Kydd(80)

“Renzi and Kydd, seamen in Duke William. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Ooh — lah-de-dah! ’N’ who’s yer lady’s maid, then?” the bass voice rejoined. “Yer’ll find we’re no frien’s of the Navy — yer chums jus’ sailed off leavin’ us, ’n’ there we was, fightin’ rearguard while they offs to save their skins.”

“Well, you soldiers didn’t do so bloody well keepin’ the Frogs off our backs when we was pullin’ your guns!” Kydd retorted bitterly. A fly buzzed and settled. Kydd slapped at it, but it evaded him and circled to land on him somewhere else. More flies swarmed and settled.

He squelched over to the side wall and sat with his head down. He smacked viciously at the flies, which rose in clouds and returned immediately to the fresh muck now spread over most of his clothes.

A different voice piped up. “Yer gets to leave ’em be, else yer like ter go mad.”

“Shut yer face, Weasel!” the deep voice said.

Renzi heaved himself up beside Kydd, saying nothing.

Kydd fidgeted, trying to scrape away some of the slime, and waved at the flies. “How long?” He groaned quietly.

There was no reply for a long time.

“I do think, my friend, that we may be here for some considerable time,” Renzi answered. “We must wait for things to die down, and then … and then …” He tailed off.

“Nah! Yer ’aven’t got a clue, ’ave yer? Well, we ’ave, see, ’n’ if yez wants ter come in wiv us, yer learns a bit o’ respeck first!”

“Give over, Toby, it ain’t the fault o’ they sailors we’re ’ere, now, is it?” the third voice said. “Never mind ’im, ’e doesn’t mean ter be pernickety. Wot we’re goin’ to do is — after it goes quiet like, o’ course — is ter break out t’ the south. We march b’ night ’n’ sleeps b’ day, till we gets ter Spain. See?”

“Have you any idea at all how far it is to Spain?” Renzi said quietly.

“Well, I reckons we can do it in five days’ march — I mean nights — ’n’ in the 93rd th’ quick march means a hunnerd and forty paces a minute, it is.”

Renzi sighed. “If it were possible to go in a straight line, which I doubt, it’s close to four hundred miles. That’s near sixteen days — or nights,” he added.

“How do yer know that, then, me old cock?” The bass voice came from Sergeant Piggott, Kydd noted, the grimy stripes now just visible under the dried muck on the big man’s arm.

The day dragged on. The stench, the filth, the flies. Occasionally, the pigs would wallow and squabble and try to enter the shed, and were pushed away, squealing in protest.

“We have to steal a boat — there must be a fishin’ boat or somethin’,” Kydd burst out.

“Yeah! That’s it!” the third man exclaimed.

“All the boats will be well guarded, and in any case in a small boat we wouldn’t stand a chance in the open sea,” Renzi said, in a level tone.

“We don’t get to the open sea! We lie offshore an’ wait for our ships on blockade to come t’ us!”

“And the boat?”

“We get Madame to spy one out f’r us, and nobble the sentry — there’s five o’ us!”

The talk of escape died away as they waited hungrily for the evening food. This took the form of cheese between bread, wrapped in a napkin. Madame was not encouraging. “I will see. There are three sentries on the quay and the police barracks is nearby. But I will do my best.”

Dusk fell. Then nightfall. The private whimpered in his fitful sleep and Kydd cursed listlessly at the cold filth covering everything.

They could not be allowed into the house, the stench hanging on the air would give the game away, and in any case it would be too much to bear, to clean up only to re-immerse themselves in this hellish stew. The corporal had turned over in his sleep and his face had become slimed; his attempts to scrape it off had spread it further. The sergeant snored like a rusty saw. Kydd leaned his head back and stared into the blackness.

It was not long before dawn when he heard the rapid tap of the woman’s footsteps approaching across the yard. Kydd jerked upright. He and Renzi crawled to the entrance.

“Listen to me!” she called. “There is a beach not far from here. From it Monsieur Pirou goes to find the — how do you say it? — the crémaillère for the-curse this language! Les langoustes.”

“He goes to lift the lobster pots,” said Renzi.