while strong, were rough and stiff to the touch.

Kydd adjusted his hat back and, passing the rope over his shoulder like the others, leaned into the task. The heavy cart was awkward to move and squealed like a pig as the massive old wheels protested at the weight of the gun. They ground off, taking the road out of town.

The band continued to play somewhere ahead, but the music was too indistinct to inspire. Then someone in the relieving watch started up:

Come cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer

To add something more to this wonderful year.

Hearts of oak are our ships! Jolly tars are our men!

Steadyyy, boys, steadyyyy!

We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and agaaain!

Kydd joined in with a will as they toiled along.

The houses fell away, and soon the cobbled road deteriorated, holes making the cart jolt and sway dangerously. The road wound into the hills and at every rise the relieving watch moved to double bank the traces, getting in the way.

There was no more singing. The afternoon sun grew hot and the still weather brought no consoling breeze.

“Halt. Chock the wagon.”

Gratefully they resigned their places and sat on the grass verge, waiting impatiently for the dipper of water.

They moved off again, this time with Kydd and Renzi in the relieving watch behind.

Kydd’s hands were sore and, despite padding with his jacket, the shoulder that had borne the rope across it was raw.

They trudged on. The sun descended, and word came to halt for the night at an open place of upland heath. Kydd ached all over, but especially in his legs, which were unused to marching. He selected a tussock and collapsed against it while the marines foraged for firewood. The rum ration would be coming round soon. “How far have we come, do you think?” he asked Renzi.

Opening his eyes, Renzi considered. “Must be close to halfway,” he said. “I recollect that there is another range of hills and Rennes lies some way beyond, in the valley.” He sighed. “Another one or two days should see us in Rennes — I pray only that nothing delays the Royalists marching to join us. We’re far extended.”

Kydd let his buzzing limbs relax. A single tent had been erected, probably for the officers — there was no time for a proper baggage train, and in any case it would all be over in a short time. The men had a single blanket each.

Cooking fires flared and crackled, the smoke pungent on the still evening air. Kydd felt a griping in his stomach — hard tack and tepid lumps of salt pork were all that was on offer.

“Jewkes, come with me, mate.” Doggo eased his seaman’s knife in its sheath and Jewkes grinned in understanding. The pair disappeared silently into the dusk.

Renzi removed his shoes and sat with his feet toward the fire. Kydd did the same. The early spring evening in the quiet stillness was pleasing. The fire spat and settled, the flames reflected ruddily on their faces.

“Mr. Tyrell must think I’m a fighting man enough, that I’m chosen,” Kydd said.

Renzi grunted.

“Do you not think it?” Kydd said.

“My dear fellow, we had better face it that you and I are both chosen because we would not be missed, should the venture prove … unfortunate.”

“Do you really think it will be so?”

Renzi sighed. “To me, though I am no military strategist, the whole affair seems precipitate, unplanned. We are but few — a battalion of foot and a hundred marines are all our fighting force. Our success depends on getting the guns to the Royalists to give them heart to win a small battle. If anything should prevent the joining …” He stretched and lay down full length, eyes closed.

With a start Kydd sensed the presence of shadows at the edge of the firelight. It was Doggo and Jewkes, bringing in a couple of chickens and some rabbit carcasses, which quickly found their way into the cooking pot along with a handful of wild thyme.