“Thank you, Lieutenant. Is that all?”
The lieutenant mopped his brow with a lilac silk handkerchief. “Well, they do say as how with the Royalists on the run Despard may now split his forces, and send his cavalry after us.” He lowered his voice. “Tell the truth, it’s amazin’ how quick the Crapauds move! Outflanked du Pons completely, they did, ’n’ if they take it into their heads to come after us, then we’ll be hard put to stop them.”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant. Return to your unit,” Tyrell snapped.
The talk of outflanking was disturbing. Even the most unlettered could conceive of the chilling danger of fanatic revolutionaries swarming past the redcoats, then falling on them from behind.
“Turn those guns around! Get a move on, you lazy scoundrels, or I’ll see your backbone tomorrow.”
“Change the watch — marines, rearguard!”
They ground off back where they had come, spurred by the thought of a hostile army possibly on their trail. The countryside now became brooding, malicious, the outcrops threatening to hide a host of snipers.
“Still, we’ve got the army at our backs. They’ll hold ’em off — if they come!” Kydd said hopefully.
Renzi said nothing, but Kydd noted his half-smile.
The afternoon sun grew wan with a high overcast, but it did nothing to still Kydd’s stomach. The long iron mass of the twelve-pounder was a brute to be served; Kydd hadn’t thought he could hate something so much. The torture continued. There was always a small chance that the hurrying army in its turn could be outflanked before it met up with them, but it seemed unlikely. The wheels squealed on, grinding grittily on the road.
There was a shout from the marines in the rear.
“Still!” Tyrell bellowed. The men ceased their labor. In the silence could be heard a faint, irregular tapping, popping.
“They’re coming!” the marine lieutenant said. “Form line!” he ordered.
The marines spread across the road in three ranks, the front kneeling, and waited apprehensively.
Over the crest of the rise pounded a horse, pushed to the limit. It was the lieutenant of Foot, disheveled and wild-eyed. “We’re cut to pieces! Got to us before we could form up!” He stopped for breath, his chest heaving. His horse was equally affected, snorting, wide eyes rolling and unable to stand still.
“What’s the situation, man?” Tyrell snarled.
“They’re through! You’ve a squadron of Crochu’s cavalry in your rear, God help you!” Without waiting to see the effect of his words, he flogged the sweating beast around and galloped back.
In the stunned silence Tyrell spoke levelly. “Spike the guns. We leave them here.”
“Mr. Dawkins!” Tyrell called the marine lieutenant over. “The best defense against cavalry?”
“A square, sir!” the young man said.
“Well, then, you will form square around the seamen on my order. When possible we move forward — ”
He broke off as red figures on foot breasted the rise and staggered toward them. Some had their muskets and packs but many did not. They were ragged and torn, stumbling for the safety of their fellow kind.
“Duke Williams!” He addressed the sailors in a bull roar. “We fall back on St. Pontrieux. When I order ‘square’ you move for your life inside the lobsterback’s square. If you’re caught outside we can’t help you. Understand?”
Kydd felt cold. His life had become the familiar sea world of masts and spars, where skills and intelligence could make a difference, not this bloody butchery.
“Keep together!”
They made off rapidly down the road, the marines warily in the rear, ignoring the pathetic stragglers still struggling hopelessly after them.
Kydd’s legs burned, but he knew the penalty for fatigue.
A half-sensed rumbling became an ominous drumming, louder and louder, then over the rise burst Crochu’s cavalry.
“Square!” roared Tyrell.
The marines trotted into place, fixing bayonets as they ran. Three ranks faced outward in a hollow square, enclosing the seamen and the pitifully few stragglers who had reached them, rows of bayonets in the front rank pointing seamlessly out in an impenetrable fence of steel, the muskets of the remaining ranks at the ready.
It was a frightful sight — the heavy crash of hooves and mad jingling of equipment seemed an unstoppable juggernaut. They were in blue and white with plumed silver helmets, holding at the ready pennoned lances and heavy sabers, which they swung loosely in anticipation. The sun picked out points of shining steel, which added to the men’s dread.
In utmost terror, the exhausted stragglers saw their fate approach. Some screamed like children and tried to run, others made clumsy attempts to hold their ground.