Replete at last, Kydd lay down, and drawing his coarse blanket over him, fell asleep.
He awoke in the predawn dark, bitterly cold and stiff. The fire had burned to ashes and the soaking dew had made his blanket limp and sodden. Struggling to his feet, Kydd eased his stiff limbs, then sat hunched and miserable. It was proving a far from glorious war.
After a lukewarm breakfast they set off in the bleak dawn. They had not made more than half a mile up the road when a horseman galloped toward them, coming to a halt in a shower of stones at the head of the column. It was a lieutenant of the 93rd Foot.
“Who is your officer, my man?” he said haughtily to the lead trace.
“I am,” growled Tyrell, emerging from the other side.
“Er, I am desired by his lordship to make enquiries concerning the progress of our guns.”
Tyrell glared up at him, the elegant officer seated nonchalantly on his immaculate chestnut. “We are proceeding at our best pace. Does his lordship require that I exhaust my men?”
“His lordship is conscious that an early juncture with our allies is desirable,” the lieutenant said peevishly. “The regiment is at a stand, sir, and awaits its guns.”
“Damn your blood, sir! These are our guns, and we go at our own pace. Be so good as to clear the road and let us proceed,” Tyrell snarled.
The subaltern colored. Wheeling his horse around, he galloped off ahead.
Over the rise the road went downhill for a space and the traces had to be streamed astern to check the cart’s motion. At the bottom the hauling resumed up a steeper incline, into the bare granite outcrops of the highest range of hills …
It sounded like a firework, just a flat pop and a lazy plume of smoke from halfway up the hill. There was a meaty slap and the first man of the starboard trace grunted and flopped to the ground, writhing feebly.
Stunned, the men let the gun grind to a stop.
“Take cover!” yelled someone. “It’s a Frog!”
There was a general scramble for the shelter of rocks, someone fortunately thinking to chock the wheels of the cart. The marines doubled past and began fanning out, climbing slowly among the rocks of the hillside.
“You craven scum!” roared Tyrell. “Have you never been under fire before? Get back to your duty this instant!”
Crestfallen, and with wary glances at the hillside, the traces were resumed. Kydd felt his skin crawl. Next to him Renzi toiled away.
Again, the little pop. This time it was up the hill but on the other side of the road, leaving the marines helplessly combing the wrong side. Again it was the lead man on the starboard trace. This time the man was hit in the throat. He sank to his knees, hands scrabbling, his blood spouting between his fingers, drenching his front. Within minutes his life gurgled away.
“Keep it going! Don’t stop!” Tyrell shouted, with a higher pitch to his voice.
“A pair of them working together — intelligent,” murmured Renzi. “And not killing the officer — if they did we’d just carry on. As it is …”
Kydd didn’t reply.
The guns squeaked on.
The new lead starboard trace man looked around fearfully, his arm half up as if to ward off any bullet.
Under the impact of the ball in his belly, he doubled up and fell screaming and kicking in intolerable pain. He was dragged to the side of the road, where he died noisily.
This time Tyrell did not try to stop the stampede. The unarmed sailors cowered behind rocks and tussocks, white-faced. Tyrell stood contemptuously alone. He signaled to the marine lieutenant, who came at the run.
Tyrell’s terse orders were translated by the lieutenant, and the marines started to advance on both hillsides in a skirmish line. He waited until they were beyond musket range and called the men back to their task. The gun wagon had rolled backwards and into a watercourse by the side of the road, and it took considerable backbreaking work to heave it back on course and let the weary task resume.
Sore hands, raw shoulders — it seemed to Kydd as if the world was made of toil and pain. In front a man was leaning into it like him, a dark stain of sweat down his dusty back, and beyond him others. To his left was the other trace and Renzi, bent to the same angle but showing no sign of suffering. And always the cruel, biting rope.
The sound of horse’s hooves at the gallop, and the lieutenant of Foot raced into view. In one movement he crashed the horse to a stop and slid from the saddle, saluting Tyrell smartly.
“The Royalists have got beat, ’n’ you must fall back,” he said breathlessly.
“Make your report, Lieutenant,” Tyrell said coldly.
“Sir — sir, his lordship begs to inform you that the Royalists have met with a reverse at arms, and are in retreat,” he said. “We are to fall back on St. Pontrieux, and he hopes to reach you with the regiment before dusk to escort the guns.”