Kydd(81)

“Yes, it is only a small boat, but it may be sufficient for you sailors-I do not know these things.”

Kydd’s expression was eager.

“But, attention, Monsieur Pirou, if he is there, is not to be harmed! Do you understand? He does not sympathize but I will not have him harmed. He — he is an old man and a friend and — ”

“We understand, Madame. Pray do not fear for Monsieur Pirou.”

She studied Renzi’s face. “Very well. Now, this is what you must do. The voiture puisard — the cart of the night, I think you say — passes by this house on its way to the country. Its odor, may I declare, will hide yours. I will stop it and you will get underneath and hang on. Get off at the first hill — you understand? The first hill. The beach is there.”

“Excellent, Madame. A wonderful plan. It does credit to your intelligence.”

Her face broke into a cold smile. “Eh, bien! In the last war my husband was a corsair, and much esteemed — you English have reason to remember his name, I believe.”

Renzi laughed. “And our thanks are yours, Madame. No words can express our gratitude to you.”

Her face hardened. “If you can do something to topple those … crapules, les salauds, I will be content! But attend! If you are taken up when you attempt your escape, I can do nothing! I must disown you. It will be understood that you hid in the sty without my knowledge. Understood?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Then here is a wineskin — of water,” she added quickly. “You will perhaps need this on that sea.” Her eyes rested on Kydd for a moment. “I wish you well, Englishmen.”

It was easy. Crouching behind the front door, they heard the cart rumble closer. The sickly smell of the cesspit wreathed the air. The cart ground past.

Madame Dahouet flung open the door and ran out to the horse. “Hélas! Mon pauvre chat! Monsieur — have you seen my cat on your rounds? Merde! He has been gone all this night, I am so distracted!”

The fugitives looked hurriedly down the street, deserted in the cold dawn, then slunk quietly under the cart. Sure enough, under the giant tank there was a framework and sacks, which they pulled over themselves in the cramped, stinking space.

“Out of my way, Madame! No, I have not seen your cat. Now let me get on before your neighbors complain.”

The cart trundled on. They felt it turn and straighten until all sense of direction was lost.

Kydd did not dare to peep out, and could only hope the others would be as careful. The cart swung once more, and the quickened pace of the horse meant that they would be on a road out of town.

There! A definite lift. The cart creaked and the horse’s gait shortened — it was definitely a hill. He felt someone jab him in the ribs. He peered out cautiously: the country road passed beneath and in the bright early morning there was no one in sight.

He wriggled to the back of the framework and, like the others, dropped to the ground. The cart continued, its driver not looking back.

A track wound down to a tiny beach, overhung by trees. They slipped closer.

Drawn up above the high-water mark was a boat with a single mast. Sitting on the sand next to it in the early morning sun was a fisherman.

“Only one! This is gonna be easy meat!” Piggott crowed.

“He’s not to be touched!” Renzi said quietly, turning to face Piggott.

The sergeant was thick-set and pugnacious, and leered aggressively. “It’s ’im or us, simple as that. We has to go ’im — but you Jack Tars wouldn’t unnerstand anythin’ about that.”

Kydd pulled Piggott round. “If y’ lay a hand on ’im …”

Piggott hesitated. He noted Kydd’s dangerous eyes and wiry strength. “Temper, temper! All right, ’e don’t get touched. But tell me this, Mr. Fire Eater, ’ow do you think we’re goin’ to get the boat, then?”

“Like this,” Kydd said, and advanced down the sand. The others followed. He had gambled that the fisherman would not be alarmed if they came normally, and he was right.

The man looked up as they approached, and his eyes widened at their appearance. He had an oaken, seamed old face and a neat beard. He dropped the net and scrambled to his feet. He spoke, but not in any French that Renzi knew. His voice was high and fluting, querulous.

“He’s speaking Breton,” Renzi muttered.

“Monsieur, unfortunately I have not the Breton tongue,” he said in French.

“Alors. Who are you, that you stink so much?” Pirou replied.

“Tell ’im that we’re takin’ the boat now,” Piggott spat.

His English gave the game away. “L’anglais!” Pirou gasped.